I read about this guy who didn't like football last week. He claims it's a brutal game which harks back to our gladiatorial times. I fully agree with his point but think it might serve him well to reassess whether that's such a bad thing. Has he been to Spain? They still fight bulls there. All they did was exchange the Roman lion for an animal which can't readily eat a human with its mouth.
I grew up playing football. My parents are both UT alumni and football was always on in the house. Come fall each year, it was time to go get weighed, fitted for pads and commit hours of each week and weekend to the game. I grew early and started out as a lineman, pushing around other early bloomers in cleats and ill-fitting football pants with the tail-bone pad sticking out above the ass in the back. Later on in high school my height dictated that I should be a receiver and defensive back. I was particularly awful at the latter, letting wideouts from North Denver burn me on out-routes I had no business covering.
But the experience taught me discipline and that we aren't made of glass, plus a little contact doesn't hurt anybody but in fact makes you stronger. One could disagree when the concussion-prone NFL is in question, more on that in a minute. Other than getting hit "over the middle", a term used to describe devastatingly unforeseen bodily damage on passing routes, by burly linebackers, the most uncomfortable feeling I can remember was on sunny yet cold days after it had snowed and iced over the night before. Getting tackled hurts. Getting tackled into the icy puddles that would form on the less than manicured soccer-cum-football fields in south Denver hurt your feelings. Your bones. The cold muddy slush covering your body under your pads for the next hours only added insult to injury. But it wasn't injury. And old coach of mine used to ask if your issue was "an owie or an injury", an important distinction for anyone who's thinking about being a cry baby at any point. "No blood, No foul", is how people insensitive to dangling limbs or internal bleeding might phrase it.
More-over than making ya' tougher, football serves a severely important social function, just like gladiator games did, but in a much shinier, glossier context where the ad space sold is as much an impetus as any to keep the hits coming.
Society isn't all candy canes and gummy bears. People have beef, social strife caused by you name it: class inequality, racial tension or just downright ignorance. People also need avenues to blow off that stress, social blow-off valves that prevent any serious violence on a broad scale. Putting your love, hate, angst or passion into a team with the name of a beast like the Lions or Bears or mythical creature like a Titan or Giant is far better than putting it into a name like the Crips or Bloods or any number of less malignant, but still corruptive groups that society gets involved with. That energy is well spent on intensely passionate, but politically pointless teams, an opiate for the masses. Soccer and Cricket serve much of the same function, worldwide.
When I lived in New Orleans for college the Saints weren't a particularly spectacular team. They actually earned the name the "Aint's" by the some of the cities more cynical, long-time residents. After Katrina, an enormous speed bump in everybody's life at the time, the team's future in NOLA was questionable as moving the franchise became a topic of discussion. When they won the Super Bowl a couple years later, people freaked. It was so symbolic to see the team that plays inside the Superdome, a veritable battle shelter during Katrina, win the big one. It symbolized a complete return to a city that care constantly forgets.
So yes, football is rough and it's great anytime the league changes a rule to prevent concussions and the like. But people are rough. People have the need to see aggression acted out one way or another, it's evolution and an impulse we've learned to put into healthy outlets, but as the sanctimonious John Elway has famously been quoted as saying recently... "Let 'em play!"
Monday, January 9
Sunday, December 11
Burning Expectations
India doesn't make sense. The light switches are upside down. The people are flawlessly clean with white teeth and pressed clothes, yet there are immense piles of trash, often burning amongst open latrines filled with sewage and piss. Asking directions is futile, no one seems to know where anything is and on the roadway ancient holy cows rub flanks with the newest Audi's and Benz's money can afford. Slums are next to skyscrapers and people look intently toward the future in cities like Varanasi where the written history is over 5,000 years old. Muslims set up loud public lectures through megaphones in the Hindu quarters and cab drivers with Shiva on the dashboard cross themselves whenever they pass a Christian church.
There is an elegant beauty in the lack of expectation. I learned this yesterday.
My plans in India were changed almost immediately upon arrival. The plan was to take a train to Bodhgaya, land of our Buddha first, then fly down to Goa to unwind of the beach before heading home. After being denied entry onto a train I had booked for months due to overbooking, I got fed up and took the next bus down the coast to Goa.
Goa is beautiful. When I first woke the next morning, I panicked because the bus was cresting a forested mountain ridge. But before long we descended to the dank sandy coast. Goa was first a hippy haven, then formed part of a global rave scene that encompassed Thailand and Ibiza, and now is a place for anyone who wants to TRULY get away from it all. An unregulated state in a largely unregulated country, the partying and hash smoking in Goa was formidable. I was in bed by 9 every night. All jokes aside, Goa is big business for shop keeps and autorickshaw drivers who make money for their families up north when all manner of Europeans, South Americans, Australians and South Africans descend upon the area to spend their foreign notes. I met all these geographic types of people and more, and zero Americans. I found myself altering my accent to sound more French, just so people could understand me. It sounds odd but no one, including the Indians, ever got my name right the first time. "Trouble" and "travel" were two popular interpretations. But the beauty in Goa transcended language and I concluded most afternoons by watching the sun set over the Arabian sea with a Kingfisher Beer and plate of tandoori chicken, a go to dish that at the very least wouldn't make me instantly ill upon consumption, something that can't be said of all curries in country.
And like all small towns, when you start to know everybody's name, it's time to leave. I took a very early flight out and wound up in Varanasi, the holiest city in the world for Hindus. It was then I met Rocky, a very small Indian man with what I'm pretty sure was a twinkle in his eye, a soul who made Varanasi my favorite city in India after only a few hours there.
Indians are full of questions for foreigners and inquisitions about your salary or even sex life aren't uncommon. It took Rocky half a second to realize I was in Varanasi to look for a sitar and with a beckoning hand, set off at a race clip. I had trouble keeping up even with my much longer stride, dodging dogs, goats, cows, piles of poo, rickshaws, busses, Chai carts, impossibly hoveled old ladies with canes and young children. We arrived at Bablu's music shop, the paradise music hall and sat on the floor drinking tea as Big Baba Bablu showed me his wares. A sitar is a large instrument played while siting down, the butt of the instrument resting on the side of the foot at the base of the left leg, crossed under your ass to the right. The first time I tried it I almost fell over from the pain when standing again. The sitar I wound up purchasing was made at that very shop, by a sitar player, and the materials include teak wood, camel bone and intricate ceramic inlays. The frets are big bronze affairs that you can slide along the neck for perfect intonation.
My sitar is more special than the rest and not for the price, materials or shop where it came from, but because it was bought on the night of a lunar eclipse on the bank of the holiest river in the world. This was my one night in Varanasi and due to no planning on my behalf there was a stunning lunar eclipse unfolding over the Ganga during my short stay, attracting thousands of Hindu pilgrims to the city so they might bathe in the river during the celestial event.
The scene was incredible, I felt as though I was witnessing a cosmic event at the center of it all and as we rowed down the river, a trip Rocky facilitated with ease, lights from the city and hundreds of floating Karma candles lit the surface to a twinkling, sparkling shimmer in the dark Indian night. Thousands of Hindus sat on the banks or in the water, still and waiting for the lunar event, for the right moment to plunge in for one hell of a communal holy bath. Short of jumping in, I forced myself to forget stats about 120 times the fecal content of what our own EPA would deem safe, and poured the sin-cleansing water onto my head and face. Continuing down the river, flames from the fires of burning bodies on the main ghat grew larger and larger, until I could strain to see anatomical details, wafting into ash and the soul into Moksha, eternal enlightenment for those lucky enough to die in this place. Pictures are strictly forbidden here and although I could have easily snapped a discreet one off from the dark river and the boat's cover, I wouldn't want to offend Rocky or our boat captain. I will only have the memory of those twelve burning bodies, upon pyres of wood which are constantly re-lit for 24 hours of enlightenment and flesh-smell.
Back to the music school, I took a short sitar lesson and finished the night in the bar having food and drink with Bablu and Rocky. We called each other brother and having run around with Rocky all day I felt as much. Bablu ate an enormous plate of chilies and I watched him sweat more and more with each gulp of rum. Rocky talked of his Italian ex girlfriend and coming to visit me in America and when we stumbled back out into the Varanasi night, much cooler than the Goan sweat box, I felt as though I had stumbled upon some benign alternate reality where all I had do was smile ad give a small Indian head-wiggle of affirmation to achieve cosmic results. In India a smile is currency and Varanasi is rich.
We are taught to plan, have expectations, think we can control our destiny. If my travel plans hadn't been turned around I would have never met Rocky, or seen the Earth's shadow black the moon out from a boat drifting on the Ganges. Learning to expect the unexpected is a huge part of travel and life. Don't worry about what makes sense because even though you might have it all worked out, the world is inevitably random. Just find somebody and smile.
There is an elegant beauty in the lack of expectation. I learned this yesterday.
My plans in India were changed almost immediately upon arrival. The plan was to take a train to Bodhgaya, land of our Buddha first, then fly down to Goa to unwind of the beach before heading home. After being denied entry onto a train I had booked for months due to overbooking, I got fed up and took the next bus down the coast to Goa.
Goa is beautiful. When I first woke the next morning, I panicked because the bus was cresting a forested mountain ridge. But before long we descended to the dank sandy coast. Goa was first a hippy haven, then formed part of a global rave scene that encompassed Thailand and Ibiza, and now is a place for anyone who wants to TRULY get away from it all. An unregulated state in a largely unregulated country, the partying and hash smoking in Goa was formidable. I was in bed by 9 every night. All jokes aside, Goa is big business for shop keeps and autorickshaw drivers who make money for their families up north when all manner of Europeans, South Americans, Australians and South Africans descend upon the area to spend their foreign notes. I met all these geographic types of people and more, and zero Americans. I found myself altering my accent to sound more French, just so people could understand me. It sounds odd but no one, including the Indians, ever got my name right the first time. "Trouble" and "travel" were two popular interpretations. But the beauty in Goa transcended language and I concluded most afternoons by watching the sun set over the Arabian sea with a Kingfisher Beer and plate of tandoori chicken, a go to dish that at the very least wouldn't make me instantly ill upon consumption, something that can't be said of all curries in country.
And like all small towns, when you start to know everybody's name, it's time to leave. I took a very early flight out and wound up in Varanasi, the holiest city in the world for Hindus. It was then I met Rocky, a very small Indian man with what I'm pretty sure was a twinkle in his eye, a soul who made Varanasi my favorite city in India after only a few hours there.
Indians are full of questions for foreigners and inquisitions about your salary or even sex life aren't uncommon. It took Rocky half a second to realize I was in Varanasi to look for a sitar and with a beckoning hand, set off at a race clip. I had trouble keeping up even with my much longer stride, dodging dogs, goats, cows, piles of poo, rickshaws, busses, Chai carts, impossibly hoveled old ladies with canes and young children. We arrived at Bablu's music shop, the paradise music hall and sat on the floor drinking tea as Big Baba Bablu showed me his wares. A sitar is a large instrument played while siting down, the butt of the instrument resting on the side of the foot at the base of the left leg, crossed under your ass to the right. The first time I tried it I almost fell over from the pain when standing again. The sitar I wound up purchasing was made at that very shop, by a sitar player, and the materials include teak wood, camel bone and intricate ceramic inlays. The frets are big bronze affairs that you can slide along the neck for perfect intonation.
My sitar is more special than the rest and not for the price, materials or shop where it came from, but because it was bought on the night of a lunar eclipse on the bank of the holiest river in the world. This was my one night in Varanasi and due to no planning on my behalf there was a stunning lunar eclipse unfolding over the Ganga during my short stay, attracting thousands of Hindu pilgrims to the city so they might bathe in the river during the celestial event.
The scene was incredible, I felt as though I was witnessing a cosmic event at the center of it all and as we rowed down the river, a trip Rocky facilitated with ease, lights from the city and hundreds of floating Karma candles lit the surface to a twinkling, sparkling shimmer in the dark Indian night. Thousands of Hindus sat on the banks or in the water, still and waiting for the lunar event, for the right moment to plunge in for one hell of a communal holy bath. Short of jumping in, I forced myself to forget stats about 120 times the fecal content of what our own EPA would deem safe, and poured the sin-cleansing water onto my head and face. Continuing down the river, flames from the fires of burning bodies on the main ghat grew larger and larger, until I could strain to see anatomical details, wafting into ash and the soul into Moksha, eternal enlightenment for those lucky enough to die in this place. Pictures are strictly forbidden here and although I could have easily snapped a discreet one off from the dark river and the boat's cover, I wouldn't want to offend Rocky or our boat captain. I will only have the memory of those twelve burning bodies, upon pyres of wood which are constantly re-lit for 24 hours of enlightenment and flesh-smell.
Back to the music school, I took a short sitar lesson and finished the night in the bar having food and drink with Bablu and Rocky. We called each other brother and having run around with Rocky all day I felt as much. Bablu ate an enormous plate of chilies and I watched him sweat more and more with each gulp of rum. Rocky talked of his Italian ex girlfriend and coming to visit me in America and when we stumbled back out into the Varanasi night, much cooler than the Goan sweat box, I felt as though I had stumbled upon some benign alternate reality where all I had do was smile ad give a small Indian head-wiggle of affirmation to achieve cosmic results. In India a smile is currency and Varanasi is rich.
We are taught to plan, have expectations, think we can control our destiny. If my travel plans hadn't been turned around I would have never met Rocky, or seen the Earth's shadow black the moon out from a boat drifting on the Ganges. Learning to expect the unexpected is a huge part of travel and life. Don't worry about what makes sense because even though you might have it all worked out, the world is inevitably random. Just find somebody and smile.
Friday, December 2
First Day in India-Mumbai
You will get run over here. A short honk is all you will hear before you die. And it smells like shit. Not a euphemism, the smell of shit particularly burning shit, permeates the air in between periods of smelling like trash and fish, alternately.
My room is clean and smells good, or at least neutral and is very cold and dark when I turn the lights off. This worked to my disadvantage today when after being awoke by loud Muslim calls to worship, I went back to sleep figuring I would wake after a couple more hours rest. As I emerged onto the hotel balcony at 6pm, the full extent of my jet lag became apparent. Forgoing a shower, knowing the sweat and shit-smell awaiting me, I stumbled into the restaurant below. If I hadn't seen the airport last night I might have well thought I was in Cairo because of the large Muslim population in this neighborhood and the Afghani Chicken Curry was amazing. Trying the food, trying anything for that matter here is a bit nerve racking, if only for the horror stories you hear. But Afghani Chicken and another chicken kebab on the street and I'm still able to write coherently and sit upright, more than the horror-story tellers would have you believe.
Next I walked, and walked and walked because this jet lag clearly wouldn't be letting me rest any time soon and there is no better way to get to know a city than by on foot. Mumbai is a dirty, dark city at night but very active until around midnight (also not helping the jet lag, no bars open!). After walking for no more than ten minutes I found street vendors who could help me pick up a few things I intentionally left at home. Paying 20 rupees (40 cents) for an electric converter to plug my phone in (the method with which I now scribe) I'm not sure how I payed 450 for some sunglasses. 10 bucks sounds perfectly reasonable for some shades, but not here! I think the sunglass merchant's unwillingness to barter was almost endearing, reminding me of our strict MSRP way of doing things back home, although in India they have a MRP or MAXIMUM retail price. I'll let you infer what both those acronyms say about our respective cultures.
Fed up with the cheap purses, wallets, shoes, clothes, printer cartridges and bamboo smoothie stands, I made for the nearest watering hole. Still overpaying, but not unreasonably so this time, I asked my auto-rickshaw to take me to where the Europeans drink, knowing my fellow backpackers from across the pond have a knack for finding cheap booze. There I met the coolest South African couple who had much great advice about food, prices, lodging in different cities and generally how to survive here. Thanks Paul and Ally, you guys made my first night of confusion a fantastic time!
Now back at the hotel, it's 1am and I might try and adjust out of this jet-lagged haze and get some sleep. Tomorrow I take a train to the place of Buddha's enlightenment after what is sure to be an enlightening 23 hour train ride.
My room is clean and smells good, or at least neutral and is very cold and dark when I turn the lights off. This worked to my disadvantage today when after being awoke by loud Muslim calls to worship, I went back to sleep figuring I would wake after a couple more hours rest. As I emerged onto the hotel balcony at 6pm, the full extent of my jet lag became apparent. Forgoing a shower, knowing the sweat and shit-smell awaiting me, I stumbled into the restaurant below. If I hadn't seen the airport last night I might have well thought I was in Cairo because of the large Muslim population in this neighborhood and the Afghani Chicken Curry was amazing. Trying the food, trying anything for that matter here is a bit nerve racking, if only for the horror stories you hear. But Afghani Chicken and another chicken kebab on the street and I'm still able to write coherently and sit upright, more than the horror-story tellers would have you believe.
Next I walked, and walked and walked because this jet lag clearly wouldn't be letting me rest any time soon and there is no better way to get to know a city than by on foot. Mumbai is a dirty, dark city at night but very active until around midnight (also not helping the jet lag, no bars open!). After walking for no more than ten minutes I found street vendors who could help me pick up a few things I intentionally left at home. Paying 20 rupees (40 cents) for an electric converter to plug my phone in (the method with which I now scribe) I'm not sure how I payed 450 for some sunglasses. 10 bucks sounds perfectly reasonable for some shades, but not here! I think the sunglass merchant's unwillingness to barter was almost endearing, reminding me of our strict MSRP way of doing things back home, although in India they have a MRP or MAXIMUM retail price. I'll let you infer what both those acronyms say about our respective cultures.
Fed up with the cheap purses, wallets, shoes, clothes, printer cartridges and bamboo smoothie stands, I made for the nearest watering hole. Still overpaying, but not unreasonably so this time, I asked my auto-rickshaw to take me to where the Europeans drink, knowing my fellow backpackers from across the pond have a knack for finding cheap booze. There I met the coolest South African couple who had much great advice about food, prices, lodging in different cities and generally how to survive here. Thanks Paul and Ally, you guys made my first night of confusion a fantastic time!
Now back at the hotel, it's 1am and I might try and adjust out of this jet-lagged haze and get some sleep. Tomorrow I take a train to the place of Buddha's enlightenment after what is sure to be an enlightening 23 hour train ride.
Friday, October 21
India
I've received lots of different reactions after telling people that I'm going to India by myself in December. Most of my friends are excited for me, if not confused about why I would chose India of all places to take a month off. Others warn of the dangers there and I've even perceived some resentment from those who would like to travel more (but choose not to) or think I'm somehow disrupting business for what is only a short time away in the grand scheme.
But in reality the trip is selfish. I've earned it. We've been on the road and playing shows, sometimes more than there are days in the week, for years now. Even in college I put a premium on my music career, staying in New Orleans and rejecting any opportunities to study abroad so I could network and play out, a strategy which has presented plenty of benefits. I'm not claiming I've reached some sort of complacent plateau and can take 'er easy now, but this is the first time, ever, I've felt a month off would do everybody right, even our fans who get bombarded by messages for shows and updates on a weekly, if not a daily basis. No one is going to forget about Frogs Gone Fishin', if anything they might check up on us and become active in a discussion about what we're going to do next, which is gonna be BIG, by the way.
I'm writing this in the RV as we cruise through the beautiful autumn foliage in upstate New York on our first tour to the northeast, by way of the midwest and to return through Texas. After some preparation in November it will be time to traverse another massive subcontinent. The trip I'm taking is not to relax, or find enlightenment or for any one specific purpose. A main tenet of my trip is that, to a large extent, I don't know what I'll find or be undertaking while I'm there. That's the beauty of traveling by yourself and while I travel a lot here in the US as a musician on the road, it's a constant logistic negotiation to make everyone in the band happy. Where to eat, where to get gas, where to sleep, what to do during the 22 hours a day we aren't playing music... all of these decisions are one big democracy which I won't deal with on the road in India. Me, myself and I will be responsible when things get shitty, and likewise can pat myself on the back when I'm having a great time.
And things can get shitty in India. Bugs (inside and outside of your body), petty theft, long wait times and lines and general culture shock will all be factors to watch out for. But something I learned becoming an Eagle Scout while slogging through waist deep moose-muck on backpacking trips in Canada is that it's the journey, not the destination, that counts.
So I picked a difficult place to travel for the challenge and the ultimate reward that only people who intrinsically choose to do something difficult receive. Call it getting out of your comfort zone. And as it turns out my comfort zone includes being able to sleep in an '87 RV with FOUR other full-size, methane-producing male adults for a month, so traveling stag will be all the more liberating.
And CHEAP. You can live, and I mean LIVE, in India for as much a day as it cost to feed the band for ONE meal in the USA. If you really stretched your comfort level you could exist on 450 rupees a day, or about 10 dollars.
But India is a land of extreme duality, poverty and development, tradition and growth, and my trip has some duality to it, as well.
After I land in Mumbai I'll head northeast by train to Bodhgaya, a holy place for Buddhists where the Buddha himself is said to have attained enlightenment, the supreme realization that we are all bound to suffering in this life, but can overcome it if we remove our most deep seeded of attachments. No matter how much of a minimalist, new age, vegan, psudo-hippy lifestyle you can pursue here at home, a Buddhist lifestyle is at best, misunderstood and at worst, unattainable in our society. No matter how you slice it, if you are unemployed and not financially empowered from some other means, you'll be homeless and hungry in no time. The idea of the wandering ascetic is both unattainable but also misunderstood. Buddha taught a concept known as "The Middle Way" which states that just as you shouldn't live as greedily as possible, you shouldn't necessarily wander and starve like some sort of monk, either. Buddhism is all about being happy in whatever station you find yourself in life.
After Bodhgaya I'll head north toward the Himalayas and Nepal, possibly crossing the border into Kathmandu. But it won't all be meditation and reflection for a month. For the latter half of my trip it'll be the beaches in Goa, the southwestern coast, where I'll soak up some sun and meet not only Indians, but the Europeans, Australians, Israeli's and people from all over the world that come there to warm up during the winter months. Meeting as many people as possible is a primary goal of my journey. I want to see how another society functions on a daily basis. From my experiences on the road in America and other places abroad, one of the best ways is to pop into a pub and have a beer with the locals, the working class, for lack of a better term. And class is somewhat of a highly sensitive topic in India, some are even considered untouchable by the rest of society. But you can't turn a blind eye to a system that contains 1.2 billion people, a sixth of the world's population, and so it's time to go see it for myself. India is vast and a looking glass into the effects of colonialism in our recent world history. It's a nuclear power that shares a border with Pakistan, increasingly the most mysterious and ambiguous ally, or maybe enemy, of the US in the region.
On a far less serious note, I'd like to pick up a sitar, or at least some of the most prominent melodies played on that most serene of instruments and translate what I learn to a travel guitar.
I'm excited not only to experience a new culture, but to take a break from smart phones and actually ask living, breathing people where I should go, not to mention a break from the McDonald's and WalMart-based economy I see EVERYWHERE on the roadside in America. It'll be just me, a backpack, and a brand new place to explore.
But in reality the trip is selfish. I've earned it. We've been on the road and playing shows, sometimes more than there are days in the week, for years now. Even in college I put a premium on my music career, staying in New Orleans and rejecting any opportunities to study abroad so I could network and play out, a strategy which has presented plenty of benefits. I'm not claiming I've reached some sort of complacent plateau and can take 'er easy now, but this is the first time, ever, I've felt a month off would do everybody right, even our fans who get bombarded by messages for shows and updates on a weekly, if not a daily basis. No one is going to forget about Frogs Gone Fishin', if anything they might check up on us and become active in a discussion about what we're going to do next, which is gonna be BIG, by the way.
I'm writing this in the RV as we cruise through the beautiful autumn foliage in upstate New York on our first tour to the northeast, by way of the midwest and to return through Texas. After some preparation in November it will be time to traverse another massive subcontinent. The trip I'm taking is not to relax, or find enlightenment or for any one specific purpose. A main tenet of my trip is that, to a large extent, I don't know what I'll find or be undertaking while I'm there. That's the beauty of traveling by yourself and while I travel a lot here in the US as a musician on the road, it's a constant logistic negotiation to make everyone in the band happy. Where to eat, where to get gas, where to sleep, what to do during the 22 hours a day we aren't playing music... all of these decisions are one big democracy which I won't deal with on the road in India. Me, myself and I will be responsible when things get shitty, and likewise can pat myself on the back when I'm having a great time.
And things can get shitty in India. Bugs (inside and outside of your body), petty theft, long wait times and lines and general culture shock will all be factors to watch out for. But something I learned becoming an Eagle Scout while slogging through waist deep moose-muck on backpacking trips in Canada is that it's the journey, not the destination, that counts.
So I picked a difficult place to travel for the challenge and the ultimate reward that only people who intrinsically choose to do something difficult receive. Call it getting out of your comfort zone. And as it turns out my comfort zone includes being able to sleep in an '87 RV with FOUR other full-size, methane-producing male adults for a month, so traveling stag will be all the more liberating.
And CHEAP. You can live, and I mean LIVE, in India for as much a day as it cost to feed the band for ONE meal in the USA. If you really stretched your comfort level you could exist on 450 rupees a day, or about 10 dollars.
But India is a land of extreme duality, poverty and development, tradition and growth, and my trip has some duality to it, as well.
After I land in Mumbai I'll head northeast by train to Bodhgaya, a holy place for Buddhists where the Buddha himself is said to have attained enlightenment, the supreme realization that we are all bound to suffering in this life, but can overcome it if we remove our most deep seeded of attachments. No matter how much of a minimalist, new age, vegan, psudo-hippy lifestyle you can pursue here at home, a Buddhist lifestyle is at best, misunderstood and at worst, unattainable in our society. No matter how you slice it, if you are unemployed and not financially empowered from some other means, you'll be homeless and hungry in no time. The idea of the wandering ascetic is both unattainable but also misunderstood. Buddha taught a concept known as "The Middle Way" which states that just as you shouldn't live as greedily as possible, you shouldn't necessarily wander and starve like some sort of monk, either. Buddhism is all about being happy in whatever station you find yourself in life.
After Bodhgaya I'll head north toward the Himalayas and Nepal, possibly crossing the border into Kathmandu. But it won't all be meditation and reflection for a month. For the latter half of my trip it'll be the beaches in Goa, the southwestern coast, where I'll soak up some sun and meet not only Indians, but the Europeans, Australians, Israeli's and people from all over the world that come there to warm up during the winter months. Meeting as many people as possible is a primary goal of my journey. I want to see how another society functions on a daily basis. From my experiences on the road in America and other places abroad, one of the best ways is to pop into a pub and have a beer with the locals, the working class, for lack of a better term. And class is somewhat of a highly sensitive topic in India, some are even considered untouchable by the rest of society. But you can't turn a blind eye to a system that contains 1.2 billion people, a sixth of the world's population, and so it's time to go see it for myself. India is vast and a looking glass into the effects of colonialism in our recent world history. It's a nuclear power that shares a border with Pakistan, increasingly the most mysterious and ambiguous ally, or maybe enemy, of the US in the region.
On a far less serious note, I'd like to pick up a sitar, or at least some of the most prominent melodies played on that most serene of instruments and translate what I learn to a travel guitar.
I'm excited not only to experience a new culture, but to take a break from smart phones and actually ask living, breathing people where I should go, not to mention a break from the McDonald's and WalMart-based economy I see EVERYWHERE on the roadside in America. It'll be just me, a backpack, and a brand new place to explore.
Thursday, October 13
On the Road Again
"cause I'll be gone 'till November"
-Wyclef Jean
Bertha, the Frogs Gone Fishin' RV is cruising east. It's 7:05 PM and there is a massive, crimson harvest moon firing up the horizon directly in front of us as we head out of town on I-76 toward I-80, Iowa, Chicago and the rest of tour. Call it East Bound and Down, call it National Tour. Call it what you want but this is our most ambitious undertaking, yet. We've hit Chicago and Cincinnati before, but the area east of Ohio is largely uncharted territory for FGF. That's all about to change. Some other things have changed recently and because we've intentionally been on the down-low about personnel changes in our organization, it's time to come clean with what's been happening, and what's going to happen inside and outside Frogs Gone Fishin'.
Steve and Mark don't play music in FGF anymore. It's something you don't foresee, but every band, it seems, goes through it. At some point life bumps up against everything you thought your band would be as a kid and you deal with what all of our twenty-something friends deal with, the idealism of youth fading into the harsher, but ultimately more satisfying world of getting business done. I will always love those two guys and wish them nothing but personal and musical happiness.
On bass and drums this tour are the Double D's, Dax and Dave, and at the helm of our eastbound ship is Double A (Aaron) our ever-trustworthy and efficient road manager. The man can cook, drive for HOURS, fix anything and helps keep us oriented toward our goal of playing as much music as possible, in as many places as possible, planned and unplanned.
Frogs have been as far east as North Carolina (we'll do Asheville on Halloween this year), and as far north as Cleveland, but never to New Jersey or New York as we'll do this month. The band is especially excited for a gig at Sullivan Hall in Greenwich Village, NYC, on Halloween weekend. Bringing Bertha and a band that's not exactly on a New York budget will be a challenge, but I wouldn't consider myself a touring musician if we didn't at least try and make this a viable route for ourselves so we can keep coming back in the future to build a fan base.
Frogs plan on taking a short break during the winter months, to solidify our lineup and add additional instruments to our sound. The only way to keep from calcifying is to grow and it doesn't ever hurt to build demand by restricting access. Again, you bump into the reality of paying your bills when you want to restrict the number of shows you play in a given market, but it's a big country! Then the reality of how much gas really costs us as a society manifests like some sort of giant pink elephant in the room which no one wants to address.
It was tough to hear when our business banker told me that it's harder to acquire small business credit under Obama than it was under Bush. I've given this administration the serious benefit of the doubt but, in the financial sector at least, they are failing. Not to mention the fact that the crooks who did serious damage to the world economy still have their jobs. Small business is what drives our nation forward, along with corporations. But I do know that in a nation plagued by debt and few job opportunities, new prosperity must come from a different place than corporations. Companies like that are too massive, too dense to move quickly in a world changing as rapidly as ours. We are one of those small businesses, and can attest first hand to the difficulties that entrepreneurs face these days.
But luckily for we musicians, our business is not a cyclical one, in terms of the entire economy. People, in general, want to go out, have a good time and listen to music, and I would suppose more-so in times of economic distress. But we are always striving, trying to book better gigs, farther in advance for more money. Being in Chicago and New York should refine our business sense, and what it means to be a musician in a highly, and in the case of New York, the most competitive scene in the world.
Bertha feels solid in the dense fall air, the engine aspirating that much better. There are so many variables on tour and all I can really hope for is Halloween not being that scary for the Frog's bank account as we journey to New York and beyond.
-Wyclef Jean
Bertha, the Frogs Gone Fishin' RV is cruising east. It's 7:05 PM and there is a massive, crimson harvest moon firing up the horizon directly in front of us as we head out of town on I-76 toward I-80, Iowa, Chicago and the rest of tour. Call it East Bound and Down, call it National Tour. Call it what you want but this is our most ambitious undertaking, yet. We've hit Chicago and Cincinnati before, but the area east of Ohio is largely uncharted territory for FGF. That's all about to change. Some other things have changed recently and because we've intentionally been on the down-low about personnel changes in our organization, it's time to come clean with what's been happening, and what's going to happen inside and outside Frogs Gone Fishin'.
Steve and Mark don't play music in FGF anymore. It's something you don't foresee, but every band, it seems, goes through it. At some point life bumps up against everything you thought your band would be as a kid and you deal with what all of our twenty-something friends deal with, the idealism of youth fading into the harsher, but ultimately more satisfying world of getting business done. I will always love those two guys and wish them nothing but personal and musical happiness.
On bass and drums this tour are the Double D's, Dax and Dave, and at the helm of our eastbound ship is Double A (Aaron) our ever-trustworthy and efficient road manager. The man can cook, drive for HOURS, fix anything and helps keep us oriented toward our goal of playing as much music as possible, in as many places as possible, planned and unplanned.
Frogs have been as far east as North Carolina (we'll do Asheville on Halloween this year), and as far north as Cleveland, but never to New Jersey or New York as we'll do this month. The band is especially excited for a gig at Sullivan Hall in Greenwich Village, NYC, on Halloween weekend. Bringing Bertha and a band that's not exactly on a New York budget will be a challenge, but I wouldn't consider myself a touring musician if we didn't at least try and make this a viable route for ourselves so we can keep coming back in the future to build a fan base.
Frogs plan on taking a short break during the winter months, to solidify our lineup and add additional instruments to our sound. The only way to keep from calcifying is to grow and it doesn't ever hurt to build demand by restricting access. Again, you bump into the reality of paying your bills when you want to restrict the number of shows you play in a given market, but it's a big country! Then the reality of how much gas really costs us as a society manifests like some sort of giant pink elephant in the room which no one wants to address.
It was tough to hear when our business banker told me that it's harder to acquire small business credit under Obama than it was under Bush. I've given this administration the serious benefit of the doubt but, in the financial sector at least, they are failing. Not to mention the fact that the crooks who did serious damage to the world economy still have their jobs. Small business is what drives our nation forward, along with corporations. But I do know that in a nation plagued by debt and few job opportunities, new prosperity must come from a different place than corporations. Companies like that are too massive, too dense to move quickly in a world changing as rapidly as ours. We are one of those small businesses, and can attest first hand to the difficulties that entrepreneurs face these days.
But luckily for we musicians, our business is not a cyclical one, in terms of the entire economy. People, in general, want to go out, have a good time and listen to music, and I would suppose more-so in times of economic distress. But we are always striving, trying to book better gigs, farther in advance for more money. Being in Chicago and New York should refine our business sense, and what it means to be a musician in a highly, and in the case of New York, the most competitive scene in the world.
Bertha feels solid in the dense fall air, the engine aspirating that much better. There are so many variables on tour and all I can really hope for is Halloween not being that scary for the Frog's bank account as we journey to New York and beyond.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)