Review: Waltz with Bashir

The movie Waltz with Bashir opens with a pack of hounds running through a generic urban neighborhood. The hounds stop at the foot of an apartment block and wait... salivating...

This is pretty much a complete glimpse into what the movie is about. The collective amnesia in Israel about the beginning of the war in Lebanon in 1982 which manifests itself as nightmares in the various people we come to see in the movie. No memory is complete. The director gathers fragments from others' memories in an attempt to get a clear picture of what happened. He needs this to understand his own nightmare which is small fragment of a gruesome incident he knew he had participated in - the massacre at the Palestinian camps of Sabra and Shatila.

The movie is almost entirely in animation and consists of the director Ari Folman talking to various people who were in the military during the war. Each person has a personal spin to the incident and remembers the events from his own vantage point - a captain who used a certain kind of oil so that his people could follow him by smell in the dark; another one recalls their captain in perpetually in a bathrobe watching TV in a building they had taken over just outside Beirut.

This narrative style takes away the political message. There is no good and bad judgment about the actions of Israel. However, it is a searing condemnation of the havoc war wreaks on the winners as well as the losers.

Review: Slumdog Millionaire

Every once in a while comes a movie that is such a complete package that it makes you feel utterly satisfied with the experience. The movie itself becomes such an all round experience that it separates your emotional and intellectual state to being "before movie" and "after movie". To me Slumdog Millionaire did that!

No, it is not a totally realistic movie - there are events depicted in the movie that require a leap of faith. There are actions that are not totally believable. But that is what makes it a movie compared to an newspaper article or a program about a quizshow on the BBC.

The movie weaves the questions being asked of the protagonist Jamal and his experiences that have prepared him for the answers. He draws on his experience to answer all the questions until the very last one. Quite appropriately he gets that right by chance - not by experience - consequently he gets the girl - again a new experience for him.

The depiction of religious riots, the craze to get a filmstar's autograph, the horrific orphanage that makes beggars out of children are all so realistic that it hurts. As a kid growing up in Bombay, I had heard of those orphanages, I did go and see Amitabh Bachchan shooting for a movie (for those into it, the movie was "Coolie" - post accident) and I have negotiated a price with a non-approved tourist guide.

For all the gloom of the terrible things happening around, there are remarkable amounts of humanity and even a great degree of dignity in the characters - especially the three kids and the policeman. They help each other, they understand each other and are willing to admit faults and errors for the sake of friendship.

The film is clearly held together by the excellent story thread. The nine actors that played three roles for each of the friends - Jamal, Latika and Salim are extremely believable. Finally the music reflects the mood and the pace of the movie consistently.

It is a must for every movie enthusiast.

Right train, wrong ticket in Austria

I had the tickets from Frankfurt to Vienna and back in my hands. The person at the German Railways counter was unusually friendly. I noted this because I had previously interacted with the person at the German Consulate to get my visa. She was not really rude, but gave me the distinct impression that she could make a point by repeating - each time with an increased degree of menace in her voice. Coming back to the German Railways counter, I was rather pleased - the stereotype was broken, I had tickets in my hand to take me to Vienna.

Four days in Vienna were great. My digital camera did not run out of batteries, I did not lose the keys to my youth hostel room - and therefore escaped facing the gruff gentleman at the counter, I found out very quickly that water is a precious commodity and often is more expensive than beer - makes sense since water is not addictive it is merely essential for life.

The date of departure arrives and I am at the Vienna West Banhof (train station) well ahead of time to get back to Frankfurt. At the allotted time I go to my reserved sleeper. It is amazing how a French name can make a second-class three-tier sleeper sound attractive - it is called a couchette. Despite the experience of travelling by second-class three-tier sleepers in India (where a reservation is merely extra paperwork and it only means that you do not have have to bribe the train conductor to get on the train), I was surprised to find a family of six occupying my space. After talking to them in the few words of German that I knew, I was nearly at the stage where they were ready to show me their tickets (and hence reservation), a Dutch couple (thankfully fluent in English and German - not to mention Dutch) came along with the same sleeper number as I. Against my well honed intuition, I was surprised again. This after all was reserved in Germany. Such things don't happen in Germany. Soon enough the conductor came along and pointed out that I was reserved for a day later. I was no longer interested in finding out about the family of six.

So much for that friendly interaction with the German Railways person on landing in Frankfurt.

The conductor (this one apparently only handled couchettes) was kind enough to point me to another conductor. You see, I had to get on the train to catch a flight the following morning. Also, the not too rude person in the German consulate gave me a visa that expired on the date of my departure. With barely any time remaining for the train to depart, I ran down the platform like the TGV. On reaching the second-class seating (not couchette!) conductor I asked her what my options were. All she would say was that I go and ask the couchette conductor if there was any other sleeper for me. At this point, I really didn't care about a sleeper. I wanted to get on the train that was threatening to leave any minute. So I asked her again, "can I get on the train?" In reply, much like the person at the German consulate, I got the same line with a little bit more menace in the voice. The conductor didn't really have to add the menace bit, she was built like a linebacker, the long hair merely made her seem unpredictable. Instead of giving in, like I did at the consulate, I asked again. With intense incredulity, she pointed her finger down the platform (where the couchette conductor was) and asked me to go check with her (... mostly the same line). At this point, decided that even on a German train, I would follow my Indian instincts. I got on the train and started making my way to the couchettes. In hindsight this was a rather clever thing to do, as the couchette conductor had been making her way up the train from the inside. The paranoid in me was telling me that she was trying to avoid an interaction with me. I found that she did not have a space in the couchettes. So that brought me back my linebacker friend. With the first checkbox ticked-off, she was willing to go down the list and said it was okay for me to get on the train and find an unreserved space.

In this unreserved space I tried to think how the railway employees in different countries would handle this situation - of a person with a valid ticket but is trying to board the train on a different date:

In India:
The conductor smiles, asks for a bribe and puts you in a better seat.

In China:
They report you to the party and ask you to wait till the response arrives - which may happen within the next few months which you will spend on the platform.

In England:
They will get all worked up about not following the rules, ask you to fill a form in triplicate for the bureaucracy to figure out if you can get on the train. If you write really fast and if it is not tea-time, you may get on the train

In the US:
The conductor won't know what to do. Her manager won't know what to do. They'll give you a 1-800 number with numerous confusing options for you to navigate. If you make it through, you may get on the train.

In Italy:
The conductor will whine till the train starts moving and if he finds that you have not been deterred, he'll let you get on the train.

In France:
Faced with this unusual situation they will call a national strike. The trains won't run and so you can't miss it. If you are lucky the airlines will announce a strike as well and you won't miss the flight either.

7. Nepal: The mystery of Hari

Hari is a handsome nineteen year old. He is tall, has a ready smile and speaks both Hindi and English much better than the other Nepalis. He is a porter and is doing this job for the first time in his life, but he stands out among the Nepalis.

My first interaction with him was on the bus to Arughat Bazaar. Finding the seat next to me to be empty he jumped in. He talked about his parents being farmers, his brother studying in Kathmandu and the financial pressure of this on the family. He also said that he dropped out of school after SSLC (10th grade) to work and support his parents. He talked to me about wanting to find a job in the US so that he could earn more. Before long, our guide Tika, came along and sent Hari to the back of the bus. Turns out Hari was just not "senior" enough to be sitting next to a "tourist".

In Baseri Hari was in and out of Tika's house, he was often found playing the drums - "maadal" in Nepali - and occasionally dancing with others. At times he would insist that we, the tourists, dance - he would press us more than the other Nepalis. I often wondered if he was doing this to show that his dancing was indeed superior to ours.

A couple of days later Gopal comes up to me to say that Hari's grandfather has passed away and that he might have to leave the group. Sure enough, that evening Hari was missing. Later that night Hari was back! Not only was he back he was drinking "rakshi" - the Nepali vehicle for alcohol - along with the other porters. The next morning I asked Gopal about Hari's grandfather. This clearly opened the floodgates.

Gopal's story: Hari appeared for his SSLC (10th grade) exams but failed (as an aside, his failure was nothing to be ashamed of. Most of porters had not even studied until 10th grade). He then ran away from home to escape work and his parents' nagging. Hari was not interested in any kind of work and that he could not hold a couple of jobs that were arranged by relatives. And, in Gopal's mind, Hari did not respect his grandfather's memory when he came back before the funeral and started drinking with his mates.

As we trekked on, Hari was one of the few porters who would have a bath from time to time. We would see his clothes hanging on the clotheslines next to ours. One of the days the line was just not long enough and he had to take his clothes off the line. I noticed he kept a diary. He was writing in Nepali but from time to time he would note down a new english word he heard. He would ask us what it meant and would write that down too. Of all the porters he was also the only one who complained of a hurting back and light-headedness at altitude.

Hari's case intrigued me tremendously. I was uncomfortable with him. Towards the end of the trek, well after he had been dispatched, I had my answer. Hari alone among the porters was like us and unlike the other Nepalis. He was conscious of how he looked and how he spoke and carried himself. He was keen to show himself in a good light. And most of all, he was interested in the money that portering gave ($5/day) to the point that he would rather be carrying 60lbs bags of rice than be present at his grandfather's funeral.

Haven't we all sacrificed time with family as we pursue our careers? Haven't we all embellished our past to look good in front of others? Haven't we all attempted to imitate another person who talks or dresses better than us? Weren't we tired and light-headed at high altitude?

So Hari, in a very subtle way, was a mirror to my own self.

6. Nepal: Baseri

One and half days of our trek was spent in a little village called Baseri. Being an agricultural area the village actually quite spread out. But the people know each other, they drop by each other's place without calling and often walk away without saying good-bye. So it feels small.

Baseri is where Tika and Gopal are from. Their parents still live and work here. Many of their relatives still live here. They are predominantly farmers and they usually own some livestock - a couple of cows, a couple of (water) buffalos and a few goats. A day in the farm earns them Rs 50. A liter of kerosene costs Rs 60. One dollar gets you Rs 70. Once harvested, the produce must be transported on their back to Arughat Bazaar - a four hour walk and an elevation change of two thousand feet. There is no electricity or plumbing. The pit toilets are detached from the house, shabbily constructed and very poorly lit. The school is only until the seventh grade and the classes are held in some very ramshackle buildings. Beyond that, the kids have to be sent away to Kathmandu to study at very high cost. Life, in short, is not easy and the future, bleak.

The day we spent in Baseri was an auspicious day in the Hindu calendar. On this day the sister treats the brother to some goodies and the brother promises to protect her - financially and otherwise. In the evening people form groups and go around the village dancing and singing.

We had a rather large group of our own. We did a lot of dancing too. But we noticed that it was mostly the seven of us that were dancing. It was pretty clear that they wanted us to dance. It is still not very clear what they thought of us. At times we felt like performing monkeys. At other times I could see that they were just very happy to see a bunch of foreigners who didn't mind performing the local rituals (while laughing at themselves).

In a village where there are innumerable relatives, the social strings are often quite intricately tied. It appeared that we were expected to visit many of the relatives and neighbors. Once it got dark we had to be very diplomatic and let Tika know that we would not be visiting all the people - even if it meant we did not heed the tug of some of those strings.

5. Nepal: Children

Once we left Kathmandu, seeing the children and the way the go about their day would qualify as my greatest culture shock. It took me several days on the trail to get used to the notion that I would encounter children with no parents in sight.

On the bus from Kathmandu the driver picked up an eight year old girl. He obviously knew her. With a lot of confidence and ease she spent eight hours with nearly forty strangers. The locals took care of her like people take care of their tennis rackets or running shoes. There was no one sitting by her side entertaining her. However they made sure that she had a place to sit and food to eat.

This casual approach towards kids initially surprised me. As days passed, I found that the kids here are growing up in a very different way. They are not taught phonics and reading before they reach first grade; they are not carted from swimming lessons to drawing lessons to gym classes; they are not taken to the library to pick various books or educational DVDs; no one is pointing out interesting flora and fauna by the side of the road to them.

They look at strangers and approach them fearlessly. They are not told to stay far away from strangers. It was nice to see that people were assumed to be decent, unlike here where a stranger is a sick wierdo unless proven otherwise. That they beg for pens, candy and money is another matter. The rest of the time, the kids are running around playing with other kids. While they are not learning the alphabet and math, they are learning critical social skills. They are figuring their strengths and weaknesses. They are figuring out which fights they should get into and the fights they should stay away from. They are learning how to evaluate people and how to choose friends. They figure out how to make rules when there are none. They learn to invent games and keep themselves busy.

The kids by and large were poorly clothed and very dirty. As we went higher up they got dirtier. There is no shortage of water but basic sanitation is lacking. I don't know about mortality rates and general health conditions. But it is pretty clear that most of these kids are none the worse for all the snot, dirt and bruises they carry on themselves. This is probably where the fittest are still the ones to surive.

4. Nepal: Bus ride to Arughat Bazaar

The locals have a way of not talking about distances but about time to get to a place. This is a rather clever thing when interacting with westerners who have some strange notion that distance is real, time is relative. The bus ride was supposed to be 130Km. Tika promised us that we would do it in eight to ten hours. The distance, you see, is hardly the issue. The road-conditions, the bus-condition, the number of friends of the driver we encounter on the road are all to be taken into account. We picked up little kids travelling alone, we picked up a school teacher, we lost a poter at a stop (he was later found - he had boarded another bus), we hit some pretty bad stretches of road where the surface was more like play-doh than like any road that I had ever seen.

On the bus when a young porter, Hari, wanted to sit next to me, I had no problem with it. He spoke better Hindi and better English than most of the other porters. After chatting with him for a while, I saw that he left and Tika sat next to me. I learnt much later that there is a very distinct hierarchy among the porters. Only those at the top are allowed to sit with the tourists. Hari, on the other hand, was at the very bottom of the totem-pole, since this was his first trek. At times, the bus got stuck behind another bus that broke down. The simple solution of going around the broken down bus could not be implemented for two reason. One, the road was not wide enough and two, the bus drivers don't let other drivers down. We waited until the other bus was repaired.

A word about these buses is in order. The buses are boxes of tin with wheels and motor. Inside the bus, the seats are steel frames welded onto streel rails that run along the bottom of the tin-box. A thin piece of foam covers a ply-wood board becomes the seat and the back-rest. The window may not open if closed and may not close if open. Many of the fittings are either broken or patched-up in a rather unconvincing manner. However, the music system always works. The base is set to low, the treble is set to high and is capable of playing the most popular Nepali songs. In our case we were treated to a hundred repetions of a love song whose opening bars were greeted with the same gusto by our Nepali friends - every time.

3. Nepal: Kathmandu

As the trip date appeared closer, there was practically no chatter on the email system. The system was humming like a well-fed Nepali. The day arrived, we met at the San Francisco International Airport. The baggage was checked in. The inevitable butterflies in the stomach came alive. It was hard to sleep on the flight. We found ourselves standing around at the common areas and coming to terms with the enormity of the hike. After a seemingly unending sequence of boarding and alighting exercises were were in Kathmandu being garlanded and received by a bunch of friendly faces. I had no idea who the guide - Tika - was. Before long, they loaded our things in to a rickety van and all of them started asking us for money. This is when Tika asserted himself and told us that we need to pay $10 to one of them and that was it. Miraculously they all heeded his word and as soon as the money was handed over, they vanished in the Kathmandu Airport parking lot. The van took us through the streets of Kathmandu and everything looked so similar to the streets in India. I was surprised to see that many Nepalis, especially the ones in the trekking business, speak better English than Hindi.

The guesthouse in Kathmandu was called Kathmandu Peace Guesthouse. Nepalis seem to like to use the word peace to be added to guesthouses, restaurants and the like. While the intention is noble, Kathmandu is no place to go looking for peace. It is a vibrant, modern city. The constant flow of western tourists has had a significant influence on how people live, eat and dress. The city has a touristy center called Thamel. However oppressive it may seem to a tourist who wants to get away from the western style of eating and living, Thamel is really the place where one can still get a decent coffee, buy magazines that one can read, ask for directions to practically any place in the world, make travel arrangements etc.

A walk at night after a heavy downpour was a pretty harrowing hazing ritual. The drains were clogged and the water collected on the streets. In very little time we were in shin-deep water. The fancy Gore-Tex of our recently acquired hiking boots were no match for this kind of treatment. Off came the shoes, and we started wading through the water praying all the time that we do not step on an abandoned razor or into a manhole whose cover was doing double duty elsewhere.

A meeting with Suman Dahal, the owner of the trekking company that got us our permits and insurance was another noteworthy event. His goal was to get more money out of us. His modus operandi was to talk us to boredom and get the money out if only to shut him up. The plan almost succeeded. Most of us, jet-lagged, started nodding off. But not Rick. Suman railed about how he had to hire more porters, about the Maoist extortion money that he had to pay and so on. We did not pay him anything extra, but the whole episode left us with a very negative impression of Suman.

2. Nepal: Planning

Our group consisted of Rick - the leader, Anup, Jose, Lisa, Eric and Bobby. Rick was the only one among us who had been to Nepal and done any trekking in the Himalayas. Rick was organizing the trek with his guide from the previous trips.

We would meet at the various Nepali restaurants in San Francisco. Not that it helped us in any way with the preparations, but it just seemed appropriate. We talked about weighty matters such as which cameras to carry, our respective abilities to control and release gas, how many meals of dal-bhaat could we eat before we couldn't eat anymore. We tried to guess how many unique instances of diarrhea could we possibly come down with on a 21 day trek. We talked about how many times Lisa would wash her hair - at this point we digressed and talked about why we should not all go for a rastafarian look. We decided that the men would not shave, that we would carry biodegradable soap. It was suggested that we should not even carry toothpaste, this idea was summarily brushed aside!

1. Nepal: The Motivation

In 1997 I spent several weeks in Ladakh. Ladakh is a high plateau situated between the Kashmir valley and Tibet. In many ways the people, religion and the culture is very similar to that of Tibet. While travelling there and ever since, I have wanted to do a long hike in the Himalayas.

The dream became a reality when one of my friends informed me of a plan being hatched by his officemate. The plan was to do a three week trek in Nepal. It would involve going around a mountain peak named Manaslu (8150 metres). I was interested but not sure if I could do it. Especially since my wife, Geeta was training for the marathon at the same time. In an exquisite exhibition of marital resonance we decided that we could indeed realize both our dreams.

From then on, it was a matter of dividing time for training towards our individual goals, acquiring suitable gear, egging each other on to do better than their best.

Review: A Hungry Tide by Amitav Ghosh

Two of the mighty rivers of the Indian subcontinent, Ganga and Brahmaputra become one in Bangladesh. Before they drain into the Bay of Bengal, they form a massive delta where all the silt is deposited. This three hundred kilometer stretch is a mangrove forest called Sunderban - the beautiful forest. The delta is literally thousands of islands separated by rivulets ranging from a few feet to few miles in width. Many of these islands and much of the forest disappears at high tide only to reappear when the tide ebbs. The river water merges with the salt water from the Bay of Bengal creating breeding grounds with varying salinity for a variety of marine life. It is said that the Sunderbans have a greater variety of marine life than all of European waters.

Many of the islands in the Sunderbans are inhabited. The silt brought by the rivers has made the land very fertile. But life here is not easy. The Sunderbans are a critical barrier for the terrible cyclones of the Bay of Bengal and prevent them from moving inland into India and Bangladesh. However the islands of the tide country bear the brunt of these storms. These storms uproot trees, rip houses apart, carry boats and steamers away from their docks only to dump them miles away. The forests are inhabited by man-eating tigers, crocodiles as big as fishing boats and deadly snakes.

Nature, here, is not exactly subtle. It expresses itself loudly, clearly and frequently harshly.

In this world of raw, visceral natural extremes, Amitav Ghosh paints characters who experience similar extremes of human emotions and reactions. The human emotion is just as fractured and fluid as the islands of the Sunderbans. People experience emotional surges and storms just like the Sunderbans experience tides and cyclones. There are parts to the human brain just as malevolent as the man-eating tigers, and parts just as fertile and loving as the soil of the Sunderban delta.

A fine book on all counts.

The Thief trilogy by Megan Whalen Turner

In the genre of fantasy that does not involve futuristic machinery and super-duper gizmos there are remarkably few books. Megan Whalen Turner's trilogy (so far) is a stand out in this genre. The three book are

The Thief
The Queen of Attolia
The King of Attolia

The books are meant to be read in sequence and having read all three there is really no way to see them as three different books. It is one, coherent, continuous story that are beautifully written and the new books never try to outdo the previous ones either in scale or heroism and for this reason alone it is a superior read compared to the Harry Potter sequence.

The thief is Eugenides a descendent of other thieves. He is released from the prison of Sounis by the Magus and taken to perform what many others have already failed. The Magus realizes that Eugenides has special gifts. These gifts are not immeidately apparent to the reader or his companions on the trip. What we really see is a petulant kid with a keen sense of observation, some hints to the talents he hides and most of all a very detailed knowledge of the mythology of Eddis, a kingdom in the mountains that separates Sounis from the other powerful kingdom of Attolia. One tends to develop respect for the Magus and love for the thief. He is handled and treated like a thief who might run away at any time until the reach the kingdom of Attolia where being with the Magus turns out to be safer than attempting a run. When it becomes clear that the thief has to steal the stone of Hamiathes, we see him transform into the character that he is known for. Turner lets us feel for the thief by making us constantly aware of his faults, fears as well as determination and cleverness.

In the second book we see the thief coming to terms with a devastating punishment meted out to him by the Queen of Attolia. She is known to be cruel but when Eugenides is recovering from his injury we see him transition from abject self-pity. He becomes more aware of the bigger picture in the politics of the region. He understands (and through him we do too) the intricate political games that are transpiring between the kingdoms. We see the role played by a fourth imperialistic power, the Medes. The thief begins to realize that he can play a significant role in shaping the relationships and securing his own country. The description of this transition is perhaps what makes this book the most engaging of the trilogy. However, it is entirely possible that people find this the most boring book as well.

In the final installment we see Eugenides in exactly the position he wanted to be in. However, it does not turn out to be as comfortable as he thought. After influencing the inter-kingdom politics in The Queen of Attolia, he is now enmeshed in the politics within the kingdom. He is not liked by the people of his own country especially for the position he occupies. He is seen as a thief, a coward and not eligible for his post.

Through out the series, we are presented with the local mythologies and gods. There are magical events where the gods intervene in everyday life. However these situations provide a sense of unpredictability that is entirely welcome. They are like a shot of espresso in the middle of the day. The characters are never taken for granted. We see them in various situations and build up a personal opinion of them. They are like normal human beings with flaws and strengths and when they are in extreme situations they behave with equal doses of grit and foolishness.

In short, it is a fantastic story of very real human beings set in a wonderful time a place that only a very creative mind can bring to life.

A brief history of the dead by Kevin Brockmeier

Imagine a city sustained by memories. Not deliberate, clear and lucid memories. But even a mere sighting from the corner of your eye is enough to connect the person to your list of remembered people. This is the basis of "the city" in Kevin Brockmeier's book. They are the recent dead and are in the city because someone who remembers them is alive on earth. In the city they have clear memories of their life and even their death. They remember the people they knew. It is a simple place not at all like heavens and hells that we think of. It feels like any normal city.

The story in the book happens at a time when a virulent epidemic is wiping out the entire human population on earth. So just as people are entering the city is large numbers, they are also leaving in large numbers for the simple reason that the people who remember them on earth are dying away rapidly.

On earth it is a time when the companies have become powerful enough to get a hold of Antarctica for its mineral wealth. The Coca Cola company has sent some researchers to study the place. And by a strange turn of circumstances, Laura Byrd - one of the scientists - becomes the only person alive on earth for a short period of time. So this creates the curious situation that all the people in the city know Laura Byrd and the is the sole cause of her existence in the city. He survival gives these people a chance to look at their past lives and re-evaluate relationships. Her parents who had grown apart on earth grow closer and their love is renewed. A PR person from the Coca Cola company becomes aware of a certain hideous skeleton in his cupboard. One of her co-workers tries to count how many people's lives he had touched. As he does this computation comes to the humbling conclusion that there could have been well over fifty thousand people.

The book brings to the fore the powerful notion that while we go through the business of our life, we could potentially touch a lot of people and leave behind powerful memories. Our mere existence could give people an opportunity to make their lives a little better.

Kevin Brockmeier's book recommendations

1. A Death in the Family by James Agee (*)
2. The Complete Short Stories by J.G. Ballard (*)
3. A Fine and Private Place by Peter S. Beagle
4. Once in Europa by John Berger
5. Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges
6. The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov (*)
7. Parable of the Sower and Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler
8. The Baron in the Trees by Italo Calvino (*)
9. Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll
10. Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton (*)
11. Novelties and Souvenirs: Collected Short Fiction by John Crowley
12. Matilda by Roald Dahl
13. The Latin American Trilogy by Louis de Bernières
14. Tales of Neveryon by Samuel R. Delany
15. The Unexpected Universe by Loren Eiseley
16. A Passage to India by E.M. Forster
17. The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys by Chris Fuhrman
18. Paris Stories by Mavis Gallant
19. The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
20. The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzakis
21. Collected Stories by Richard Kennedy
22. Otherwise: New and Selected Poems by Jane Kenyon
23. Elegy by Larry Levis
24. Magic for Beginners by Kelly Link
25. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers
26. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez (*)
27. All the Days and Nights: The Collected Stories by William Maxwell (*)
28. Edwin Mullhouse: The Life and Death of an American Writer,1943-1954 by Steven Millhauser
29. Essays by Michel de Montaigne
30. Complete Works and Other Stories by Augusto Monterroso
31. A Wild Sheep Chase and Dance, Dance, Dance by Haruki Murakami
32. The Sharpshooter Blues by Lewis Nordan
33. The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien
34. Esther Stories by Peter Orner
35. A Collection of Essays by George Orwell
36. Metamorphoses by Ovid
37. Bel Canto by Ann Patchett
38. Alan Mendelsohn, the Boy from Mars by Daniel Pinkwater (*)
39. My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok
40. The His Dark Materials Trilogy by Philip Pullman (*)
41. Where Bigfoot Walks: Crossing the Dark Divide by Robert Michael Pyle
42. Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson (*)
43. The Gospel According to Jesus Christ by José Saramago
44. Indistinguishable from the Darkness by Charlie Smith
45. The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis
46. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
47. Waiting for God by Simone Weil
48. Essays by E.B. White
49. Stoner by John Williams
50. The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham

Landscape-Mindscape

Landscape-Mindscape
White Mountains Research Station at Crooked Creek
Staff: Stuart Scofield, Virginia Newton, Sam Hipkins, Douglas Vincent

July 9 -17 2006

It was supposed to be a photography course in a starkly beautiful part of California – the White Mountains, just north of Death Valley. At an elevation of over ten thousand feet, in the middle of the ancient bristlecone pine trees, the UC Santa Cruz Landscape-Mindscape class draws people who are interested in photography and the outdoors. However, as I soon realized, the course offered far more than mere photography in a beautiful landscape.

The log cabins of the White Mountains Research Station (WMRS) were welcoming as they stood out in contrast to the bleakness and aridness of the surrounding hills and sage brush. The WMRS staff have made a very welcoming home for the researchers as well as the enrollees of the course.

The course is designed carefully to teach students the craft of photography. The instructors have gleaned the techniques of the masters and put together an excellent curriculum. In addition, they teach the technique and procedures of photography with great rigor and precision. As with any art form, the instructors emphasize that technique and precision are merely tools of expression. The thought or idea that is to be expressed is entirely in the hands of the artist; in this case, us. Stuart Scofield, the primary instructor, studiously stays away from giving guidelines, tips and cheat-sheets for creating art. He always stressed that the emotional impact of a scene, which is the essence of a photograph, is purely in the mind of the observer. An observer trained in the craft of photography should be able to capture the scene and its full emotional impact in a photograph.

Here, in the midst of trees dating back 4,500 years, we learnt to see and feel our surroundings. We became more aware that our impressions of our environment come from more than just the relative positions of the components of nature. Nature can exert a powerful emotional appeal through the interplay of these components under different kinds of light, cloud cover, times of day, presence or absence of wind, the sounds of birds. Not all of these can be captured in a photograph, but these are the inspirations. The photographer has to be receptive to these and then bring to bear the craft of photography to be able to capture it on a two-dimensional medium within a frame. The final image, in the form of a print or on a screen, is a testament to the photographer’s ability to receive inspiration from his surroundings, perhaps even enhance its appeal, and present it to a viewer. The success of a photograph lies in it being able to give a random viewer the same inspiration that it gave to the photographer. Reminds me of Schopenhauer, the 18^th century German philosopher who placed great emphasis on the power of the artist:

The artist lets us peer into the world through his eyes. That he has these eyes, that he knows the essential in things … is the gift of genius and is inborn; but that he is able to lend us this gift, to let us see with his eyes, is acquired, and is the technical side of art.

Located in the rain shadow of the Sierra Nevadas, the White Mountains with the ancient bristlecone pines are remarkable. The harsh mountain climate (where the amount of precipital moisture in the air is about half a millimeter - the lowest ever recorded anywhere on earth) with its rocky soil is a challenge for all kinds of vegetation. However the bristlecone pine trees and sage brush have found a way to thrive here. The bristlecone pines have adapted by growing dense wood and secrete thick resin to ward off winds, insects and most diseases. They have been so successful that they have become the oldest living trees on the planet. The sight of a gnarly bristlecone pine on white dolomite rocks with its shallow roots is at once a vision of strength and loneliness. They are trees that have no natural friends, their strength is their friend. Harsh soil and high erosion means that the seeds are often washed away. They rely on birds to hide the pine seeds under the soil and the ones that are forgotten have a chance to germinate and grow into a tree.

The open air, high altitude and the atmosphere of the class seemed to expand space and slowdown time. The senses became keen and one could almost feel the surroundings talking. At times they were tales of strength, at times they were tales of loneliness. The abandoned miners’ shacks and the open mine shaft seemed to tell the same story as the trees – that life can thrive here despite the obvious adversity.

The gentle morning light remains gentle for a very short time. The clear and thin air scatters very little light and soon it is the harsh glare from the sky and the whiteness of the dolomite that dominates all the features. Viewed as a photographer, this is the worst light in which to photograph; viewed as an artist this is the best time to experience nature. It is now that one begins to realize and appreciate what a remarkable place this is.

In everyday life, routine and daily chores take precedence over the time needed to appreciate beauty in nature and one’s surroundings. One is sometimes forced to quench the few sparks of inspiration that may arise with cynicism and jadedness. Yet these sparks are the very life blood of an artist. But here in the shadows of the ancient bristlecones the expanding time and space seemed to inspire everyone to become expressive. Keen receptivity and lucid expression, the building blocks of creativity, seemed to flow naturally in every one of us who was there on this course.

We were twelve students and three instructors, and we developed a working, learning and social relationship in a very short time. Perhaps it was the harshness of the surroundings or the beauty of the hills; it could have been the age of the trees or the tales of loneliness and adversity; whatever magic the place and the course structure created, it brought out the best in all of us. By the third day, we were becoming close friends, the surroundings were inspiring us to take good pictures, and opportunities for good photographs were being found practically everywhere. The photography course was transcending its stated purpose. The experience was bordering on the spiritual. On the penultimate day, we had a field trip to Cottonwood Canyon. Towards the end of the trip, a ritualistic head dip in the creek seemed like a form of baptism that bound us all into a special community that had shared a very special time with each other.

At the end of the course, on the day we were to return, the goodbyes were difficult. And because of this difficulty it was also the most memorable. As I drove down the dirt road, I found myself turning on music in the car and cranking up the volume. I was trying to drown out strange emotions. Then with great effort I turned off the music and let the emotions surge through me: the joy of having been fortunate enough to participate in this wonderful class, the pain of having to leave it, the joy of going back to my family and the pain of having to re-enter everyday life.

I felt a twinge of sadness when I left the gravel trail and reached surfaced road at Schulman grove. As I drove away I made it a point to archive the feelings so that I could write this when I got home. This was as close to a life altering experience as I have ever had.