A tall, very thin young Malian man meets me at the airport. “Hello, I’m Bouba” he says. He is much younger than I imagined, having only had email correspondence with him over the last two weeks when he offered me a ride to the music festival in Timbuktu from Bamako. He puts my bag on the tank of his motorbike and we drive into town where we meet his Dutch girlfriend at their house. I realize later he’s so thin as he barely eats anything. Smoking 40 cigarettes a day also helps him with his physique. As he said to me one day, showing me his ever so flat stomach, “the girls like it like this.” Also the name Bouba seemed to indicate an old man in my mind. Little did I know that every 3^rd person in Mali is called Bouba.

An hour later we are driving to the bank so I can have some local currency and he asks for some money for the bus journey the next day as he has to give it to the bus man to buy petrol. Strange, I think, why does he want money now? Wouldn’t tomorrow do? I tell him that and he says OK and no more is said for a while. He then offers me accommodation and food at the festival for 200 euros, which I decline. I knew that people going to the festival need to organize this as it is not provided by the festival, but I didn’t want to pay anybody anything until I get there and check it out myself. So, I’m still checking this man out. He is apparently working for the festival but I’m not sure if he has any other agenda. The mixing of business and possible friendship is always a delicate one when traveling. Who to trust, and how much do you trust a person who is offering to help you and at the same time there is a money element involved.

We go back to his place and after a while, we walk out and meet a couple of other people, get into a battered Mercedes taxi and drive to another part of town, where we meet a few Europeans who live inMali. We have a few beers, and as French is the lingua franca here, I dust off my O level grade French and try and speak the language.

We get back to the house around midnight and I sleep until till 4.30am when I wake suddenly and can’t sleep again. I don’t know why. We leave the house around 9am and go to the rendezvous place for the bus to Timbuktu. There are already many people there, some westerners and some Malians. The westerners are mainly volunteers for the festival and the Malians either musicians or working in some capacity there. Everybody is speaking French and nearly everybody is smoking – a lot. I had been told by an Irish guy I’d been emailing about the festival that water is expensive at the festival and so I go and buy a case of water to take. Only 8 of the 12 bottles arrive in Timbuktu, the others disappearing en route. I realize who took the water only later when a nice man gives me a football shirt does my Malian friend tells me he was the thirsty man on the bus!

We leave two hours late, the bus totally packed, me next to a Frenchman who is a postman inToulouse, with a German and Spanish woman sitting in front of me. Luckily my French postman doesn’t smoke but many others do, ignoring the request not to smoke on the bus. Thirty hours later, we arrive in Timbuktu, my French a little better, my stomach suffering from too much bread as there was nothing decent to eat at the various rest stops en route. Most of the journey is uneventful, but the entertainment is good, two of the Frenchmen being excellent guitar players and singers, and then a few of the Malians at the back of the bus, rapping and rhyming spontaneously whenever they wanted to. The last few hours after a town called Douentsa are stunningly beautiful as we venture into the more arid areas of Mali, stretching north to Timbuktu, the last hurdle being a wonderful ferry ride across the River Niger, which is miraculously wide given that it is surrounded by desert.

Timbuktu is exactly what its name symbolizes, a fly infested town in the middle of nowhere. In spite of its famous history as a center of Islamic study and a major caravan site for the salt trains across the Sahara, it has a medieval squalor to it but it is the capital city for the Tuareg people, a tribal nomadic community spanning northern Mali, Mauritania, Algeria ,Niger and Burkina Faso. Because of ongoing political turmoil with some of the Tuareg and apparent Al Qaeda activity in the border areas with Niger, various governments, including the French, British and U.S. formally warned all their citizens not to go to the region, including Timbuktu, which seriously dented the numbers of tourists going, and especially for the world music festival, which was my destination. There was a war between the Tuareg and the Malian government a number of years ago and although there is a now a peace settlement, things are a bit unstable at the border regions and a few Europeans have been kidnapped. The motives are mostly more economic than directly political but it is one of those areas of the world which have a history of instability.

The Tuareg people remind me a bit of the Kurds, a people with their own language and culture yet don’t have their own country and spanning 4 or 5 countries. The Tuareg are nomads though and I don’t think having a country has even been an issue for them. But they are very independent and no doubt they don’t like being interfered with.

The first night there, I stay with Bouba at his uncle’s house. His uncle is decked out in full Tuareg gear, a wonderful headdress and full flowing robes. They live in a compound with a nomadic tent in the middle, where it seems the women and children live. Me, Bouba and his cousin sleep on the floor in another room, a seedy place with nothing in it at all and it seemed his uncle stays in another room, which when we saw it turns out to be quite beautiful in its simplicity, clean, airy, with wall hangings and carpet on the floor.

The site of the festival is changed to being only1 km from the town, because of the supposed security risk. The other years it has been over60 kmfrom town, accessible only by 4 by 4’s. So, we walk over and checked out the situation. It seems that not much has happened to prepare the stages for the bands and it is hard to believe the festival is due to start that day. Bouba then invites me to stay with his uncle and others in their traditional Taureg tent at the festival, which turned out to be sheep hides sewn together and hung on poles, with no sides to it. But it is a place to be and put my stuff. There has been no more talk of the 200 euros for tent and food at the festival. It would probably be a similar type of tent anyway. Who knows but I’m happy to have somewhere to stay and I can fend for my own food in the terrible food joints at the festival.

The trouble with the festival was that the best music only came on about3am, by which time I was so cold in the desert night that it was hard to really enjoy it. I didn’t have any warm clothes so just sat on the sand with some friends, freezing, except at times when the music was danceable. For some reason they didn’t start the music properly till mid evening and it only really got going much later. The first night I staggered to the tent at 5am, but was way too cold to sleep and just lay there in my sleeping bag till dawn where I got a couple of hours of semi sleep. The next night was slightly better but I still didn’t get back till 5am, determined to see all the music. The last night, I got about 30 minutes sleep. Bouba’s uncle had taken down his tent and so I had to put my stuff in the volunteer’s tent, which by then was just chaos and so I got to lie down eventually at dawn but as everybody was packing up to go, it was impossible to sleep. So, my first 5 days inMaligave me about 12 hours sleep in total.

As the festival was just outside town, there were many, many local people, there, mainly young people, often looking to get in for free. They were hovering around the entrances, looking for ways to get in and I was asked to help a person get in one time. The local people paid a different price to the foreigners, yet still many could not get in, at least in the beginning. They relaxed the security later on and it was full of people then, swamping the numbers of foreigners, which is how it should be really. What was really fun was to see local people love the music and singing along to the songs. When a well known band fromNigercame on, all the people who came fromNigerwent mad and ran to the front of the stage.

Some of the music was amazing. There were Tuareg bands, following in the footsteps of Tinawaren. Some of the bands from Niger made me feel like I was observing a bizarre ritual from another planet. There were dancers and singers, and a man swinging a sword, dressed in amazing flowing, colorful robes. They were moving so slowly and softly and yet the music coming from the musicians was wild, like Jimi Hendrix on acid. They had electrified a simple traditional guitar and it created this fantastic distorted sound. And then half the advertised bands didn’t turn up and a couple of the most famous ones that did, Habib Koite and Miriam and Amadou only played for about 20 minutes each, and that was around4 inthe morning. I couldn’t figure it out. They had some westerners playing, including the son of Paul Simon. He sounded quite like his dad, but even more dreary. In general, we weren’t that keen on the western bands.

So, the festival was totally worth it, but yet faintly disappointing. And on top of that, it was endurance, dealing with the cold and the hideous food. But still, all good fun. I was hanging out with the Irish guy I’d been in email with and his friend, an Italian who lived in Germanyand who played guitar, mostly Brazilian music.

After the festival my friends negotiate a river trip for 3 days down the River Niger, from Timbuktu to Mopti. This “good idea” turns into a real experience. The boat owner or manager rips us off, doesn’t supply enough food, doesn’t turn up with the 2^nd engine and leaves us to meander down the river with his “assistant,” a sweet young Rasta man, who is mostly stoned and who also likes to drink. We are joined by a few other people on the boat, who fortunately have chosen to supply their own food. In the end though, we share everything and have to buy fish off locals to supplement our meager supplies. But the cook on the boat is lousy and the food ends up being couscous or pasta with a smear of tomato sauce, two times a day, when we don’t add some strange local fish to it. And of course, I don’t sleep much at all. We camp on the side of the river and it is cold again and one night I am not well. That is the night we camped at thevillage ofAli Farke Toure.

By the 3^rd day, it is apparent we are not going to reach Mopti, in spite of the enthusiastic yet vague proclamations of our Rasta friend. The engine is sagging, smoke pouring out, the driver coaxing it along with occasional accelerations followed by a drifting lull and we just sit there, watching the shore slowly move in the other direction, or the occasional boat, or we play or listen to music, or sleep, or read or talk. Everybody finds their own rhythm and we all fall into the melody of the river. Irish is sick for one day and doesn’t move all day. Then an Israeli man, a portly person whose mother told him to bring a suitcase without wheels, spends another day sleeping all day. He seems somewhat out of his element, his traveling style not suited for roughing it inMali. When he tried to carry his back down the sand filled streets of Timbuktu, he didn’t get very far. At one point, as he left the bag on the street edge, a passing Muslim woman dressed in full Hijab takes the bag, dragging it down the road. She and her friends are laughing, but our Israelis friend is not seeing the funny side of things. He is traveling with another Israeli man who is well known inIsrael for practicing laughing yoga. It’s like using laughter as therapy and apparently there are quite a few practitioners of this art. They are going toEthiopia afterMali to visit the only practitioner of laughing yoga inEthiopia. He had this strange ability to entertain children in villages we visit by acting in strange ways and laughing madly, and a few times, villagers indicated to us that they thought he was mad. Maybe he is! But the children seemed to like it.

For two days, the weather is cloudy so it is cold on the boat and we huddle up and while away the hours, dreaming of good food. The scenery is beautiful but monotonous. The banks of the river are far away, the river amazingly wide most of the time and there is little human activity to watch. Occasional villages or small settlements on the edge of the river, mud brick houses and other dwellings, the villages looking utterly medieval and probably unchanged in many hundreds of years. Occasionally we stop at one of them, and our Italian guitar player serenades the villagers with Brazilian love songs as we come ashore. One scantily dressed young girl, about 15 years of age, stands there, her breasts exposed and utterly unselfconscious, dancing as he sang his songs and we danced as well on the boat, communicating across the water through the music and our moving bodies.

The fourth day and we are definitely still some distance from Mopti. But the day is warm, and the river has become a series of narrow tributaries. We take one of them and we snake our way along, seeing villages closer by. We are all more relaxed, the tension of being ripped off by the boat man fading into the background and all of our rhythms on the boat gelling together. By the evening, our expectations of arriving begin to sink again, our Rasta friend still optimistically predicting our arrival, but the boat’s engine contradicting him and finally giving up, leaving us floating in the river, in the dark, under the most astonishing stars, but still no sign of the lights of Mopti – well, a vague glow in the distance. So, we begin flashing our torches at a passing boat and it comes toward us, stops, and after a 10 minute conversation, we pack all our gear and jump across to it. It is a long cargo boat, typical of the ones you see on theNiger, part human cargo, part other stuff. They are very beautiful boats, long and narrow with the rear end sticking in the air, and often full of cargo, and often full of color. Very romantic. We huddle down wherever we can and the boat makes it’s way much more rapidly than ours toward Mopti. We feel like refugees, found on the high sees and being taken to land, like Cuban refugees trying to get toFlorida.

We finally arrive in Mopti around midnight, stopping in the port area, full of filth and odors and god knows what and looking all the more unappealing in the soft dull light of the moon. We all pile off, thanking the boat man for his help. Then the group parts, me, my Irish and Italian friend heading off with the Rasta man to his family’s house outside town. As it is the Italian man’s birthday we stop off at a 24 hour bar and have a couple of beers, and eventually arrive at the house around3am. We put all our stuff on the roof and decide to sleep there. Our Rasta friend gets some of the local palm wine and the Italian plays more guitar till dawn, and they drink the wine as I collapse and try to get more than two hours sleep, unable to do so as it is too cold and then as the sun comes up, too hot.

That day we spend in Mopti, getting supplies ready for our 4 day walking trip in the Dogon country. Our Rasta friend is to be our guide, a dubious decision given his history on the other boat. We still haven’t traced the main man and we lodge a formal complaint with the boat people’s union. It seems our Rasta friend has also been ripped off by him and he has taken one of the tents in lieu of payment for the trip. So, given that this man apparently knows the Dogon country and knowing what a hassle it is to find a trustworthy guide, we choose to trust the devil we know. He seems a really nice guy. He is just stoned a lot of the time.

The following morning, we get a bus to the next town which is the main town in the south before going into the Dogon, a fascinating area with a unique culture only found inMali. It is very beautiful geographically with villages dotted at the top or bottom of a huge escarpment, with exquisite Baobab trees, and mud brick villages built around circular storage buildings, where people put their millet and family belongings. The people are Christian, Muslim and Animist, with the Animist influence still strong, all of them sharing a unique mythology to that culture.

We get off the bus and are waiting for another bus or taxi to take us into the Dogon where we were going to spend the first night in a campment there. As we are standing there, a policeman comes up and asks for the guide permit of our Rasta friend. He gives it to him and the policeman promptly rides off on his motorcycle with it. Our friend is forced to follow him to the police station just down the road. Three hours later, he is still “negotiating” to get his permit back. My Irish friend and then I have gone there to try and help but there seems nothing we can do. Another Rasta friend of our Rasta also negotiates with the police. It seems some rivalry has taken place and perhaps another jealous guide has taken exception to our guide and now extortion is taking place. We are told our guide’s permit is totally legit but it’s hard to know what is really true.

The police station is a ramshackle affair. As you enter the compound, there is a car gently rusting away in the courtyard, an outdoor cell with one man in who waves as I walk by. The inner courtyard has some plastic chairs in it, facing two open rooms. Garbage is swept to one corner and the overall ambience is of decay and dishonesty. As I stand there, a policeman asks what I want and I point to my friends who are talking with another officer. He beckons me to sit but I say I prefer to stand. After a little while, I leave, there being nothing I can do. My Irish friend was told earlier by the policeman to mind his own business when he tried to intervene on our guide’s behalf.

So we wait and wait some more. Dusk is fast approaching and we do not want to spend a night in this dusty town. Our Rasta guide seems to be attracted some bad karma. As we wait my Irish friend sits next to a teenage girl, who shows him her cell phone. On the phone there is a hardcore porn movie playing. He looks for a little bit and she then gets up and walks away. A large white man comes up and starts talking to us. He is Austrian but lives inAccra,Ghana. He is doing a tour of the Dogon Country as well, and his guide is the Rasta friend of our Rasta. He is a talkative man. He has two wives inAfrica, one fromTogo, the other from theIvory Coast. TheTogowife lives with him inGhana. He is trying to convert her to Islam as he is also becoming a Muslim, but she is a Christian and is resisting. He is planning to walk the length ofGhanain chains but he is not sure whether he should have chains on his legs as well as his arms. Apparently in another life, he walked from Germany to Rumania, but walked as if he was on a hobby horse! Apparently, it was in the media but I haven’t checked it out yet.

He seems a strange and eccentric man, but in the midst of all he is saying – and it is a lot – much seems to make sense. He said he feels Africans are generally more happy and optimistic than those in the west. He talks about the women in his life. He used to be married to a Tongan woman, who he brought to live in Europe. But she was unhappy and proceeded to take all his money. She didn’t want to work. He said an African woman can be a proper woman, but you shouldn’t take her toEurope. They will get homesick. He said you should always marry one who has a profession. His wife in Ivory Coast has a profession and they talk a lot. He doesn’t talk that much with the wife he lives with inGhana. He goes to work each year inAustria, working in construction. He has more black friends inAustriathan he does white, which must be a bit difficult as I can’t imagine there are a huge number of black people in Austria.

Our Rasta guide appears in the rapidly dulling light. He has his permit but had to pay 20,000 cfa’s – about 40 dollars, a lot of money there. He insists on his innocence still. We simply don’t know. A battered old Mercedes draws up, our transportation to our resting place for the night, 60 kilometers away. There are now 6 of us going to travel in the car, plus the driver. We put our entire luggage into the back, but then we can’t close the boot and the driver goes off to get it fixed. So now we are standing there without our luggage, wondering if we will see it again. The car returns 10 minutes later, the boot is fixed. My Irish friend goes to open the boot to check our luggage is there but I tell him not to worry. We all pile into the car. We are not small and even in the Mercedes, four grown men in the back leaves little room to breathe. The car pulls off and soon we are on a dusty, rutted pot holed road, the driver veering in and out of the holes, the car moaning and groaning and complaining about the state of the road. As the journey continues, the Austrian man keeps talking, mostly with my Irish friend and we sit there, crunched up together as the noises from the car get greater and greater. At times you think the wheel has fallen off. It is now dark and it seems certain the car will break down in the middle of nowhere. But over one hour later we stagger into our place for the night, a pleasant campment on the edge of one of the Dogon villages. There we rest, eat, drink a beer and sit around a fire, our friend serenading us with beautiful Spanish and Brazilian tunes.

The next day, early, after tea and bread, we are off on our first proper day in the Dogon country. We walk for a few hours until we reach the edge of the escarpment, a spectacular view of the plains below, dotted with trees to the horizon. We gently walk down and soon come across a Dogon village with beautiful mud brick houses, and circular millet store rooms. Up on the side of the escarpment lie ruins of old buildings, where the Dogon people used to live, needing more defensive situations to live than today. The Dogon took over the land from another people, who also lived on the side of the hills and even in totally inaccessible places. They were reputed to be able to fly. We then walk to another village where we are to spend the night. The Dogon country is quite touristy and guides – which are required and necessary – take visitors to villages which have accommodation for them in often simple, yet comfortable places. Of course there are the usual tourist trappings and things to buy but where we were, things were quite laid back. So for three days we walked, at one time getting a cart ride pulled by a donkey and cow as we were too tired to finish it off on foot. We spent two nights at a place on the edge of the escarpment, having to walk up a beautiful valley to get there. The campment there is perched on this amazing plateau, with wild shaped rocks surrounding it, and a Dogon village separated into 3 sections – Christian, Animist and Muslim, although they all share the same water from the well and their children go to the same school. This campment is dirtier than the rest but it is full of white tourists, including about 12 middle aged Dutch people, who camp in fancy tents and have many porters to carry their stuff through the Dogon. Our peaceful time is over it seems and we make the most of it. We cook our own food on a fire, being charged for each piece of wood we burn. After our food experiences at the festival and the boat, we are leaving nothing to chance so we buy as many vegetables as we can each day and then cook them at night.

On the last day, my Irish friend and I decide to take a walk on our own. We are slightly fed up with our Rasta guide who seems to want us to do exactly what he wants to do. We wanted to walk to this other village earlier in the day, but he insisted it was too hot and he goes off with our Italian friend to play some music. So me and Irish decide to explore a bit and climb up some rocks and see where we can go. After about one hour, we bump into our guide and Italian, along with another guide and 2 other tourists. Our guide and the other guide are furious, saying we can’t just walk around anywhere like this. They say there are sacred burial sites everywhere and by walking on them, you disturb the spirits, which may require much sacrifice and much money. If the local chief says it is necessary, then a cow will have to be bought and killed as sacrifice. There is no choice. So, we are being threatened with serious financial penalty for walking on sacred ground without a guide. At this point, I’m not happy and I get into an argument with the other guide. But it doesn’t last long. I apologize and we all walk on together, me and Irish hoping they won’t tell the local chief/priest and giving them an opportunity to take our money, whether a sacrifice is needed or not.

Given the complexity of Dogon mythology, it is no doubt true that there are sacred burial places, but I can also imagine it can get exploited by people, including our guides who have an investment to keep the tourists under their thumbs.

The next day, I say goodbye to my comrades who I have been traveling with for the last week or so. They are going back to Mopti and I am heading down to Burkina Faso. I head down the escarpment with a local man who then negotiates with a villager to take me by motorbike to the local town about 20 kilometers away. There are no roads, just sandy tracks through the semi desert. I realize he is making a serious profit on my bike ride. But I get on the bike and we are off, me often saying “moins vites” as the driver swerves and slides through the sand. We arrive safely in Bankass, another dusty town in southern Mali, on the edge of the Dogon. I am taken to the main road and I meet a couple of local people who tell me I have to wait there. There are no buses to the next town right now, so it could be a few hours unless something comes along. Luckily a 4 by 4 comes by within a half hour and a Japanese man gets out. I get into the back, with about 11 other people and we are off to the next town called Koro. On the way, we are stopped by a policeman asking for I.D. and who uses the informal term “Tu” to address me when I ask him if he wants my passport. And he wasn’t being friendly.

We arrive in Koro and I search for a local bus to take me to the border ofBurkina Fasoand then to the first big town there. Most buses in the region, includingGhana, are small vans, carrying 15-20 people. They are mostly totally battered, just a metal frame, 4 wheels and an engine. The one I got was totally destroyed, a miracle at all that it worked and more of a miracle that we had 27 people crammed into it. I sat right at the back, which gave a little more room but a lot more dust. For the next 3 hours we make our way to the border, dust swirling constantly through the van. There is nothing to be done but lower your head. Again, it seems sure that the bus will break down, the frame creaking under the weight of so many people, but eventually we arrive at the border, situated in the middle of the desert. We first have the Malian border building, and we all pile out and get our passports stamped. Another5 milesand it is theBurkina Fasoborder and I have to fill in a form to get a week visa. Another5 milesand it is the customs post and all the luggage is taken off, and put in a line where a customs man takes a cursory look and we then pile it all back on. Another5 milesand it’s all out again as we have to get our yellow fever certificates out for checking.

I heard a story from the Spanish woman in our boat that when she was inIvory Coast, she was stopped in the middle of nowhere, with a whole bus and policeman checked everybody’s vaccination certificates and forced her to get a meningitis vaccine, saying there was an outbreak. She also had to pay for it. Given there is no mandatory vaccine for meningitis and that the outbreak had been in Nigeria, one can only think they were looking to make some money by stopping people on the road and forcing them to get vaccinated. Meningitis though is one disease found commonly during the dry winter season in parts of West Africa.

Now we are in Burkina Fasobut the road stays the same yellow, rutted, dusty track until we arrive in the first big town, which I can’t recall it’s name. Amazingly lucky for me, a large bus is leaving for the capital Ouagadougou in about 40 minutes so I have time to relax and when I climb on the bus I’m in shock that I have a whole seat to myself. I can’t remember the last time I traveled having my own seat. Another 3 hours go by and I arrive in Ouagadougou and relax at a friend’s house for two days, thinking of my journey.

After that, it is only a car ride, two shared taxis, one more border crossing into Ghana, where the first sounds I hear are of an English soccer game with English commentator, and then two more bus rides and I am back in Accra – sweaty, dusty, noisy Accra, but home none the less.

December 20^th 2009

I am staying in little hotel/resort on the coast, just between the towns of Cape Coast and Elmina in the Central Region of Ghana. Each town has as their historical center point a castle that was built by Europeans, Elmina by the Portuguese in 1482 and Cape Coast castle by the Dutch in 1637. Both castles were used as the major embarkation point for millions of African slaves for over 300 years. It is estimated that between 12-25 million people were shipped out toEurope, theAmericasand theCaribbeanduring this time. I can see Elmina castle from my room, a white, strangely beautiful building, sticking out on a promontory of land, and now surrounded by the fishing village of Elmina, a busy, bustling little town.

At Elmina, over 1,000 male slaves and 300 female slaves would be kept there at any one time, for periods of up to 3 months until the ships would arrive to take them away. The strange thing is that the slaves were held in dungeons and above them the soldiers would live and above them the officers would live. Everybody therefore was living in the same building and so the castles don’t simply resemble a prison where horrendous things happened. Both castles functioned as a trading post and defensive fort, of which slavery was one of the economic activities going on. It is so hard to imagine though how so many slaves could be held in such brutal conditions when so called normal life was continuing above ground, but given the general level of brutality that was probably an ongoing reality for many of the soldiers there and the basic dehumanization of the black African people, the way they were treated probably did not seem particularly barbaric to those participating in it. Without knowing that much of exactly what happened, it seems that much of the brutality was malicious neglect. The slaves were just dumped into the dungeons, fed a minimum amount of food and water, given a little fresh air now and again and then if they survived the fetid environment of the dungeon where feces and urine would mix on the floor where people slept, with little air coming in, then all to the better. If they didn’t, well, no big problem. There were many more slaves to take their place.

The brutality only got worse once on the boats, bodies stacked side by side with no room to move and being treated worse probably than by the soldiers in the castles. Over 50% of those who even made it to the boats died en route to the new world and once there, the brutality got even worse. In the Caribbean they made slaves wear metal plates over their faces to stop them eating the sugar cane they were harvesting. And we all know the history in theUnited Stateswith slavery, or maybe not! A detailed knowledge of slavery should be part of every school curriculum, at least in Europe and the Americas, where slavery mostly took place, but I certainly was not taught anything about it in England and I don’t think much is taught in the United States.

Some female slaves were chosen by the officers for sex. They would be cleaned up, given some decent food and then led up to the officer’s quarters. I don’t know how willingly they went, but presumably it was seen as a better option than living all the time in total deprivation in the dungeons. Some became more permanent mistresses of the officers and some had children by them. They then lived outside the castle in town, where they brought up the children and schools were created for the children. Today, there is still evidence of these “mulatto” families, with European last names, in the towns. However, many Ghanaians have adopted western European last names and so it can’t all be from the mixing of races during slave times.

At Elmina castle, the Portuguese were there for about 150 years, and then the Dutch took over, kicking the Portuguese out and ran it until 1872, when they sold it to the British. The British had been in control of Cape Coast castle for a long time,10 milesto the north, but they were unable to militarily kick the Dutch out of Elmina. The Dutch used it as a base for the Dutch East Indies Company and expanded it as the slave trade took dominance from the gold trade and other forms of bartering. By the time the British took over, they had banned slavery, (in 1807), but it took a while before it was seriously enforced by the Slavery Abolition Act of 1837. However, before that, British boats were enforcing the slavery ban in West Africa.

There is now a plaque on the wall of both castles, which we were told was an acknowledgement of the complicity of Africans in the slave trade. One of the terrible facts about slavery is that many people were involved and benefited from it. Most of the founding fathers of America were involved, to most of the first 15 presidents, to British industrialists and landowners. The development of the Caribbean and North American industries, including tobacco and sugar plantations were built on slavery and there were many African middlemen, various tribes enslaving other tribes and countless other black Africans profiting from the slave trade. North African Arab nations and tribes had been active in slavery for hundreds of years before the Europeans arrived and one of the goals of the Portuguese was to create a competing slave market, using West Africa as their hub, instead of sending slaves up through North Africa, to Egypt and beyond. The strange thing about the plaque is that the wording is very indirect in its indictment of fellow Africans in the slave trade. It’s as if either they didn’t want to to directly state the degree of complicity of blacks in the slave trade or they simply wanted to make the broadest acknowledgement possible, without pointing any particular finger. The plaque states:

In Everlasting Memory

Of the anguish of our ancestors

May those who died rest in peace

May those who return find their roots

May humanity never again perpetrate

Such injustice against humanity

The place I’m staying in is called ‘One Africa’ and is run by a black American woman from New York. She moved here with her husband 20 years ago and has been running this place – after having built it – for the last 15 years or so. In the main house, there is a museum of the African experience, including that of the African Diaspora, especially in the United States. Photos of African leaders, social thinkers, writers, scholars, and African American leaders, musicians and scholars, including a whole wall given to President Obama. There is also much on the history of slavery in the United States, images of lynching and other horrendous pictures of atrocities committed. There is a powerful speech given by William Douglass on July 4^th around 1857, condemning the hypocrisy and lies of the celebrations on this day, when still slavery is alive in the country. One could say the lie is still alive today as the true costs of slavery are not being addressed: ongoing social inequalities in the country, the massive prison industrial complex that houses more African Americans than any other group of people –1 in 4  in the whole country being either in prison or in the system somehow, on  parole etc. Even Obama can’t talk too directly about this.

Before staying here, I stayed at another hotel just up the road, run by a Jamaican man who had lived in the UK most of his life. He has the most amazing dreadlocks I’ve seen, even though he is about 60 years old. He moved toGhana fromLondonabout 7 years ago and now runs a hotel there. Each room is named after a famous Caribbean, African or African American person, including of course a Bob Marley and a Marcus Garvey room. I stayed in the Louise Bennett room. She was a well known Jamaican poet, actor and TV and radio presenter. She supported the recognition of the Patois language/dialect found in Jamaica in which she wrote and narrated poems and books on Jamaican radio. She even went to theUKin the 1930’s and had a radio show there and spent time in theUnited States. There were amazing portraits throughout the hotel, including a fantastic photo of Bob Marley and Stevie Wonder in the 1970’s.

I never would have thought God was such a big thing here, but he, she, it is everywhere. I feel like I’m living in the Bible belt in Tennessee. In the south of the country, the majority of people are Christians and most are active. Everybody goes to church and every denomination under the sun is present and available. Presbyterians, Pentocostals, Seventh Day Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Baptsists, Methodists and even our friends, The Church of Jesus Christ, of Latter Day Saints. I am sure there are lots of catholics as well, just to give flavor to the evangelical mix. Where I live, everybody goes to church on Sunday, all dressed up in the finest, and I have been making my excuses why I am not going and have managed to avoid their invitations to their respective churches, although sooner than later I will have to go at least one time.

Not content to have God in their churches, huge billboards and posters of every church possible are plastered all over the city, advertising big prayer meetings, or some other big events, with titles like “Ride the Wave”, “Empowering the Moment”, or “You Failed, So What.” Images of pastors, or bishop’s faces line the posters, mostly African, but sometimes black American or white American or European pastors, participating in the event. It gives the impression of being part evangelical fervor, part new age self-empowerment and part simple religious renewal. However, the zeal by which all these churches are promoting themselves makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable. It seems that religion is being used as a front for some serious self-aggrandizement on the part of some of these pastors and bishops. There seems to be some serious money involved here as well. I heard of one bishop in Kumasi who demanded 50 cedis ($30) just to be interviewed for a few minutes. Also, there seems to be some serious competition going on, the type of capitalist Christianity seen in the United States.

God’s name is also used for just about every other gig in town. So many hair salons have God somewhere in their title, like “God is Great Hair Salon”, or “God is good Hair Salon.” Not content to have hair salons dominate the word of God, local bars do the same thing and every other type of business. Here are some I saw on the road from Cape Coast: “Radiant Glory of God Body and Hair Clinic,” “God Will Do Welding and Fabrication Shop,” “Great Provider Beauty Salon,” “God First Spare Parts,” “Divine Justice When? Construction Company,” “God is With Us Frozen Foods,” “Manifestation Internet Café,” “God is Able Cold Store.” So, is this the same limp God I was brought up with in the U.K? In some ways, it seems yes. Mostly they are protestant, the churches don’t look that different, although tin roofs and unfinished concrete is a bit different at times, but the African Protestant Churches do take their religion seriously and adopt all the formal trappings of religious ceremony. They also like to make a lot of noise and many of the ceremonies are very different than the turgid affairs I was brought up with.

However, as my Ghanaian friend pointed out, they also do involve some African rituals, including drumming and some basic idolatory (which of course would be denied). He feels that many people go to church simply to pray for things that nearly everybody wants in the developing world – money, sons, health, marriage – and is willing to pray to whichever image of God they feel will give them these things. If it’s Christian, fine,   and some drumming on the side can only help matters. It seems that even the more conservative of Protestant churches have had to allow a more indigenous expression of belief in order to compete with the growing movement of evangelical churches, similar to what has happened inEuropeand theUnited States. So, personally, it helps me understand why so many people here go to Church. If people here feel it helps them get what they need in life, fine, and if it means adopting a whole theology of belief systems to get it and they are willing to go for it, fine. Also, an argument can be made that in spite of the obvious colonial influences that religion seems to represent here, it seems to offer many people a cohesive belief system that maybe people need to have and that helps maintain a social integration in the country which has previously looked for meaning and identity only in tribe and in superstitious beliefs. However, a counter argument is that the churches here are simply competing economic and political institutions with charismatic leaders often exploiting their position for their own benefits.

One other problem it would seem and which according to my Ghanaian friend is the problem with Christianity here, is that religion demonizes or dismisses much of traditional values and beliefs of the culture, and although much of the superstitious beliefs can be seen as a serious impediment to social development in Africa, there are other aspects of it which need to be acknowledged and development into the 21^st century. My friend feels that traditional values and heritage need to be reestablished and a more serious understanding of traditional culture has to be developed and that the imposition of Christianity here is an imposition for this to happen. It suppresses a more intrinsic identity and an understanding of the rich spiritual tradition inAfrica, as well as the history of cohesive and sophisticated societies that have existed over many centuries.

Given what I’ve seen, I have to agree. How can a country like Ghana really evolve when they are so wholeheartedly adopting a whole value system alien to their own traditions and as Marcus Garvey would say, why are black people worshiping a God whose image is created by a white man? What about a black God and black Jesus? You don’t see that in many churches here. Why would people choose to adopt religious belief systems that deny the validity of their own culture. One African man, giving me a tour of Elmina castle (the famous slave castle on the coast in Ghana), implied that it was Africans that were saving Christianity as so many Europeans had given up on formal church. On the other hand, maybe African cultures need to go through the same levels of cultural shift that has happened inEuropeand that the role of religion to create basic social and metaphysical cohesion is a necessary step in this direction, before they perhaps recognize that formal church religion is no longer necessary.

But it is disconcerting to see Christianity so pervasive and the type of Christianity in which various pastors and bishops are so powerful and “charismatic’. The role of the charismatic religious leader is a well treaded one and so often abused. Some of the characters I saw on posters seemed like black versions of Jimmy Swaggart or Jim Bakker, and I am sure many are simply on the make. What better money earner than having your own church with willing and malleable parishioners to use as you wish, especially to maintain financial well-being for the church and oneself. Also, inAfrica, being a powerful person in society is seen in a positive light, however it is being expressed. The basic egotism and also profound pettiness that one can see, from police taking bribes on the streets, to dealing with any government bureaucracy in Africa can be challenging, although in the end it is no different here than everywhere in the world. There is basically less control here and more room for people to act out and exploit their power, however petty it might be.

But it really does look like many of the more charismatically based churches are fueled by personal ambition and the lure of financial well-being. Why, if you can give a little money to the pastor and church, but in return get a guarantee of a better job, a new child, a wife, a husband, health, a more secure future, surely it’s worth the investment to get this, especially when God is involved. Is this any different than the way Indians pay priests in the temples to ensure their own futures, or any other form of religion where the underlying motive is mainly to do with survival and the future of ones’ family. Whether its Christianity, Islam, or Hinduism, it doesn’t really matter. The underlying motive is basically the same. Maybe I need to relax with my discomfort with the appearances of colonial imposition here. But it could be a good idea for the United Nations to issue a proclamation banning any religious organization from attempting to change the religion of one person to another religion. Helping feed or house a person is one thing. Trying to change them to an alien religion, especially one that professes its special relationship to God is surely just more of the same colonial, imperial impulse that has screwed up the world for long enough.

And on that subject we come to the Church of Jesus Christ, of Latter Day Saints. They are everywhere. I counted at least four different churches in the towns of Cape Coast and Elmina, where one of the most important historical events in the history of the world took place, the exporting of slaves to Europe, the Caribbean and the Americas for around 300 years. BetweenCapeCoastand the capitalAccra, there were around 10 different Mormon churches, more than any other denomination. What are they doing here? Are they really being successful in converting people from idolatory, or some other religion to that of the Latter Day Saints. I wonder. I have seen some young Mormon men wandering aroundAccraand also aroundCapeCoast. As most people will know, one can always recognize a Mormon. Young, devout, clean faced, white shirt, dark pants and a tie. Enthusiastic, innocent, yet somehow divorced from their surroundings, superimposed upon a culture with a mission, a goal, a social obligation – to spend two years of their life in some previously unknown part of the world, to spread the good word of the Church of Mr Smith, and then to return to their own world, presumably somewhere in Utah, but by no means just there. They are everywhere.

I have this image. A business estate on the outskirts of Salt Lake City, one of those low lying, somewhat secretive, business estates one sees all over America, with strange names attached to them. In one of these, there is a cloning factory where ready made young Mormon men are made, programmed to go right into the field for two years, proselytize with enthusiasm, conviction and unbounded belief before they are sent back to the factory for reabsorbtion and reconstitution. How can they otherwise produce this endless supply of humans, all of whom look scarily similar, wherever in the world you happen to go. It really is a strange religion and what would make an average Ghanaian choose to join them is a mystery to me. But maybe the mystery is not that deep.

Maybe it’s money. I talked to a Ghanaian friend who said that when he was working for a Western pharmaceutical organization here in Ghana, some people joined the Mormon Church and suddenly they were driving new cars and seemed to have money. The churches here definitely tend to stand out from other churches. They do have money and my theory is that they like to focus on middle class, potentially influential people, who once they join will help them to spread the word in influential circles. It’s one thing to persuade the average person to become Mormon, but who probably are not that interested, but it’s another to get the educated, more well-to-do to join. It’s a good way to ensure the future of the church in a country. InAccra, they have a big, fancy complex in a good part of town and I heard that the land was donated to them by a Ghanaian minister, whose sons were given scholarships in theUnited States. I don’t know many facts about the matter, but it was apparently quite controversial at the time. So, the important thing is that they are here and seem quite established. Quite what theChurchofLatter Day Saintshas to offer an average Ghanaian, (not including money), remains to be seen. It is such a bizarre religion that it’s hard to imagine that it can be of influence here inGhana. Yet, as religion is everywhere, maybe there is room for one more church to do its thing.

But churches are the biggest gig in town. I went to one church which seemed to be a front for a natural health clinic. True, they had a kind of makeshift church, but the main operation was the clinic, many practitioners, a pharmacy, lots of computers in each room, all doing fancy diagnostics and treatments, much done on line or through other “energetic’ means, using computers both to diagnose and treat through using electronic probes on the body. I’m sure there is a better word than probe, but I can’t remember it right now. I get the impression that many churches are fronts for all sorts of businesses and what have you and so it makes me even more cynical about the integrity of religion here.

I am thinking now that the Mormon Church’s interest in theCapeCoastarea could also be due to their interest in genealogy and how that may be an area of strong interest for many African American people seeking to find out their roots inAfrica. As so many of the slaves for theAmericasleft from this area, it makes sense that they would come here. Where I stayed inCapeCoastbelonged to a black American woman who moved back toAfrica20 years ago and has written a book on her experience. While staying there, some other black Americans were making a documentary, apparently for American public television on the subject of the African Diaspora and the return toAfrica. Maybe the Mormon Church is seeking to help convert returning African Americans to the Latter Day Saints. It’s hard to imagine but anything else is possible.

About 11 years, there was a formal ceremony where black Americans could reenter Elmina Castle, through what was called The Door of No return, which was the final door that slaves left the castle for the boats that would take them to the foreign lands, never to come back to Africa and their families. It was renamed also as the Door of Return on the other side and many people chose to make that symbolic journey to reenter that door and some have chosen to make as a permanent stop.Ghanais one of the main countries that people have returned to, partly because it was the country that many ancestors left from and also politically, it is the most stable country in the region and is open to people coming back from many other countries.

Barack and Michele Obama came here in July 2009. They spent two days in Ghana, along with half the U.S. Airforce and security service. They visited Cape Coast Castle as it had been traced that Michele’s ancestors came from the region and were taken as slaves via Cape Coast Castle to North America. Their visit to the castle was brief, but of course highly symbolic. Barack had to come toAfrica, and Ghana perhaps was chosen because of Michele’s connection to it and also it being a fairly stable English speaking democracy. The more cynical of people could say it was something to do with the newly found oil off the Ghanaian coast but I’m not so sure. He had to go somewhere, and the slavery connection did seem a legitimate and poignant symbol.

The visit of the American President to small countries can be quite an experience for the country as the numbers of people, especially military and security is about the size of their national army. It can seem like an invasion, not exactly the impression that the Americans would want to give, but it would seem the President may need that level of security! Who knows.

My home is a house in a square compound, the largest and best built house in all, which is no great claim. All the houses are joined together, making for a private but communal area in the middle. It is situated at one corner of the compound with a public lane that circumnavigates around the side and back of the house, ensuring that the house cannot slip away out of the compound. It also creates a sense of cozy intimacy for its inhabitant, me.  It is the largest house as the owner lives in Canada and so has invested his money into the home. I am the only white person for miles around and in our compound everybody belongs to one extended family. The patrician of the compound, a Mr. James Mills spends his days sitting in a chair outside his house or walking slowly around. A gentle man, probably in his eighties and rather thin and frail, he greets me every time I come into the compound square on the way to my house. I am also nearly always being greeted by hordes of young children who insist on carrying my bags for me. They hustle me to my door, waiting for me to open it and then rush in with my bags, hovering to see if there is anything else to do, to see, to look at, happy it seems just to have something different to do and to spend a little time with the white man, the Obrumi.

The square which the houses surround is about 20 meters long and the same length wide, enough space for washing lines, a well in the middle and rough mud and stone on the ground, where kids play and others mingle and do their chores. There is one tree in the courtyard, but it is not big enough to dominate or for that matter, to be really noticed. The kids are ubiquitous, are of every age and look after one another, and fight, play, quarrel, doing what kids do. They range from babies to teenagers, and all are friendly and inquisitive. The teenage girls are particularly friendly to me, the strange white male who is living mostly alone in the house, although for the past two weeks, two women have been living with me during the conference we have been part of. I have already been proposed to in a strange way, one of the teenage girls introducing me to her older sister and suggesting we get married. An older woman has also threatened to introduce me to one or more of her daughters, but I have yet to meet them.

Even though I have my own house and I can shut the door after crossing the square there is rarely much sense of privacy. There is nearly always a lot of noise –   kids shouting as they play, mothers shouting after the kids, women talking to one another, often loudly, and every now and again, when there are men around, more loud voices. The Ga people who are the dominant and indigenous group in theAccraarea often seem to speak loudly to one another, as if arguing, and when men get together, it can seem particularly intense. My bedroom window overlooks the communal washing area and toilet and on school days, there is often a great deal of noise right outside my window from about 4.30am to 5am, before the kids go off to school. Most mornings I am forced to wake up and hear the cacophony of noise as kids are washed, mothers haranguing them to hurry up and then eat their breakfast etc, as they do all over the world – but at 4.30am, and having maybe 10 kids being washed, fed and urged to school right outside my window before dawn is quite the alarm system.

“Uncle Rich, Uncle Rich”, I heard outside my window at 5am last Saturday. I had promised, I think, to go jogging with a few of the younger kids, ranging from 12-15 years old, and true to their word, they were ready at5am. I was trying to get some more sleep, but their persistent knocking on my window woke me up, and 5 minutes later, I was jogging along the road with them, on the way to the beach and then along the beach to a training area where many people congregate in the morning. We ran all the way to the beach, navigating the open sewer trenches and the early morning traffic and then walked along the beach, averting my eyes from the men defecating. We reached the training area where many kids were playing soccer, and saw a large circle of people being led through some yoga type exercises. We joined in for 15 minutes, the exercises finishing with everybody joining hands and being led in prayer. We then walked back to the compound, and I staggered inside and made myself my first cup of tea of the day.

My main sitting room looks out over the compound, but I rarely see much as the slatted windows are opaque and there is a dirty mosquito net covering the windows. (It is now cleaned). There is often washing quite near the house, so not too much light gets into the room. But the noise does, and so wherever I am in the apartment, I hear all the noises of daily life, often including loud amplified music from the bar just outside the compound. On many streets there are huge speakers with very loud music blasting out, mostly reggae and traditional African music. Driving by too close can be quite intense and on weekends, it is an excuse to really let go and share the music with as many people as possible. At times it is quite relentless and penetrates through any desire for privacy and peace. This is compounded by the fact that most of the music systems have blown speakers so everything is also distorted but maybe it is only me that notices this.

The boss of the compound is Auntie Grace, a woman around 50 who makes sure all is fine with me and who can be heard berating others in the compound if necessary and at times doing so in English when it is particularly important. She is the daughter of Mr. Mills, the elderly man, often called “the old man” by his sons, daughters and others in the compound. Auntie Grace is a stocky woman, with strong facial features, a little stern at times, but who has a good humor and jokes with me frequently. A few times as she walks by me with a bucket of water to take a shower, she will say, “OK, Rich, let’s go and take a bath.”  She runs a little stall at the edge of the compound, selling nick-knacks, a little fruit, biscuits and assorted “things”. Then there is Rita, who is quite huge and is also a good joker. She loves rice and fried chicken. And there is Josephine, a chunky woman in her 40’s and Esther, a thin woman in her 50s’ who showed me her abdominal scar from a surgery she had. There is another woman called Esther, mother of 5 children, all of whom I am quite close to. Her oldest daughter, Francisca took me to the market to buy food to make me for dinner. I am closest to the younger boys, Stephen, Bernard, Junior and Solomon, who often come running when I arrive at home. I bought them a football the other week, which created much joy and so we had an inaugural football game in the dirt. I tried to get the girls involved but the boys vetoed it quite quickly. Stephen is the tallest of the group, about 13 years old, but quite wiry and skinny. He sometimes flexes his muscles, his chest turning into two small, pert breasts. He takes my garbage out for 10 pesowas a bag, about 8 cents. One time I gave him an extra 20 pesewa and when I asked him to take one more bag for me, he asked for more money. I reminded him of the extra 20 pesewa but he said to me, “I thought you gave that to me from your heart.” Ah, yes, well, I suppose I did. He has a wild side to him, his lean and wiry body now getting geared to manhood and he seems all ready to go, still full of innocence but yet with more than a hint of aggression in him, seeking to push boundaries in new ways. He often approaches me very forcefully and physically, wrestling a bit, pushing me with a familiar tactility and presumptiveness. I like him a lot, in spite of his pushiness.

Many of the kids, and the adults, are often asking me for something, whether it is a little change to get something, to a little more money to buy ‘school’ stuff, to cell phones, “presents”, as Rita and Grace would say euphemistically, and the list goes on. It’s not done all the time or with any real sense of pressure, but it’s there. Stephen is particularly good at it, half whispering to me conspiratorially that I should buy him a cell phone, as in I really should buy him one. He doesn’t take it personally though when I don’t.

And then there are the girls. One, called Andia who lives part of the time next door to me, has become quite friendly, and she is often joking with me too, in a kind of argumentative way, pretending to be hurt and saying she won’t talk to me again. She is 18 and her job is to look after her very young brother now. She has finished school and speaks quite good English but she is not working. I think her parents do not have money for her to go to college and so she is looking after her brother in the meantime. Francisca, who is 19 wants to go to fashion school but is currently taking some computer classes and then will hopefully get a job until the opportunity comes to go to college. But her parents can’t afford to send her to university so she is not sure what she will do. She came to my home when I was cooking a curry for some Indian homeopath friends and was interested in what I was cooking. She curtsied as she was introduced to them, and then she helped me in the kitchen, cleaning the plates and saucepans for me as I got dinner together. When I went away for a week, Francisca, Andia and another friendly teenager Rahel all said how much they missed me when I was away. I was surprised at how expressive they were in saying this. People are very direct in many ways, yet at other times can seem quite indirect. They can be vague when things are not good or something is not right but in expressing straight emotions, they are very forward.

I went to the school of one of the boys recently. Junior, Rahel’s younger brother is a very bright, precocious 14 year old, though he looks 1-2 years younger. We were talking about nutrition and food and in his book it said meat is high quality protein whereas plant food is low quality protein. We started talking about this and other matters and he said he would talk to his teacher and headmistress about me coming to his school. The next day he came to me and said could I come the very next day to school. I agreed, surprised at the suddenness of the invitation but at5.30amthe next morning he was knocking at my window, telling me to get up. By6.30amwe were walking to his school, Junior chastising me for the un-ironed state of my shirt, which I had been trying to squeeze a few more hours of wear from. Next thing I know, I was talking in front of his whole class, the headmistress standing with me at the front of the room. I talked about the obesity issue in theUnited Statesand how much processed food they ate and the amount of meat and dairy products they consumed. I told them to eat all their vegetables and fruit – nothing original there- and the headmistress chipped in with telling them to eat three times a day and ensure they had a good breakfast.

Junior and Rahel’s mother is calledVictoria. She is perhaps the most uncouth of all the people there. She has a forward, aggressive and demanding way to her, as if everything she does is to test you. When I first met her, she flat out asked me to give her something, which I refused, trying to be funny at the same time. I realized later, it was just to see how I reacted. Junior has a slightly similar quality, but more sophisticated, and Rahel also can be very forceful.

Last week, a young woman died in our compound. I didn’t know her as she had been ill for a while. But suddenly, I heard wailing and people running to the house where she lived. Apparently she was 24 years old and had typhoid. But many times, people don’t know what their relatives die from. Doctors tend not to tell people the name of the diseases they have when sick and perhaps they don’t know either. When talking to people about how their parents died, people seem often vague and say “fever” or “stomach ache” or some other casual condition. Perhaps it’s part of the fatalism toward death often seen inAfrica. Many of the children in the compound, who were her friends and family, seemed strangely unmoved by it, as if nothing that bad had happened. We are all going to the funeral on Thursday and on Wednesday evening there is a wake happening here in the compound.

My immediate neighbor, Koko, has perhaps the loudest voice in the compound. She often bellows out directions, or whatever it is she’s saying, as if she is a sergeant-major in the army. She is short, very stocky, with large breasts. Initially she was quite cool with me, not speaking to me much, or inferring I need to learn to speak the local language,Ga.However, over time, she has warmed to me and now shouts “Uncle Rich” sometimes as I come home. Not always though, just sometimes. She has two of the most beautiful children, a girl called Christabel and a son, Prince. I sometimes watch both the kids being washed in a bowl in a courtyard, both totally compliant and at ease.

Koko has a little stall by the road, where in the evening, she make omeletes and bread for people. Her children often sit with her and I spent some time there the other night, playing games with the kids as the power was out, everything being dark in my house and very warm without any fans working. When the power is out, it is too hot to stay in the house for any length of time and more pleasant to sit on the street and watch people go by.

There is a knock at my door. Andia is there with my washing. She greets me by looking away from me, one of her communication strategies with me. Whenever she wants my attention, she tends to either face away or say to me, “Don’t talk to me.” Often that is followed by a smile. She told me that she also cleaned my buckets that I gave her to do the washing in and showed me how clean they were.

I walked across the courtyard to go the shop on the road. I wanted to get some batteries and also fancied having a Guinness. While there I was persuaded by two of the boys in the courtyard to buy them a soft drink, something calledMalta, a non alcoholic malt drink. On the way back, Auntie Grace spots me and calls me, grabs my hand and tries to look into my bag. She said she can smell Guinness and says she wants me to buy her one. She is sitting with thin Esther, who says I should marry Grace. Grace says she doesn’t like me. I tell her I have a girlfriend and the conversation goes around like this for a bit. In the end, I’m persuaded to buy Grace a Guinness and Esther aMalta. Grace tries to open it with her teeth and I pull the bottle away. But then Rahel comes up and does exactly the same thing. Grace says that she’ll come and join me later in my house. It’s a strange, forceful, yet rough kind of flirting, done with humor but with a hint of seriousness to it.

As I come back to the house, Andia calls me over where she is sitting with her mother. She says her mother is not happy as she has no money. I just stand there, saying I’m sorry. Her mother doesn’t speak much English and seems quite reserved. I give Andia 2 cedis for the washing she did for me. She thanks me and that is it. It is hard to know what else to do.

When I leave to go away for a few days, people give the impression of taking it personally. “You are leaving us, why?” Most of them don’t go away much or for long and it seems that I shouldn’t either. When I return, some of them, especially the teenage girls and boys come and hug me and everybody greets me with enthusiasm. Often they will ask if I am going away again soon, the implication being that they would prefer it that I stay there.

Andia cooked me dinner the other night, bank with okra soup and fish, a traditional dish. Banku is mostly made from maize, mixed with a little cassava at times. It’s a local favorite and is eaten most days by most people. Some people can eat it 2-3 times a day. It is in the form of a dense gruel consistency, not tasting of much but very hearty and filling. With a spicy sauce or vegetables and fish, it is quite satisfying. I have been trying to be a vegetarian here, but avoiding fish is not that easy if they cook for you. People here don’t eat a huge amount of meat but they do often put fish into their soup or vegetables. Talking of vegetables, they don’t eat much of them. One time I gave Stephen some fried vegetables with the local brown rice and after a few mouthfuls, he said he couldn’t eat it, that it wasn’t suitable for him. White rice is quite a treat for some people, its not something very poor people can eat every day and so if they are going to have rice, then they don’t want the local brown rice, however much better it is for them. This is the same throughout the world, one of the more serious nutritional issues facing the world. The most common vegetables they eat are okra, eggplant, cabbage, tomatoes and some spinach greens. They love putting canned tomato sauce or puree into a lot of their dishes and tons of the stuff is for sale in all the corner stores. There are cans of many things available, sardines to baked beans and everything else possible, just like it was growing up inEngland. However, many of the poorer people live on banku or fufu (another gruel type dish made from cassava and plaintain), with a variety of sauces, fish and some vegetables with it.

It is now Christmas day. Last night the music continued until the wee hours of the morning, a horrendous din which combined a person speaking loudly, a kind of sermon type chant, interspersed with music. It is a style one hears often on radio and I think they just had the radio on not far away but put it through loud speakers. For a while it competed with other amplified music coming from different directions. I realized it is from the local church just up the road. It seemed every room in my house had different music coming in through the windows. I woke up around 3am and it was still going. Amazing. All these different types of music competing with one another, vying for my attention. I just lay there, practicing equanimity in the face of the audio onslaught. You would be locked up in the West playing this music at this time of the morning, even on Christmas morning. But, hey, this is Africa.

God In Ghana 2: The Big Man

I was thinking that my reaction to the amount of Christianity in Ghanawas a bit extreme, fueled by my own background and my antipathy toward the established church. This was corroborated when I was reading a book called Music of the Common Tongue which explores the influence of African and then African-American music and dance in modern popular culture and in all the music forms of the 20^th century. The author describes the deep spiritual/religious impulse of many Africans, and the need to express this impulse through spontaneous music and dance and which became embedded into American Christianity by black slaves, out of which came gospel music and then the blues, jazz and hip hop.

It made me consider that even if many Ghanaians have adopted Christianity, much of what they are doing is simply creating a reason to move the spirit through music and dance. The theological concerns are perhaps not as important to them as they are inEurope,Americaand elsewhere. They are moved to come together and commune in a way that for those of us brought up with the rigid monotony of the Church of England, seems utterly different; full of rhythm, beautiful singing, harmony, dance and a spontaneous joy of coming together. Where I live, everybody goes to different churches and no one seems to care if it’s Pentecostal, Presbyterian, Anglican or Jehovah’s Witness. Everyone does their own thing.

It made me consider that the African expression of religious prayer, with the free use of music and dance is less an attempt to bolster up a dying expression of prayer, as seen in the west, but a vibrant, authentic religious expression, in a culture in which music and dance are simply fundamental to life.

So, when my neighbor, who has been ill, invited me to go to her church, I felt less trepidation than before and in fact was looking forward to it. She asked me and my friend to be ready by7.30amon Sunday, but it was past8amwhen we left for the church, about2 milesaway. When we arrived, we were the first people in the church, a big cavernous building with a tin roof, built on a scrubby piece of land with no landscaping. But it was nicely decorated inside, with lots of material and a glass podium, slightly raised up on one step. It was a new building, and so didn’t have any traditional religious design or church like ambience. There are many, many such like churches inAccraandGhana.

Slowly, a few more people came in and then one person led a few prayers. He was standing by the podium but as he prayed, he began to extort and move his body and shout out the prayer, his voice already sounding croaky. He did 3 prayers and after that some members of the church began to sing at the front and one other person then led them in singing. They all sang beautifully and already there was an excited atmosphere and those in the church stood and were dancing in the aisles. Then the lead singer was handed a microphone and a drummer and electric piano joined the scene. As with nearly every amplified music experience I’ve had inGhana, the speakers are shot and so create a distorted sound. However, the singer’s voice was still great and in spite of the distortion, it was quite enjoyable

There followed a reading from the bible and one of the pastors gave a little sermon. I asked my friend where the main pastor was and she pointed to the front row where a man was sitting, in a black jacket and trousers, his wife dressed in white next to him. Then the pastor introduced the main pastor, calling him the “Grand Master” and the “Bishop” and pumping him up with a lot of thanks to God until the man himself came to the stage.

He began by asking a woman to come up and sing for the church, with everybody joining in and again more dancing. Then slowly but inexorably, the pastor began to talk, a strongly built man, whose shirt was unbuttoned at the top, the collar standing starched around his neck. He spoke well, oozing a quiet confidence. As it was February 14^th, Valentine’s Day, his theme was love and he expounded on the various forms of love, beginning with the love of God, Agape, and then the love of family, called Stoge, love of family, which I can’t remember what it is called then finally Eros. He basically said that without love of God, Agape, then other loves cannot last in a relationship, and that to accept another, including all their faults, one has to have Agape. Otherwise, all the other forms of love are conditional. He spoke about the challenges of finding a partner and the confusion around this inGhana today.

Much of what he said made sense in a matter of fact kind of way, but when he was speaking he said that to have Agape, you have to be a Christian and that one should not get involved with non believers as they don’t have a love of God. I was already beginning to feel uncomfortable but I am sure he said that to have a love of God, you have to be Christian. He then spoke about homosexuals and that it is going against God and they have to repent. So now I’m feeling very uncomfortable. There is something about him which is making me uneasy and it is not just the doctrinal rigidities. There was a smarmy quality about him, a pride in his position.

He then talked about the other forms of love, including Eros and expounded about the kinds of ass African men liked, in contrast to the types white men tend to like. I tried to imagine an English vicar talking about such things, but it was beyond my imagination.

After his speech he then asked all those giving tithes to come to the front where he publicly took the envelopes from the parishioners. He extorted those giving to make sure they can give what they can, to make the effort to have the money. Earlier, he had said that how he pitied those who couldn’t come to church because the electricity was off and they didn’t want to leave home without ironing their shirts. He didn’t say this with much compassion.

A collection had already gone around earlier but toward the end of the service a bucket was put out in the front of the church and everybody had to come forward and put money into the bucket, with the pastor seated nearby, watching. As church members sang, people at the back came forward until everybody had lined up and walked around the bucket. By now I was feeling positively rebellious. Why was the bucket put out like that? So that everyone had to file out in public, under the watchful eye of the pastor?

Then it got worse. All new people in the church were asked to put their hand up and then we were asked to come to the front of the church. We were asked who brought us to the church and when we answered, we were told that we belonged to the same group in the church as she did and people clapped. I couldn’t believe it. We have now been in the church three hours and it seems that we are now members, whether we like it or not. We are then asked to stay behind for a few minutes after the service, at which time another very snazzy dressed pastor came to us and after my friend said he was leaving in two weeks, he focused on me and asked for my phone number. I said to him, “I’m not giving you my phone number. If I’m interested in coming back, I will contact you.” At that point, he left us alone.

We then left the church and after greeting some people on the way out, we made our way home. By that time I was feeling a mixture of anger and slimed. I was partly angry with my neighbor for taking me. She must have known something like this would happen. I was going simply to support her as she was ill, not to join their church. This is partly an African way of doing things. They can be very direct at times, right in your face. It’s good to know this and not take things personally as it can feel intense and not just when in a church. But that adds a certain pressure as there is a strong emotional zealousness in their religious fervor. It is not the limp English church here. These people are true believers and they want you to know about it. So, even though I found the whole thing offensive, these people are devout.

But when it comes to the Big Man, the Grand Master of Ceremonies there, then another question has to be asked. Is he simply in it for the money? There is a whole culture inGhanaof having the biggest church, the largest congregation, the most influence and to have that, you have to have people in the pews, putting their money in the bucket every week. For the Big Man to be the Big Man, there has to be followers and there has to be the conviction that his access to the Truth and his ability to tell it, to let the story be known, is greater than others. Telling a story is part of African ritual. It is an important expression of their culture. Oral history is much greater here than written history. The ability to communicate, to speak strongly, sincerely and passionately is important. What better forum for this expression than in church, when one can speak about God with all the passion one wants, where the greater the zeal of passion, of belief, the greater the impact. So any Big Man has to have that. He has to be able to perform, to spontaneously evoke the spirit and move others in a similar way. This has always been part of African’s religious expression, whether here or when the slaves in theUnited Statesturned to Christianity and transformed religious expression there, especially in the south.

So, with this cultural expression, we find mixed in with that, Christianity in all its forms. And mixed in with that, we have the economic pressures of life inAfricaand mixed in with that, the cultural dynamics of ego and power, so often seen in politics here. And mixed in with that, the endemic corruption that makes life here so difficult. People are into things for what they can get out. Money talks here – as it does everywhere. Corruption is essentially no different here than anywhere. It’s just more random, chaotic, ubiquitous and forthright. In the west, it’s more hidden and institutionalized. Here it is more individualized and blatant.

When it comes to all these pastors and their offerings of salvation and also by the way, wealth, success, marriage etc, it is important that their success is seen. Humility is not the best way to grow your church. Success is. People are seeking here as they do everywhere. They mix spiritual and temporal needs and they want to feel connected to something greater. Here God for most people is the church and the community and security it offers. For most people, going to church is not an independent, private spiritual communion with God, with a handful of other people. It is a social event, and it offers and at times promises great returns, spiritual and temporal. The question is, does the church deliver? And what do they deliver?

Based on my experience, my gut feeling is that many, many of these pastors are simple hucksters; charismatic, even powerful people, but on the make and using the convenience of religion to pull people in and simply to take their money. I imagine that many of these people persuade themselves that their intentions are noble, that they are true believers, but given life in Africa, where survival is not something to take for granted – where you often have to pay the doctor at a hospital to be seen – the economic agenda can never be taken for granted. And if you are a true believer, if you have passion for religious and spiritual truth and you happen to be somewhat charismatic, then what better place to be than a pastor in a church. And there are many pastors here. Many. And they are virtually all men. This is a strange cultural phenomenon, one I find personally disturbing. Maybe Christian Africa has to go through this stage in its evolution, but to me it seems an unfortunate phase, where they take on the same bigotry and doctrinal orthodoxies that are slowly being dropped in the west, or at least not so publicly declared. Not many vicars in the UK would say that Christianity is the one true religion, but unfortunately they would and do in the United States but even there, a more tolerant acceptance of other religions is slowly occurring.

But enough of the Big Man, enough of the cultural chauvinism and enough of a God that can’t accept other notions of God, or of homosexuals or whatever. Even now inUganda, they want to pass a law giving a death sentence to some forms of homosexuality. What madness is this and where does the fuel for this come from? Partly from the church, no doubt. It makes me pine for the simple devotion of Muslims, the pious yet simple prayers to Mecca devoid of the Big Man, at least here in Africa. Of course there are the Imams and other authorities in Islam, many totally misogynistic and bigoted but I don’t think they are as corrupt as it seems many of the pastors are in Ghana. Am I wrong? Islam seems more socialistic in comparison with competitive strains of evangelical Christianity.

I made a big mistake. The Emirates Airlines counter person told me I was 17 kilos overweight and she wasn’t talking of my waistline. They have a strict 30 kilos maximum and I presumed, like most other flights I have taken, that I would be allowed 46 kilos. I had to do something. Either I dump some stuff, try and pack it into my carry-on luggage, send the bag separately through cargo mail, or pay the extra weight fine, which came to 600 UK pounds, which was more than my flight.

I didn’t have much time to make a decision and so I decided to send the bag via cargo mail. It was the wrong decision. I should have bought a larger carry-on bag and stuffed the heavy stuff in there and hoped for the best but in that moment, I made a decision, paid the already large fee to send it through cargo mail and went back to the counter with my now lighter luggage. I was told it would arrive 7-10 days later atAccra,Ghana.

Two weeks later, I have slightly adjusted to being in Ghana, the totally impossible traffic, caused it seems by extraordinarily slow road improvement (as in 5 years and one road still has no surface), really bad planning as both roads exiting the downtown area are being worked on at the same time, well, not really worked on – and every other possible inconvenience which seems to be the daily fair of life here.

So, I thought it was time to go to the airport to pick up my bag. I arrived around2pmand was told where to go. Arriving at the office I was greeted by a woman carrying a badge who said she was there to assist people with obtaining their luggage. So I walked in with her to the customs office. I was then told that I had to go to the cargo area to pick up the documents from the company who handled the bag and the woman said she would take me there. OK, that seems reasonable. So we jump into a taxi and head one mile away to the main cargo area. However, on arriving there it is clear my new friend doesn’t know exactly where to go as there are many cargo companies there. Already the energy is somewhat fraught and chaotic. She seems very keen to help (maybe too keen) but I am not sure, given that she said she has been there 15 years that she really knows. People are also telling us different things and so I call the company inEnglandto see if they know where it is. As I get through on the phone, we get into a taxi to go back toward the airport. As I try to listen to the man talking to me, a huge row erupts in the taxi and the driver stops, tells us to get out and get another taxi. I have no idea what is going on as I’m trying to hear the man on the other end of the phone.

InGhana, people often seem to be arguing when talking to one another. They can speak loudly and intensely so when an argument does occur you think it is going to end in a homicide. So we get out of the car and into another taxi. Luckily I have heard the name of the company and we head off to another area. So far so good, I think. The company office is found, they have the documents but then I realize I have no money at all. My friend Linda who I came to the airport with had all the money, so I had to go the hotel next door that luckily was willing to give me some Ghanaian cedis. So, I paid the handling fee and off we went back to the airport. As we approach the customs office, the officer is leaving the office and he tells us he will be away for another 45 minutes. Or, I could come back tomorrow. He then leaves and my new friend, who has now been joined by an associate/assistant tells me rather urgently that I should follow the man as he’s going to another area and that we need to get a form from him so I won’t have to pay duty on my belongings. However, by now, I am already tired – it has already taken over 2 hours – and not sure that my friend really has my best interests at heart. So, I decide to leave and try again tomorrow.

The next day, it is9.30amand I arrive at the airport in a little better frame of mind after a good sleep. I first of all go to the ATM to try and get some money. A bad idea. The machine takes my card and then doesn’t do anything for about 2 minutes. The screen goes blank and the card doesn’t come out. So, when eventually my card pops out I give up and go next door to the exchange counter, which says it is closed although a woman is working there. A man ahead of me said he has already been there 30 minutes, so after waiting a few minutes, I realize it could take a while and so decide to do it later. I hope it is not an omen for the day.

I walk over to the custom office and decide that I am not going to use my previous friend’s services if she happens to be there. Ahh, she is there, and so I tell her what I’ve decided but she follows me in anyway. The customs official is not there and so I am told that I have to wait until he comes back. I am told that I have to use my friend’s services as it will not be possible to do it myself. I am also told by a woman customs officer sitting at another desk in the room that I need to get a PUPD form to be exempt from duty. I should have filled this form in on arrival apparently, so I would now have to apply for the form and pay a penalty for not having done so. Oh, here we go. She said I would have to wait here in the office until the other officer comes back and apply for the form. He is at a meeting apparently but should be back. My friend tells me quietly that this man is rather difficult. Great, that is all I need.

Forty five minutes later and still no sight. The woman customs person is simply sitting behind a desk piled with old files, but she is doing nothing I can perceive. Another man is sitting behind the counter desk, and then joined by one other man, again doing nothing. We are sitting quietly, and it is quite cool and comfortable so I am cultivating patience.

Sixty minutes pass and the woman at the counter then says we should go to another office at the airport. She tells me to write a brief note saying that I was not told that I had to fill in a PUPD form and that I want to apply for another. I write this out and my friend and I walk toward the office. She seems to know where she is going but as we enter a building we are stopped by 3 men and asked where we are going. On trying to explain to them, she is told that we have to go to another place to do what we need to do. A 5 minute conversation then occurs, with insistence on both sides about what needs to happen. Then suddenly, we are told we can go in. My friend looked at me and basically implied they had no idea what they were talking about, although they seemed sure enough to me.

We head to the desk of another customs office with a customs duty counter next door. We tell the officer why we are there and again he asks me why I didn’t sign the PUPD form. Another officer joins us while we are discussing this. We show him the note I had written at the other office. He said this wouldn’t do. We couldn’t apply for the form with this note. A letter needs to be written and typed out, to make it look “nice” and the letter should be somehow be notified by somebody. I am trying to tell him what I’m doing here inGhana, that I’m working with a medical organization, volunteering my time here. He, however, seems to be particularly difficult. However, after talking to the other officer as well, he agrees to write out the letter for us and so we go with him to another place, write out the letter and take it back to the first man.

He takes the letter and reads it quietly and very slowly. Eventually, in what seems to take about 20 minutes, he picks up a pen and begins to sign it, but seems to pause, just in case he is making a big mistake. He then stamps the letter as well and we are told to go to the next counter. We wait there as no one is there and then another custom man comes up, cell phone in ear, and reads the letter. He is in a much better frame of mind and quite quickly signs and stamps the letter as well. We then go to the next counter and pay the penalty fee for not having filled the form out initially. We are told we now have to go back to the cargo area we were at yesterday and they will have the actual PUPD form there to fill in. OK! So this is the process just to get the form, but hey, at least I’m on the way, I hope.

So, it’s back in a taxi and to the cargo area again. We arrive and go to the custom’s office there and give them our letter and forms. The main officer there asked us who had signed the forms and why we were told to come here. My friend explains and he says that they should have given us the form and we should go back there to get the form. We try to explain the situation to them some more and I explain why we need the form in the first place. He eventually begins to relent and then tells another officer to get the form. We fill out the form with him, which takes about 15 minutes, and then all seems to be done. He wishes me a good trip inGhanaand we leave the office. Wow, some progress it seems. I now have the form that I should already have had in the first place. I have traced the forms that show the bag had arrived, and it is only1pm, 3 and a half hours after arriving in the morning, and five and a half hours if I include yesterday’s antics.

We walk over to another area, outside another customs office where a lot of people are waiting outside. My friend (well, my assistant in this process) tells me to wait there while she goes and does the next process, which is to input the data into a computer. She goes off, taking my passport and forms. She leaves me her bag so I can trust she will come back.

After about 20 minutes, I am beginning to get worried, not that she will run off but simply that something is happening that I have no idea about and that I should perhaps know about. I go and look for her but can’t find her and come back to the sitting area. Eventually she comes back and says I should wait there as she now has to go to the customs office and give them the forms and so on. OK, I will wait. Another 15-20 minutes go by and she comes out and now says she has to go back to the first office. I should wait here. OK.

Another 15-20 minutes go by. Now I’m getting restless. What is going on? I go and look for her. Eventually I find her, sitting outside an office, talking to a couple of people and eating something. She jumps up as I come by and I ask her what is happening. She seems guilty. She says the forms are being processed in another office and I ask her – somewhat accusingly – what is really happening. She takes me to the office, a small office, full of people, computers, desks, reggae music. She shows me the person doing our processing, stuck in the corner and I’m asked to sit down and wait, in a chair also cramped into a corner.

So, right now, I’m concerned about any other fees that may be paid. My friend has told me the PUPD form will exempt me from duties, but I will still have to pay a levy, but I couldn’t get from her what the levy was for and how much it could be. There seems to be a certain vagueness in communication when trying to pin anybody down to something, like how much this may cost me. This occurred earlier when I tried to find out how much her fee would be for helping me. We were in the first office and when she wouldn’t answer me directly one of the uniformed men there chastised her for not being direct and telling me what the fee would be. In the end she said 20 cedis, which is about 13 dollars, a lot it would seem, but which in the end was worth it to me to get out the developing Kafkaesque scenario that wouldn’t seem out of line in a Terry Gilliam movie.

So, I ask in the office what the levy may be for this process. I am told by a very nice man that the total will be 97 cedis (about 60 dollars), which includes a government fee of 10 cedis, a 20 cedi charge for something else, 10 cedis for something else and 57 cedis based on the weight of my bag. The thing is, I have already paid one company the handling fee so why should I pay another fee. I told this to the man and he showed me the weight fee and said this was the fee. That was it. I said this was already costing me so much money and perhaps feeling sorry for me, but more likely simply indicating that most of these fees were totally bogus he reduced the fee by 7 cedis. Anyway, by this time I was getting exhausted to I agreed to pay, but of course I don’t have enough money and so we trot off to another office to get some money.

We enter another room, with a lot of people in and I am beckoned to ask one man about changing money. He is apparently just working there but said he would change money for me but then realizes he doesn’t have any cedis. He sends a person off to get cedis. As he is looking through his pockets and drawer, he pulls out a lot of foreign currency, like a lot, so he is obviously quite flush and whatever he is doing there is paying quite nicely. In the end I get my money, at quite a good rate as well, and we head back to the first office where I pay up and begin to wonder whether my friend is my friend or whether she is simply in cahoots with this office, which on reflection, makes total sense, but at this point, I really want to be done. We are now over 5 hours of moving from one office to another, I have no more money, have not eaten lunch and my humor is failing me.

We are done. The forms have been inputted and off we go back to the customs office where apparently we have to get the forms checked through, to ensure all fees have been paid and processes followed and then we will be given the name of a customs officer who will be inspecting my bag. We go into the office and there are quite a few other people waiting there. We approach the customs officer and wait there. We are then told to go and wait in the chairs. On sitting there, a man says to me, “be patient. You have to be patient”, implying that it’s not good to harass the officers doing their work, or you will be only kept waiting longer.

This was the second time I had been given that advice. There was one other office earlier that I haven’t yet mentioned as I can’t remember in which order it came and why we were there when I was waiting and wondering what was happening and I think now it was another different customs’ office that again had to check that all the documents were in order before we would proceed. At this office, most of the officers were on lunch so we just had to wait for probably 20-30 minutes.

So now, we have all the forms and have to go and find out which officer will look at my bag. We are given a name but he is not in the office so we head off to the warehouse where we are told he may be. However, we can’t find him when there and go back to the office to see if he is there. Yes, he is and we are told he will come to the warehouse. We go back to the warehouse and I have to get a security pass to go in, paying a 5 cedi deposit. When going there, I am asking her – my friend – why I had to pay in the last office the 90 cedis when I had already paid the handling fee to the company that handled my bags in the country. At this point, she began to get really upset and started speaking fast and intensely, in the company of the security guys who were handing out the passes. She didn’t like it that I was accusing her of trying to cheat me when all she was doing was helping me get through this process. Why would she want to do this etc etc? I calmed her down as I just wanted to get through it, but after I realized that it is just part of the system there, that the last fees were really just an institutional pay off to get the process done. It wasn’t like a little baksheesh to grease the process; it is just a fundamental part of doing any business here, even though I was simply trying to get my personal belongings.

However, I had another worry. My bag contained many homeopathic remedies and pamphlets, which I know the customs man could question, either thinking they could be drugs or that I was wanting to sell them and that I would have to pay duty on them, or some other thing. I had a letter with me just in case, stating what I was doing here inGhanabut I didn’t know if it would help.

So, anyway, back to the warehouse where we trace my bag. Oh my god, my little bag, it is there and after 8 hours in total, I am finally in the presence of my bag. So, we wait there for the customs man and after about 30 minutes, he arrives, inspecting many other imports, mainly commercial products, and I unlock my bag and take out my stuff. He sees the boxes and asks me what they are and I tell him, showing him 3 of the boxes. He then tells me to pack my bag, which I do. I ask my friend what is happening and she said he has gone off to inspect other cargo. Apparently he had mentioned that there were many medicines there, and wandering what I was wanting to do with them, so I was waiting for him to come back and ask more questions. But he didn’t, but he also didn’t release the bag and so I had to wait another 40 minutes or so as he looked at other bags before he went back to office. At one point, he passed by me and I began to ask him what the process was now. My friend then also interjected and he said to her “So you want me to bend the rules just because you are working for a white man.” Oh dear, that wasn’t really useful.

So, a little while later, we head back to the office and wait for him to come back, hoping all will be well. A little later, he comes in and we wait some more. And then lo and behold, we have the papers in our hand. Unbelievable! It is getting close. We then walk to another office where a woman inputs yet more information into a computer and we take her form with all the other ones into the warehouse and into another customs office where the officer tells me to wait outside while my friend processes all the documents yet one more time.

She comes out, forms in hand, and we take them to the security man at a table near the warehouse who stamps the release form. A man then picks up my bag and we bring it back to the same security man for another check. We then carry the bag20 feetand it is again checked by another security man. It is then carried out and to the outer gate where it is again checked by another security man. We then walk through the gate; the bag is put down and the man carrying my bag sidles up to me and asks for some money. I give him ½ cedi. He asks for more and all I have is an old cedi coin which is no longer valid currency. Another man, on seeing this coin says, “You are a Ghanaian, you have the old money.”

I think I am free. I ask my friend about 10 times, only partly in jest, whether I am really done or whether there is some other procedure to go through. Apparently not. We walk to the outer gate, where I stop and beckon a taxi. I give my friend – and her friend – 20 cedis, plus 2 cedis more for her taxi. I put my newfound bag into the taxi, get in and off we go, back to the conference center at the Osu Ebenezer Presbyterian Church, a mere 7 hours later that day.

In spite of the ridiculous amount of money it cost to get this bag here, and knowing I made a stupid mistake in choosing this option, I am simply relieved. Maybe this is just one more initiation process in my accommodation to being inGhana. Maybe I will have the patience to endure the constant obstacles – the mad traffic jams, the obsolete ATM’s, the strange diffusiveness of any effort to achieve anything – all it needs is patience, humor and a profound belief in a higher power, one that is threatening to desert me at any moment!!

The road was straight, the day pleasant. It is easy to drive fast on a bike so 70mph seems like 40. It was somewhere in Oregon, maybe the 199 heading toward the 1-5 from the coast. I was boogying along, enjoying the ride. A car ahead decides to turn left and so stops and waits for the oncoming traffic to pass. I have about 2 seconds to decide what to do. Stop. No time. Pass on the inside. No room. Pass on the outside. Is their time? No time to choose, have to act. I accelerate and pass the car waiting to turn right into me. Another motorbike passes in the other direction at exactly the same time I pass. The driver must have been shocked to see me pass by at 70mph as he/she waits to take the left turn. I survive, the other motorcyclist fortunately not one second faster or I could be part of the door of the driver’s car.

Later that day, around 9pm, I am driving to the Oregon coast, coming from Salem on the 1-5. It is getting dark, the trees are hugging the side of the road, big fir trees. It begins to rain, the drops stick to the face shield of the helmet, reflecting the light of oncoming cars, obscuring my vision. I imagine a deer or elk wandering into the road as I curl around a corner, my desire to reach my destination encouraging me to go faster but knowing that in the gloomy, sodden semi-darkness, to see a deer is very difficult. I arrive at my friend’s house at 10pm, in pitch dark as she lives in the middle of nowhere. There is a lot of land between the 1-5 and the coast, most of it trees.

My first day, I made my way to Mendocino. After 2 hours of riding up the 101 to Cloverdale, before the turn onto the 128 to Mendocino, I get off my bike, realizing that with all my luggage, there is not enough room to sit comfortably on the seat. My gonads did not have enough time to breathe and I stagger off the bike, my hands also vibrating from the ride. Well, if this is how it feels after 2 hours, how about 2 weeks! However, by the next day, I have figured out the baggage thing, using a bungy cord to pull the bags back toward the hard top box I have on the bike. Phew! The 128 is a gorgeous ride, amazing bends, stunning scenery, and gradually as one heads to the coast, the weather cools down until about 3 miles out, one hits the fog and it turns even chilly as I head through the trees, around the corners and up the coast to Mendocino.

On my bike I am carrying my computers (yes, more than one) in the hard top box and then have one big bag on the passenger seat. Another bag with odds and sods in sits on top of that and then a tent on top of that. In the end I don’t use the tent, sleeping bag or mat, which when dealing with carrying stuff on a bike, made me a little frustrated in having to always pack it on the bike, with the constant hassle of taking it off every day. Less is best. I nearly camped one night, finding a remote site half way up a mountain in the most wild part of northern Wyoming. But when I read from a previous camper that a couple of creepy looking guys had turned up and the warnings of mountain lions and bears, I jumped back on the bike and headed for civilization, which entailed climbing up to 9,500 feet and driving across the Wyoming highlands, with snow on the side of the road, and then all the way down the mountain again to a town called Ranchester on Route 90. Phew. Staying there, all alone, with no other campers in the middle of Wyoming. What if Dick Cheney had turned up. What would have happened? Too many sicko movies I think has fueled the imagination. In England, the worst thing that can happen is a rabbit poos in your shoe. Here, you get chopped up for dinner by some wacko.

The Oregon coast, by the way, is rather boring. Flat straight road mostly, with too many RV’s on it and dreadful holiday towns along the way. I know the beaches are beautiful but when covered in fog, their allure fades fast. Once I left my friend’s place and got to Astoria (at the estuary of the Columbia River), I had had enough and headed inward, hitting the 1-5 again 120 miles short of Seattle, which I gunned my bike to in record time. Two days later, after a relaxing time in Seattle with old friends, I head to Edmonds and get the ferry across to the Olympic peninsula, and head to Port Angeles and then another ferry to Victoria, BC, and voila, we move from the USA to Canada and Victoria, which is like England or Scotland. In other words, civilized!!  Ha! Victoria is situated in stunningly beautiful scenery, the Olympic peninsula to the south, the rest of Vancouver Island to the north and to the east, The San Juan islands and then the gorgeous range of Volcanoes stretching down the Canadian and Washington and Oregon coastal range, surrounded by the Cascade mountain range and whatever they are called in B.C. One of the most stunning places in the world. I stay with friends I had met in India when climbing Arunachala mountain in Tiruvannamalai. They cooked me wonderful Indian food, did my vedic astrology chart and we recollected our time in India.

Then it was to Vancouver town and more friends to feed me!! Old India heads as well so excellent chai and more Indian food. We went to a Saravanna Bhavan, an Indian franchise restaurant which has branches in India and in London, New York (I think), San Jose, Vancouver and elsewhere.

From Vancouver, I drive through southern B.C. all the way to Nelson, an old hippie hangout and draft dodging refuge during the Vietnam war. It is now a cultivated, cultural oasis, on the edge of the Kootenay lake system, an amazing geographical area. Stunning mountains, gorgeous motorbiking roads, and the town very pleasant – too pleasant maybe – with good restaurants, natural health food store, outdoor shops for all the outdoor activities, Tevas and Keens galore. One of the realizations I have had on this trip is that being hundreds of miles away from any major urban area is too scary. I love countryside and all that, but this is way too big here. Too much room all around. I like it cozy, which obviously comes from coming from England, which however, feels a bit like a matchbox now, just the opposite.

That day was the first of a few hard and long driving days, covering 470 miles. Fortunately much of it was amazing scenery and good driving roads so the classic numb bum phenomena of motorbike riding can be ameliorated by visual distractions and paying close attention to the road. The real zen of numb bum only hit me when I got to Eastern Wyoming, South Dakota and beyond. Boy oh Boy. In a nutshell, this is what happens. The first two hours of the day can either be quite fun or hard work, depending on how much riding happened the day before. On this first occasion, it was fine, I was full of energy and leaving the drizzle of Vancouver for the open road was exciting. On other days, after hard days before, the body feels stiff and the numb bum syndrome hits in way too quickly. After two hours, we are down to the business. It is serious stuff. 150 miles down, maybe 200-350 more to go. So, the second stage is full of strong intention. Then another wall is hit and tiredness begins to take over. That’s when I have to stop, take a break or start talking to myself and singing. Again, if the roads are exciting to ride on, then it’s not so bad. Between 350-400 miles, then one gets in the zone. The numb bum is beyond numb, there is just me and the bike, the sweet, relentless, strong purr of the engine merging into my brain, the fusion is complete and driving anything less than 80mph seems like crawling in mud. I want to go, I don’t want to stop for anything. I resent having to pee or stopping for gas. Just keep going. The longest day, as I headed from Ranchester, Wyoming to Sioux Falls, South Dakota was 630 miles, finally arriving at 10pm. By then, I really didn’t want to stop. I thought, shall I just carry on riding through the night? I had become one with the bike.

When overtaking trucks, it is really fun. As I approach their rear, the wind tunnel affect begins to buffet the bike, creating this strange wobble affect. Then it eases as I move out from behind it and as I come up to the side of the truck, all is calm. Then, as I overtake it and expose myself to the elements again, there is often another wobble effect as the wind buffets me again. Then I’m free again till the next truck.

One of the bad practices of drivers here is their refusal to move back into the right hand lane after overtaking. At times, they overtake a car or truck, going just 1-2 miles per hour faster than the other car and then simply stay in that lane. Even if another car or me for example is right behind them, they are oblivious. It is based on an idea that each lane is separate and equal, with no awareness of the interconnectedness of the road and that others may want to overtake. It is compounded obviously by the fact that people do not look into the rearview mirror much, as otherwise me hovering up their backside would, I presume, encourage them to get out of the way. Maybe not! So, often I had to overtake on the inner lane. The other bad practice is not indicating when changing lanes or indicating just as they are doing it and not before. Otherwise, most drivers are really courteous to motorbikers.

However, in Montana, twice I split a lane to go to the front of the line at a traffic light and a big guy in a big truck told me there are only two lanes and I shouldn’t be doing what I was doing, or something to that effect. This never happens in California. I told him that we can split lanes in California and he told me that we weren’t in California now. I can imagine the conversation that night as he was supping a bud with his mates in a bar, how some biker on a weird bike (as in not a harley) had thought he could do in Montana what he could do in Calfornia. And he had a weird accent to boot. Must be from Australia! I shouldn’t joke. Both guys were quite civil really.

Talking of Harleys, there are a lot of them. The further from a major urban area, then the less one sees anything but a Harley. Most non -Harley riders diss Harley riders, or at least the bikes, which mostly are slow and unwieldly. However, after riding over 4,500 miles I can appreciate the idea of riding something really comfortable and that can go all day. It is like the big old American cars. There was some sanity to their madness. But still, Harley riders are often a class unto themselves, fueled with American mythology of Easy Rider, Hells Angels, bad ass loners, cowboys and the wide open prairie. The fact that many of these people are weekend posers dressed in their best leather doesn’t dampen the image. Many still look mad as hell, and in fact often look remarkably similar. The stereotype image is reinforced by the fact that they do all look alike. Most bikers wave to one another as they pass, but with harley riders it is about 70%. With other bikers, it is about 90%. It is part of the biker comraderie on the road, especially when in the middle of nowhere. Hey buddy, me and you share a similar passion but with Harley riders, it is often not quite the same.

I didn’t see another Triumph the whole journey so far. Ah well. Some people did come up to me at pit stops and asked me what I was riding – it simply says Tiger on the tank, the Triumph insignia being somewhat obscured. Some people knew exactly what it was and it is fun to talk to other bikers about their machines and experience being on the road.

Why the hurry, you may ask. Well, I had given myself an itinerary and said to my friend I would arrive in Chicago by the 15^th, so that gave me 3 days from when I left Eastern Montana, 50 miles from Yellowstone, to get to Chicago, including a detour through Yellowstone, which was really a drag, having to drive about 100 miles with gzillions of tourists in their campers, stopping all the time when bison were sighted, which from afar look like a big deer, but when close are actually fantastic, like muscular wrestlers. I heard that a kid died when his mum wanted his photograph taken with a bison and the bison objected.  Anyway, I did kind of underestimate the distances between my projected destinations, hence the marathon days, the last of which was from Sioux Falls to Chicago. After arriving in Sioux Falls, I couldn’t sleep easily and so it was 1.30am before I got to sleep and then in a dream state believed it was only 2.30am when it was in fact 9am. So, by the time I got up, got ready, packed my crap on the bike, again, and headed off in the drizzle it was 10am. 570 miles later, I arrived in Chicago, well cooked.

I loved the rest stops on the highway. They are so welcoming and when you are desperate to stop, such a relief. However, a few times, the distance between them seemed way too long and I would just hang in there with the numb bum, mile after mile until the blue sign beckoned an upcoming rest stop appeared. The relief in getting off the bike, staggering to the loo and then sipping water and taking in the view and staring at the other humans – at least I think they were human – who were disembarking, kids falling out of caravans etc.

I loved the newspapers on sale there – Diabetes Cure 101, Country Singles: For Widowed, Divorced or Never Married, and Why be Fat 101. Wow. What if you are a diabetic, fat and divorced. This is the perfect place to be. I came across the same papers in a number of rest places, mainly in South Dakota I think. Or was it Wisconsin?

The land changed it seemed, immediately I entered Minnesota. From the barren “little house on the Prairie” land, it became more bucolic, lots of farming, cows and lo and behold, even rolling hills. This was a relief for me, enough of those horrible open spaces with nothing in it. However, I really felt I had arrived as I crossed the Mississippi and entered Wisconsin. I could feel that I was now over the hill from the west to the east, Chicago getting nearer all the time. It was easy to forget then that it was still another 1200 miles or so to the east coast proper. But all in good time. Entering Chicago, the size of the place is quickly apparent as the suburbs sprawl out for mile after mile. Luckily, it was easy to find my friend’s place although I had to stop 2 times to pay a silly toll fee, one time of 80 cents, and then in my confusion I got in the wrong lane and didn’t stop the last time, going through the fast track lane. Anyway, Chicago was great, a beautiful downtown area and I went with my friends to a free concert at Millenium Park, which was great, even if it was raining. The first night there, a massive thunderstorm hit, the noise of the thunder waking us up and then the rain totally pouring down. Thank god I wasn’t on the bike during that.

It’s funny but I like driving in the rain. Something about being in the elements, the rain pouring down on me as I drive along. It can get painful though if you’re going fast and don’t have padded waterproof leggings. Hitting rain drops at 70mph is interesting. However, my rainproof trousers weren’t working too well and after a little while, I could feel the rain seep into my crotch, an accumulating dribble as the rain tends to fall in that general direction and then through my trousers. It is remarkably like pissing oneself. Luckily, the rain didn’t last for that long or that hard or I would have been totally soaked.

On the last day, I did get caught in a sudden storm. Well, it wasn’t really sudden. I saw the clouds ahead but pretended it wasn’t going to hit me and suddenly I rode into a downpour and within seconds was soaked. I stopped on the hard shoulder and pulled my wet gear from the bag, struggled to get the pants on as massive semis flew by within 6 feet of me, spraying me with water and wind. And then I had to get the wet gear over the bags as well and so it took me a good 10 minutes to get it all together. Then it was off again into the rain which decided to stop another 10 minutes down the road.

From Chicago it was too Ann Arbor. A late night with too much booze the night before, – fueled by watching Gonzo, about Hunter S. Thompson – didn’t help as I woke slightly worse for wear and had to again put all the crap on the bike and hit the road, this time it being 12.30pm and I groaned for the first 50 miles until I ate a wonderful cheesy lunch at a local café somewhere in Indiana. I had the turkey and potato special and so it came with two pieces of white bread with turkey on top and a large helping of mashed potato and all totally covered in mounds of cheese sauce. Luverly. That kept me going for quite a while and washed down with coffee, all for $6. Take that San Francisco with all your ladida fancy restaurants. There was nothing reduced in that cheese sauce. I had a pit-stop at a friend’s friends place in Ann Arbor that night as the previous night’s activities had dented any chance of getting to Toronto that day. A very nice town it is too and then the following day, a mere 280 miles, by this time a mere jaunt.

Toronto reminds me of London a bit. Very cosmopolitan, and, unlike American cities, all nationalities mixed in together, but also lots of dreary looking streets, kind of uninspiring architecturally. London actually has much more splendid buildings but it must be something to do with all the brick and terraced and semi-detached houses that abound. I imagine it’s a bit grim looking in the winter, which seems to be about 9 months of the year. Yuck.  Me and my friend went to a cheap and cheerful South Indian restaurant where I tested the sambar (a particular type of Indian sauce that goes with Iddly and dosas) and which did not pass the Richard Pitt sambar test. After India, I am very particular about my sambar, but the food was otherwise honest enough, a bit like an Indian English café. Nothing fancy whatsoever, but perfectly edible. Of course, I had Iddlys, (is it Iddlies?) which I could eat every day and did in India, well, nearly.

So, back to the United States, driving south from Toronto and crossing near Niagara Falls. It’s strange, crossing the U.S – Canada border by land. On both sides, the immigration officials tend to be quite uptight. Maybe the world’s largest unprotected border has needed some defining, both countries feeling the need to remind everybody that this is a serious border crossing and that “we” the people shouldn’t just think we can waltz across willy-nilly. The Canadians obviously have their need to make sure Americans take them seriously, which they generally don’t. In the nomination process for Canadian consul in the U.S, only one senator apparently turned up. Also, on the border going into Canada, Americans have been known to forget they are carrying their semi-automatic rifle with their toiletries and so I was asked both time entering Canada if I had any weapons with me. So, coming back in the U.S, “my home”, after 3 whole days in Canada, I am grilled as to what I was doing in Canada, Americans being obsessed with the danger of Al Queda operatives sneaking across the border (along with Canadians in general and their socialized health care system, a most un-american thing). The conversation went something like this:

Immigration official: (after me giving her my passport).  What nationality are you?

Me: (a bit surprised at the question as she is holding my passport). American.

I didn’t go into the origins of my accent, my ambivalences of being American when I still am really English and that I know she’s only asking these questions to catch me out and for me to suddenly slip the words out North Korea or Iran and that my image as an English accented motorbiker from San Francisco being a subtle disguise from my true identity as a fundamentalist from the axis of evil would be exposed.  Why in the hell else would she ask me this question when she has my passport in her hand?

Immigration official: What were you doing in Canada

Me: Visting a friend.

Her: How do you know this friend.

Me: (what the hell is this about. Here I am visiting Toronto for two days and she wants to know all about my life.) I met him in San Francisco a number of years ago.

Her: You rode all the way from San Francisco on THAT (pointing to my beautiful Triumph)

Me: (OK, lady, don’t push it now. I can only be pushed so far. Making nasty insinuations about my wonderful British motorbike just does not cut it. Just because I’m not a big fat ugly harley rider, on a big fat ugly harley). Yes.

Her: (looking at me rather aggressively). OK, you can go.

Me: Thanks very much.

So, I ride into the great state of New York and hammer out the last 300 or so miles, past Buffalo,Rochester, Sycracuse, Albany and Troy before heading up route 2 and over to Massachusetts and the rolling bucolic country of the Berkshire hills. Civilization at last and the end of my numb bum.

The End

I woke up this morning bathed in sweat as the electricity had gone off in the night. People have said that it gets hot here in April and May and it does feel like it’s getting up there. It probably hasn’t gone above 39C (101F) yet but the humidity is rising and when the wind dies down, you can feel it. The humidity is stronger in the mornings and evenings. In the middle of the day, the heat of the sun dries things off, but at dusk and later, you can feel the moisture ooze in the air, a sticky sweat clinging to your body. I quite like it, though I’m strange that way. Heat doesn’t really affect me. May is the hottest month where the temperature can go up into the 40’s. According to local custom you’re not meant to have children that month, so I will keep that in mind.

It helps that I’m not doing too much here. Drinking chai and hanging out in the ashram is about it and then there’s the pool and of course a little writing. Life is tough, I tell you. I have met some people who live here permanently and it seems quite pleasant. There is a lot of what one might call “passive meditation”, spending time alone perhaps or with others having chai or whatever, going to the Ashram for the evening chants, and maybe participating or just sitting there taking in the spirit. Some people work here, doing a variety of things, but some people seem able to live here for long periods without having to create an income. I’m not sure how they do it, but there are obviously ways, and life here is cheap. It could be a good option if the fancy takes me.

The mountain Arunachala is a constant presence and similar to Ramana, many people have an ongoing love affair with it. Remember, it is a living being, one of the most profound manifestations of Shiva. It is the fire mountain. It has power. Simply being around it is enough for people. Many feel that the spiritual path they have chosen is simply to be near the mountain. Nothing else really needs to be done. Drink chai, talk, maybe meditate, maybe visit the ashram, maybe do Pradakshana (circumambulation) around the mountain and let Arunachala do its work burning Samsara (ignorance) from the consciousness until the ego is in permanent obedience to the Self. Nothing else needs to be done really. One person living here was applying for his residency to live here and when asked why he wanted residency said he was in love. “In love with whom?” asked the officer. “With Arunachala”, he replied. He was then given a 5 year residency permit, on the basis of being in love with a mountain. Only in India.

This idea of spiritual progress happening merely by being in the presence of a mountain (or at any other sacred place) is very important in hindu life, where pilgrimages to the most sacred sites in India is taken very seriously. Whereas the Muslims have Mecca, the Christians, jews and Muslims have Jerusalem, the hindus have hundreds of important places to visit and it is seen as crucial for devout hindus to go to as many places as possible. Also, at Arunachala, especially when versed in the teachings of Ramana Maharshi and Advaita Vedanta in general, the concept of spiritual effort as a means to become enlightened is not a big thing. Enlightenment is there for the taking by simply seeing through the illusion of separation, of recognizing the one true reality, that all is ONE. So, simply contemplating that fact by leaning comfortably against a wall at the ashram, or sipping chai or taking a walk around the mountain – all are equally appropriate. After all, how can you go anywhere when you’re already there. How easy it seems, but as one friend commented – how many people actually did become enlightened simply by focusing on the question Ramana encouraged asking, “Who Am I”. But that’s another discussion. What is important though is being at places of particular spiritual power and which Arunachala is one of the tops.

Often in the mornings the mountain is covered in mist or bizarre shaped clouds that linger over the peak that slowly and reluctantly move away, leaving the mountain simmering and glowing in the morning heat. Now, it’s 7am, and already the clouds have gone. It’s quiet outside but the power has not come on yet and I’m sitting here all sticky, my hands beginning to slide off the computer from perspiration. But I have a good cup of tea to keep me company as I persevere.

Even being at a power spot such as Arunachala is no guarantee of spiritual change. One could spend years here and probably go slowly insane. In fact, these type of places do attract those who are somewhat psychologically on the edge. They come here for healing, as does everybody really if there is a yearning for a deeper spiritual meaning in life. But some people probably come from a greater desperation. There are a number of westerners who I see at the Ashram that seem awfully serious and preoccupied. It’s hard to know what’s really going on, and when attempting to analyze the differences between deep spiritual yearning and a psychologically disturbed state, it has always been impossible to see the difference because often there is none. In the West, we lock people up when they go over the edge. In India they roam the streets and some make their way to spiritual havens or express their state with spiritual devotions. Some seem to come out the other end transformed and some just seem to stay insane, and mostly tolerated as long as they don’t cause harm. Most “ordinary” people wouldn’t put themselves through such ordeals, the attraction of being normal and secure being too attractive to let go of.

Some of the greatest Indian spiritual masters exhibited behavior that from a “normal” perspective would seem to be totally insane. One of the greatest of Indian sages, Sri Sai Baba of Shirdi, exhibited the most wild behavior at times and seemed utterly removed from any kind of normal convention. He is probably the most widely revered of all Indian saints. How can one judge the stories of such people? One of the conclusions I’ve come to since being back in India is that I don’t really have a clue what is going on and I’m not trying to figure it out. In all the years since being with a spiritual teacher myself, I have accumulated many ideas about the nature of the spiritual world and a skepticism about many teachers. While it makes sense to have a “healthy skepticism” there is a lot going on around the whole spiritual scene that defies the mind and one can choose to accept it or not. Around Sai Baba for existence, there are countless stories of “miracles” happening, which even if a lot were exaggerated and made up, it’s hard to refute them all. Something really profound seemed to happen around him, not only when he was alive but also since he died, which was in 1918. In fact, Sai Baba said he will do his work after he died, and one story of a well-known devotee called Bharadwaja who only was moved to become a devotee of Sai Baba after visiting his Samadhi and receiving a powerful transmission. At another later time, Bharadwaja describes how he was in conflict as to whether he should be married or celibate and when visiting a town was approached by a stranger who took him to see a local swami who then proceeded to tell him that Sai Baba had a message for him that he should be married. And this is many years after Sai Baba’s death and there is no way this local swami could have known about his question. How does this happen? Who knows? Maybe this is just India with all its wild imagination and infused with superstitious ideas and relentless rituals, BUT, can the western mind really grasp this. Can the intellect fathom such things which by their nature transcend the ability of the mind to grasp. There is something else going on here.

In William Darymple’s fantastic book, “The Last Mughul”, he describes a couple of well-known holy mendicants including the Majzub (holy madman) Din Ali Shah: “ ‘he is so careless about the affairs of the world,’ wrote Sayyid Ahmad Khan in a sketch of Delhi’s most famous citizens, ‘that he remains naked most of the time, and when surrounded by a crowd is likely to break out into intemperate language. But when the desirous seekers ponder over the words, they find that behind the outward senselessness there is a clear answer to their queries.’ Some of the most revered mendicants were women, such as Baiji, ‘a woman of exceptional talent who spent all her life under a hay thatch near the Old Idgah of Shahjahanabad. While conversing she often quoted Quranic verses…whatever she had said would take place exactly as she predicted.’”

A few days ago, me and a friend went to visit one unusual spiritual guru/saint who lives in Tiru. I don’t think one could call her a teacher as such. For years she had lived in a cave on Arunachala mountain and in other places and now lives outside town. Her name is Aum Amma and she gives darshan daily. We turned up at 10am on a Sunday morning and waited on the veranda with about 15 other westerners and a similar number of Indians. Then the front door opened and Au mamma was sitting in a chair in the doorway. Her attendants then adorned her with garlands of flowers till she was nearly sinking under them. Her face was mostly transfixed in the strangest gaze. Her eyes were rolled back into her head so you could see mostly the whites of her eyes and her mouth was slightly drawn to one side. She seemed in a kind of trance but then would smile and be responsive. She gave Darshan by having individuals come up to her, bow to her feet and then she would hold their head, either in her lap or people would hug her. She would either pour flowers on top of them or give them flowers or even throw them at people. Her attendants would be constantly refilling the baskets with the flowers as they hit the floor, so keeping the baskets replenished for her to continue giving darshan. Each person having darshan would last a couple of minutes. Some people would kiss her hands and others would simply be held by her, often her holding people’s heads and at the same time, flowers would be cascading down over both Aum Amma and the person receiving darshan.

As she did this for each person, the rest of us just looked on, and waited our turn. Then after doing about ¾ of the people, she began to retreat into the room and then disappeared into another room. As she was retreating, she began to throw lots of flowers at us, individual blossoms bouncing off us as she walked back with the help of her assistants. About 8 of us hadn’t received darshan by then and we sat down outside the room where we had been originally waiting for her. A few minutes later, one of her attendants, a swami with long black hair, a very sweet looking man, beckoned to me and asked if we wanted individual darshan. I said yes, and went to get my friend who had also missed out. I wasn’t too perturbed at not getting darshan but she said it’s great to actually have the experience and so I thought OK, why not, let’s go for it. So, I went into another room where she was now sitting, bent on my knees to her and then was held by her and we embraced and she kind of laughed and I said I loved her – I don’t know why I said that but it felt right – and we just sat there and held each other. It felt like a love affair, but instead of it being an individual woman, it was more like with the collective mother, mother earth, mother India, or some such universal expression of love for the mother. After what seemed like an hour, but which was probably 2 minutes, it seemed time to leave and I rose from my knees, and took one flower that she offered me, but which she initially kept snatching back, like playing a game.

And that was basically it. It was one of those experiences one has in India, especially hanging around the spiritual scene. Who knows what is really going on? Is she enlightened or simply rather cracked in the head, or both. I have no idea. What was my experience? Well, I kind of liked it. I generally liked the vibe around her, I liked the look of her attendants and I got into it. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, had no expectations and so went with the flow. I think it must have felt similar to how many people feel when getting hugged by Ammachi in the early days (the hugging ma from Kerala, who is now a really big thing and has a whole community around her). You feel embraced in a kind of universal love and even if there is no one there, as in she is cracked, then it still opens you up to simply loving, without conditions. The heart wants to love, and in that there is a desire to surrender, to immerse oneself in something far greater than just me, or you. Mostly, we look for that in romantic relationships, to embrace the feelings of love for another person and to be willing to do anything for that person. It is similar with a spiritual teacher, but instead of it being intensely personal and exclusive, it becomes much more impersonal and inclusive. With someone like Aum Amma, there is nothing else to go with it, no teaching, no relationship as such, no scene, simply being in her presence for a few minutes and that’s it. It’s like going to the spiritual gas station and filling up for a bit. It’s different if one has an ongoing teacher who one both adores, respects and perhaps fears, a teacher who takes on a student in an ongoing way. Au mamma seems on another planet.

Personally, I find that much more palatable than seeing a teacher where there are fawning students and a whole group dynamic. It may have seemed we were fawning but it felt very specific to simply getting a transmission from her and then leaving. There was no other expectations or projections onto the person. She wasn’t really there (as in fully communicating to us) so it is harder to make more of it than that. In many spiritual scenes there is so much projection put onto the teacher and a “cultic” dynamic around it, which after my own experience, makes me rather uncomfortable.

I talked with a few people afterwards about it and opinions varied as to her authenticity. One friend who has lived here a long time said its different when you see these people year in and year out and when you literally see them doing their laundry – which she had years before, living very close by. The allure doesn’t last and given that Arunachala is already here and that Ramana Maharshi and the ashram are such a significant point of reference in this town, why is there the need to visit other teachers who in comparison are less than the full monty of spiritual master. That was one opinion, but I just put it down to experience and felt it was worth doing.

I recently spend 3 days living in the ashram. I had asked to stay and went to see Dr Murthy, who is in charge of such things. He has the aura of a headmaster, and he dresses in white like most of the people working in the ashram. He said I could stay for 3 days and so I moved into my room, which was very nice and spent most of the time in the ashram. I ate breakfast at 7am – more idlies, lunch at 11.30am, a rice plate, tea at 4pm and dinner at 7.30pm, more tiffen type food. The provision of food at the ashram is a fantastic affair. At precisely the times of each meal, a bell rings and people file into a few rooms where banana leaves and cups are already laid out in many rows, all on the floor. It’s basically an Indian canteen, something in between a military canteen and an English public school dinng hall (not that I’ve seen one of those, I can just imagine having read George Orwell’s essay on his early education) So we all simply sit on the floor and wait. Sooner than later, servers come in, each carrying a bucket with the food. One person with rice, another with iddlies, or sambar or whatever is being served that meal. As they are feeding hundreds of people each time, there is no time for pleasantries. The food is scooped out onto each banana leaf in a cursory way and you simply dig in with your fingers. The whole affair takes less than 15 minutes and a few hundred bellies are full. The perfect way to feed a billion people and a few extra gringos. It is definitely an essential part of the ashram experience.

For the 3 days I stayed there I woke at virtually the same time each day, about 3.53am. It was weird. I was wide awake so got up and went to sit in the meditation hall next to Ramana’s Samadhi. The hall is very quiet all the day, with people always meditating in there. Apparently though, one time, a man’s cell phone went off in the room and he proceeded to talk on the phone and was unceremoniously dragged out of the room by one of the ashram people. No messing around. Cell phones are pretty ubiquitous in India now and in the classic Indian way of integrating everything into the bosom of Mother India, they are used at all times, even in the midst of spiritual rituals. This is not exactly the whole truth as many temples tell people to turn off their cell phones before entering, but in some of the main temples, there are ample places to slip a few phone calls in, and given the nature of the Tamil language, it is usually a loud conversation. Tamil is a language that seems to have more effect the faster and louder you can speak it, similar to the way they drive their buses.

One time though I was told off pretty intensely by a western guy for being on my cell phone outside of the main hall at the ashram. The evening’s activities had finished and people were milling around, talking (yes, fairly quietly) and my phone went off and I walked outside. However, just at the end of the call, I wandered near the entrance and this guy came up, took my left arm, just above the elbow and said rather firmly, “Take your cell phone call to another place.” I told him that I was just finishing the call anyway “so back off dude before I give you what for.” No, I didn’t say that but the call was finished. I had seen this man around the ashram a lot, about 60 years old, a white guy, dressed in white, but not the normal dhoti and Indian shirt. He mostly wore a white sleeveless jacket that looked more like a mix between a military and outdoors jacket, with loads of pockets in it. He was pretty sturdily built, with muscular arms, but apart from that seemed quite normal! Well, on further investigation, I was told he was from Austria (say no more) and at least on one another occasion had chastised someone for doing something in the hall. Apparently he was told not to be such a nazi and he backed down a bit. He did have a bit of that look to him, so I was glad to hear that he was put in his place a bit. You see, even in such a place as Ramana’s ashram, anything can happen.

So, in the meditation room, there is a sofa where Ramana used to lie and a large framed photograph of him lying on the sofa propped on top of it. It is protected by a wooden barrier, but many people as the enter the hall prostrate full length to the picture or kneel to it. It is a beautiful painting and Ramana’s face is particularly beautific. The atmosphere in the hall is very serene. Even at 4am there are a few people in there, a couple of them sleeping, and I took my place and spent 3 hours there before breakfast at 7am. I would sit somewhat formally with my eyes closed for a while or simply sit and not do anything. I like the type of meditating where you are not really meditating, just simply sitting and not attempting to do anything. It’s easy when formally meditating to still try and control the mind and feelings, or attempt a particular posture and not move, which can all be distractions. Simply sitting, maybe looking at Ramana’s picture or just at the wall is good enough. No doer, no thinker, just sitting in the grace of the guru. At one moment, when looking at the photograph, I “felt” or “heard” Ramana’s voice, saying, “Welcome, it’s good you are here at last.” I can’t say how I heard that or whatever it was, but this voice went through my head. I’d like to believe it came from Ramana but I could be making it up.

Being in the ashram for a few days connected me more directly with being in Ramana’s presence. The ashram is a wonderful place, very accessible, always with people around and is quite informal. Although there are formal prayers and chanting activities throughout the day, the main one being in the evening between 6.30pm and 7.15pm, one can come and sit in the Samadhi, or Ramana’s mother’s Samadhi or the meditation hall most of the day. There are many Indians who come to visit the ashram from all over India and on the weekends, there are many people who come for the various ceremonies. For those of us who go to the ashram every day, the weekends feel like a slight intrusion with weekenders coming through. (the cheek of it, us gringos complaining of the influx of Indian “tourists” on the weekend) During the week, there tends to be more the regular people, those who work in the ashram and local people and then all the foreigners who have come to spend time in and around the ashram. By the end of my time in Tiru though, the vast majority of westerners having left, only a few permanent residents remained and a few others of us who are passing through (passing through meaning staying for a few months!)

Tiru becomes a different place by the end of the season (end of March) as most people have left and it becomes much quieter, both at the Ashram and around about. The area around the Ashram is another world from the main town of Tiru, about 1 km up the road. There, it is another dusty, wild-west crazy Tamil town, full of the typical chaos of life in most towns in South India, which I’ve grown to love. Around the ashram, a whole new area has built up to cater for people coming to the ashram and there is a lot of new building happening to cater for travelers and tourists coming each year. Internet shops abound and you can even get organic vegetables at the local store. Land prices have gone through the roof in the last few years. It used to be very difficult for foreigners to buy land or houses in India and it still depends on the area but it is now easier in Tiru. One has to stay more than 180 days (just over 6 months so you have to have some residency permit) and then the land cannot be zoned as agricultural. So, some people have bought houses there and spend most of the year living there.

Another permanent feature at the ashram are the peacocks. They have been there since Ramana’s time and one can often see them strutting their stuff on the roofs of the buildings, and screeching away at all times. Monkeys are also often hanging around, mostly at one of the wells near the entrance. They are quite friendly but it’s good not to go too close as they can bite. Ramana loved animals and he even erected Samadhi’s for his favorite ones, including Lakshmi, a cow that lived at the ashram for many years and a dog also, whose name I’ve forgotten right now. There is still a large cow yard there, where the ashram gets its milk. Young calves were there, looking rather skinny. They tend not to get enough mik as it’s used by the humans. They are not emaciated but not exactly fat.

On April 14th, they “celebrate” the day that Bhagawan died, in 1950, strangely the same day my father died years later. On that day, after the evening chants, many people sat outside the main hall, in front of the room where Bhagawan passed away, and sang songs in Tamil. It was a very sweet experience, although the songs did go on a bit. The doors to the room were open – they are usually closed – and after the singing, most people walked by the room and bowed in front of it. One week later on the 22nd, they celebrate the same event based on the lunar cycle in India.

And that was about it with my time in the Ashram. I didn’t quite reach full Nirvakalpa Samadhi (permanent enlightenment) but maybe I inched a little bit closer.

The Final Hurrah:

My days in India were coming to an end. Most of my friends had left and only a few of us were spending time at Tasty’s (a popular western restaurant which is packed in the season), having the whole restaurant to ourselves. It actually was a very sweet time and nice to enjoy the quietness of the place as the heat was rising and the pace of life slowing down – even more than normal which is incredible. No, I jest. India has the remarkable ability to seem totally laid back and utterly frenetic all at the same time. Traffic hurtling down the road as if being followed by a Tsunami – but still not going faster than 40 mph as it is physically impossible to navigate chaos and road anarchy any faster, people speaking so fast in Tamil that you feel they are getting their last words out before they croak, Indian meals served at you at a furious pace and then, a massive amount of hanging around. Buying a single cigarette at the local store seems to take 10 minutes, there are always people hanging around at these places, waiting it seems for something, but not a lot is actually going on. It’s a common experience in India for us gringos. Sometimes you feel as if there is a whole other world going on around you that you have no idea about, an impenetrable quality and a level of communication that seems invisible to us.

So I decided to end my days in India by visiting the town of Shirdi, in Maharashta, home of Shirdi Sai Baba, the most popular Indian saint in the whole of India. As I’ve mentioned, there are images of him throughout the country and his Samadhi is possibly the most popular pilgrimage place in India. Shirdi is a small town (village by Indian standards), totally dominated by Sai Baba’s presence. He spent his life living in a dilapidated mosque and no one really knew much about his background, who his guru was or even which religion he was. He was revered by Muslims and Hindus alike, used the word Allah a lot to invoke God, lived in a mosque and yet seemed steeped in hindu ritual as well. Like other saints and swamis, he suddenly just appeared in this town and took up residence there. There are many books on him and his life, one of the more accessible ones being by Arthur Osbourne, the Englishman who lived in Tiruvannamalai for many years and wrote a popular book on the life of Ramana Maharshi.

He lived a very simple life, always begged for his own food every day and wore the same clothes all the time. One of the great photos of him is looking utterly filthy as the poorest beggar would look, wearing a simple baggy robe over him which he refused to take off. It is a powerful photograph of him though, of which only a few photographs were taken. He mostly refused photographs.

He spent his whole life in Shirdi after arriving there, and did very little (from our western point of view) apart from spend his time in the mosque and the Gurustan (a building which he initially lived in and then alternated sleeping in) and spending time with people who came to visit him. Over his life, he became more and more popular with all the accompanied pomp that brings with it. He seemed utterly indifferent to it all, often refusing to accept gifts and such like, although often they were involuntarily thrust upon him.

I became interested in going to Shirdi as some of my friends in Tiru have a spiritual teacher who is a devotee of Sai Baba and so they all revere Sai Baba and go to Shirdi when they can. Their guru has a place there where he holds darshan from time to time. Also, purely from an anthropological point of view it is one of the most devotional places in India to experience and in Indian tradition, doing pilgrimage in the most important spiritual places is a crucial part of one’s spiritual experience.

One friend in Tiru, Alison, has written a book about Shirdi and Sai Baba, called “Experiencing Sai Baba’s Shirdi – a guide”. It is the only complete guide in English about Shirdi. While there are many books about Sai Baba, some in English, none had really explained the place in the way that Alison describes. Also, what is interesting is that I was the only westerner in the whole town when I was there. I didn’t see anybody else. This is interesting. There are thousands of westerners in India, many visiting spiritual centers all over the country and yet, in the most popular place of Indian pilgrimage to the most popular Indian saint, there was nobody there except moi. In Alison’s book she quotes from a vedic text, “There is no happiness for a person who does not make a pilgrimage. Any individual, however noble he or she may be, inevitably errs. Indra is the friend of one who undertakes a pilgrimage. So, go thou on pilgrimage.” However, Alison qualifies this by saying, “there is, however, something we should bear in mind here. The scriptures and saints encourage pilgrimage as an aid to self-control and self-realization – not to absolve the pilgrim of his or her sins or to secure a short route to heaven.”… “In the Devi Bhagavatam (in the puranas, an ancient hindu scripture), it is stated that ‘only those who keep their hearts pure stand to gain from pilgrimages, other even commit a sin by that.’”

Well, I hope I got it right by going there myself. I was told ahead of time to think of an important question or request I wanted in my life and to pray to Sai Baba that it will come to fruition. The thing is that many, many people go to Sai Baba with very direct requests, often with distinct material and practical aspects to them. In India, most people are concerned as much with the daily vicissitudes of life as they are with god-realization – as is the rest of the world! In fact, there is no separation made between spiritual and temporal concerns. They are all intricately intertwined. Religious rituals are as much a daily ritual as eating. So, for most Indians, asking for material benefits from a spiritual saint seems totally logical. However, if one reads about Sai Baba, it is clear his concerns were more directly spiritual. Sai Baba said the satisfaction of material concerns is only the means to prepare people for what he really has to offer, which is spiritual salvation. However, Sai Baba’s extraordinary popularity does lie to some extent to the stories of miracles that occur around him, confirming for the skeptical observer that most of what one sees is simply the ritual superstition so prevalent in India, and for the believer, the divine powers of Shirdi Sai Baba.

In Alison’s book she writes about this, saying “For Sai Baba not only guided spiritual aspirants to the final destination, but he also looked compassionately on those seeking fulfillment of worldly desires. He is the epitome of Sri Babuji’s statement (Alison’s teacher) that ‘sadguru is the bridge which fuses the spiritual with the material.’ Once when a devotee objected to people going to Baba only for temporal benefit, Baba rebuked him, saying, ‘Don’t think like that! That’s what my people come to me for? First they get their desires fulfilled, and once they are comfortably placed in life they follow me and progress further.’ In what has now become a famous adage, he once said, ‘I give my devotees what they ask for until they ask for what I want to give.’”

However, even if the motives of many visitors here are mixed, it is amazing to see the level of devotion and the sincerity of people’s intentions. Also, the mystery of Sai Baba himself needs to be experienced and that only be done by being here in Shirdi. One of the things I’ve learnt to do being back in India is suspend judgment as much as possible. When reading books on Sai Baba, it is easy to get turned off by the countless descriptions of miracles being attributed to him. It seems so far fetched a lot of the time. However, if only 10% are true, then something extremely amazing is happening. I think that the nearest comparison that can be drawn is that of Jesus Christ and the stories that have become part of Christian lore, including the resurrection. The atmosphere in Shirdi is very “evangelical” and celebratory and the qualities attributed to Sai Baba are very similar.

However, with Sai Baba there is no formal written teachings. To quote Alison’s book: “Sai Baba did not found any religious order, institution, ashram or lineage, nor did he leave a successor or initiate anyone into formal sannyas. Baba blessed and served all, saying, ‘My treasury is open and I can give anyone what they want,’ though he added, ‘but I have to see whether they are qualified to receive my gift.’” Mostly, it was from being in his presence that any transmission would take place and as he said he would also continue his teachings from the tomb, pilgrimage to Shirdi becomes as important today as it was when he was alive.

The other really significant point regarding Sai Baba is the traditional role of the Guru as the most powerful catalyst for spiritual transformation, especially in India. This is a big aspect of the devotion given to Sai Baba. However, there are good gurus and bad gurus, and many gurus somewhat in between and it is a question whether for us westerners it is the best way to proceed with spiritual endeavor, given the track record of most gurus in the west. But in India, the Guru holds great influence and it is often a powerful political as well as spiritual position. As I mentioned earlier, India revers the Guru as a unique attribute of Indian culture and does not tolerate serious criticism of many of its own gurus, even banning books and movies that may question a particular teacher.

When I was in a temple in Andra Pradesh, in a pilgrimage town called Sri Kalahasti, I was sitting there recovering from the onslaught of being shunted through various shrines in the temple along with hordes of other devotees, having to navigate through narrow spaces because of the barriers put in place, ostensibly to aid the flow of human traffic but making the whole process feel like a cattle market. A young man came up to me and asked if I knew about Shirdi Sai Baba and when I replied yes, he popped off and came back with a book on Sai Baba by a man called Pujya Acharya E. Bharadwaja. He very nicely signed the book for me and gave me his address, in case I wanted to write to him about my experience with the book. Like many books on Sai Baba, there are many pages of descriptions of miracles attributed to him, but there is also a good discussion of the role of the spiritual master as a means of spiritual evolution. Here are a few quotes:
“All the world’s mystical works say that association with a Master is of greater value than the study of scripture. For the Master interprets the scriptures in a manner which is appropriate to his times and to the individual seekers and thus enables them to live up to the spirit (rather than the letter) of religion.”….”Yet it is hard to recognize genuine spiritual masters among the teeming half-baked ones with false claims. It is the latter class that make organized religion an odious mess that repels the cultured today.” Well said Sir.
“The most potent means of self-preparation is the devout and intelligent study of the lives and teachings of the great Masters. The Master is the bridge between the human and the divine, objectively. When a seeker reads his (her) life, the human in the seeker intuits and intuitively contacts the divine in himself and the inner bridge is thus built. When the process is complete, his accomplishment is corroborated by the external contact with the Master and eventually, the external and the internal become one.” This is an interesting point and is a process of discernment and ultimately trust in the teacher being explored and then chosen. People are attracted to various teachers for many different reasons, but common to all is the need to carefully look at the life of the teacher and to study the teaching and its impact on us. Even then, there are no guarantees.

“The immediate presence of a sage is a myriad times more effective than all of one’s own spiritual endeavours. Sri Ramakrishna Parahamsa and Sri Ramana Maharshi were emphatic about it. But such association is not possible for all to the needed extent. To one such, Sri Ramana Maharshi said, ‘Satsang is association with the Divine Reality which is eternal and omnipresent. To be aware of it at all times is satsang. Devout study of lives of those who are realized too can constitute satsang, or association with the enlightened ones.’”

“To most of us, the study of the lives of perfect masters is even more effective. For human nature being such, even when we live with a sage, we tend to focus our attention more on his physical frame than on his realization which is the essence of it all. Even the apostles of Christ faltered when their boat was tossed by a storm and the Christ chided them as those of ‘little faith.’ Arjuna confesses to such an error in regard to Krishna in the Bhagavadgita. But when we study the life of a Master, we unfalteringly focus our attention on the Supreme wisdom-in-action which is the Master. Thereby, we are trained to do the same when we eventually contact a living Master, as it happened in the case of Sai Baba; or our contact with the Master might remain at a purely spiritual level and alchemize us, as happened in the case of Sri Ramana Maharshi. For when a devotee asked the sage how he happened to realize without the help of a guru, he said that he too had one, though not in the form which the devotee expected.”

“In this context, the life of Sri Sai Baba of Shirdi, I feel, is unique. He does not merely teach about the omnipresent Spirit. Indeed, his verbal teaching is minimal. For there are scriptures galore to do that. But mere verbal teaching cannot strike deep root in the hearts of common folk. Sri Sai Baba has therefore taught through direct experience…”

I was at an old friend’s house last night (writing this now one month after leaving India) and on describing my time in India, she reminded me of J.K. Krishnamurti’s advice regarding spiritual authorities. We had seen K himself in England many years ago. She found it difficult to accept the role of the spiritual guru or even the concept of a perfectly realized person who could be such an example to people. She asked me how can you trust what supposed Spiritual Masters say is true? By looking at their lives and by looking at your own experience when being in their presence or studying their lives, I replied, but it was clear that unless one even gives the room for the possibility of a person reaching perfect self-realization and that one is interested in seeing beyond the mind and identification with the self, allowing a spiritual teacher into one’s life isn’t going to happen. Well, at least not most of the time. She is also really likes the work of Richard Dawkins, author of “The God Delusion” and one of the leading figures in the anti-god movement. I call him a secular fundamentalist and while I share a lot of sympathy in the critiques of orthodox religion and the insidious effects they have on many cultures, I think my friend and Dawkins throw the baby out with the bathwater in dismissing valid spiritual experience and teachers in critiquing orthodox religion.

So, anyway, I arrived in Shirdi, flying from Chennai to Pune and then taking a four hour car journey, arriving at about 9.30pm. By 10pm I was already sitting in the Samadhi of Sai Baba, waiting for the 10.30pm puja. The place is so popular that there are mostly queues for hours to get into any of the formal ceremonies in the Samadhi. To get into the Samadhi, one has to pass through a couple of large rooms, which are now portioned into long rows by metal barriers, again just like a cattle market. These rooms fill up quickly and people patiently wait for hours at times to get in. Before, people had to queue up in the open air, exposed to the sun and heat but a new building was built to give cover for the devotees. However, by the time I arrived, people had already been let in, and so I walked straight in and sat at the back of a large room. The Samadhi itself is dominated by a marble statue of Sai Baba which sits above his tomb and is adorned with flowers and cloth. Being at the back, I was not able to get near the actual Samadhi where people worship and give offerings, which are often handed back to them by priests as Prasad. The puja lasted about 30 minutes. The marble statue is made from white marble from Italy, which had arrived at Bombay docks without any forwarding address and so was purchased and donated to the Shirdi Sansthan (temple authorities). Apparently Sai Baba came in a vision to the sculptor employed to make the statue, which helped him create the appropriate image of Sai Baba.

After leaving the Samadhi, I walked around the corner to the mosque that he lived in, which is called the Dwarkamai. By the time I got there, it was about 11pm and there were quite a few people sitting quietly, not much going on. The Dwarkamai is dominated by a photo of Baba and during the day there is a constant flow of people queueing up to pay homage. At another part of the Dwarkamai, which is locked at night, there is a portrait of Baba, a particularly strong image of the man, but with his face looking quite calm and relaxed. Alison in her book discusses this as follows: “Of the few pictures there are of Baba, we feel we could be looking at a different person in each of them. In satsang Sri Babuji (Alisons’s teacher) once described the phenomenon of the ever changing features of a saint’s face which he likened to a river: when we watch a flowing river, in one way it is the same river, and in another way it is always different, the water always moving. The saint is one who whose actions are free from the influences of past and future. In this way, he is constantly being reborn, each moment a fresh moment, each moment a fresh life! That is why we never get tired of looking at a saint’s face – there is always something new in it.”

Near the portrait is the dhuni, a sacred, burning fire that Baba built and that has been kept alight ever since. Udi is the term given for ash taken from the dhuni, and which is given to visitors to Shirdi. Alison states that “the healing power of Baba’s udi is well documented and there are numerous cases of people being healed of pain and sickness by taking Baba’s udi both before and since his mahasamadhi. Baba would sometimes apply udi to his devotees when they arrived, or when they were taking leave of him, and he often gave out handfuls which he scooped up from the dhuni.”

I stayed sitting in the mosque for about an hour when a man came and sat next to me. He began talking to me and I found out he lived in Delhi and worked laying synthetic floors for sporting places, like tennis courts. He was about 40 years old, married with two children. He told me that he was about to go to sleep when a voice came to his head, which he took to be Baba, telling him to go the Dwarkamai. He didn’t know why, so he got dressed and came there and on seeing me – the only gringo in the place – he presumed that’s why he came to the Dwarkamai. We talked for a while about Sai Baba and Shirdi and he gave me a type of elastic wrist band that he made, which had udi (sacred ash from the dhuni) mixed into it. Also, some words were inscribed into the band, most likely a variation on the chant of “Sai Ram”, which is constantly being chanted through loud speakers around the Dwarkamai.

After spending about 2 hours sitting on the floor with a few other people, we walked out and drank chai, another wonderful quality of Indian life – there is nearly always a chai shop open somewhere. It was now about 1am and we visited the chai shop on and off through the next few hours until the morning puja at 4.30am. The dwarkamai is attached to Sai Baba’s Samadhi, separated by a wall and metal fence, so the whole process can be heard clearly in the Dwarkamai. By the time it begins, more people arrive in the mosque and everybody joins in the chanting and singing. It’s very devotional and as I sit there, I wonder at the endless capacity for religious devotion by Indian people. Here we are, at 4.30am in the morning, hundreds of people singing devotional songs to Sai Baba – only in India. By 5am, it is over and some people leave the Dwarkamai, bowing before the picture of Sai Baba. I leave with my new friend and we walk around the streets as it gets light and eventually I make my way back to my hotel to get a few hours sleep.

At 12 noon, I am back outside the dwarkamai, meeting my friend. We then walk into the temple complex and he takes me around showing me the neem tree that I think was sown by Sai Baba, the library where we read some works about Baba and a variety of other “sacred” places. I queue up at another office and get a special ticket for tonight’s puja, reserved for foreigners and resident Indians abroad. We spend about 2 hours together, again talking a lot about the life and message of Sai Baba. My friend is a serious devotee of Sai Baba, coming down from Delhi as often as possible. It felt similar to talking to a devout Christian about the life of Jesus Christ. Both lives are raised to mythological level, full of miracles – although Sai Baba’s miracles were far more frequent, with both mundane and occasional extravagant ones, the resurrection excepted perhaps – and my friend told me that by accepting Sai Baba into one’s life can lead to the realization of one’s personal dreams and also to the fulfillment of spiritual life. My friend said that first one needs to experience Sai Baba personally, and from this one can develop the trust necessary for Sai to truly come into my life.

So, he was taking me on as his personal mission and he was very sweet and generous. He paid for my chai and when I bought a few momentos, he insisted on paying, saying it was Sai’s wish that he did so. Obviously, as an ardent devotee of Sai Baba, he wanted me to have as deep an experience as possible and being the only gringo in town, amongst thousands of locals and visiting devotees, he perhaps felt a more specific responsibility. Also, he felt that Baba had personally intervened by getting him to go to the Dwarkamai that night. Other people told me later that these kind of experiences are not uncommon when coming into the sphere of influence of Sai Baba. Grace seems to intervene in some way, ideally confirming for people the profundity of Sai Baba and his life. As people believe, he is stated to do his work from the tomb, even a long time after his death and so chance meetings with people in Shirdi is just one more example of Sai Baba’s influence.

At 10pm, the same night, I am in a separate line with my special ticket for the evening puja and when we go in, we are led to the front of the Samadhi, just a few feet from the marble statue of Sai Baba. In the middle of the room are musicians and singers and the men are jammed into one side of the room with metal fences keeping us in and women on the other. After the singing is finished, we are marshaled out, somewhat unceremoniously, with two priests, one on each side of the statue, giving out Prasad as we go by.

It’s now 11pm again and I choose to go back to the Dwarkamai. I sit in there on the floor for a while. Again, a few others are there, including a child I saw the previous night. I find out his parents are also in there, sitting elsewhere. The child is 8 years old, but looks about 6 and last night, he was sleeping on the floor. The dwarkamai has nowhere particularly to sit so people simply sit on the floor, leaning against the wall or railings which are used during the day for directing the hordes of visitors that process through, paying homage to the photo of Sai Baba. I spend some time talking to the child’s parents. They moved to Shirdi from South India for work but love being there, as they are Sai Baba devotees and they spend a lot of time in the Dwarkamai. It is nice to see the family there, at 11pm in the night, their only child happy hanging out and talking with strangers. Then my friend of the previous night comes in and we talk for a while. Some of the time we are sitting silently and then we also go for another chai or two.

We met another man who lives in Shirdi and is part of the organization there. He took us for chai, and we walked through a place where many hundreds of people were sleeping on mats on the floor. Many thousands of devotees come to Shirdi who can’t afford the rather expensive hotels in town and so pay 7 rupees (10 cents/5 pence) and simply sleep in the open air on mats provided by the Sai Baba organization. Whole families curled up together, people spread out over a huge area, all simply sleeping and content in a way that most people would find difficult. So many people not knowing one another, all there to pay homage to Sai Baba. After the chai, this man takes us to all the houses where Sai Baba used to beg every day and then we sit on the floor outside the Dwarkamai, drinking more chai and talking about Baba. Other people come up and join us. How strange is this. It’s 2am and I’m sitting on the floor in a village in India talking spiritual matters with a bunch of people I’ve never met before in India.

We end up staying there all night again, propping ourselves up with chai from time to time. I was less tired the second night although I only got 4 hours sleep earlier in the day and although my friend wasn’t going to stay up all night again, as we got into the flow of the night, it happened again. As 4.30am arrived, the morning puja began again and I recognized some of the same people from last night. One man, obviously a serious Baba devotee sang very passionately, his arms gesturing as he belted out the words. After the ceremony he gives me a pendant with an image of Sai Baba on and we walk out of the Dwarkamai together with my other friend. Once we part my friend and I spend a little more time together walking around the outside of the temple complex before heading back to the hotel.

The whole town of Shirdi felt somewhat like being at a fairground and/or a spiritual revivalist meeting. There is very little else in the town except the Sai Baba complex, all the surrounding buildings selling paraphernalia dedicated to Sai Baba. My time was coming to a close and I was due to leave later that day, getting a bus to Mumbai. I said goodbye to my new friend who I had spent so much time with in such strange circumstances in the last 2 days. Again, I hadn’t slept all night and by spending as much time in the Dwarkamai as possible, I was trying to imbibe the spirit of Sai Baba who had spent so much time there. My friends had spoken so highly of Sai Baba and the importance of spending time at Shirdi, a pilgrimage at the sacred site of his Samadhi.

As always in such things – matters of the heart and soul – so much is down to either experience, faith, trust and an intrinsic belief in the whole thing – that is, in the reality of transcendent reality, of the enlightened state, of God consciousness. Are the stories of Sai Baba just Indian superstition, part of the ongoing religious delusion that keeps this country steeped in a mythological haze, or are they one expression of the unique mystery of spiritual consciousness in the country, as manifested through the many enlightened masters, some known, some not, that have graced India through millennia. How does one know what is true and what is not, who is a valid guru and who is not and how this can be judged by the sincere seeker – or deluded soul.

In Yann Martel’s book, “Life of Pi”, he says:
“Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy, a quickening of the moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principles of existence is what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not immediately, but nonetheless ineluctably. “
“I can well imagine an atheist’s last words: “White, white! L-L-Love! My God!” – and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeastless factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, “Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain,” and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.”

What makes one person believe and another not. This is a mystery. After being in Shirdi, I can’t say I felt a deep, profound connection to Sai Baba. On the other hand, I felt the experience was real for me. Just being there, meeting my friend, taking in the devotion of the people, embracing the spirit of Sai Baba’s message which definitely spoke to me and as part of the larger experience of my time in India which has been full of celebration of the spiritual life and reconnecting with the idea of the Guru principle, it is all part of what draws me to India. It is said that India represents the heart chakra as part of the consciousness of the whole earth. To experience the role of the Guru and the impulse to transcend the limits of the individual self is all about love. There are many experiences of love but when being in the presence, live or not, of a person who represents one’s own heart, it is a very sweet thing. My experience in India reconnected this for me. Also, as my experience has had the hindu religion as a constant backdrop, I think I should quote Martel again:

“There is Brahman, the world soul, the sustaining frame upon which is woven, warp and weft, the cloth of being, with all its decorative elements of space and time. There is Brahman nirguna, without qualities, which lies beyond understanding, beyond description, beyond approach; with our poor words we sew a suit for it it – One, Truth, unity, Absolute, Ultimate Reality, Ground of Being – and try and make it fit, but Brahman nirguna always bursts the seams. We are left speechless. But there is also Brahman saguna, with qualities, where the suit fits. Now we call it Shiva, Krishna, Shakti, Ganesha; we can approach it with some understanding; we can discern certain attributes – loving, merciful, frightening – and we feel the gentle pull of relationship. Brahman saguna is Brahman made manifest to out limited senses, Brahman expressed not only in gods but in humans, animals, trees, in a handful of earth, for everything has a trace of the divine in it. The truth of life is that Brahman is no different from atman, the spiritual force within us, what might call the soul. The individual soul touches upon the world soul like a well reaches for the water table. That which sustains the universe beyond thought and language, and that which is at the core of us and struggles for expression, is the same thing. The finite within the infinite, the infinite within the finite. If you ask me how Brahman and atman relate precisely, I would say in the same way the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit relate: mysteriously. But one thing is clear; atman seeks to realize Brahman, to be united with the Absolute, and it travels in this life on a pilgrimage where it is born and dies, and is born again and dies again, and again, and again, until it manages to shed the sheaths that imprison it here below. The paths to liberation are numerous, but the bank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma, where the liberation account of each of us is credited or debited depending on our actions.”

So, however it is expressed in the myriad ways of Indian daily life, whether it is real or not, whether it is really believed or experienced, or whether it is just empty rituals and superstitions of the past, a country and culture always looking backward to the complexities of hindu mythology, the fact to me is that it is real in India, it is alive and well. The spiritual impulse is there and Sai Baba is one expression of it. And a big one at that. As mentioned, his image or photo is seen more frequently than any other spiritual authority in India. He is everywhere. And so, however it happened – and according to all Sai Baba devotees, you only go to Shirdi if Baba draws you there – I went there and it culminated my time in India. Apart from one final day in Bombay, my final two days in Shirdi were an interesting end to my trip in India, my 2 ½ months in Tiruvannamalai with Ramana Maharshi and my reconnection to India.

There are many memories one leaves India with. A common experience, one often described to those who haven’t been to India is the nod of the head, the nonchalant, yet distinctive nod, that seemingly says no when it really means yes; yes not just in the simple form of the word, as an opposite of no, but as a broader acknowledgement, of recognition, an expression of mutuality. One day in Tiru, I was cycling into the center of town at midday, in the heat of the day, about 100 degrees, humid, intense and I came across a traffic jam, a truck stopped in the road, a bus waiting to come in the opposite direction, cars, trucks, motorcyclists and cyclists all waiting in the dust, heat and noise, the chaos of the whole situation enough to drive one to screaming in frustration; where in most places in the world, people would be freaking out, in India it is just accepted, there is always room. As I try and squeeze by on my bike, the driver of the truck – the cause of the whole jam – sticks his head out of the window and our eyes meet. Virtually simultaneously, we nod to each other in recognition of the moment, in acceptance of the situation. There is no judgment, nothing needed, just the gesture, which is saying, “hey, here we are, this is it, and it’s OK.” It is a wonderful thing. It happens all the time. It can be a simple hello to someone when one’s eyes meet or it can be used as a response to a question. It is simple, effective, and at the same time can seem a little elusive, just a little less than emphatic. Sometimes, when used as an affirmative response to a particular question, it is used when it shouldn’t be, when the answer isn’t that clear really, and yet an answer is required. In India, they often don’t like to say no, so the nod can be used to cover when an answer is required. However, when it’s most effective is when both parties nod to one another, when its implication is that everything is alright with the world, when nothing else needs to be said. It’s quite simple really. As apposed to the clear mutual recognition when two people shake hands, the mutual nodding of the head is both more ephemeral and at times more profound. The handshake is more clear and emphatic, but the head nod, by it’s very tenuousness, can reflect a deeper mutual recognition.

I was happy to be back.

April 11, 2009

On April 4th, we took a taxi to Vellore, about 80km north of Tiru, where Christine had some contacts in the Fair Trade movement. We visited a women’s cooperative called Share (Self Help Association for Rural Education and Employment) where over 2,500 women are involved in making many products for export and domestic sale. They have sold products to organizations and businesses like Oxfam and the Body Shop. Most of the products involve using palm leaves and weaving them into baskets and other products. Share has been operating over 20 years and one of the goals is to create economic independence for women and so raise their social status in the communities they live in. They have done amazing work in their community and it was really interesting to see the center they have and meet some of the people there. There were some really interesting and strong women involved.

This is one example of addressing the issue of women’s role in Indian society. Share recognized that for women to have freedom in this society there was a need for them to have economic power. India is still a very male centered culture. Men hold the economic power and the position of many women remains very fragile. By the way, Deepa Mehta has just directed a new movie about an Indian woman traveling abroad to live with her new husband and being a victim of domestic physical abuse. This is another common and horrible fact of life both in India and obviously elsewhere.

After visiting the workshop we were taken for lunch at a nice air conditioned fancy restauarant and then visited a local temple, temptingly called the Golden Temple. It is quite a complex. Getting in required quite a serious security check and then we found ourselves in this huge place with manicured gardens, and we were led on a long, circuitous walk, all in the shape of a star, like the Star of David, where along the way we could read spiritual aphorisms about the meaning of life. Indians love these types of truisms, some of which can be quite profound while others seem facile and simplistic. The walk lasted about 20 minutes and at the center lies this temple totally covered in gold. It was quite a sight. Apparently, the purpose of the gold is simply to get people to come so they have to read the spiritual aphorisms, which it is hoped will change people’s lives. Before the gold was put on the temple, the number of people was not so great, which creates a certain question regarding the motivation of people coming and whether too much heed will be given to the aphorisms, all attention focused on the gold at the end of the rainbow. But in India, they love all the glitter, color and paraphernalia that goes with their spiritual devotion, so if it works, great.

The teacher behind this temple is called Sri Sakthi Amma, quite a young guy, who, like many other gurus, seemed spiritually blessed from a young age, and where miracles of all sorts seemed to occur around him. Miracles in India are a big thing and while only a small part of any guru’s agenda, they are often used as a way of showing people what is possible and creating the ground for spiritual work to happen. From a cynical point of view, some of the miracles performed by various guru’s are said to be mere sleight of hand magic and only done to entice the gullible to them. Another argument is that most of the miracles are simply stories, part of a myth that develops around charismatic people who set up shop as a guru and who profit from it financially and also in the power accrued by the devotion. Being a big guru in India can also be quite a political position and often they have relationships with people in high places.

In this situation, what was unusual was the organization and “slickness” of the whole operation. This was no funky temple in some Indian city. Everything here has been clearly thought out and organized, even to the point of having a bank of people with computers asking for credit card donations as you leave the walking path. There were also shops on route to buy various goodies for darshan and other spiritual rituals. We all felt a bit skeptical about the whole thing, but friends subsequently told me that he does huge amounts of good work and runs a hospital for the poor and many other charitable works. According to the brochure “Miracles are not Sri Sakthi Amma’s sole mission. Amma’s Pujas, Yogams, service, discourses and various vast community development projects are all done to elevate people into the realms of spirituality. To awaken the spiritual being in each individual, to bring prosperity and peace to all mankind, is Amma’s mission.” “One of Amma’s messages to man is that peace can be attained through Pujas (prayers). Amma conducts regular pujas every single day…..Amma teaches man that all life forms have a purpose and man should live in harmony with them. One should also express gratitude to nature and the five elements as they form the very basis on which all life forms are supported.” “ Sripuram rises as an inspiration to man, to find divinity within him. It’s a beacon of hope, wisdom and spiritual leadership….

Now this all sounds good, but this is what they all say. Who knows what is really happening here but time will tell. It is best to be simply open minded about it. Perhaps it’s easy for us “westerners” to be cynical and wonder at the apparent gullibility of Indians to trust any guru in orange as the real thing, ready to prostrate in reverence to any perceived spiritual authority. India invented the guru and will go to great lengths to protect it. In fact, India apparently banned that silly comedy movie about a guru with Mike Myers. If they ban a movie like that, then there is a bit of a problem here. But in the meantime, let us see what happens with this spiritual teacher and the good work he is doing. In the end, one can only really judge a person by their actions and if the facts are straight, then that is all we have to go on. So far, it is quite an impressive operation and it merited a visit by the former President of India, Dr. A.P.J Abdul Kalam.

We were taken there by a few of the women from the Share project. At one point, one of the women held my hand for a little while. It then happened again a couple of times, seemingly quite casually. Initially I didn’t really think about it but I became more self conscious as I realized this is highly unusual. A married 44 year old Indian woman does not just hold hands with another man, a strange looking westerner to boot. I talked with David and Christine about it afterwards and found out she is a grandmother, but there was no information about the husband. Maybe he died or had left. We didn’t know but maybe I just got married without realizing it and now will be living in Vellore the rest of my life!! She did speak English and had been to England and obviously was educated and knew enough about westerners. Maybe she wanted to live in the Cotswolds? I don’t know. It was sweet though, like two fifteen year olds holding hands somewhat self consciously. I don’t think I’m quite up to the challenge though!!

The next day, we took a taxi to the famous temple town of Chitambaram, near the coast south of Pondicherry. Mia (David and Christine’s 19 year old daughter) had read about it in her work on Indian civilization. It’s famous as it’s the only temple (I think) that you can worship both Vishnu and Shiva in the same place. All other temples are focused on one god only. The other amazing thing about this temple is that it is dedicated to the dancing Shiva, Lord Nataraja. This is where Shiva’s dance brings to full expression the potentiality of Shiva consciousness. Most shiva temples have a lingum, which represents the potential of Shiva’s power. In a booklet we bought on the temple, which by the way is utterly indecipherable, an extraordinary example of “India Mind”, it says that “The deity of this sthala (holy, sacred place) is Nataraja who dances to the rhythm of the Cosmic sound in the form of OM – the pranava Mantra.”

The booklet begins thus: “India, our Country, the most sacred part of this universe”. There is nothing like a nice bit of understatement. Not to stop there, the author then leaps into the heart of western philosophy. “And why should God dance (Lord Nataraja, AKA Shiva)? Nietsche, the famed German Philosopher, confessed that he would not believe in a God who could not dance! Dance has become synonymous with the very Divinity. Once in Paris, when eminent dancer Anna Paslorea (I presume Pavlova) was asked to explain the meaning of a particular dance, she replied coolly, ‘If I could only explain it in words, I need not have danced it at all’.” “The highest reality is not amenable to expression in words. It has to be experienced and Dance is one mode. Nataraja, by his Dance makes us experience the Supreme Bliss. And in this entire world, there is not a single Deity who instils this mystic truth except in Tamil Nadu – in Thillai.”

The other key thing about this temple is that it is the temple given to the expression of ethyr or cosmic space as part of the 4 other elements, Earth, Fire, Air and Water, with 4 other temples given to each of these elements. I can’t remember which is which but I know the big temple here in Tiruvannamalai is given to fire. In this temple, this is expressed as empty space. It is quite a thing. In India, everything is worshipped. They are the kings of Idol worshippers. Idolatory abounds. Serious Christians, Jews and Muslims with their one God must find the whole thing utterly sacrilegious. Personally, I love it. Why not? Anyway, so here they worship empty space and you can actually take a peek.

At one point in the proceedings of the morning prayer, you can take your shirt off – if you’re a man – and step into an inner sanctum, right next the temple of Lord Nataraja. You stare through a thick latticed wall, the heat intense, the smell from all the incense and burning ghee lacing the air, and then as your stare through the latticework, a curtain is drawn – revealing nothing. Well, it’s not nothing really, but a wall made from some metal – or so it seemed. Anyway, it’s meant to represent Cosmic Space, the place beyond any idol, any image, a space of infinite expression of God, which is beyond the capacity of any image or individual God to express. Or as the booklet states it: “ All of us are aware that God is above all Forms. But how to convey that idea in a temple? Is it possible? Yes, it has been achieved in this Sthala by the ‘Rahasya’ behind the Deity – Nataraja with form. What exactly is that Rahasya, none has fathomed. That is why is called Rahasya – Secret. The curtain – the back drop is raised momentarily and there is an effulgence. The curtain drops. Supreme truth can at best be indicated only be Effulgence. And this significance has been incorporated only in this temple.”

The poignancy of the moment was somewhat tempered by the conversation being had between the four of us, the following being a rendition of what could have been said, but probably wasn’t.

Christine: I can’t see anything. I thought we were going to see Sky.
Me: There it is, can’t you see it, it’s that wall thingy straight ahead.
Christine: But I thought it was going to be Cosmic Space in the form of sky.
Me: Sky is a metaphor for Cosmic Space, in’it. Isn’t it enough that there is no idol there. Normally they would chuck in some wild looking god and pray to it.
Mia: It doesn’t look like Cosmic Space, more like just a wall.
Me: Well, Cosmic Space is a bit hard to represent. It’s more about the absence of anything in particular. The rest is up to the imagination, or better still, no imagination.
Mia: Oh, well, anyway, it’s a bit disappointing.
Me: Look, they’ve pulled the curtain down on it. It’s over now.

We initially arrived for the 7pm puja which was tremendous. Bells being rung for about 15 minutes, drums drumming, incense and smoke flying around, people hustling to get a view of Lord Nataraja, the whole episode a wonderful cacophony of devotion. There were not too many people there, but I could imagine it being seriously chaotic on busy days. And of course, the place where people were gathering happened to be crammed into one particular corner, with stairs going up and the Vishnu temple just to the left, making the whole thing a great human traffic jam.

After we came out of the inner sanctum, having had our glimpse of the Cosmic Space, David gave quite a generous donation, which is the expected thing to do, within reason. But after seeing the donation, he was asked by one of the priests there to write his information into a book, which he did, and then after that was done, he was then asked how much he would like to donate on an annual basis, as in around 500 pounds perhaps, so that the priests could continue the prayers for him and his family that would be needed to ensure happiness, good fortune, wealth (perhaps), spiritual contentment and all the other necessary ingredients for a life fulfilled. David politely declined the offer, assured that our donation had already covered the basics and more would simply be being overinsured. We had already been told that simply by being there and praying to Lord Nataraja, Lord Vishnu and all the other Gods around would ensure happiness in this life and that all our dreams would come true. Good enough.

Well, they nearly did but in the end Lord Nataraja didn’t come through for us. When we got back to the hotel, we turned on the TV and lo and behold we got the Manchester United v. Aston Villa game and Villa went 2-1 up. It was about 10 minutes to go and we really were believing that Shiva was seriously on our side, when United went and scored 2 goals and won the game. Well, to say we felt let down by our spiritual endeavors is an understatement. As they say in England we were “gutted” both me and David being Liverpool supporters. So our allegiance to Lord Shiva is waning a bit and its possible we could look for another God to worship. However, Shiva is all-knowing and can get seriously pissed off at times, so we don’t want to do anything to attract his ire. Look what happened to Ganesh. However, perhaps we could pray to Shiva’s other son, Murgan, who is mostly portrayed as being a bit unhappy and left out as Shiva neglected him in favor of Ganesh.

We also rather foolishly paid a guide to take us around in the evening, but after about 15 minutes, we all got bored by his relentless banter. He was nice enough but really most of what he said was obvious and the rest wasn’t really worth the effort to listen to. This is mostly the experience with all guides in India.

The next morning, we went back to the temple, to hang out a bit and take in the vibes. We heard that the state has been vying to be more involved in the running of the temple, which is privately run as of now and so there is some political issues going on. Obviously the temple raises some serious cash and maybe the state wants to get its hands on the money – that would be a first wouldn’t it – or perhaps they feel more could be done with the money. Who knows?

After leaving the temple, we jumped into a taxi and headed for Pondicherry. I had been there 4 weeks before but David hadn’t been there and it had been a long time for Christine. We managed to get a great room at the Park Guest House, which overlooks the sea and is owned by the Sri Aurobindo Ashram, as are about 40% of buildings along the Promenade by the sea. In fact, the Ashram is no longer allowed to buy more property in Pondy, as at least in part of it. It seems there are some political issues involved and there must be some tension between the Ashram and the City. The guest house was great though, although we had to obey certain “rules”, like no drinking or smoking, no guests in the room – a horrible, windowless room being given for such visits – and gates are locked at 10.30pm. There is a canteen in the guest house, but which resembled a prison café – very institutionalized feel and terrible tea and coffee. But it is cheap and the views are just great.

The promenade is the center of activity in the town as it’s the coolest place. At this time of year, the humidity is intense so the cool sea air gives the only relief outside of air conditioning. By 5.30 in the morning, the promenade is teeming with walkers and people simply strolling along, getting the best of the fresh air before the heat settles in. It’s the same in the evening, the place turning into a minor fair ground. Kids are climbing on the Mahatma Gandhi statue, ice cream sellers are everywhere, and people just hang around watching each other and the sea. It’s like the local square in the center of Spanish villages and towns, a place for everybody to go.

The next day, we hung around town, the girls shopping while the boys hung out doing nothing in particular. We went again to the fancy bakery and ate and drank good coffee and croissants, which Mia said was “cheeky” food. One always needs a balance of “cheeky” and normal food, and luckily Pondy has some good cheeky food, whereas in Tiru, there is a distinct lack of it.

We also visited the Auroville community, which was established in 1968 by the Mother, Sri Aurobindo’s compatriot in his spiritual endeavors. Auroville was a vision of the Mother, to be a city based on universal spiritual principles, a place beyond any one religion, caste or culture. It was envisioned by the mother to be a place for 50,000 people to live, but now 30 years later, there are only 2,000 people living there. Apparently there is a long waiting list to live there but there is no accommodation for people. At the center of Auroville is this unique building called the Matri Mandir, a ball shaped meditation center, which can hold 300 people in it. The Rough Guide quotes the Matri Mandir description as “ a symbol of of the Divine’s answer to mans’ inspiration for perfection.” ‘Earth from 126 countries was symbolically placed in an urn, and is kept in a concrete cone in the amphitheater adjacent to Matri Mandir from where a speaker can address an audience of up to 3,00 people without amplification. The focal point of the Matri Mandir is a seventy-centimeter crystal ball symbolizing the neutral but divine qualities of light and space.’

Thirty years later, work is still going on in the Matri Mandir and one can visit inside briefly with an appointment. The cost of it is apparently quite stupendous and its very idealism does raise questions about it’s aesthetic and practical utility and perhaps it is a symbol of Auroville’s own state of evolutionary challenge to meet the original vision of the Mother. The Matri Mandir does seem more of a folly than a practical building. They could have built an elegant and much simpler building for much less than it’s costing them to build this and it could have been done in 2 years as apposed to being unfinished after 30 years.

I’ve just been shown a new book on Sri Aurobindo called The Lives of Sri Aurobindo. It’s actually banned here in India as it takes a more objective stand (as far as I can tell) on his life and is less hagiography than normally found. However, as mentioned earlier, India is very cagey and defensive over the role and symbol of the Guru and doesn’t like anything that challenges its symbolic position or criticism of widely revered gurus, even if it’s true. So they have banned it. I am taking a look at the book now and also have been reading a couple of simple books on his thoughts. Aparently, some of his philosophical writings are pretty impenetrable. I had one book at home but didn’t even really try to read it. I may attempt a summary of my thoughts on it a bit later.

The days are flowing by quickly now, my daily routine keeping me busy as I watch the hours go by. I get up early most mornings now. For the last week I either walk around the mountain, taking about 3 hours, starting at 6am just after dawn and ending the walk at one of the restaurants in town. Or, I walk up to the cave where Ramana Maharshi lived for some years and meditate there for a bit while the attendant sings his chants. My motorbike friends and I have done a couple of other trips as well and that usually takes the whole day. The last one we did, we went to a local dam, to ideally swim, but the water level was quite low and there was algae in it. That didn’t deter Tony (brit friend from Totnes) from taking a dip but the other two of us stayed on land and wandered if he would survive. He did and we then spent a couple of hours by the river on the other side of the dam. Unfortunately, it stank of ulphur – we didn’t really know why – so we didn’t go in there either. We did visit a crocodile farm nearby and saw hundreds of the creatures hanging out in little compounds, either in the water or on land. The walls were only about 3 feet high on our side, about 5ft on the crocs side, and we marveled at the lack of safety. Local children wandered in and we imagined how it would be if one inventive crocodile took a run and jump and snagged one of them. We also speculated if we would survive if one of us took a quick dip in the pool of water occupied by 20 crocs.

The rest of my day is spent either writing (which I’m trying to do about 3-4 hours a day now) or socializing. By 5.30pm I am ready for something else and I often gather with some friends at the local chai shop outside the ashram. There, gringos and locals gather, drink tea, and/or coconut water, smoke cigarettes and generally do nothing. I meet some of my friends there and chat and sit – doing the Indian thing! Then around 6.30pm we go into the ashram and participate in the evening chants. I begin by doing a pradakshina (walking around or circumambulation) around the Samadhi of Ramana Maharshi a few times and then sit and listen and simply take in the atmosphere. It’s a bit like going to evening mass every day, a simple but very nice ritual and a way of staying connected to the activities of the ashram. I have made some good friends here and after the evening chants, we gather and decide where to go to dinner. We have a few favorites. One is a local diner type of Indian restaurant in the ashram next door to Ramana Maharshi’s ashram. It is called Sheh Shadris ashram and he was another spiritual guru here. He also was a helper of Ramana Maharshi but who became enlightened in his own right. The local diner serves the classic Indian “tiffen” food, that is, masala dosas, idlis, uttapam, pongal, parotha, chapathi, etc. Another favorite place we go to is the Dirty Corner, as it’s on the corner and is really dirty. You walk into a kind of shack and they serve basically the same food but the ambience is, shall we say, down to earth. The food is great though. It’s a real greasy spoon. Occasionally we go to restaurants that cater to more western tastes but mostly we want simple Indian food. Then afterwards we go to another little chai shop on the street and spend 1-2 hours there, talking mainly and watching the trucks and buses go by, our conversations truncated by the loud air horns they love to use at every opportunity. Pretending the road is a river takes some doing there, but we are mostly immunized to it by now. Then it’s back to my room by about 10pm and I either read or write for a bit and call it a day.

For a change last week, Tony and I went to a local hotel to watch the European football. The game started at 1am and we arrived at 10pm to ask for a room for the night. We are sure the hotel people think we are there for sex as Tony had arrived at the same time the night before for another game, but with another man. Turning up at 10pm with no luggage and asking for a room is a bit unusual. Tony tried to ensure they knew we were there for the game but the people in the hotel didn’t really care one way or the other. Tony had brought some Indian brandy so by the time the game began we had drunk the brandy, watched a movie and I promptly fell asleep, waking up when Liverpool scored a goal.

The other day, some friends and I took our motorbikes to a small town outside Tiru, where a quite famous sadhu lived. He was a teacher of the Guru of my friends so they go out there to sit for a while. The sadhu had turned up in town one day and basically stayed. He would wander around the area, sitting at times for days, weeks or months and then go somewhere. For quite a while people thought he was crazy. Then at one point he was sitting in the river bed of a dried out river in the middle of summer, when the heat made the rocks so hot, you coulnd’t stand on them. But he seemed oblivious to it all. Suddenly it rained and a flash flood occurred and the river of water consumed him and went totally over his head as he was sitting on the river bed. The local people thought he had been swept away but when the river subsided, he was found sitting there, up to his neck in silt. This was a sign for people that this person was truly realized and not simply a mad man. (it really isn’t easy to tell with some of these enlightened teachers it seems, but also it is hard to know how much of these stories to believe. Many gurus have these amazing stories around them). He then lived in a lean to by the river for three years and then came to the town he spent the rest of his life in, living in porch by a house. He would not speak unless spoken to, eat unless fed, drink unless given water. When his clothes became really dirty – he didn’t wash – he would be given another shirt,which is all he wore and he simply put it on top of the other one. He would talk to people in the same vein they talked to him. In an article on him, it said “The sastra say that the mind of the perfect realized being is like a mirror which reflects truly the the feelings of those who approach him. The Swamy was a living definition of this spiritual path.” The story of this man and other spiritually “enlightened” teachers in India is that they go into a state in which there is no longer any identification with the body. They lose awareness of the needs of body and mind and are only immersed in “God”. Ramana Maharshi did not express such extreme detachment as this man or some others, but for years, he was utterly uninvolved in the activities of body and mind, of so-called “normal” life.

This swami became quite revered in the region and after he died they built a Samadhi for him next to the bus shelter. The building itself is fairly non-descript but there is a palpable presence there. The first time I didn’t feel much but this time as we walked around his Samadhi and meditated there and just sat for a couple of hours, some of the time in a half-asleep state, I kept hearing in my mind the words “No Mind, I am the Self”. This is a title of a book on Ramana Maharshi by David Godman and it basically describes a state of being where one sees the mind purely as an illusion and that the Self, the state of being which transcends all thought and all identity with the body and mind is the only true state. After a while, I experienced the realization that to not identify with the mind at all means to know nothing, to not have any idea of who Richard is, and to simply be, to abide in a place where there is no identity with any thought or experience I have. It felt so huge, so unknown, such a chasm, like staring into a dark abyss where there is no bottom. It wasn’t a thought as such but a tangible experience.

This concept of non attachment and of non duality is part of the Advaita Vedanta school of thought in Indian thinking. To quote from David’s book (cos he can say it much more clearly than I can or it would take me too long to do it) “The Self or Brahman is the only existing reality and that all phenomena are indivisible manifestations or appearances within it. The ultimate aim of life, according to Bhagavan and other advaita teachers, is to transcend the illusion that is an individual person who functions through a body and a mind in a world of separate, interacting objects. Once this has been achieved, one becomes of what one really is: immanent, formless consciousness…” This state can be achieved through self-enquiry, which Bhagavan says can be arrived by asking the question “Why Am I?” This is not a rhetorical question or just who am I, Richard the person I think I am, but who am I really. Who is the I I think I am. In this enquiry every experience allows one to ask the question. Who is it that this is happening to right now. It is a meditation on the notion of not being identified with any experience, of not owning anything that happens to me, but simply observing it as it is happening.

To quote David Godman a bit more from his book No Mind – I am the Self: “It was Sri Ramana’s basic thesis that the individual self is nothing more than a thought or an idea. He said that this thought, which he called the “I” thought, originates from a place called the Heart-centre, which he located on the right side of the chest in the human body. From there the “I” thought rises up to the brain and identifies itself with the body: ‘I am this body.’ It then creates the illusion that is a mind or an individual-self which inhabits the body and which controls all its thoughts and actions. The ‘I’- thought accomplishes this by identifying itself with all the thoughts and perceptions that go on in the body…”

It is the attachment to all forms of thought and identifying with them through the body that maintains the illusion of separation and of individual consciousness. “This ‘I”- thought is actually an unreal entity and that it only appears to exist when it identifies itself with other thoughts. Ramana said that if one can break the connection between the ‘I’- thought and the thoughts it identifies with, then the ‘I’-thought itself will subside and finally disappear.”

Another way to put it is that if one can stop reflexively identifying with every thought and feeling experience, then slowly the ‘I’-thought will start to subside into the Heart-centre. Eventually the ‘I’-thought will not rise again and according to Ramana only the Self then remains.

This would be commonly called a state of enlightenment, a condition of permanent consciousness of the Self, beyond any identification with the ego, the ‘I’- thought. This is the state of living in the unknown and where one simply is, experiencing the reality of oneness and non-duality, having finally relinquished the drama of “my life”. As the man said then it is Thy Will Be Done, not My will.

This may sound gibberish to some, insanity to others, yet variations of this description are the nub of many spiritual teachings, and very much part of the Advaita Vedanta teachings in India. In practical application, it is about seeing beyond the attachments to worldly affairs, which are often fraught with ego and personal ambitions which we all identify with and the inevitable suffering that ensues when we are disappointed, hurt, betrayed etc by life’s travails. How to find a way of navigating a life without creating undue suffering for oneself and others seems a good thing to contemplate and this is what all spiritual teachings are talking about.

One can fairly claim that all the suffering in the world, including wars, pogroms, social ills etc come ultimately from ignorance, which is mostly expressed in the ego driven ambitions and machinations of people seeking their own gratification at the expense of everyone else and a false belief in the idea that everything is not connected and that one’s actions do not have profound ramifications for others.

If everything is connected (in other words, everything is consciousness) then everything we do has an impact on others. If our actions and beliefs create unnecessary suffering for others, then we are simply harming the world more than helping it. In this way, what Ramana and all other spiritual teachers worth their salt are addressing is the future of the human condition.

In the meantime, there is a lot of chai drinking. It is a good way to absorb our daily contemplations and wonder when we are going to leave this place. A couple of my friends have been trying to leave for a little while and two of them seem in the process of changing their plans to stay longer. After a few months here, the desire to go elsewhere often disappears. Also, the practical reality of facing Indian transport challenges is enough to put one off.

10pm. Another day draws to a close. One friend just left and we had our ritual hanging out after our delicious dinner of masala dosa – again – at our favorite chai stall. I’m in my room, the fan is on and the trucks are still flying down the road, horns going. In the day I can just about see the road but can hear it just fine. What is nice is that there is a school near by and I can hear the young kids reciting the English alphabet and also singing Baa Baa Black Sheep and other English songs.

School children look so sweet in India. They all wear uniforms, walk in pairs, insist on saying hello to you as you walk by. The girls have their hair in uniform plats, and they ooze innocence.

Apart from the amazing capacity to make a huge amount of noise in whatever they are doing, there is one other unique expression of Indian culture that seems immune to change and which people here seem not to even see – the rubbish/garbage. I know I’ve talked about it before but it’s such a fascinating phenomena. The introduction of plastic bags has profoundly changed dealing with garbage. Indians have generally never known how to deal with it, but in the past there was less of it, most of it was organic and would be eaten by animals or would decay sooner or later, but now that much of it is plastic, huge piles of garbage lie all around the place – on corners of the road, behind houses, in front of houses, wherever is deemed fit. It is truly a horrible sight and it is a major visual – and olfactory – pollutant. Delhi has taken the drastic step of banning plastic bags, which is a great step in the right direction, but down here, you see discarded plastic bags and plastic water bottles everywhere. Even in beautiful countryside, there is nearly always rubbish. When I was describing Bombay in the book Maximum City, the concept of communal space and responsibility is something not conceived of here – with obviously many exceptions. The rubbish thing is the most obvious symptom of this problem. It’s a bit like the fact that GM can’t build a good looking car and the French can’t make good beer – a cultural blind spot that other societies find incredulous.

My landlady, when I asked her what to do with my rubbish, said to throw it out on the corner of the lane where it hits the road. A pile of discarded bags and assorted other things already lies there, and when I asked her if there was any other solution, she simply said “this is India”. So, off I go on my bike and when I get to the corner I guiltily throw the bag onto the pile. A passing cyclist simply said to me “Good shot”, which made me laugh. Even in performing such a stupid thing, the all accepting Indian just says “Good shot”.

Last night, we went to the main town, about 1km up the road and had a tremendous dinner at one of the best local restaurants. They like us there and give us excellent service. It’s the same type of food as elsewhere, but the quality is great and it is nice to vary things a bit. After, I went to the local wine shop and bought a few beers to share with my English bloke friends before they leave town. Even though Tiru is not a dry town – many places are – alcohol is the domain of young people and the more degenerate side of society. Indians often can’t take their booze and when they drink, they do so to get hammered and often act badly as a result. So, there is this cloud of guilt and prohibition energy around it. One time, we took a beer to a particular restaurant and were told we couldn’t drink alcohol here. There was definitely the feeling of being bad. None of the restaurants around the ashram sell alcohol and you generally don’t want to be seen by the locals to be drinking. It’s OK sometimes in some places but it would be a bit like having a joint at your local chip shop. I mostly don’t drink in India. The taste for it goes and it doesn’t feel in the flow. So, when we do, it feels kind of naughty but can be fun.

March 31st

It’s now 12.30pm and my friends from the UK arrive in 4 hours, via a taxi from Chennai. I spent most of the day talking to two groups of permanent residents here, gringos whov’e been living here for a while. The first couple I met the other day when there was a formal opening of 5 eco toilets. These are compost toilets where after 6-12 months, you can recycle the waste and use it as fertilizer. They have now built 50 of these toilets in the local community and have set up a charity for this purpose. They also want to build an old people’s home in the area. I was introduced to the project by a Spanish friend of mine who was taking pictures of some of the local people that the charity has been helping and publicizing their plight. One was a 92 year old woman, who was married at 10, widowed at 11 and has lived basically on the street ever since then. Another was a 41 year old man who had severe TB and also cancer, who has 4 young daughters and has been close to death. The same organization called the Quality of Life Trust is looking after them as well as the toilet project.

The building of eco toilets is such an amazing idea and potentially could be a revolutionary act here in India. Imagine the amount of poop that could be recycled and put to compost and all the waste saved, protecting the water supply and the environment. It’s amazing, but doing stuff like that here is not easy. There are many obstacles to doing this, partly cultural, partly political. It’s not easy but the fact that they have achieved what they’ve done so far is amazing. I will see how I can help with fundraising in the UK and the USA.

OK. That’s enough for now. Time to sleep.

April 3, 2009

It’s now 10.30am and me and my mates have just come back from doing the inner pradakshina walk around the mountain. Our attempt to start before 6am was thwarted due to lack of impetus and we finally got going at 6.30am. We made it and celebrated with breakfast at the Ramakrishna Hotel, a popular joint for gringos to have breakfast after doing the walk. They have great coffee and the iddly’s and vadai are wonderful, not to mention the rava onion dosas. Now were back at the apartment for a serious day doing nothing and a nice time at the pool this afternoon. What a life. I heard a rumor that some people still work in the rest of the world. A ghastly thought! Mia, my friend’s nineteen year old daughter is finishing her essay on Aurangzeb and the demise of the mughal empire in India and is going to email it to her teachers today. The wonders of the internet. Her dad, David is looking over the essay and her mum Christine is konked out on the bed. I’m writing this and then will read about the upcoming Indian elections. More on that to follow.