Worshiping From Afar

 At some level don't we all want to be worshiped, adored even?  One may be loathe to admit it but all of us, even those  with the least amount of narcissistic tendencies have a trace amount of the want.  Have you met anyone that has felt the honest to God experience of massive adoration?  I'm not talking the mere idolatry of film stars or musicians for these pale in comparison.  I'm talking the real thing, of being venerated by an entire people, of ones effigy being put on a pedestal, worshiped as a savior, as a redeemer, as a God.

The Cargo Cults of the South Pacific have always fascinated us.  For many, the years during and after World War II brought times of massive change.  For those in Melanesia, Micronesia, and New Guinea war time brought the arrivals of new God's, of their talismans, and of their fetishes.  The tides of war brought a slew of materiel to many an island outposts shores.  As this cargo of clothing, tires, shipping containers, food, and manufactured goods appeared as if from nowhere, locals became certain that this was manna from heaven.  Their deities and ancestors creating the goods by spiritual means, as a way of helping the native people.

As the war came to a close these sacred items stopped washing up on the scattered islands.  These items became fetishized further still.  A bond between the old Gods and the trappings of Western mechanization (aeroplanes, boats, airports, landing strips, radios, etc..) was created and soon mock airstrips, palm frond airplanes, coconut radios, and rifles made of bamboo popped up.  Ceremonies sprang up revolving around an islands men marching in formation with their stick guns while saying prayers to their "aeroplanes".  These imitations of western culture became ritualized and performed over and over as hopes of attracting more cargo.  Certain Americans such as John Frum where worshiped as Gods and may have come from an actual visit by someone as mundane as "John from America".  To this day the John Frum movement exists and it is believed that John Frum will return on February 15th to save the islands and in turn make everyone prosperous with Western goods.  Mock parades with mock weapons are staged on mock landing strips to signal his return.

 

Perhaps the cargo cult closest to our heart is the Prince Philip Movement on Tanna, in Vanuatu.  The Yaohnanen believe that Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, the consort to Queen Elizabeth II, is a divine being, the pale skinned son of a mountain spirit and the brother of John Frum.  According to island lore the son traveled far away were he married a powerful lady and was to one day return.  The cult was formed in the 1960's and was given credence by the royal visit of 1974.  Prince Philip's aids made sure a signed photograph was sent to the villagers who in turn sent him a traditional pig killing club called a nai-nai.  The prince then sent a photograph posing with the weapon which further entrenched the relationship.  Funny, given Prince Philip's gaffes with foreigners and his general perceived aloofness.  Still, there are worse men to worship than Prince Philip.

                                     New Imperial Black goods just over the horizon.  Say a Prayer

  We can only dream that one day a shipment of our shirts pops overboard and washes up on some idyllic shore only to be venerated by the locals in all of our gingham and striped splendor.  For all we know our man E.M.M. is already the ruler of some volcano puffing, palm fringed paradise, resplendent in our shirts as if they were the robes of the Gods.  Perhaps we should instead be worshiping him from afar.....

A slow roast for a cold night

There's the soft thump of snow outside which offers no sign of abating. Lovely large flakes that spiral down joining the rest on the lawn, the shrubbery, and the trees. The grey afternoon feels cloistered and hushed as the street lights come on, capturing the swirls in their glow.




This time of winter calls for comfort, for a sighing and popping fire and of thick Nordic blankets on the settee. Earlier in the afternoon, as the sky turned woolen, thoughts turned to food and of something slow and warming.









Slow Roasted Leg of Lamb
A leg of lamb, about 5 lbs
For the Imperial rub:
Garlic- 2 cloves
Sea salt- a nice tablespoon
A dash of paprika
Cumin- a full tablespoon
Fresh thyme leaves- 2 generous table spoons
Olive oil- 2 full tablespoons
Butter- a thick slice
Set your oven to 325. Make the rub. Peel the garlic cloves, then lightly crush them with the salt, using a pestle and mortar or a spoon (if you must). Mix in the paprika, cumin, and thyme. Gradually add the olive oil so you end up with a nice thick paste. Melt the butter in a sauce pan and stir into the paste.
Chuck the leg into a deep cast iron casserole or roasting pan and rub it all over with the paste. I use my hands but the back of a spoon will do nicely. Put it in the oven and leave for 35 minutes. Then put in 1 cup of water and baste the lamb with the liquid. Continue roasting for 3 hours, basting the meat every hour with the juices collected in the pan.
Remove the pan from the oven and pour off the top layer of oil, leaving the cloudy, herb infused sediment in place. Cover the pan with a lid and set aside for 10 mi uses or so.
Carve the lamb, serving with our chickpea mash, spooning the pan juices over both as you go.




Chickpea Mash:
Chickpeas- two 14 oz cans
1 small yellow onion
Olive oil- 4 tablespoons
Hot paprika
Drain the chickpeas and put them in a pan of lightly salted water. Bring to a boil and then turn down to barely a simmer. You want to warm the chickpeas, not cook them further. Peel and finely slice the onion, then let it soften with the olive oil in a pan over moderate heat. The oil seems overdone but no worries. Let the onion color and then add a bit of paprika. Drain the chickpeas and mash with a potato master or, if fancy, in a food processor.

Enough for 6 and lovely with a nice deep red.

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Why?

Force 7 Winds On An Atlantic Crossing

If you would know the age of the earth, look upon the sea in a storm. The grayness of the whole immense surface, the wind furrows upon the faces of the waves, the great masses of foam, tossed about and waving, like matted white locks, give to the sea in a gale an appearance of hoary age, lustreless, dull, without gleams, as though it had been created before light itself. Joseph Conrad "The Mirror of the Sea"

Watching Felix Baumgartner's jump from the edges of space had us answering the question "Why?" to more than a few acquaintances.  Apparently we must be a bit off balanced for those close to us to assume we would have an answer.  But it's a sound question.  Why?

Joe Kittinger's historic jump from space.

Why do some of us feel the need to do something extraordinary?  What brings a person to the sharp point of thinking "I have to do this thing, or else....".  Mallory's old term "because it's there" doesn't get to the root.  Whats behind that thought?  "It's there" could be applied to anything.  What happenings lead up to the point where the phrase marks a launching point of no return?

Crossing the Empty Quarter

Those that head out, far from the comforts of home, with hopes of sailing a new body of water, discovering a great range, or traversing a continent,  seem to do so for myriad reasons.  It's easy to say that those that light out into the territory are running away from something, looking to find something better.  There is some truth to this.  Many of the great mountaineering feats and discoveries of our time depended on some significant life event as precursor.  A catalyst to light the fuse...  Years ago Michael Kennedy (editor of Climbing magazine) wrote an article describing the number of great routes that had been put up by the depressed, the disenfranchised, the heartbroken.  Indeed, the death of one close, divorce, and a broken heart appear to be high on the list of reasons for action.  As if the things that go with an adventure; continuous movement, a single mindedness, a deep exhaustion displace the ruminations of heartache at least for a short time.  Still, depending on the severity, the exaltation found at altitude, or on blue water quickly subsides and the mind races back to the things that darken the soul.  Many then get trapped in the cycle of planning the next adventure or succumbing to the deepest of depressions. 

Alpinist's Cemetery Chamonix

  

Then there are those not haunted by Churchill's black dog of depression that simply move and explore for the sheer experience.  We often smirk and eyes are rolled  when we are told that so and so is off to "find himself".  I tend to defend these people with a vengeance.  I cant think of a better way to understand oneself than by seeing how a stranger views us.  Surrounded by new faces, in a new land there is no past to be judged by.  Everything must be taken at face value.  Your actions and words are all that matters.  Tabula Rasa.  I think that perhaps this is one of the greatest things about setting off.  Not merely the opportunity to reinvent oneself.  It's much more than that.  Its an opportunity to build on ones core.  To test oneself, and to ultimately better oneself. 

Home Base on the Rio Negro

We are all seekers of something.  Why do you travel?  What is your prime mover? Why do you feel the need to create something extraordinary?

Greeneland

 As the moon lay heavy on the thick, lapping banks of the Ben Hai, I walked slowly yet purposefully.  The day had brought great promise for the journey that lay ahead, but I thought it prudent to cross check our path before heading out at sunrise, despite my young guide's protests.  I also had an errand of a personal nature that needed tending to, which I had not shared with my mates, and so had slipped unannounced leaving them with Ngoc Minh back at the flat.  I checked the hour on the worn pocket watch, its origin dating back to the early 1900's.  I'd purchased it earlier that afternoon in the staggering heat of the noon-day sun from an old man in the Quang Tri Province who swore on the spirits of his ancestors as to the purity of the precious metal with which it had been crafted.  His solemn face and steady voice betrayed his withered skin which was leathered and drawn from years spent working in the paddies as a youth.  I'd taken amusement from the time we spent bantering on the price.  We ultimately settled on a reasonable fee, which included my belt from our unexpected detour through Kanpur several weeks prior and a toast to his longevity over small but potent cups of ruou de, ironically my preferred brand of rice wine from the Mekong.

  I turned the corner only to come face to snout with a Siamese crocodile who seemed mildly put out by my disturbance of his rest.  His midnight repreive had clearly followed his evening feast of a freshly slaughtered piglet, the vestiges of its carcass still fresh and lying near.  My continued good fortune dictated that he'd likely stolen it from one of the street vendors, as was evidenced by both the remaining clean, linear butcher marks and by his lack of aggression towards my interruption, as his hunting instincts had not been aroused or indulged; I locked eyes with him, some twisted part of me hoping that he would attack, taking into account the unique patterns on his hide and my unexpected, new-found need for a belt.  Sadly he's critically endangered so luck was with him.  He lazily looked away and I walked on, not giving him any birth and winking at him as I passed.  At the corner of the last riverside shack, I turned, making my way up the alley and into the courtyard of the Midtown District, where I came upon my destination.

  The night tumbled into the courtyard where the small inn was housed.  Dim, red lights promoting the sale of Bia hoi beer shone weakly from inside one small window, like a sad beacon.  A clever smile crept across my face at the sight of it.  I picked up the pace in order to shorten the distance between me and my objective.  A young boy, about the age of eight approached me out of nowhere as he announced his despairing need of my spare change, his broken English well-practiced.  Without breaking stride, I silently pulled out a crisp $100 bill and softly padded it into the palm of his hand.  Patting his cheek as I walked away, i found the mix of dirt and shock on his face endearing.  Up ahead my end-goal awaited me...her familiar smile and silhouette breaking through the night and reminding me that all was well with the world.  Perhaps tomorrow I'll look into that belt....

E.M.M.

Afterimage: My Fathers Birthday

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been seventy. Try as I might I can't see him at this age just as I can't seem to picture myself at seventy. Then again, I'm not sure anyone can really picture themselves as their Autumn slips into Winter.

Twelve years ago, at his eulogy, I looked out across the crowd and was surprised (yet shouldn't have been) by the faces. Family and friends from England, colleagues from Taiwan, China, Honduras, and South Africa. The stateside contingent from the deep south, New York, California. All there to pay homage.




I loathe speaking to groups larger than say six so I stuck with what I knew, what I had in common with my father. Travel.




Strange because his side of the family did not have the inherent wanderlust that pervades the rest. His people were footballers, mostly Everton, but some at Aston Villa, Liverpool, Newcastle. They we're pugilists, taking lads off the Liverpool streets and training them for the ring. As a child I'd walk around the gyms, the smell of sweat, leather, and blood in the air. Alien to someone used to rambling the hedgerows of the Kentish countryside. I stood centre field at Anfield, a scrawny eight year old imagining the roar of the Kop (my grandfather had taken me the previous week). These things seemed very Northern to me at the time, far removed from the home counties. They still do.






Before the wall came down my father was gone a tremendous amount. Prague, Budapest, Warsaw. I remember him being gone for a month, "detained" in Hungary, coming back gaunt and sallow, a Lech Walesa mustache and longish hair. He took me out and we bought a snakes and ladders set in the village. He was quiet, withdrawn and closely at my side.







In later years it was Montevideo, Buenos Aires, Guatemala City, San Pedro Sula. always traveling alone, always being gone for extended periods. He was the king of no reservations, believing that you honestly just showed up somewhere and they would fit you in. In fact, he was a hard fellow to say no to. I saw it as I became older, the athletic frame, grey, wavy, longish hair, the accent. Very Shakespearian in his presence.
















Before he passed away we where in Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, and Thailand. In the lobby of the Oriental in Bangkok I see a well tailored man in his fifties staring intently at my father. I whisper that someone is checking him out. "don't be silly" he snapped as the gentleman walks towards us. Then they are hugging, clasping hands. The man reminiscing in an Australian accent how they worked together. He was apparently with the foreign service and now owned a bank. The gent walks off and my father shrugs and says ""Sydney, years ago. I'm famished. Let's eat."









He was full of surprises. I have a picture of him in Los Angeles standing on the sidelines with the England squad, deep in conversation. It must be the early eighties. Never heard him mention it. Still have no idea of the story behind it.






Unimpressed with the truly impressive but fascinated by the mundane he could be maddening in his reluctance to share information. I used to look at his passport that was more ink than paper and ask him about the exotic sounding names. Without fail I was met with a "don't remember" or a "bit boring" or "some sort of convention". When asked about a Mexico City stamp I hear "that's where I broke my ankle playing football in an alley, they had pointy alligator cowboy boots". No clarification, no story setup or closing.


I have his old leather suitcase, a suit with a lovely suppressed waist, a stainless watch that has a slight burr in the movement. With my arm under pillow I can hear it resonate. A metallic heart beat that I fall asleep to.









I think of my father every time I clear immigration and get that first sip of air on unfamiliar soil. I'm not sure if I travel for the same motivations as he but it courses through all that I am. Be it a heavily incensed air, a tremendous meal, a good conversation, or the rains of a monsoon, places like people resonate endlessly and colour all that we are. I miss him like hell and as I receive another stamp in the blue and gold (sadly now E.U. burgundy) I'll continue to look for traces of the old man.




E.M.M.




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