I was back in China after a three year hiatus. For eight days I hung out with Clare - who is neck-deep in an uber-intensive Mandarin course - caught up with old friends, and met a few contacts to talk about my latest business idea.
Here are a few impressions of what has changed, and what hasn't, since my departure in August 2005.
A 21st century skyline
Undoubtedly China has experienced massive change as it's economy thunders forward at 10-12% a year. The most obvious difference is Beijing's new wardrobe. Nearly every part of the city has shed the old Mao suit for new Gucci jackets. Everywhere you go you find evidence of the shopping spree: gleaming glass blocks (my favourite is curvaceous CNOOC HQ), high-tech metro stations, sparkling black bitumen, perfectly straight pavements, and immaculately manicured (if slightly kitsch) gardens.
But the transformation is more than mere window dressing for the Olympics - this is no facade to be torn down. This is serious investment in expensive infrastructure that is built to last. And it's not over. More metro lines, airports, and railways are to come.
To some the construction boom smacks of hubris, and admittedly its hard not to be gob-smacked by its scale and ambition. But as I wandered past the CCTV as it twisted pre-ponderously over the 3rd ring road or when I toppled over backwards to see the pinnacle of the World Trade Centre spike the clouds over 250m (750ft) above, I realised that Beijing is building a 21st century skyline for a 21st century power.
China's World, China's Dream
A more subtle change is China's newfound confidence. Everywhere I went, people beamed with pride about the Beijing Olympics. Gone is the latent fear of a disrespectful and hostile world that has dogged the Chinese psyche for the best part of two decades. China is much less worried about its place in the world. What Beijing 2008 proves is that China can now command attention and respect on the world stage.
Perhaps more importantly, the Olympics have given the Chinese people a sense of purpose and responsibility to the rest of the world. The Party tried to present a new China that is peaceful, trustworthy and dynamic, rich in history and full of purpose. Undoubtedly many in the international community remain to be convinced, but it is clear that the people buy and support this new vision. It is with this sense of purpose that they greet foreigners and embrace the world.
Beijing Express: Where next?
But despite these rosy changes, the Government remains internally focussed. It must generate 12 million new jobs each year to keep unemployment steady. It faces an escalating environmental crisis and is struggling to close the rural-urban wealth gap. Stability and growth remain the top priority.
Yet surprisingly, the Party is accelerating reform. A long-time China watcher told me he was surprised by the speed at which the Party is experimenting with political liberalisation. Policy changes are widely debated, experts consulted, and recommendations included in new legislation. Village level elections are flourishing. Crackdowns on corruption are more widespread, even if unreported.
It seems as if the new generation of leaders has secured its political base and is now pushing through deeper reforms aimed at closing the urban-rural gap. The most vivid symbol of such efforts is the recent land reform bill - a dramatic rewriting of the rural paradigm established 40 years ago under Mao.
Whether this feverish reform will create the much-sought rural boom remains to be seen. But its boldness and speed of conception cannot be disputed. And where will it end? Surely, the Party will never imperil its grip on power? Not so, counter some who think that the political changes in the next five years will be more dramatic than anything seen since 1949.
Expats sent packing from Peking
Beijing's wild west days and its frontier-town feel are long gone. The jet-set crowd and their swanky dim-sum dens have supplanted baijiu and red bull swilling cowboys. Today you are more likely to meet a sophisticated Chinese banker with a Stanford MBA and a 3G iPhone than you are a dodgy Russian dealer peddling bootleg vodka, fake fur coats and Siberian prostitutes.
Whilst this is not necessarily a bad thing, I can't help feel a bit nostalgic for that vibrant chaotic edge. And I'm left wondering: has Beijing really change or have I just grown older and more boring?
30 October 2008
22 August 2008
Why I travel
For the past week I have wandered through a small corner of Central Europe. Armed with little more than my Interrail pass, a Nikon D40, my green Gregory pack, and the requisite Lonely Planet, I swung through Budapest, Krakow, and Prague. A few days into my trip, I asked myself: why do I travel?
Travel junkies often suffer from guilt, because ultimately traveling is a self-indulgent pursuit. You visit a place purely for your own pleasure, to satisfy that natural human inclination to explore, and to saturate your senses with a new and exotic locale. So of course, a large part of why I travel is simply for the joy and excitement of experiencing something new.
But I'm also naturally curious about the world, its people, geography, cultures, conflicts and ideas. I read reams of facts, figures, and statistics on everything from Hungarian inflation to Brazilian bossa-nova. It's an odd, almost insatiable hunger to better understand the world around me.
Traveling is a natural corollary to my paper-based pursuit. Seeing a country or a place or meeting people in the flesh, provides some subjective grit to layer on top of this more objective base. It helps me form an opinion and lends my views credibility and weight; you listen more carefully to a witness than an observing pundit.
Am I just saying that seeing is truth? Well, not exactly. Seeing fuels the imagination and brings understanding. For example, it's hard to comprehend the phenomenal speed of change in China without seeing the sky scrapers sprouting up around Beijing's second ring road. And yet this is not universally true: at Birkenau I saw evidence of the Nazi death camps, yet it was still devilishly difficult to comprehend and truly appreciate the scale of such barbarity.
It is often said that the world is shrinking. Indeed, earthquakes and invasions, celebrity weddings and 100m sprints, are simultaneously available on your TV, Macbook, or Blackberry. But this is really just a trick, because it's reality which is here one moment and suddenly gone the next at the touch of a button. If you find the image to offensive or banal, you can instantly exchange it for another more agreeable picture.
Travel is the antidote to this world of filtered information. It helps me remember that the world is a big place. As I roll across the grain basins of the southern Czech republic on Euronight 402, I see a farmer sitting on his tractor tilling the land and a woman on her bicycle off to the shops, or church perhaps. In each of these villages are hundreds of lives with their own aspirations, fears, successes and tragedies. Although I am virtually closer to these people than ever before, they know little about me, and I little about them. Travel reminds me that I should not confuse virtual closeness for a shared world view or a common opinion.
So ultimately, I travel because I want to push back my boundaries of understanding, bridge physical divides and enjoy drinking beer with locals in far off lands.
Travel junkies often suffer from guilt, because ultimately traveling is a self-indulgent pursuit. You visit a place purely for your own pleasure, to satisfy that natural human inclination to explore, and to saturate your senses with a new and exotic locale. So of course, a large part of why I travel is simply for the joy and excitement of experiencing something new.
But I'm also naturally curious about the world, its people, geography, cultures, conflicts and ideas. I read reams of facts, figures, and statistics on everything from Hungarian inflation to Brazilian bossa-nova. It's an odd, almost insatiable hunger to better understand the world around me.
Traveling is a natural corollary to my paper-based pursuit. Seeing a country or a place or meeting people in the flesh, provides some subjective grit to layer on top of this more objective base. It helps me form an opinion and lends my views credibility and weight; you listen more carefully to a witness than an observing pundit.
Am I just saying that seeing is truth? Well, not exactly. Seeing fuels the imagination and brings understanding. For example, it's hard to comprehend the phenomenal speed of change in China without seeing the sky scrapers sprouting up around Beijing's second ring road. And yet this is not universally true: at Birkenau I saw evidence of the Nazi death camps, yet it was still devilishly difficult to comprehend and truly appreciate the scale of such barbarity.
It is often said that the world is shrinking. Indeed, earthquakes and invasions, celebrity weddings and 100m sprints, are simultaneously available on your TV, Macbook, or Blackberry. But this is really just a trick, because it's reality which is here one moment and suddenly gone the next at the touch of a button. If you find the image to offensive or banal, you can instantly exchange it for another more agreeable picture.
Travel is the antidote to this world of filtered information. It helps me remember that the world is a big place. As I roll across the grain basins of the southern Czech republic on Euronight 402, I see a farmer sitting on his tractor tilling the land and a woman on her bicycle off to the shops, or church perhaps. In each of these villages are hundreds of lives with their own aspirations, fears, successes and tragedies. Although I am virtually closer to these people than ever before, they know little about me, and I little about them. Travel reminds me that I should not confuse virtual closeness for a shared world view or a common opinion.
So ultimately, I travel because I want to push back my boundaries of understanding, bridge physical divides and enjoy drinking beer with locals in far off lands.
18 August 2008
A view from Auschwitz
It's hard to find the words to write about this place. Every syllable seems unworthy; too light, too insignificant.
It's a beautiful day. The giant green chestnut trees are bathed in sunlight, and a few buttery clouds float in a startling blue sky. The idyllic backdrop gives the squat red-brick buildings an almost quaint feel. They look like old warehouses or bakeries. But the electric barbed wire and the infamous "Arbeit Macht Frei" arch points to the horrors within.
I thought that seeing Auschwitz would help me comprehend one of the 20th centuries greatest tragedies. But its hard to fathom the scale of the Nazi's brutality: more than 1.5m people perished at Auschwitz-Birkenau. At its worst, the gas chambers could murder upwards of 10,000 men, women, and children a day. Life expectancy for inmates was 3 months for women, 6 months for men.
Almost more shocking to me was the Nazi's systematic, almost factory-like approach to killing. Death factory is really more accurate than death camp. In this factory people were the inputs and absolutely nothing was wasted: people were shorn of all hair to produce "hair cloth", shoes were sorted and shipped to civilians in Germany, and gold fillings were even pulled out of their mouthes after they'd been gassed and used to fund the Nazi war machine.
The total and utter perversion of norms and morals is astounding. How could the Nazis create a culture in which such terrible savagry was not considered abnormal? Where people lived in such fear that they simply complied and condoned it? Many philosophers and historians have asked this question. I'm not sure there is a good answer.
At one of the prisoner's sheds in Birkenau there was a wreath laid at the foot of the internal fireplace. "For all those who have suffered at the hands of of evil" it read. But I thought this was perhaps wide of the mark. If anything, Auschwitz stands to remind us what we are all capable of such evil. Perhaps "for those who have suffered at the hands of others" would have been more fitting, for it is up to each and everyone of us to protection us from ourselves.
It's a beautiful day. The giant green chestnut trees are bathed in sunlight, and a few buttery clouds float in a startling blue sky. The idyllic backdrop gives the squat red-brick buildings an almost quaint feel. They look like old warehouses or bakeries. But the electric barbed wire and the infamous "Arbeit Macht Frei" arch points to the horrors within.
I thought that seeing Auschwitz would help me comprehend one of the 20th centuries greatest tragedies. But its hard to fathom the scale of the Nazi's brutality: more than 1.5m people perished at Auschwitz-Birkenau. At its worst, the gas chambers could murder upwards of 10,000 men, women, and children a day. Life expectancy for inmates was 3 months for women, 6 months for men.
Almost more shocking to me was the Nazi's systematic, almost factory-like approach to killing. Death factory is really more accurate than death camp. In this factory people were the inputs and absolutely nothing was wasted: people were shorn of all hair to produce "hair cloth", shoes were sorted and shipped to civilians in Germany, and gold fillings were even pulled out of their mouthes after they'd been gassed and used to fund the Nazi war machine.
The total and utter perversion of norms and morals is astounding. How could the Nazis create a culture in which such terrible savagry was not considered abnormal? Where people lived in such fear that they simply complied and condoned it? Many philosophers and historians have asked this question. I'm not sure there is a good answer.
At one of the prisoner's sheds in Birkenau there was a wreath laid at the foot of the internal fireplace. "For all those who have suffered at the hands of of evil" it read. But I thought this was perhaps wide of the mark. If anything, Auschwitz stands to remind us what we are all capable of such evil. Perhaps "for those who have suffered at the hands of others" would have been more fitting, for it is up to each and everyone of us to protection us from ourselves.
15 July 2008
Mr Weasel & Mr Innocent Motorbike Man
I’m in the back of a rickshaw. It’s late Tuesday evening and my belly is full of South Indies delights. It’s been raining and cool air is blasting down my neck. I pull up the collar on my jumper.
My driver is a shadow, sitting squat in front of me. This shadow is small, skinny, and a bit of a weasel. Mr Weasel thinks I’m a dumb tourist. He’s trying to rip me off by making a huge detour into random backwaters whilst assuring me we’re taking a “short-cut”. I’m not falling for the bait. I’m calm, relaxed, the epitome of serenity.
Yes, Mr Weasel you can play your games, but I will have the last laugh. My plan is to just ride along with Mr Weasel for as long as he likes. Then upon arrival at the guest house, I will make a wild dash inside, chuck Rs100 at him, and seeing whether he has the balls to follow me inside to demand the rest of his fare. So I pull out my book – Slaughter House Five – and get stuck in, ignoring Mr Weasel’s sight-seeing tactics.
But weasels are cunning creatures, and this one is onto my tricks. He corners an innocent motorbike and starts jabbering away at him. The man translates: “Where do you want to go? He wants to know if you want to take the short cut?”. Me: “He knows where I want to go. And he’s driving me all around town. Tell him direct or no money.” We carry on like this for 10 minutes, sitting on the side of the road, honking traffic speeding past us, splashing arcs of gray water from the puddles.
Mr Weasel gets the better of me. My blood boils, I froth at the mouth, and I prepare to grab Mr Weasel by the throat and throttle this treacherous wretch. I catch myself just in time, jump out of the damned rickshaw and set off up the road.
But now Mr Weasel wants his money. He scampers after me and grabs my arm. “Gimme 50, gimme 50!” he shouts. Mr Weasel is not worth 2 cents let alone 100. He’s half my height but still he stretches out his palm, ready to administer a flying slap. Bloody weasels! I pause and wonder whether I can really knock his head off his shoulders.
And then Mr Innocent Motorbike Man arrives. But he’s no longer Mr Innocent Motorbike Man. He’s now Mr Mounted Conflict de Conflicter, Bringer of Understanding and Peace Amongst Men. He quietly negotiates Mr Weasel’s surrender and extracts Rs 50 Rs 50 from me as a peace settlement.
Mr de Conflicter transforms himself into Mr Benevolent Transporter of Cheated Foreigners. We zoom along Bangalore backstreets and tree-lined boulevards. He instructs me in local ways of beating wily weasels. A full 35 minutes later we arrive at Cunnigham Road. Again, he morphs into Mr Humble refusing my offers to contribute some money towards petrol. “Pray for my family. That is all”. We shake hands, I thank him profusely again, and he slips off into the night.
My driver is a shadow, sitting squat in front of me. This shadow is small, skinny, and a bit of a weasel. Mr Weasel thinks I’m a dumb tourist. He’s trying to rip me off by making a huge detour into random backwaters whilst assuring me we’re taking a “short-cut”. I’m not falling for the bait. I’m calm, relaxed, the epitome of serenity.
Yes, Mr Weasel you can play your games, but I will have the last laugh. My plan is to just ride along with Mr Weasel for as long as he likes. Then upon arrival at the guest house, I will make a wild dash inside, chuck Rs100 at him, and seeing whether he has the balls to follow me inside to demand the rest of his fare. So I pull out my book – Slaughter House Five – and get stuck in, ignoring Mr Weasel’s sight-seeing tactics.
But weasels are cunning creatures, and this one is onto my tricks. He corners an innocent motorbike and starts jabbering away at him. The man translates: “Where do you want to go? He wants to know if you want to take the short cut?”. Me: “He knows where I want to go. And he’s driving me all around town. Tell him direct or no money.” We carry on like this for 10 minutes, sitting on the side of the road, honking traffic speeding past us, splashing arcs of gray water from the puddles.
Mr Weasel gets the better of me. My blood boils, I froth at the mouth, and I prepare to grab Mr Weasel by the throat and throttle this treacherous wretch. I catch myself just in time, jump out of the damned rickshaw and set off up the road.
But now Mr Weasel wants his money. He scampers after me and grabs my arm. “Gimme 50, gimme 50!” he shouts. Mr Weasel is not worth 2 cents let alone 100. He’s half my height but still he stretches out his palm, ready to administer a flying slap. Bloody weasels! I pause and wonder whether I can really knock his head off his shoulders.
And then Mr Innocent Motorbike Man arrives. But he’s no longer Mr Innocent Motorbike Man. He’s now Mr Mounted Conflict de Conflicter, Bringer of Understanding and Peace Amongst Men. He quietly negotiates Mr Weasel’s surrender and extracts Rs 50 Rs 50 from me as a peace settlement.
Mr de Conflicter transforms himself into Mr Benevolent Transporter of Cheated Foreigners. We zoom along Bangalore backstreets and tree-lined boulevards. He instructs me in local ways of beating wily weasels. A full 35 minutes later we arrive at Cunnigham Road. Again, he morphs into Mr Humble refusing my offers to contribute some money towards petrol. “Pray for my family. That is all”. We shake hands, I thank him profusely again, and he slips off into the night.
06 July 2008
Agra
I could easily get lost self-gratifying hyperbole to describe my visit to the Taj Mahal (Day 2 of the parental tour). But, I'll save you the agony. Suffice to say that it firmly deserves to be on the list of "50 things to do before you die". If you thought you didn't need to visit. Change your mind. Plan your trip. Buy your ticket. Go.
But I do want to pause to reflect on something else that happened to us in Agra. We arrived off the 6.15am express train from New Delhi Station. The sky was dark, heavy, and sodden. Rain drenched everything, everyone, and me. We pushed through the surrounding crowd to the jovial hotel-man who led us, darting round puddles, to his jeep.
I was safely inside drying my face and wiping the mist from my glasses when I was startled by a dark face just beyond the window. He was so close I could see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. He wore a giant grin and stood happily under a tatty, leaking his umbrella. He motioned downwards towards his feet and then stretched his hand up towards me.
I looked down and drew breath, sharply. He feet were gigantic, gnarled and swollen. Six or seven times bigger than they should have been, they were truly elephant's feet. His toes stuck out at preposterous angles, each one the size of a thick frankfurter. The swelling extended up his leg and disappeared into his trousers. I tore my eyes away. I couldn't look. He tapped at the window. I stared ahead and we drove off.
Why? Why didn't I show more compassion? What would have it been to me to wind down my window and pass him a damp Rs 100 (~$2)? Was I too shocked? Or did I block it out and tell myself it wasn't my problem?
The odd thing about India is that you become anesthetized to so many shocking, disturbing things. It's partly about self-preservation - I need to mentally insulate myself to keep some peace of mind; if every such scene upset you, you'd be an emotional wreck in no time. But I think it's also because so often such interactions fill me with a pervading sense of helplessness. I feel (perhaps incorrectly) that by giving them money I strip them of their dignity and I admit that charity is their only hope. Surely there must be another way. But perhaps I should also recognise that in the meantime, no other assistance is coming their way.
But I do want to pause to reflect on something else that happened to us in Agra. We arrived off the 6.15am express train from New Delhi Station. The sky was dark, heavy, and sodden. Rain drenched everything, everyone, and me. We pushed through the surrounding crowd to the jovial hotel-man who led us, darting round puddles, to his jeep.
I was safely inside drying my face and wiping the mist from my glasses when I was startled by a dark face just beyond the window. He was so close I could see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. He wore a giant grin and stood happily under a tatty, leaking his umbrella. He motioned downwards towards his feet and then stretched his hand up towards me.
I looked down and drew breath, sharply. He feet were gigantic, gnarled and swollen. Six or seven times bigger than they should have been, they were truly elephant's feet. His toes stuck out at preposterous angles, each one the size of a thick frankfurter. The swelling extended up his leg and disappeared into his trousers. I tore my eyes away. I couldn't look. He tapped at the window. I stared ahead and we drove off.
Why? Why didn't I show more compassion? What would have it been to me to wind down my window and pass him a damp Rs 100 (~$2)? Was I too shocked? Or did I block it out and tell myself it wasn't my problem?
The odd thing about India is that you become anesthetized to so many shocking, disturbing things. It's partly about self-preservation - I need to mentally insulate myself to keep some peace of mind; if every such scene upset you, you'd be an emotional wreck in no time. But I think it's also because so often such interactions fill me with a pervading sense of helplessness. I feel (perhaps incorrectly) that by giving them money I strip them of their dignity and I admit that charity is their only hope. Surely there must be another way. But perhaps I should also recognise that in the meantime, no other assistance is coming their way.
05 July 2008
Delhi
I dashed up to Delhi for the weekend to meet up with the in-coming rentals. They were making a whistle stop tour through India to check up on me, make sure the runs were at an end, feed me up, pamper me - all the usual things that parents do exceptionally well and that I'm especially adept at denying I'm in need of until my head hits that comfy pillow...
In my mind, Delhi is the bustling capital of India; an organised chaos of auto rickshaws, Ministers, and history. That turned out to be rather far of the mark. Admittedly, I stuck mainly to the downtown area around Janpath, but I really wasn't prepared for the sweeping boulevards, grand government offices, and imposing monuments.
The British moved the capital of India to Delhi from Culcutta in 1911. They commissioned Edward Lutyens to design a capital fit to be the "jewel in the crown". Imperial ambitions know no reason and over the next 22 years, Luytens and an estimated 20,000 workers constructed New Delhi. He was an ambitious planner with an imposing vision, and when you stand at the Presidential Palace and squint into the distance at the Red Fort jutting out from behind the India Gate some 3km away, it's obvious that the result was iconic.
And then suddenly it clicked. Here was a vivid reminder of why British nostalgia for the "glory days" of the Empire runs so deep. This was the time when the British felt they were at their best. We were world class at something, standing tall, head and shoulders above the rest. We could plan grand cities, rule over thousands, bring "civilisation" to the world through trains, education, and the rule of law. Nevermind the fact that trade was often more akin to theft, and British rule subjugated millions to our concept of what was right.
So why all the nostalgia for what was, arguably, one of the darkest moments of our history? Perhaps it's because once you've fallen into the trap of believing that you're view of the world is inalienably right, then you lament your decine. Or maybe if you believe that once you've reached the pinnacle of your power, it's inevitably all downhill from there. America beware; nostalgia can quickly smother a nation's aspirations.
In my mind, Delhi is the bustling capital of India; an organised chaos of auto rickshaws, Ministers, and history. That turned out to be rather far of the mark. Admittedly, I stuck mainly to the downtown area around Janpath, but I really wasn't prepared for the sweeping boulevards, grand government offices, and imposing monuments.
The British moved the capital of India to Delhi from Culcutta in 1911. They commissioned Edward Lutyens to design a capital fit to be the "jewel in the crown". Imperial ambitions know no reason and over the next 22 years, Luytens and an estimated 20,000 workers constructed New Delhi. He was an ambitious planner with an imposing vision, and when you stand at the Presidential Palace and squint into the distance at the Red Fort jutting out from behind the India Gate some 3km away, it's obvious that the result was iconic.
And then suddenly it clicked. Here was a vivid reminder of why British nostalgia for the "glory days" of the Empire runs so deep. This was the time when the British felt they were at their best. We were world class at something, standing tall, head and shoulders above the rest. We could plan grand cities, rule over thousands, bring "civilisation" to the world through trains, education, and the rule of law. Nevermind the fact that trade was often more akin to theft, and British rule subjugated millions to our concept of what was right.
So why all the nostalgia for what was, arguably, one of the darkest moments of our history? Perhaps it's because once you've fallen into the trap of believing that you're view of the world is inalienably right, then you lament your decine. Or maybe if you believe that once you've reached the pinnacle of your power, it's inevitably all downhill from there. America beware; nostalgia can quickly smother a nation's aspirations.
29 June 2008
Mysore
I went to visit the seat of the Wodeyar maharajas, once one of southern India's most powerful kings. The maharaja obviously didn't want for much and his Palace is suitably grand: marble and granite on a huge scale, intricate wood carvings adorn most rooms, and I counted many silver engraved doors.
I especially liked his receiving room with it's ornate peacock stained glass ceiling and his gilded throne. I could see myself sitting there whilst my vassals bowed down to kiss my toes. And just in case they'd forgotten why they had come to pay tribute, the entrance to the grand hall was flanked by two vicious, snarling tigers carved out of heavy black-green marble.
The city itself is vibrant and colourful. The market is a warren of stalls selling piles of long green beans, stacks of plump crimson tomatoes, and pyramids of small pale lemons. Pungent fumes from the stocks of fresh jasmine hang mist-like around the flower stalls. Wholesalers sit on a bed of petals to the left from where they sold sackfuls of roses, frangipanis and other flora. On the right are an army of cross-legged workers who shape the flowers into chains violet, pink, and white offerings to sell to worshipers.
The pace of life in Mysore is relatively laid back. Cows wander the streets, happily hoovering up banana peels and anything else they discover. The star of the trip was undoubtedly the big black and white cow which had discovered a black Suzuki Swift. She stood there, eying the front bumper, nodding her head up and down, and then moved round the side to nuzzle up to the wing mirror. Maybe she was angry, or else she wanted to mate. Either way the result wasn't going to be pretty so I didn't stick around to find out.
I especially liked his receiving room with it's ornate peacock stained glass ceiling and his gilded throne. I could see myself sitting there whilst my vassals bowed down to kiss my toes. And just in case they'd forgotten why they had come to pay tribute, the entrance to the grand hall was flanked by two vicious, snarling tigers carved out of heavy black-green marble.
The city itself is vibrant and colourful. The market is a warren of stalls selling piles of long green beans, stacks of plump crimson tomatoes, and pyramids of small pale lemons. Pungent fumes from the stocks of fresh jasmine hang mist-like around the flower stalls. Wholesalers sit on a bed of petals to the left from where they sold sackfuls of roses, frangipanis and other flora. On the right are an army of cross-legged workers who shape the flowers into chains violet, pink, and white offerings to sell to worshipers.
The pace of life in Mysore is relatively laid back. Cows wander the streets, happily hoovering up banana peels and anything else they discover. The star of the trip was undoubtedly the big black and white cow which had discovered a black Suzuki Swift. She stood there, eying the front bumper, nodding her head up and down, and then moved round the side to nuzzle up to the wing mirror. Maybe she was angry, or else she wanted to mate. Either way the result wasn't going to be pretty so I didn't stick around to find out.
28 June 2008
2007 Shatabdi Express
Most Brits are conditioned to feel nostalgic about the railways - mainly because we can remember their glory days, but also because we are incessantly complaining about their current dilapidated state.
The railways are an institution in India. Not only does it have the most extensive network in the world, carrying millions of people every day. It is also the world's biggest employer with close to 3m workers. Of course, the impressive statistics hide the fact that much of the rolling stock is old and crumbling, there are few high-speed routes, and delays are frequent.
But for me, riding an Indian train is full of nostalgia. On most European trains food carts are merely designed for glorified snacking. In India, you've barely been seated five minutes when the tea-wallah comes racing down the aisle to offer you a cup of piping hot chai. What's more, he's soon followed by a samosa-wallah, a myriad of others serving rice, raitas, chutneys, curd, mango juice and more!
Outside rice paddies and water buffalo drift past my window. A man is bent double, plucking coriander from his plot. A boy rides an oversized bike down a dirt track. Palm trees and a cloudy grey sky. Humid, sticky. Hot.
On board a plane you miss the subtle, slow transformation of a landscape. Frames of reference are distort and time is shortened. Going by train is the way travel should be: functional yet timeless, languid and enjoyable. I can't help but think we've lost something by flying about in aluminum birds.
The railways are an institution in India. Not only does it have the most extensive network in the world, carrying millions of people every day. It is also the world's biggest employer with close to 3m workers. Of course, the impressive statistics hide the fact that much of the rolling stock is old and crumbling, there are few high-speed routes, and delays are frequent.
But for me, riding an Indian train is full of nostalgia. On most European trains food carts are merely designed for glorified snacking. In India, you've barely been seated five minutes when the tea-wallah comes racing down the aisle to offer you a cup of piping hot chai. What's more, he's soon followed by a samosa-wallah, a myriad of others serving rice, raitas, chutneys, curd, mango juice and more!
Outside rice paddies and water buffalo drift past my window. A man is bent double, plucking coriander from his plot. A boy rides an oversized bike down a dirt track. Palm trees and a cloudy grey sky. Humid, sticky. Hot.
On board a plane you miss the subtle, slow transformation of a landscape. Frames of reference are distort and time is shortened. Going by train is the way travel should be: functional yet timeless, languid and enjoyable. I can't help but think we've lost something by flying about in aluminum birds.
20 June 2008
Ganges starts in Sholapur
Only a few lucky foreigners escape from a trip to India without a Delhi Belly story. I'd heard many gut-wrenching incarnations of it: a friend who spent half the day in wild, anguished dashes for the nearest loo, another who lived through a 10-hour train trip in fear of a liquid explosions from both ends, and other stories too gruesome to retell.
I - in my own conceited-world-traveller-way - was not going to allow any nasty bacteria to colonise my lower my intestine. My plan was simple: bottled water and a "veg" diet whilst my gut adjusted, and then I would ease my way into more adventurous options. The first week passed with no major incidents. So far, so good. Time to push the boat out.
I'd arrived late into Sholapur. The 200km+ train trip had worn me out, but I hadn't eaten since midday. Rather than turning in, I decided to fill my belly. The hotel restaurant was humming with locals, and a delicious smell of charring meat kebabs and rising naans met me at the door. I plopped myself into a wicker chair and ordered a cold Kingfisher, a chicken kebab from the tandoor, and a Peshwari naan. Life was good.
The food arrived swiftly. The chicken pieces lay in a neat row, struggling to free themselves from some sort of a yoghurt-herb concoction, whilst the naan stared up at me through a lurid red jam. I peered at them suspiciously, a wave of tiredness swept over me. But I resolved to struggle doggedly on. I stabbed the chicken with my fork and lifted it to my lips. It was soft and slightly rubbery, the consistency of Edam cheese. The naan was slightly damp and squishy. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls, and then called it a night before I retched.
If I'm honest, the meat was pinker than it should have been. And I knew from the start that it probably contained a small army of germs ready to attack my feeble Western stomach. They say that fortune favours the brave - what b*ll%cks! All I know is that, for me, the Ganges starts in Sholapur.
I - in my own conceited-world-traveller-way - was not going to allow any nasty bacteria to colonise my lower my intestine. My plan was simple: bottled water and a "veg" diet whilst my gut adjusted, and then I would ease my way into more adventurous options. The first week passed with no major incidents. So far, so good. Time to push the boat out.
I'd arrived late into Sholapur. The 200km+ train trip had worn me out, but I hadn't eaten since midday. Rather than turning in, I decided to fill my belly. The hotel restaurant was humming with locals, and a delicious smell of charring meat kebabs and rising naans met me at the door. I plopped myself into a wicker chair and ordered a cold Kingfisher, a chicken kebab from the tandoor, and a Peshwari naan. Life was good.
The food arrived swiftly. The chicken pieces lay in a neat row, struggling to free themselves from some sort of a yoghurt-herb concoction, whilst the naan stared up at me through a lurid red jam. I peered at them suspiciously, a wave of tiredness swept over me. But I resolved to struggle doggedly on. I stabbed the chicken with my fork and lifted it to my lips. It was soft and slightly rubbery, the consistency of Edam cheese. The naan was slightly damp and squishy. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls, and then called it a night before I retched.
If I'm honest, the meat was pinker than it should have been. And I knew from the start that it probably contained a small army of germs ready to attack my feeble Western stomach. They say that fortune favours the brave - what b*ll%cks! All I know is that, for me, the Ganges starts in Sholapur.
19 June 2008
Rural India: Can it shine too?
Most visitors to India don't have the chance to venture out into rural areas. They zoom through India's cities in air conditioned cars, gawp at the IT palaces, cough on the blue rickshaw fumes, and come away with the impression that India is indeed booming. But the cities tell you only part of the story.
The countryside is home to more than 700m people (~70% of India's population) scattered across roughly 600,000 villages. And whilst agriculture now only accounts for about 20% of GDP in the new India, it still generates the majority of employment. So to really understand what's happening in India, you need to see the rural picture. (Or to quote an Indian proverb: "What does a monkey know of the taste of ginger?")
I was up in western Maharastra on a trip into "the field". Together with Sauhrab, I was visiting customers and the jhotis (female village entrepreneurs) to assess the impact of our latest marketing promotion. The landscape flat, bare, and dusty. A few trees grow forlornly in the rugged hills. Fields have been recently plowed and sown, ready for the coming monsoon rains. A man, wrapped in a bursting orange lungis, urges his bullock on, leaving churned, charcoal earth behind him.
Much of Indian agriculture is rain fed, and thus harvest come just once a year after the monsoon passes. Farmers live lives of plenty for a few months, and then spend the following 9 months living off their savings. Wealthier farmers with connections can drill bore holes and pump out water to irrigate their field and grow cash crops like sugar cane and fruits.
But the real promise is large scale irrigation. In one village we visited, the government had diverted a nearby river to feed their crops. The concrete canal was swollen with rich brown, silt-laden waters which farmers were sluicing into their fields. Here they harvest cash crops year round and you can see the impact in the village. Houses are bigger, 2-wheelers abound, and kids march off hand-in-hand to school.
Much of Indian agriculture is rain fed, and thus harvest come just once a year after the monsoon passes. Farmers live lives of plenty for a few months, and then spend the following 9 months living off their savings. Wealthier farmers with connections can drill bore holes and pump out water to irrigate their field and grow cash crops like sugar cane and fruits.
But the real promise is large scale irrigation. In one village we visited, the government had diverted a nearby river to feed their crops. The concrete canal was swollen with rich brown, silt-laden waters which farmers were sluicing into their fields. Here they harvest cash crops year round and you can see the impact in the village. Houses are bigger, 2-wheelers abound, and kids march off hand-in-hand to school.
Much has been made of how rural India felt marginalised and left out of "shining India". It was said that the poor punished BJP at the polls in 2005 by handing power to Sonia Ghandi's Congress. Progress does indeed feel less palpable in rural areas, but things are on the move. And where there is the right mix of government investment in infrastructure, good access to markets, and savvy farmers, you can see definite hope.
Lifting people out of poverty, will require shifting some of the 700m rural residents into more productive activities - i.e. service and manufacturing jobs. India is fertile and well suited to industrial farming. Agriculture should be booming and with low labour costs Indian exports should be very competitive on world markets. But this requires sufficient economies of scale, which India will only through organisation. (There are many models: social cooperatives ala Amul for dairy products, as well as private sector efforts). To provide the incentives for consolidation the government needs to invest billions in better irrigation, better roads, more consistent power. But as ever, prescribing solutions and making promises is easy. Delivering them is much harder.
16 June 2008
No Gold in Bangalore
One of my priorities this weekend was to find myself a gym. Not really because I'm a work-out-aholic, but because my knee demands it. Without rigorous and continuous physical therapy I won't be doing much running come the autumn.
I did extensive internet searches, made an aborted attempt to convince the Oberoi to let me be a member of their plush spa/fitness centre for 2 months, and hunted in back alleys for local players with dodgy sounding names like Futura Fitness and Right Shape Gym.
I about to give up when I finally stumbled upon Gold's Gym's website. Memories of RC Strategy flooded back to me. Jan - hunched enthusiastically in front of his blackboards armed with over-sized coloured chalks - stared meaningfully at me and said: "Test the strategy's internal consistency: does expanding the geographical scope help to enhance Gold's Gym's competitive advantage." I wasn't really sure, but what I did know that I had a huge willingness to pay.
Ecstatic at having found a modern gym which appeared relatively close to the guest house, I jumped in a rickshaw and set him off in the general direction. But although the detailed address appeared wonderfully precise, it turned out to be superficially so. I couldn't find it and I certainly couldn't explain to the rickshaw driver how to find it.
I fell back on Plan B: ring the handy number posted on the website. Ring ring. A man answers.
Him: Hello?
Me: Hello. Is this Gold's Gym?
Him: Yes
Me: Great, can you tell me how to find you, I'm near Cubbon Park but I can't find you.
Him: You want international?
Me: Huh? I want Gold's Gym near Cubbon Park.
Him: How did you get this number?
Me: I found it on the internet. On your website.
Him: This is international. Don't ring me.
Click. Mysterious. Confusing.
I joined a gym a few minutes walk from the office, just off Cunnigham Road. It's called Power Fitness. It's not too dodgy.
I did extensive internet searches, made an aborted attempt to convince the Oberoi to let me be a member of their plush spa/fitness centre for 2 months, and hunted in back alleys for local players with dodgy sounding names like Futura Fitness and Right Shape Gym.
I about to give up when I finally stumbled upon Gold's Gym's website. Memories of RC Strategy flooded back to me. Jan - hunched enthusiastically in front of his blackboards armed with over-sized coloured chalks - stared meaningfully at me and said: "Test the strategy's internal consistency: does expanding the geographical scope help to enhance Gold's Gym's competitive advantage." I wasn't really sure, but what I did know that I had a huge willingness to pay.
Ecstatic at having found a modern gym which appeared relatively close to the guest house, I jumped in a rickshaw and set him off in the general direction. But although the detailed address appeared wonderfully precise, it turned out to be superficially so. I couldn't find it and I certainly couldn't explain to the rickshaw driver how to find it.
I fell back on Plan B: ring the handy number posted on the website. Ring ring. A man answers.
Him: Hello?
Me: Hello. Is this Gold's Gym?
Him: Yes
Me: Great, can you tell me how to find you, I'm near Cubbon Park but I can't find you.
Him: You want international?
Me: Huh? I want Gold's Gym near Cubbon Park.
Him: How did you get this number?
Me: I found it on the internet. On your website.
Him: This is international. Don't ring me.
Click. Mysterious. Confusing.
I joined a gym a few minutes walk from the office, just off Cunnigham Road. It's called Power Fitness. It's not too dodgy.
14 June 2008
Puff goes Perkino II
Saturday night I found myself in a club beneath the Leela Palace (one of Bangalore’s swankiest hotels). I’m two floors underground in the bowels of the hotel, surrounded by a seething mass of hot, sticky people. The deep bass notes of the latest techno track thump out of floor to ceiling speakers.
This is part of India is definitely shining. Here the emerging middle class, the recipients of India’s dramatic IT boom, have come to unwind and spend their hard-earned but eminently disposable cash. Labels – Gucci, Armani, Tommy Hilfiger – are on ostentatious display but its mobile phones that differentiate the “doing well” from the “doing fabulously”. Needless to say, I felt a little out of place with my old school Nokia candy-bar model (one chap even pointed at my phone in disbelief; what could I do but shrug?).
I observe the scene, cold Kingfisher in hand. 750 people make for a pretty good atmosphere and this party is in full swing. Suddenly off to my left, I see the long, white bar light up in an intense bright orange glow. The crowd bursts out into a startling “woohoo” and surges towards the bar. I move with them to get a look thinking this must be the start of some sort of light/laser show.
But to my amazement I see the three barmen have just set the bar on fire. A 20m flame runs the length of the bar. Plastic squirty-bottles in hand, the barmen spray long jets of lighter fuel at it, urging the pyre ever higher. The flames dance, spit, and burst upwards in long golden swirls. They reach the roof, billow big clouds of black smoke, and die down. The crowd roars and the DJ nonchalantly notes: "The bars on fire".
My thoughts: 2 floors underground, no visible exits, 750 intoxicated people. Thank god we're not all wearing polyester.
This is part of India is definitely shining. Here the emerging middle class, the recipients of India’s dramatic IT boom, have come to unwind and spend their hard-earned but eminently disposable cash. Labels – Gucci, Armani, Tommy Hilfiger – are on ostentatious display but its mobile phones that differentiate the “doing well” from the “doing fabulously”. Needless to say, I felt a little out of place with my old school Nokia candy-bar model (one chap even pointed at my phone in disbelief; what could I do but shrug?).
I observe the scene, cold Kingfisher in hand. 750 people make for a pretty good atmosphere and this party is in full swing. Suddenly off to my left, I see the long, white bar light up in an intense bright orange glow. The crowd bursts out into a startling “woohoo” and surges towards the bar. I move with them to get a look thinking this must be the start of some sort of light/laser show.
But to my amazement I see the three barmen have just set the bar on fire. A 20m flame runs the length of the bar. Plastic squirty-bottles in hand, the barmen spray long jets of lighter fuel at it, urging the pyre ever higher. The flames dance, spit, and burst upwards in long golden swirls. They reach the roof, billow big clouds of black smoke, and die down. The crowd roars and the DJ nonchalantly notes: "The bars on fire".
My thoughts: 2 floors underground, no visible exits, 750 intoxicated people. Thank god we're not all wearing polyester.
13 June 2008
Puff goes Perkino I
I set off to find the office, just a few blocks away from the guest house down on Cunningham Road. It’s a sticky morning and I’m a little anxious - in my head I’m running late. I hop over cracked pavements, slip past street vendors, dodge the odd stray dog. So far, so good.
To the initiated, traffic in India needs no introduction. To the uninitiated, suffice to say that it’s a little different from London or New York. Crossing the road requires significantly more skill and guts as you have to navigate a constant flow of honking cars, zig-zagging rickshaws and bikes, careering trucks and buses.
I spy the office on the other side of the road and gingerly step down off the pavement, steeling myself for my first attempt. Out of nowhere a rickshaw appears, hurtling towards me. I jump aside to avoid certain death (okay, I exaggerate; certain injury) and thankfully secure a soft landing. Actually, I’m a little surprised by how soft and squishy the landing is. I look down and understand why. It’s true: cows do wander the streets in India.
To the initiated, traffic in India needs no introduction. To the uninitiated, suffice to say that it’s a little different from London or New York. Crossing the road requires significantly more skill and guts as you have to navigate a constant flow of honking cars, zig-zagging rickshaws and bikes, careering trucks and buses.
I spy the office on the other side of the road and gingerly step down off the pavement, steeling myself for my first attempt. Out of nowhere a rickshaw appears, hurtling towards me. I jump aside to avoid certain death (okay, I exaggerate; certain injury) and thankfully secure a soft landing. Actually, I’m a little surprised by how soft and squishy the landing is. I look down and understand why. It’s true: cows do wander the streets in India.
12 June 2008
Banglore JIT (Just in Town)
BA119 disgorged me at 4.30am into the arrivals hall of Bangalore’s brand, spanking new airport. Barely open three weeks, it’s a fitting glass and steel gateway to India’s IT hub.
I’m in Bangalore for a 2 month internship with BP, the international energy company. I’m working in its alternative energy business with a team that has developed a smokeless biomass stove which is being sold to rural customers. It is a category-creating product which is aimed at the bottom of the income pyramid; its promise is to save the customer money (by being more efficient) and to improve their health (by being smokeless). Click here for a good summary.
This is my first trip to India and I feel lucky to be here as this emerging giant edges towards centre stage in the world economy. After two years in China, I wonder what my own comparisons of the two countries will be.
I’m in Bangalore for a 2 month internship with BP, the international energy company. I’m working in its alternative energy business with a team that has developed a smokeless biomass stove which is being sold to rural customers. It is a category-creating product which is aimed at the bottom of the income pyramid; its promise is to save the customer money (by being more efficient) and to improve their health (by being smokeless). Click here for a good summary.
This is my first trip to India and I feel lucky to be here as this emerging giant edges towards centre stage in the world economy. After two years in China, I wonder what my own comparisons of the two countries will be.
31 May - 6 June: Corsica
Lost in Corsica
Holidaying in Corsica is a bit like being a castaway on Lost. Although the island is just a few hundred miles off the coast of France, no one seems to know where it is. There are few visitors, little infrastructure, practically no hotels, and not much to do once you get there except “survive” (although unlike Oceania passengers, I managed to drink cold beer and mojitos all week instead of cave water).
My arrival on the island was admittedly less dramatic – overnight a bright yellow ferry, no 747s, dramatic crash, etc. My fellow passengers on the ferry were largely bearded motorcyclists and station-wagon-driving-families on camping holiday. In my mind, like the Oceania passengers they all conveniently died on arrival. I was forced to put up with a young, mini-skirt wearing companion who tagged along for the ride (sadly there was no exciting and dodgy past to discover).
Like my fellow TV survivors, I found that my island (Corsica) has a rugged interior full of misty and inhospitable peaks (the tallest being more than 2500m). The coastline, like Lost, is idyllic: endless curving bays of fine white sand. I raced up mountain passes and along winding roads to get as far away from any Others that I might meet. The locals have a ferocious reputation; it was rumoured that they are wild and dangerous. But I never met the Others. Scary locals are impossible to find.
Just like a peanut
I’d been sitting on the beach for the best part of a week. Being a fair-skinned red headed lad I’d naturally applied large dollops of sun-screen to avoid becoming Perkins flambé. Too cool down on occasion, I plunged my sizzling self into the cold, glass clear Mediterranean several times a day. Shivering I returned to my towel to warm up under the sun’s searing rays. The goose bumps quickly disappeared and the water evaporated leaving me covered with a fine salty patina like some sort of exotic fish dish. I repeated this routine daily until my skin began to turn a shade of nutty brown (okay, here I exaggerate for I’m incapable of being anything more than off-white, but lets for a moment pretend I am).
I was explaining this phenomenal transformation to Ebba one evening, hoping that she would agree with me that I was now looking like some sort of bronzed Adonis. She sipped her beer and gave me an amused, quizzical look. “I think you are more like a peanut: greasy, salty, and perhaps little brown on the outside.”
Pizza, pizza everywhere and nothing else to eat
You would imagine that Corsica would produce heavenly food; a sublime fusion of French and Italian culinary traditions. But whilst the food is delicious, Italy has actually won hands down. The staple Corsican diet is pizza. And it’s everywhere, utterly unavoidable.
On one two-hour stretch of road which meandered mostly through barren countryside, I counted no fewer than 32 pizzerias. There were battered buses parked in rest stops churning out dodgy flatbreads. I saw full-blown gourmet restaurants with food-fired ovens serving up artisanal pies. I passed some rundown cafes dishing up pizza alongside hamburgers and dodgy kebabs. Every town seem to have at least half a dozen pizzerias on the main drag. Never had I seen such pizzerias per capita density and such willingness to eat pizza.
Yet I shouldn’t complain. The pizza was lip-smackingly good. Fine, crispy and thin crusted, these pizzas came topped with scrumptious local goats cheese and smoky Corsican ham. Nevertheless, part of me was a little sad that all this Italian influence had only brought piazza. Where was all the gelati?
Holidaying in Corsica is a bit like being a castaway on Lost. Although the island is just a few hundred miles off the coast of France, no one seems to know where it is. There are few visitors, little infrastructure, practically no hotels, and not much to do once you get there except “survive” (although unlike Oceania passengers, I managed to drink cold beer and mojitos all week instead of cave water).
My arrival on the island was admittedly less dramatic – overnight a bright yellow ferry, no 747s, dramatic crash, etc. My fellow passengers on the ferry were largely bearded motorcyclists and station-wagon-driving-families on camping holiday. In my mind, like the Oceania passengers they all conveniently died on arrival. I was forced to put up with a young, mini-skirt wearing companion who tagged along for the ride (sadly there was no exciting and dodgy past to discover).
Like my fellow TV survivors, I found that my island (Corsica) has a rugged interior full of misty and inhospitable peaks (the tallest being more than 2500m). The coastline, like Lost, is idyllic: endless curving bays of fine white sand. I raced up mountain passes and along winding roads to get as far away from any Others that I might meet. The locals have a ferocious reputation; it was rumoured that they are wild and dangerous. But I never met the Others. Scary locals are impossible to find.
Just like a peanut
I’d been sitting on the beach for the best part of a week. Being a fair-skinned red headed lad I’d naturally applied large dollops of sun-screen to avoid becoming Perkins flambé. Too cool down on occasion, I plunged my sizzling self into the cold, glass clear Mediterranean several times a day. Shivering I returned to my towel to warm up under the sun’s searing rays. The goose bumps quickly disappeared and the water evaporated leaving me covered with a fine salty patina like some sort of exotic fish dish. I repeated this routine daily until my skin began to turn a shade of nutty brown (okay, here I exaggerate for I’m incapable of being anything more than off-white, but lets for a moment pretend I am).
I was explaining this phenomenal transformation to Ebba one evening, hoping that she would agree with me that I was now looking like some sort of bronzed Adonis. She sipped her beer and gave me an amused, quizzical look. “I think you are more like a peanut: greasy, salty, and perhaps little brown on the outside.”
Pizza, pizza everywhere and nothing else to eat
You would imagine that Corsica would produce heavenly food; a sublime fusion of French and Italian culinary traditions. But whilst the food is delicious, Italy has actually won hands down. The staple Corsican diet is pizza. And it’s everywhere, utterly unavoidable.
On one two-hour stretch of road which meandered mostly through barren countryside, I counted no fewer than 32 pizzerias. There were battered buses parked in rest stops churning out dodgy flatbreads. I saw full-blown gourmet restaurants with food-fired ovens serving up artisanal pies. I passed some rundown cafes dishing up pizza alongside hamburgers and dodgy kebabs. Every town seem to have at least half a dozen pizzerias on the main drag. Never had I seen such pizzerias per capita density and such willingness to eat pizza.
Yet I shouldn’t complain. The pizza was lip-smackingly good. Fine, crispy and thin crusted, these pizzas came topped with scrumptious local goats cheese and smoky Corsican ham. Nevertheless, part of me was a little sad that all this Italian influence had only brought piazza. Where was all the gelati?
20 April 2008
Thanks for my new ACL Doc, now onto the boring part
About 10 days ago, Dr Schena and his team gave me a new ACL. In a 1hr 20min procedure he harvested part of my hamstring (apparently we last used this piece when we walked about on all fours), drilled a hole in my femur and another in my tibia, feed the hamstring into the holes, and plugged them with two dissolving screws. Today, the three little incisions below my knee, a few punctures lower down just above the calf, and one tiny hole in my thigh are the only proof that anything happened to me. Oh, and the small fact that I can't yet walk unaided.
If anything, the surgery was a lot easier than the post-op recovery. Although I was a little miffed that I didn't get to hallucinate (the anesthetist promised me "ladybirds and flowers"), the hours immediately following surgery were full of drug-fueled dreams, random conversations with Ebba and Scott, and pleas for more ice on my knee.
On Saturday and Sunday I entered my own personal world of pain. Percoset did nothing for me (why couldn't they find a better opiate?). Irrational me surmised that such pain must be abnormal - surely you should be back in the hospital getting some serious treatment? no? - and it wasn't until two burly paramedics talked some sense into me that I gritted my teeth and got on with it.
But being hapless and bed-bound has it's upsides. You get fed and watered. Every whim is attended to. You ask for ice and it arrives. People shower all sorts of kindness on you - they even bring the party to your bedroom. Nothing is too much of a hassle. So, I tried to forget about the pain and enjoy my time as maharajah of 2 SFP 219.
Now that's all over of course. I'm stuck with 6-8 hours in my constant passive motion machine (looks sort of like this), reading cases, and watching Lost (by the way, you can watching it for free online here. Amazing!). The recovery will be long and laborious. They say 5-6 weeks in the brace, 4 months of physio until I can jog, 5 months until I can sprint, and 6 months until I'm physically ready for Tortin. Fine, I can deal with that. But what worries me most is will I be mentally ready?
If anything, the surgery was a lot easier than the post-op recovery. Although I was a little miffed that I didn't get to hallucinate (the anesthetist promised me "ladybirds and flowers"), the hours immediately following surgery were full of drug-fueled dreams, random conversations with Ebba and Scott, and pleas for more ice on my knee.
On Saturday and Sunday I entered my own personal world of pain. Percoset did nothing for me (why couldn't they find a better opiate?). Irrational me surmised that such pain must be abnormal - surely you should be back in the hospital getting some serious treatment? no? - and it wasn't until two burly paramedics talked some sense into me that I gritted my teeth and got on with it.
But being hapless and bed-bound has it's upsides. You get fed and watered. Every whim is attended to. You ask for ice and it arrives. People shower all sorts of kindness on you - they even bring the party to your bedroom. Nothing is too much of a hassle. So, I tried to forget about the pain and enjoy my time as maharajah of 2 SFP 219.
Now that's all over of course. I'm stuck with 6-8 hours in my constant passive motion machine (looks sort of like this), reading cases, and watching Lost (by the way, you can watching it for free online here. Amazing!). The recovery will be long and laborious. They say 5-6 weeks in the brace, 4 months of physio until I can jog, 5 months until I can sprint, and 6 months until I'm physically ready for Tortin. Fine, I can deal with that. But what worries me most is will I be mentally ready?
14-16 March: New Mexico
We arrived from all corners of America. 144 students from 74 countries pursuing masters and PhDs in everything from medicine to infomatics, plate tectonics to architecture. The State Department has brought us here, organised three days of activities, and put us up in a smart desert retreat, all in the name of cross-cultural exchange. This is one of seven Fulbright Enrichment Seminars that take place around the country from January - April.
New Mexico is sort of as I imagined it: a desert state full of cottonwood, tumbleweed (the fabled brush was bundling across the airstrip when we landed), cowboys, mountains, and not much else. After the densely packed housing and historic streets of Boston, New Mexico feels enormous, and it is. It's the fifth biggest state in the US (though 3x smaller than Texas) and has a population of just 2.5 million.
The theme of the seminar was "Engaging the Electorate: The Dynamics of Politics and Participation in 2008". We did have a few high-brow discussions, but generally we spent most of our time exploring the area and chatting to each other. HBS talks about diversity, but really we are all the same (straight-laced, business-focused people). This bunch was wonderful and wacky. For some reason I was accosted by the Latins and ended up playing their mad drinking games, singing songs which I didn't understand, and generally pretending I was Don Juan.
One of the best things I did was have dinner with a local stockbroker. He was an avowed Republican who was curiously pro-choice, pro-gay rights, and vehemently anti-Bush. The dinner he served at his home was fitting for a 61-year old bachelor - ravioli and a little salad followed by ice cream. But I didn't go for the food. I went for the conversation which was engaging and lucid. He wanted to know our opinions on everything from marriage to Iraq, climate change to Mark Twain. It was the most frank and honest conversation I've ever had with a stranger (Me: "Do you own a gun?" Him: "I own five". Me: "Five?! Why do you need five" Him: "I two from inherited them from my father.") More disturbing was his defence of the death penalty ("It's the quickest way to clean the gene pool. And why should tax-payers cough up $40,000 a year for people who are guilty of terrible crimes."). He was passionate, informed, and opinionated. The best combination. It's refreshing to meet people with strong convictions that are not your own.
New Mexico is sort of as I imagined it: a desert state full of cottonwood, tumbleweed (the fabled brush was bundling across the airstrip when we landed), cowboys, mountains, and not much else. After the densely packed housing and historic streets of Boston, New Mexico feels enormous, and it is. It's the fifth biggest state in the US (though 3x smaller than Texas) and has a population of just 2.5 million.
The theme of the seminar was "Engaging the Electorate: The Dynamics of Politics and Participation in 2008". We did have a few high-brow discussions, but generally we spent most of our time exploring the area and chatting to each other. HBS talks about diversity, but really we are all the same (straight-laced, business-focused people). This bunch was wonderful and wacky. For some reason I was accosted by the Latins and ended up playing their mad drinking games, singing songs which I didn't understand, and generally pretending I was Don Juan.
One of the best things I did was have dinner with a local stockbroker. He was an avowed Republican who was curiously pro-choice, pro-gay rights, and vehemently anti-Bush. The dinner he served at his home was fitting for a 61-year old bachelor - ravioli and a little salad followed by ice cream. But I didn't go for the food. I went for the conversation which was engaging and lucid. He wanted to know our opinions on everything from marriage to Iraq, climate change to Mark Twain. It was the most frank and honest conversation I've ever had with a stranger (Me: "Do you own a gun?" Him: "I own five". Me: "Five?! Why do you need five" Him: "I two from inherited them from my father.") More disturbing was his defence of the death penalty ("It's the quickest way to clean the gene pool. And why should tax-payers cough up $40,000 a year for people who are guilty of terrible crimes."). He was passionate, informed, and opinionated. The best combination. It's refreshing to meet people with strong convictions that are not your own.
26 February 2008
Pop goes the ACL
It was mid-afternoon on 16 January. Two days earlier I'd returned from the beaches of Contadora just off the coast of Panama. I was super-relaxed. The boys from Section G were in Shad, kicking the football about - a friendly yet competitive scrimmage. We'd been playing about 45 minutes and my side was behind. Seeing an opening, I put on a burst of speed and charged towards goal. Scott stood just outside the box, blocking my path. As I approached, I turned my back and readied myself to receive a pass from Nicolas. I planted my foot, and spun to volley the ball and shoot on goal.
My leg gave way beneath me and I heard a sickeningly audible "pop". I lay gasping on my back, on the floor. My immediate thought was that I'd dislocated my knee. I looked down, half-expecting to see my foot dangling lamely, or sticking out at a strange angle. But it all looked fairly normal.
10 days later...
Dr Schena tapped on the screen with the tip of his pen. "That's your lateral meniscus - shredded". Then, click click, with the mouse. "And that - see that little stump here and that little stump there?" He gesticulated at two shafts of black. "That's all that remains of your ACL".
In the hours after the ambulance swept me away from Shad to Mount Auburn Hospital, my knee began to inflate to the size of a juicy grapefruit. Over the coming weeks the grapefruit began to rot; my knee turned putrid shades of yellow, then blue, and finally black. The joint stiffened with all the fluid inside, causing my thigh muscles to atrophied. My leg turned flabby and sponge-like. It wasn't pretty.
PT: Turning the corner
Enter Lynn, my physical therapist and savior - at least when it comes to walking. She soon had me doing all sorts of leg lifts, calf extensions, and hamstring contractions. Slowly but surely my joint began to loosen.
My favourite moment was on the bike at the gym. When I began with Lynn I could only manage to rock the pedals backwards and forwards. After a few days, I completed a rotation or two. Gradually, I increased the time and speed. But it wasn't until the second week of PT that I managed to peddle fast enough so that the bike actually recognised that I existed, and offered me a workout programme. I didn't see "knee rehabilitation", and so opted for "fat burn".
Schena will fix it
Dr Schena tells me that I need a minimum of 120 degrees of articulation before they can undertake the surgery which is needed to get me running again. It involves an autograft - effectivley a donation of my own tissues - and some skillful orthoscopic surgery (For the morbid fascination of seeing what will happen during the operation, click here.)
Two asides
A couple of interesting observations extend from this episode. First, I've always taken my mobility and my legs, feet, and knees for granted. It wasn't until I was stranded, hobbling around on crutches, that I realised how much harder life is if you can't walk. You really need your friends. It sounds obvious (duh! you say), but as I sat on my bed, too physically exhausted from all the hopping to move, my mind was ferociously frustrated. For a few fleeting moments, I was the caged lion, a fox with his leg caught in the trap, a man stuck inside a disabled body. More than anything I wanted to go back to how I was. But I was helpless. I could only accept my fate.
Second, this experience brought the US healthcare debate into vivid Technicolor. This little episode has cost my insurance company almost $10,000 ($1200 for the ambulance, $600 for the orthopedic surgeon, $6,000 for the MRI scan) and will probably cost me another $12-15,000 for the operation and rehabilitation - around 50% of my 1st year tuition ($41,900). Why is it so expensive? How can the service possibly cost that much? And if I were uninsured - like 40m Americans currently are - what would I do? Again, this is not a new or controversial thing to say. But I didn't appreciate how scary is feels until it happened to me.
My leg gave way beneath me and I heard a sickeningly audible "pop". I lay gasping on my back, on the floor. My immediate thought was that I'd dislocated my knee. I looked down, half-expecting to see my foot dangling lamely, or sticking out at a strange angle. But it all looked fairly normal.
10 days later...
Dr Schena tapped on the screen with the tip of his pen. "That's your lateral meniscus - shredded". Then, click click, with the mouse. "And that - see that little stump here and that little stump there?" He gesticulated at two shafts of black. "That's all that remains of your ACL".
In the hours after the ambulance swept me away from Shad to Mount Auburn Hospital, my knee began to inflate to the size of a juicy grapefruit. Over the coming weeks the grapefruit began to rot; my knee turned putrid shades of yellow, then blue, and finally black. The joint stiffened with all the fluid inside, causing my thigh muscles to atrophied. My leg turned flabby and sponge-like. It wasn't pretty.
PT: Turning the corner
Enter Lynn, my physical therapist and savior - at least when it comes to walking. She soon had me doing all sorts of leg lifts, calf extensions, and hamstring contractions. Slowly but surely my joint began to loosen.
My favourite moment was on the bike at the gym. When I began with Lynn I could only manage to rock the pedals backwards and forwards. After a few days, I completed a rotation or two. Gradually, I increased the time and speed. But it wasn't until the second week of PT that I managed to peddle fast enough so that the bike actually recognised that I existed, and offered me a workout programme. I didn't see "knee rehabilitation", and so opted for "fat burn".
Schena will fix it
Dr Schena tells me that I need a minimum of 120 degrees of articulation before they can undertake the surgery which is needed to get me running again. It involves an autograft - effectivley a donation of my own tissues - and some skillful orthoscopic surgery (For the morbid fascination of seeing what will happen during the operation, click here.)
Two asides
A couple of interesting observations extend from this episode. First, I've always taken my mobility and my legs, feet, and knees for granted. It wasn't until I was stranded, hobbling around on crutches, that I realised how much harder life is if you can't walk. You really need your friends. It sounds obvious (duh! you say), but as I sat on my bed, too physically exhausted from all the hopping to move, my mind was ferociously frustrated. For a few fleeting moments, I was the caged lion, a fox with his leg caught in the trap, a man stuck inside a disabled body. More than anything I wanted to go back to how I was. But I was helpless. I could only accept my fate.
Second, this experience brought the US healthcare debate into vivid Technicolor. This little episode has cost my insurance company almost $10,000 ($1200 for the ambulance, $600 for the orthopedic surgeon, $6,000 for the MRI scan) and will probably cost me another $12-15,000 for the operation and rehabilitation - around 50% of my 1st year tuition ($41,900). Why is it so expensive? How can the service possibly cost that much? And if I were uninsured - like 40m Americans currently are - what would I do? Again, this is not a new or controversial thing to say. But I didn't appreciate how scary is feels until it happened to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
