In 2006 I went to Myanmar. I knew little about the place save from the fact it was run by a military junta and according to the hippy at my local bar in Port Melbourne ‘by traveling there I was no better than the bastards!’ Bollocks I retorted. I’ll stay in private hostels, eat local food and show a finger to the boys at the checkpoints on the way through – collusion my arse.
One day in Hsipaw, a 3 hour drive west of Mandalay I had a craving for golf. I know, at my core I’m a trader who’d love to be an 18th century tea plantation owner with my Indian wife and personal army, but in the 21st I just have to travel and play golf when I get the chance. Anyway, at tee off I realized the officers of the junta really love a good whack. And…if possible a good wank. Because all of the caddies were young good looking women, probably mothers at night, but during the day suck buddies for the men in green. Anyway it was wakeup 101 time for me. After sending a crooked shank into the eucalyptus trees (could have been my home town course less the hookers) I ran into a fence and outside….outside were probably 15 children. Emaciated. Haggard. Festering sores on their faces. I thought they wanted money from me – white ego you see, but as I watched their big brown eyes follow the party behind me it dawned on me. They were waiting for their mum’s to get off from work. The poor little buggers were waiting till mum finished her ‘work’ so they could get a feed from the proceeds. Of course I was outraged. ‘This is an outrage’ I said to myself (I couldn’t afford a caddie). ‘Someone should do something’ I mused. After a few calls all of my chardonnay sipping western sensibilities would be satisfied.
After the round (I blame the poor score on my realization that these guys were bad pricks) I was invited for a drink. And I drank with them. A colonel and a major told me about how they’d just got blow jobs from their ‘women’ at the 18th. I’d like to say I was shocked. Instead I laughed. The scotch soothed my prior concerns about the trivial matters of exploitation, the kids voices trailed off and I giggled away as the colonel added my expenses to his tab.
Why am I recounting this? Yes Burma was an amazing place and there are so many stories I could tell. And I’m not usually one to expose myself to claims of hypocrisy (especially my hippie friend at the Parrot). But the point is that we humans, whether individually or at a macro governmental level will do anything to get what we want. I wanted a drink The Chinese want teak and the Indians Gas. What’s the bloody difference? You think if the Yanks were next door they wouldn’t collude with the junta to get a taste of that sweet smelling natural gas they’re sitting on? My point is following the recent catastrophic cyclone in southern Myanmar everyone has their Burmese armband on shedding tears for the thousands killed and injured. Yes it’s a massive tragedy. But if we really cared why not send in a few thousand marines and finish it?
Instead the US and France move their air craft carriers a few degrees north full of food and medical equipment showing how concerned they are to the rest of the world. Concurrently the French pump oil out of Burmese waters and the Indians suck gas into West Bengal (the Thais are too nice to bag). Who wants 10 years of experimental democracy in Burma when there’s all this stuff to get out of there? The only reason America and the West are so concerned is because they’re not getting a piece of it and the Chinese are!
This is reality. And it’s not going to change because of bleeding hearts in the UN. My advice: grab yourself a caddie and get on with it while you can. Because finally the only thing that will change the status quo is the caddies, 1 woods in hand, chasing the colonel off the green.
For less cynical and more timely observations check out my travel blog http://www.bugbitten.com/blogs/Asia/sambatters/sf3/Myanmar.html
Oh yeah, for the record, Burmese people are without doubt the friendliest people on earth.
Hooroo.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
DesiOz Day
It’s fitting that one of the best test series in a long time is being played over the respective national days of the two opponents, India and Australia. And whilst the series has exposed some raw emotions on both sides there is more than this linking the way both countries view their national day than is at first obvious.
For India, the significance of Republic Day is real and for most of my Indian friends it seems to be quite raw. Of course it is the day that marks the formation of an Indian Constitution and the day Indians decided to govern themselves. However, images of freedom fighters, Marxist style fists thrust in the air, Gandhi in his dhoti still persist….I think the former, that of the freedom fighters is the first palpable link one can make with the way Australians view their own national day. Whilst Anzac Day in Australia is the pre-eminent occasion for remembering the sacrifices of our soldiers there is without doubt a lingering remembrance of them on Australia Day as well. Pride and remembrance of the fallen is growing in both countries (not always a positive thing I believe when it crosses the line into jingoism) and tomorrow will show this in both countries.
The British Empire too, and its impact on the two nations have a strong resonance on our national days. For India I think it can be a painful remembrance, perhaps one of lost opportunities and subservience followed by immense (and justifiable) pride in the final cutting of the colonial link and subsequent building of the largest independent democracy in the world. For Australia, whilst a massive proportion of the population claim British ancestry, there is still a measure of pride to be drawn from the fact that our first citizens were in fact the people England chose to discard, prisoners shipped in rotting hulks to the great southern land.
Sport, and obviously here I’m talking cricket, also plays a big part of the national day. In Australia, it looks like the Indian team will be teaching the Aussies how to lose consistently. But on beaches all over Australia and anywhere in India that a boy can truss up some stumps, make a bat from fence paling and throw down a few out-swingers mini tests will be played. Little Kumble’s and Hayden’s will compete for the ultimate prize – a Frosty Fruit icypole or a Gulab Jamun.
In Australia it’s definitely a day for celebrating our multicultural society. For the first 150 years of our existence (and I aknowledge that Aboriginals lived on the continent for tens of thousands of years without outside interference before ‘we’ arrived – however there was no notion of a ‘nation state’) we were an Anglo-Saxon nation, then Greeks, Italians and other Eastern Europeans flocked there following World War II. After the Vietnam War Vietnamese and Chinese, and more recently immigrants from the subcontinent and Africa have made their home in Oz and enriched our society to a huge extent. For India, whilst not sharing an immigrant past, the diversity of this country is if not celebrated, certainly present in the realization that so many starkly different cultures and backgrounds make up this massive nation state.
Of course there are many things that set us apart, but now’s not the time to dwell on those. Instead just be proud people. True, we both have problems that we’re grappling with, but we also have a lot to look forward to and we share enough commonalities to make a difference together, both in the region and the world.
Happy Republic Day! Happy Australia Day! And get a Kingfisher/Fosters cocktail into ya...yaar!
Monday, January 21, 2008
Can't talk luv, the footy's on.
Us blokes are a shifty lot. Depending on the fortunes of our favourite sports team we can be angry, happy, hurtful or wonderfully generous (my mates dad once bought a holiday house for his family on the internet after his team won a rather tight finals clash). But one certainty remains through all of the ups and downs. When the sport’s on – be it radio, internet or TV, our focus is on one thing: winning. And during that time it’s important for women to understand what’s going through our minds so you don’t get upset. So ladies grab a pen and paper and take note.
The cardinal rule:
There is nothing to talk about during the game except the game.
Let me repeat:
There is nothing to talk about during the game except the game.
Weddings, books, make-up, the newest nightclub, your best friends new boyfriend, babies, potential kitchen decorations, your best friends ex-boyfriend, new recipes, your boobs (actually usually forgiven), whether Prada handbags are worth the expense etc, are all what I call NDSD’s (Not During Sport Discussions). It’s not that we don’t mind having them generally…. After work is fine. During work is fine. In bed is fine. But ONLY if there is no sport on!
How to put it in perspective? It’s like if you’re having coffee with your girlfriends and some bloke comes along trying to change the topic from the newest cross stitch design (don’t lie) to nude female mud wrestling (also a legitimate sporting contest I’ll add). Not kosher right? Same applies with us and sport.
Sport for us is a spiritual experience. The TV is our altar and when we’re praying for the safe delivery of our team from the clutches of the opposition there’s nothing to do but just be there quietly and support us. It’s life and death stuff you know? And for years it was taken as a given. You think when Caeser was sitting in the stands sweating for his beloved lions in their daily scrap against some fresh Christians, Cleopatra was in his ear saying ‘Baby, after the game I’d love to drop down to Herrod’s and grab some of that Byzantinium pefume!’?? No way! She was just sitting there, passing him a beer every now and then and quietly dreaming about her next conquest in North Africa.
So during the game my advice is this. Be quiet and appear interested. If you want to barrack that’s cool too but make sure it’s not against the man. That’s into dangerous relationship category. In fact the man would prefer (if you’re genuinely not interested) if went shopping, baked a cake or did some kickboxing.
What about after the game? Well if the bloke has won pat him on the back, say ‘well done’ (we always think we had a part in it) and say ‘let’s go out for a beer’. On the way throw in a few meaningless comments about the game to get him excited. Example: ‘Did you see Brown? He was amazing!’. To which he will laugh in a superior manner and explain that whilst Brown was indeed playing well it was nothing on the show he put on two weeks ago and furthermore that Mercurio (not withstanding a mid week slip up in a nightclub caught by the tabloids) was actually the best player on the park. To which you ooh and ahh and generally revel in his expert grasp of the game.
If, god forbid, his team loses things can get delicate. Please don’t laugh. It’s not funny…. It’s sad. And your bloke needs time to get over things. Let him go for a walk, punch a hole in the wall or swear at the kids playing outside. There are limits of course. He shouldn’t be moping for more than say, 6 days, as that’s when the next game comes along and by then he’ll be fooling himself into thinking his team can actually win. If you’re feeling adventurous try making a derogatory comment about the refs and you might find yourself on the right side of fuming man.
It’s true that men aren’t that complicated. Apart from being happy with you, we just want our team to win, and in the process, believe we had something to do with it. So girls, grab us a beer, let us scratch the nether region and dream about victory.
The cardinal rule:
There is nothing to talk about during the game except the game.
Let me repeat:
There is nothing to talk about during the game except the game.
Weddings, books, make-up, the newest nightclub, your best friends new boyfriend, babies, potential kitchen decorations, your best friends ex-boyfriend, new recipes, your boobs (actually usually forgiven), whether Prada handbags are worth the expense etc, are all what I call NDSD’s (Not During Sport Discussions). It’s not that we don’t mind having them generally…. After work is fine. During work is fine. In bed is fine. But ONLY if there is no sport on!
How to put it in perspective? It’s like if you’re having coffee with your girlfriends and some bloke comes along trying to change the topic from the newest cross stitch design (don’t lie) to nude female mud wrestling (also a legitimate sporting contest I’ll add). Not kosher right? Same applies with us and sport.
Sport for us is a spiritual experience. The TV is our altar and when we’re praying for the safe delivery of our team from the clutches of the opposition there’s nothing to do but just be there quietly and support us. It’s life and death stuff you know? And for years it was taken as a given. You think when Caeser was sitting in the stands sweating for his beloved lions in their daily scrap against some fresh Christians, Cleopatra was in his ear saying ‘Baby, after the game I’d love to drop down to Herrod’s and grab some of that Byzantinium pefume!’?? No way! She was just sitting there, passing him a beer every now and then and quietly dreaming about her next conquest in North Africa.
So during the game my advice is this. Be quiet and appear interested. If you want to barrack that’s cool too but make sure it’s not against the man. That’s into dangerous relationship category. In fact the man would prefer (if you’re genuinely not interested) if went shopping, baked a cake or did some kickboxing.
What about after the game? Well if the bloke has won pat him on the back, say ‘well done’ (we always think we had a part in it) and say ‘let’s go out for a beer’. On the way throw in a few meaningless comments about the game to get him excited. Example: ‘Did you see Brown? He was amazing!’. To which he will laugh in a superior manner and explain that whilst Brown was indeed playing well it was nothing on the show he put on two weeks ago and furthermore that Mercurio (not withstanding a mid week slip up in a nightclub caught by the tabloids) was actually the best player on the park. To which you ooh and ahh and generally revel in his expert grasp of the game.
If, god forbid, his team loses things can get delicate. Please don’t laugh. It’s not funny…. It’s sad. And your bloke needs time to get over things. Let him go for a walk, punch a hole in the wall or swear at the kids playing outside. There are limits of course. He shouldn’t be moping for more than say, 6 days, as that’s when the next game comes along and by then he’ll be fooling himself into thinking his team can actually win. If you’re feeling adventurous try making a derogatory comment about the refs and you might find yourself on the right side of fuming man.
It’s true that men aren’t that complicated. Apart from being happy with you, we just want our team to win, and in the process, believe we had something to do with it. So girls, grab us a beer, let us scratch the nether region and dream about victory.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Harden the f**k up!
Poofters, pansies, soft cocks, fairies, metrosexuals, pantyhosers…these days there are a myriad of terms to describe the iffeminate amongst the male species. With growing acceptance of homosexuality and a slow but unstoppable requirement for men to be more sensitive in relationships we are moving further away from our pillaging, mutton bone chomping ancestors. Not a bad thing of course. I’m only a little fella and the thought of being banged up by my hairy cousins over a vat of pig fat scares me senseless. But there are limits to the march of manlessness surely?
Last week I went into the local hairdressers for a quick shave and cut. Here in India the hairdressers are amazing. You get a head massage, a shave and a good cut for 10 usd in the more expensive places. But it’s what surrounded me that shocked me. Next to me were not a number of young blokes getting their noggins chopped…oh no…instead the scene before me was something akin to my cousins bridal party getting done up before her wedding.
To my right a man with zucchini slices over his eyes smiled contendedly as a foul mixture was plastered over his face with something that looked like it was once used to mix brick mortar. Next to him a fat young bloke cooed as his attentive masseuse knelt before him massaging the gunk out from between his toes. To my left (and I’m not shitting you here) a guy was getting his underarms trimmed! With the benefit of the mirror I could see the other side of the room was no different. Tweezers, oily fingers, weird coloured moisturizers and gels swished and flicked into a gooey nightmare. AARRRRGGGHHHH!
Hyperventilating from the shock I paid up and got the fuck out of there. What had I just witnessed? Had something happened in the past 25 years that I’d missed? I get my hair cut on average 8 times a year and never had I come across such a display of male preening. It was like watching some weird pre production make up set for the stage version of ‘Manoirs of a Geisha’.
There had to be an explanation and in an effort to find out what was happening to my perceptions of masculinity I asked around with a few friends of friends (I’m pretty sure none of my mates have had this done but then again Johnno does have extremely nice skin).
It turns out that I’ve missed the boat completely. Somewhere around 2003 there was a show called ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’ in the U.S where flannelette wearing men with takeaway food stains on their shirts got showered, shaved, manicured and moisturized until they morphed into David Beckham wannabe’s. The poor blokes dutifully underwent their torture at the hands of a bunch of gay blokes and the message was clear – unless you were groomed and well dressed in this brave new century you weren’t worthy of a girlfriend, boyfriend or many friends at all for that matter.
But the conspiracy has worked. (I’m not sure who’s behind it yet, maybe some strange coupling of the moisturizer companies and Al Qaida). A lot of my male mates now openly admit to using moisturizers on a bi-daily basis. One of them even takes a moisturizer pump to work and squirts his way through the day! Another puts so much shit in his hair that I’m not even sure if it’s his hair or a recently recovered sea bird from some oil spill in the North Sea.
Sure a lot of it has to do with the nature of work these days. We no longer slave away in pits all day to find a few kgs of coal returning home to collapse on the bed. Now we’re ‘marketers’ and ‘traders’ and ‘consultants’ who supposedly need to maintain our looks and fresh image for all those bullshit presentations to people we actually despise. Apparently image is still more important than actual content.
Stuff it I say. I’m going to wear my smelly track pants down to the supermarket without worrying about the disapproving looks. I’m going to listen to the horse races on my 1996 make walkman and yell out in the street when I (some day) win a race. I’m going to spill beer on my chin and not even wipe it off. I’m going to get wrinkles and squint all the time to make them more pronounced. I’m going to….
Shit, it’s 11.30am…better run or I’ll miss my appointment for the Brazilian.
Last week I went into the local hairdressers for a quick shave and cut. Here in India the hairdressers are amazing. You get a head massage, a shave and a good cut for 10 usd in the more expensive places. But it’s what surrounded me that shocked me. Next to me were not a number of young blokes getting their noggins chopped…oh no…instead the scene before me was something akin to my cousins bridal party getting done up before her wedding.
To my right a man with zucchini slices over his eyes smiled contendedly as a foul mixture was plastered over his face with something that looked like it was once used to mix brick mortar. Next to him a fat young bloke cooed as his attentive masseuse knelt before him massaging the gunk out from between his toes. To my left (and I’m not shitting you here) a guy was getting his underarms trimmed! With the benefit of the mirror I could see the other side of the room was no different. Tweezers, oily fingers, weird coloured moisturizers and gels swished and flicked into a gooey nightmare. AARRRRGGGHHHH!
Hyperventilating from the shock I paid up and got the fuck out of there. What had I just witnessed? Had something happened in the past 25 years that I’d missed? I get my hair cut on average 8 times a year and never had I come across such a display of male preening. It was like watching some weird pre production make up set for the stage version of ‘Manoirs of a Geisha’.
There had to be an explanation and in an effort to find out what was happening to my perceptions of masculinity I asked around with a few friends of friends (I’m pretty sure none of my mates have had this done but then again Johnno does have extremely nice skin).
It turns out that I’ve missed the boat completely. Somewhere around 2003 there was a show called ‘Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’ in the U.S where flannelette wearing men with takeaway food stains on their shirts got showered, shaved, manicured and moisturized until they morphed into David Beckham wannabe’s. The poor blokes dutifully underwent their torture at the hands of a bunch of gay blokes and the message was clear – unless you were groomed and well dressed in this brave new century you weren’t worthy of a girlfriend, boyfriend or many friends at all for that matter.
But the conspiracy has worked. (I’m not sure who’s behind it yet, maybe some strange coupling of the moisturizer companies and Al Qaida). A lot of my male mates now openly admit to using moisturizers on a bi-daily basis. One of them even takes a moisturizer pump to work and squirts his way through the day! Another puts so much shit in his hair that I’m not even sure if it’s his hair or a recently recovered sea bird from some oil spill in the North Sea.
Sure a lot of it has to do with the nature of work these days. We no longer slave away in pits all day to find a few kgs of coal returning home to collapse on the bed. Now we’re ‘marketers’ and ‘traders’ and ‘consultants’ who supposedly need to maintain our looks and fresh image for all those bullshit presentations to people we actually despise. Apparently image is still more important than actual content.
Stuff it I say. I’m going to wear my smelly track pants down to the supermarket without worrying about the disapproving looks. I’m going to listen to the horse races on my 1996 make walkman and yell out in the street when I (some day) win a race. I’m going to spill beer on my chin and not even wipe it off. I’m going to get wrinkles and squint all the time to make them more pronounced. I’m going to….
Shit, it’s 11.30am…better run or I’ll miss my appointment for the Brazilian.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
