Nothing else but...

I feel really bad about abandoning my digital child - this very blog. Nope, its not twitter, Facebook or Poken that has taken over my life, and it has nothing to do with a writer’s block either.
Most of all, I feel really bad because I have promised many, that I would keep this blog alive. 
But then again, I’m busy scrambling my gray matter these days – trying to remember what I learnt from the advertising greats like Jeremy Bullmore, Richard Fowler and Brian Searle-Tripp at Ogilvy, long, long time ago. I’m trying to put together a series of presentations so that I could train my team – unfortunately it is not such an easy task. The thing is, advertising has evolved to become the art of communication; the world is changing so fast today that even Facebook has become a “traditional” medium. I feel I am too ‘old’ to keep up with this marathon – sometimes all I want to do is to sit under a coconut tree on a beautiful Sri Lankan beach, sip a nice Old Reserve with Wild Elephant, put my legs up and enjoy the gorgeous sunset to the rhythm of the waves slashing against the white sands.
Instead, I spend most of my time in a land where restaurants have two entrances: one for the “Single men” and the other for the “families” and women. My time in this country has become such a regular affair that I cannot even call my blog “Life in Taprobane” anymore – it might as well be re-christened as “Life in-between Mecca and Medina” I suppose.
Not that I have a miserable life here - compared to most who live in Saudi Arabia.
I have access to alcohol - albeit a bottle costs nearly 300 US dollars. I see women in bikinis if I peep from my front window at home. I live in a heavily fortified “compound” that’s similar to what’s seen in the movie “the Kingdom.” Every time I come home, I stop at the first gate manned by private security as well as the Army. Various warnings including “No Photos” and “Turn off the Headlights” stare at my face until a security guard scans the vehicle and raises the barrier. I usually wave at the guy and zig-zag through a maze of concrete barricades along a barbed-wire fenced wall, to the main gate where a guard sitting behind a bullet-proof window recognises me and presses a few buttons to lower the steel barrier as I wait for the red light to turn green. There’s another gate that opens immediately after the barrier, then I weave through another concrete jungle, bump over the humps at every 50 yards and slowly get to my home sweet home where I have unrestricted internet access and a bottle of Vodka in the fridge.
Yes, the internet is censored to the public in the Kingdom and it is the “world outside the compound” that bothers me.
There is a notice on our office door proclaiming that “Women Work Here” – and it reminds me of the signs we often see at home: “Beware of the Dog.”
There are times that I find myself alone in an empty elevator, simple because some of the Saudi women refuse to enter because “there is a man inside.” I feel like a leper – but I know it is their loss, not mine. I KNOW they don’t get much opportunity to spend time with guys like me – so even a nano-second lost is a time gone to waste. For them. Besides, my breath could impregnate women – yes I have that gift – I guess that must be what those women are thinking.
The social barricades here are unimaginable and unbelievable, women who live in Sri Lanka have absolutely no idea how blessed are they to be born in such a beautiful country. According to the The World Economic Forum Gender Equality Survey, women in Sri Lanka are treated better than the Australians, Canadians and even the Americans. Sri Lanka ranks at the 16 place, Saudi Arabia of course somewhere at the very bottom, barely keeping up with Chad, Mali and Benin.
Women cannot drive in Saudi Arabia. Most women are at the mercy of their driver, even if they had to buy a Panadol for a headache (and, a woman needs a lot of those in this country!). They pay his salary, but the driver has the right to “pray” five times a day and the employer has to wait, no matter how important her needs are.
There are quite a few, well-educated Saudi women who are joining the mainstream employment. These are the progressive women who know how to remain ‘progressive’ within the cultural and social norms, but the society isn’t ready for this. We have a client who employees around ten to fifteen thousand people across the Kingdom, but their head office does not have a single toilet dedicated for women. But, on the surface, this organisation is one of the most modern, forward-thinking businesses in the country that encourages the young Saudi females to lead the change. This is a minor detail compared to the other frustrations women have to put-up everyday at their workplace. Saudi men DO NOT look at a woman’s eyes when they talk to her – even in meetings and I find that very irritating. If she is friendly, they mis-read her. If she keeps her distance, they think she is a bitch. Some of them completely ignore her, as if she doesn’t exist. The religious extremism is so deep-rooted in their minds, they act as if they don’t have mothers or sisters.
Saudi women are not allowed to be seen in public without a chaperone, they cannot travel without a male custodian, they are not allowed to represent themselves at a government office, in a police station or a Court without the male guardian. They cannot open a bank account for themselves on their own, even if they are employed and earning their own income. Rights of women, do not exist here.
The society segregates the men and the women, they are not allowed to mix and mingle. We don’t usually ask our Saudi colleagues about their fiancés or wives – asking about someone else’s wife is like having an affair with her it seems. But, however, the lingerie shops in the Kingdom are manned by men who are allowed to measure a woman’s cup-size and talk to her about her underwear at length  – because women are not allowed to work in shopping malls. Such is the beauty of this bowl of spaghetti of a country – they are all confused in their own religious laws and taboos.
The other day, while chit-chatting about life of a woman in this country, one of my Saudi female friends put it in proper perspective: for a Saudi man, a woman is nothing else but a pussy!
*2012 UPDATE: The government encourages Saudi women joining the retail trade and now there are women serving at lingerie shops, cosmetics stores, supermarkets and even some restaurants.

Who Wants to See Mine?

Apparently, that IS the case: you show yours, on your anniversary.

Amongst the others, the drummer in the high tower did it recently, so did Cerno, our own random girl Pseudo and Chavie - the guy on the run.

Which means, there is no escape – I have to show mine.

Sorry I’m late, completely forgot that I turned five, 10 days ago. I think I’ll blame Jessica - my gorgeous wing-man. Sorry, wing-woman. Oops, the wing-person.

And, I also realised that I haven’t answered my first comment on the first post. What a shame.

Sorry. Once again.

I’m a Sucker for Sad Stories

It’s Friday. The equivalent of Sunday in the other parts of the world. I got out of bed well past noon, had a cup of coffee and made a few calls to the ones that are dear to my heart.

Wandered around my little ‘house’ in my shorts and settled down to watch the American Idol Season 10 auditions.

There’s a girl from Kosovo who gets the nod. Her parents are delighted. The Idol does a little recap of the War in Yugoslavia and I think of home. And war.

While I disagree with Sirasa TV copying the Idol, I salute the fact that these talent shows give hope to the hopeless people. Some of their sad stories bring tears to my eyes.

Especially this one:

I just love this girl. I love her voice, and most of all, her courage.

“I will die today, so Egypt can live tomorrow”

“I will die today, so Egypt can live tomorrow” read a placard held by one of the protesters in Tahrir Square as I sat in front of my computer for the second consecutive day. A stream of pictures – of people waving flags and chanting – flashed nonstop on the television screen a couple of meters away from my desk. I was keen on knowing how my Egyptian friends looked at the unfolding drama, through their Facebook status messages and twitter feeds.

I was eager to know what was going to happen.

Then, there was the news of Mubarak’s address to the nation. But, alas, after a much-awaited speech, the Farewell Friday dawned with much anger and huge disappointment.

It was the third Friday, 18th consecutive day, for the thousands of protesters. As the day wearied away, I began to attend to other domestic affairs, losing interest in the on-going saga. I watched the Egyptians in Saudi Arabia, praising Mubarak and his 30-year regime on television.

The revolution seemed going nowhere.

I remember Hussain. My copywriter, a good 15 years ago, in Dubai. He had just joined the agency as my team-mate; it was his first time in the real world of advertising. We were pitching for KFC business. Sitting opposite in my office, he would occasionally pause to light his pipe and we would wander in to conversations that took me to the mysterious past of the Nile civilization. We would brag about our pasts and heritage, share our thoughts and agree on alien invasions – for one obvious reason: the intelligent people who built the pyramids or the flying machine that took Ravana to India, no longer existed. They were abducted: there was no other way to explain the common stupidity that prevailed in our countries. The chaos, the madness and the people’s optimism to rise beyond adversity, brought Egypt and my Paradise closer to each other. Hussain and I became very good friends. We had ancient civilizations to boast about and Western Empires to blame on everything that went wrong.

Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence that he was crafting, Hussain would stop to protest. “I cannot lie about this lump of lard. It’s unhealthy, horrible and shouldn’t be sold to kids. How dare you’d expect me to say that KFC is finger likin’ good..?” he would grumble.

Like many thousands of people who gathered at Tahrir Square today, my Egyptian friend was a God-fearing man. I had to brain-wash him and nurse him back to the deceitful and manipulative world of advertising, in many such occasions.

Then I remember the pretty ones from our network. Rezan and Yosr carried the evidence that Cleopatra or Nefertiti were, in fact, real people. They were gorgeous, beautiful people, inside and out.

Maya, Heba, Rania... my colleagues of yesteryear – they are very much like the Sri Lankans. They are happy people, who have learned to be optimistic amidst the constraints and restrictions. We faced common threats, we behaved in similar fashion in many ways. If their car bumped in to another – which is a common occurrence in jam-packed Cairo – they wouldn’t even bother getting the police involved. Their cops were as ‘good’ as ours.

In the last few days, leading to the events that brought down Hosni Mubarak, there was some unbelievable spirit of solidarity building up. The youth of the Arab World was with the people of Egypt. One of my dearest friends wrote “Viva La Revoluciona!!!” on her wall while another friend of mine sat sleepless throughout the nights, waiting for the change to happen. These were young Saudi women, supporting a cause. “I’m proud of my brothers and sisters of Egypt” read another message. There were many millions of similar sentiments expressed in Arabic, on Facebook, YouTube and every imaginable mode of communication.

Egypt, needed change.

And change has come to Egypt. In a most unprecedented manner, with minimum blood-shed, a revolution has taken place right before our eyes.

In the God-fearing, system-abiding, Arab World, this is much more significant than anywhere else.

“There are many lessons behind the days, long hours, and the events that took us all through what seemed like a never ending emotional roller coaster... FAITH!! We never have to loose FAITH in JUSTICE, we need to take all those lessons along to next stage :)” – wrote one of my Egyptian friends, on her wall as fireworks lit up the night sky in Tahrir Square.

The picture is ‘stolen’ from here: http://kalamu.posterous.com/

Corned Beef

There was some fashion do in Colombo last evening and my wife got a free ticket. Thousands of miles and some time zones away from Paradise, I was bored staring at a computer screen that had a dimmed screen with a message that read “User Not Online.” Of course I knew she was not online, but sometimes, you just want to click the dial button for the heck of it. I think it is very manly to keep trying such things – like pressing the elevator button that is already pressed, knowing that’s already pressed by the man standing right in front of you.

Men do weird stuff like that, while women would just shut the computer and walk away to do their nails, or something much more fascinating – like yapping about Monica Bellucci’s cleavage with their besties.

So I was bored. And homesick.

I was hungry.

I was too lazy to drive-through my usual last resort in nourishment – and sustenance – the place where a clown sits in the front bench. I’m sick of the big macs, the royales and the big tasty ones. I usually buy a whole meal, pour the cola down the kitchen sink, eat the fries and forget the burger: two sachets of ketchup mixed with one sachet of mayo makes an amazing dip for the fries. By the way, I haven’t seen them serving mayo at McDonalds in paradise - have you?

Anyhow. So I was hungry. Men come from a hunting and camping background – so I followed my instincts and decided to hunt for my prey, right within the perimeter of my kitchen. Mind you my humble abode is not a mansion with a huge kitchen that houses an army – its just a single bedroom joint where kitchen accommodates just one person. Not more, not less. While rummaging and foraging, I found an old can of corned beef, a quarter of a cabbage; and I knew there was some leftover rice in the fridge from the afternoon. So, I chopped-up some onions, garlic, and the cabbage that had been living in my fridge for a while. One more week and I would have had to adopt the cabbage or christen it with a suitable name.

Moments later, the lights were turned off, some candles were lit and yours truly was cooking a romantic meal for one, to the tune of Nina Simone and her Tomato Collection.

It was rather a quick one, but was much better than the pizzas, burgers and the localized Indian food available around the corner. I couldn’t say otherwise, for obvious reasons.

Enjoyed my meal all alone, while watching some silly movie that I didn’t even pay much attention to. It would have been fantastic if I had a bottle of wine and some female company, but sometimes, life doesn’t let you enjoy the luxuries every single day of your life.

So this morning, while chatting to my charming wife, I shared my culinary adventure with her.

“What kind of a meal was that..?” was her prompt response, followed by a hearty laugh, and I am still wondering what’s wrong with eating corned beef and cabbage à la Sri Lankan style, with some rice.

I am not at all disheartened by the reaction from the Minister of Domestic Affairs, I’m going to sell the recipe to Harpo’s or Barefoot as some fusion food – all I need is a fancy name that sells itself. :)

My Dad is Hairy...

My dad is in the hospital. My wife wants to visit him and wants my daughter to take down the details. (For those who don’t know, I’m out of the country and my daughter has a mixed accent.)

“Paap, so what’s grandpa’s full name?”
“Its H. B. Wijesekera, H as in Harry and B as in Bravo…”

Then I hear her shout at the background:

“I got it… Grandpa’s name is Hairy Bravo Wijee-si-keyra..!”

Random Ad: Pedigree Dogs

A mundane task becomes amazing to watch, thanks to the technology. ;)

Credits: TBWA Toronto/Pedigree

Did You Know?

Early this year, we were looking for an English Medium boarding school for my son. We found boarding schools. We found English medium schools. But there are no English Medium boarding schools in Sri Lanka.

In other words, if your child does not speak either Sinhala or Tamil, he cannot study in any government or private school in Sri Lanka. He would only be able to study in an “international” school – the kind that operates under business licences and not monitored or regulated by the ministry of education.

So why would schools such as Royal, St. Thomas’, St Joseph’s, Trinity or Museaus claim they have an “English” medium when half the subjects are taught in one of the native languages? What would someone who doesn’t speak Sinhala or Tamil do – go back to where they came from?

They say that the quality of a country’s workforce is a direct reflection of the standard of education. Ours, is in shambles. We boast of very high literacy rate, but send our kids overseas for higher education. As a country, we spend too much money in “purchasing knowledge” from the US, UK, Australia and Singapore (now India, Malaysia) etc, when, as a whole, we could have built fabulous universities with that money, right here, in our own land so that more and more generations could have reaped the results.

Our aging education module needs desperate change. It is the 21st century, yet we still don’t breed certain skill sets that are needed for today’s world. For example, the advertising industry needs creative professionals – but none of the universities actually produce them. I would love to hire a few art directors or graphic designers for our network overseas, but unfortunately, the Sri Lankans are not on par with the rest of the world.

Planners, stylists, animators and touch-point marketers etc will never come out of our universities. Jobs we do today should have been in our education system 10 years ago, not 10 year later.

Like this video claims, the top 10 in-demand jobs in 2010 did not exist in 2004.

The radio took 38 years to reach an audience of 50 million, while Facebook did it in 2 years.

The number of internet devices in 1984 was 1,000. In 1992 it was a million and in 2008 it was a billion. Increased by a million times in just 24 years. When the world is moving at such speed, why are we stuck in yesteryear?

How will Sri Lanka cope when 2030 dawns..? Are we future ready..?

The Sale of Chicken Murder

Spent 10 hectic days in Paradise.
Drove to the Immigration direct from the airport, literally, only to be disappointed by the fact that they were having a “half-day” in lieu of Milad-Un-Nabi, the next day. On top of that, being the last day of election nominations, Friday was a disaster in my calendar. Saturday the proper holiday, followed by the Poya (full moon) holiday the next day, I couldn’t have timed my trip any better..! Three days out of my precious 10 days in Paradise, gone without much achievement.
***
To top things off, I get stopped by the cops in a little alley-way near Paradise Gallery. They were bored stiff and randomly checking vehicles – and I have the uncanny ability to get picked more often than not. While pulling out the wallet I realise that I have forgotten my Silly Lankan driving licence in Saudi. Managed to negotiate a deal and escaped with a small “spot-fine.”
***
Went to the nearest police station like the good citizen I am, and shared my predicament. Told them that I must drive out of town – even though my wife could drive I have to take turns I said – and sought their advise on how to go about without the licence in possession. The ever helpful traffic police officer gave me a ticket that enabled me to drive for 14 days..! Upon my return, I gave him a thousand rupees to pay the fine (well, I was leaving the country the next day, weren’t I..?) and he obliged with much hesitance.
I like the way things happen in Paradise.
***
Had to drive to Nuwara Eliya on Monday morning but discovered a little “miss” in the car. Sunday bloody Sunday... Luckily, there were the “mobile unit” that could diagnose the problem, but the stores were closed and I had to postpone the trip by another day. Which meant, leaving Colombo at wee hours in the morning and return the same night, but the drive was quite pleasurable.
***
Back to the immigration. No luck with my son’s residency, he needs to get a new passport. Let him be an alien in my country, I thought.
***
Aah, PG Wodehouse is back at Makeen.
While I was looking for the Alchemist, my son buys a book titled “1,000 most disgusting facts” for his birthday. And another equally off-putting book on puke, pee and poo or something like that. He loves the slimy, scaly creatures such as geckos, frogs and snakes – and I wonder what he would grow up to be one day.
***
Ask for a gin n tonic aboard Emirates on the way back. The good man serves a cup-full-of-gin to his fellow countryman. A drink that was more like a gin n gin; and I wanted to tell him that my eyes were red due to lack of sleep, not alcohol.
***
Back in Jeddah. In a new abode. Just got the internet connection sorted, so here I am.
***
And let me leave you with a taste of the Middle East, found in my inbox upon my return. ;)

Toyota and the Sticky Pedal: Should We be Scared?

Toyota, the biggest Japanese and the 5th largest global brand of 2009, is full of bad news. Due to safety reasons, they are recalling 2.3 million cars in the US alone. Sales of eight of its top selling name-plates have been frozen, and a sticky-accelerator problem is making a huge dent in Toyota’s income. The problem was initially suspected to be limited to the cars assembled in North America, but Peugeot and Citroën announced that they would be recalling certain models built in the Czech Republic in a plant jointly operated with Toyota. This, was making everyone around the globe a bit more worried.

Toyota Prius in the meantime is also facing a recall. The World’s leading hybrid is reported to have a problem with its brakes. The Japanese Government confirmed this week five new accidents related to Prius’ brake problems. According to Tokyo Shimbun and Fuji Television network unconfirmed reports indicate that the Transport Ministry has received around 80 complaints while Toyota has received over 100 complaints separately since the crisis began. Toyota has not announced a recall on Prius yet, but they launched investigations into possible brake problems in two other hybrids, including the luxury Lexus.

So, what is the real issue?

According to Toyota:

The first recall, “Floor Mat Entrapment,” regards the potential for an unsecured or incompatible driver’s floor mat to interfere with the accelerator pedal and cause it to get stuck in the wide-open position.

The second recall, “Pedal,” is being conducted because there is a possibility that certain accelerator pedal mechanisms may mechanically stick in a partially depressed position or return slowly to the idle position.

What are the models that are likely face this issue?

Currently, Toyota is recalling these models in the US due to the sticky pedal issue:
• Certain 2009-2010 RAV4
• Certain 2009-2010 Corolla
• 2009-2010 Matrix
• 2005-2010 Avalon
• Certain 2007-2010 Camry
• Certain 2010 Highlander
• 2007-2010 Tundra
• 2008-2010 Sequoia

However, Camry, RAV4, Corolla and Highlander vehicles with Vehicle Identification Numbers (VIN) that begin with “J” are not affected by the accelerator pedal recall.

What is Toyota doing to address the situation?

They are sending letters to the current owners to schedule an appointment with their dealer.
The dealerships have extended their hours – some working 24x7 – to fix this issue as quickly as possible.
Toyota has halted production of the listed models this week until the cars on the road are fixed.
They have mobilised their entire workforce of 172,000 employees in North America in their effort to maximise quality.
As part of the recall campaign, new car sales of vehicles subject to the pedal recall have been temporarily suspended until the problem is remedied.

How dangerous is this problem?

Should we be very, very, scared? Nope, I don’t think so. There are reports of people losing lives due to runaway Toyota’s, which, is a serious issue. But however, one of the main reasons for the sticky pedal has been identified as wear and tear – so most new car owners have the chance to replace the part at the nearest dealership before anything could ever happen.

How does it affect Toyota owners in Sri Lanka?

Well, so far, the faulty accelerator unit is only found in the Toyota’s assembled in North America, even though there is a chance that some European plants may have received the same parts in their assembly lines.

The cars that come from Asia are said to be safe, but, however, there are unconfirmed reports of certain Asian models having issues in the UK. Toyota Prius is having issues in Japan, but then, we don’t have any hybrids in Sri Lanka either.

Since most of the models identified are not available in Sri Lanka, and since the Corolla’s and RAV4’s come here are of Asian origin, there is very little chance that Toyota’s in Sri Lanka are affected by this issue.

In case, if my Toyota decides to run away, what should I do?

Follow the Toyota way, found here. Some US dealerships are advising Toyota owners to practice this procedure in empty parking lots, just in case.

UPDATE: 8th Feb

Saudi Arabia’s Consumer Protection Association (CPA) on Sunday (yesterday) urged authorities to force Japanese carmaker Toyota’s local agent Abdul Latif Jameel Co (ALJ) to recall and check for defaults in cars it sold locally.

An official at ALJ said the company would invite within two weeks owners of Toyota Sequoia and Avalon models – both of which are produced in the United States – to get their cars checked.

CPA’s call, made in a statement sent to media, is the first by a consumer protection group in the Gulf Arab region – where Saudi Arabia is the biggest auto market – after Toyota recalled some 8 million cars worldwide on safety glitches.

However, Toyota's distributor in the United Arab Emirates, Al-Futtaim Motors, said the two models would be recalled in the Gulf country in a service campaign similar to the one in the United States.

Monday Morning Treat for the Boys

Source: worktobejudged.com

Came across this in my email. Have no idea who should be credited for the film, hence the weblink above. Enjoy – watch the whole film. ;)

Very Merry Christmas!

So it is Christmas. The first, since the guns have gone silent in the North.

Part of our country still lives in limboland, not knowing how or where they would be, tomorrow. Homeless, refugees, IDP’s, war-victims – call them whatever you may. It is sad to see some people still live in tents, five years after the tsunami. Like they say, here in Paradise, change comes very slowly. Sometimes, painfully slowly. How long would it be before we hear the Christmas carols from homes beyond IDP Shelters, is still anyone’s guess.

Reality around us quite sad and sombre.

The world beyond our little island is infested with floods, natural disasters and other calamities. There is a volcano waiting to exhale in the Philippines.

There were floods in the middle of the desert in Saudi Arabia and Oman, the penguins are bracing for a smaller Arctic, and the Chinese have bought Volvo and Saab. What is going on in our little planet, I wonder.

Then, under the blue skies of Paradise, I discover that a bad week or a lousy couple of decades cannot take away the legendary Sri Lankan smile. This Christmas, I notice an aura of happiness, contentment and relief around us.

Amidst disaster and general misfortune, we find a reason to smile. We are known for our smile, and the optimism behind. We are known to forget the yesterday easily. We are known for our ability to look beyond petty issues like global warming and worry about more important matters such as who should be the next President. Or who would win the game of cricket tonight. Or would there be enough parking at Odel.

Be it politics, cricket, shopping or life-at-large, we live in eternal hope. When hope fails, we move on with a big smile and a bigger level of optimism. All in all, there is hope in Paradise. Abundant.

We, the islanders of Paradise, are a happy bunch. Or a funny bunch, rather. And I like being one.

Let’s hope for a better tomorrow for all of us.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Memories of Lebanon...

I sat in the butt-freezing cold, staring at the distance. There’s at least an hour before the sunrise. The cold breeze sweeping across the lake went piercing through my skin and chilled my bones. It must have been around five degrees, but the breeze made it feel like sub-zero.

The misty haze was slowly clearing away from the vast plateau that stood beyond the waterfront. The lake was slowly turning from a dull gray to a beautiful transparent blue shade that reminded me of Farah’s eyes. She was gorgeous. Her gray-blue eyes were mesmerising.

There is something magical about the Middle-Eastern women.

They are blessed with the ivory skin and the black hair – a beautiful combination that appeals to most men from the Paradise isle.

Black hair on ivory skin. Exotic. To say the least.

Farah was one of the receptionists at the hotel we were staying. She must have been in her early twenties, if not barely out of her teens. We knew that she existed only at the time of our departure; our all-day adventures in Beirut kept us away from the daytime staff. Next thing we see is Farah signing off from work and a black Mercedes SLK arriving at her footstep. When you are gorgeous, you are never going to walk in your life. Ever.

Salah gets me a nice and hot Arabic coffee, and breaks my train of thoughts. He tells me in Arabic that there are cheese manaeesh and zatar for breakfast, if I’m feeling peckish. I’m in no mood for any food but the warmth of the tiny coffee cup helps. I wish I had a pack of Davidoff Lights in my pocket like the good old days.

I love these unusual adventures. I love the randomness in life. I like being in the middle of nowhere, being close to nature. The vast emptiness around me reminds me how insignificant I am, in the grand scheme of things.

Lebanon is a tiny country that is abundant in natural beauty. Just like our little paradise home. Within a couple of hours from the warm and sunny Beirut, one could end up in the misty mountains where the snow-covered peaks make ideal skii slopes in Winter.

I try to remember the last time I was in this region. I remember driving through this valley with Fadi in his red Chevy listening to Celine Dion duet with Barbara Streisand for the first time. Not that I’m a huge fan of the Canadian diva, but the memory of that drive through this beautiful land is still stuck in my mind. That Christmas, I bought myself Angela Dimitriou’s “Margarites” from Beirut, and left the rest of the world to buy Celine Dion.

I also remember Nabil’s stories of their Defender getting stuck in the mud in this very same region and how they had to leave it for a couple of days till the rain ceased, before it was pulled out with the help of a big yellow Cat.

Its funny how a stranger in a strange land feels somewhat homely when there are memories that connect the two.

I’ve been to Lebanon quite a few times since 1996 and I kind of like this place. The only thing that I hate though is, whenever I introduce myself, most of the Lebanese ask me “kohomada?” with a smile. Either they, or their kids, have been brought up by a maid from Paradise.

I hate when the world classifies Sri Lanka as the country where the maids come from.

Beirut Shop Window: 28th October

So, What takes you to the toilet?

I know quite a few folks who find inspiration in the bathroom.

I also know creatives who find ideas while they are in the bath, having a shower or sitting in the throne. (No wonder some ads are shisse, right?)

Jokes apart, taking a piss could be quite an inspirational moment too. So much so, a colleague of mine who is a Chicago-based senior creative, used to call every loo-break an “opportunity to find an idea.” Do we find inspiration, do we find ideas, or do we “come-up” with an idea is another point of discussion, but what genuinely baffles me is the connection people have with their bathroom to their brains. Be it a quick dump or an hour-long soak in a bubble bath with a glass of bubbly and someone to share. Both bath, and the bubbly.

I know someone who would take a good book, a pack of cigarettes and shut the door behind – only to spend the whole night on the throne and emerge in the morning with a big smile on her face. A night on the throne without any disturbance and a book covered from cover to cover. (I often used to wonder if she read naked. I wasn’t married then, and I was allowed to have such wonderful thoughts.)

Going back to the topic. I also know people who take the Daily Mirror to the toilet. Then there are some of us who read trash and gossip columns while attending to the matters. Then there are the ones who go in with a book of Sudoku, or a crossword. Oh, the intellectual type.

I’m not even going to talk about the ones who take Playboy to the bathroom.

The new generation (jeez, I feel so old) has their inseparable gadgets and their digital life continues non-stop without a loo-break. Soon there might be a day when there’s a little stamp at the end of a mail that reads “sent from the loo, via my Blackberry.” Be it the Blackberry, the iPhone or a simple phone with a tiny monochrome monitor, 140-character input is all you need to stay in touch with the world. Besides, one’s private life ain’t so private anymore thanks to social networking, and there is no harm in letting the world know that you are taking a good dump. Besides, that’s a sign of good health too. Right?

So what do you take to the toilet? A book? The newspaper? Your mobile? Or just a quick cigarette? I’m not talking about the days you are constipated, I was just wondering about our habitual rituals and morning regimes...

Treadmill vs Chicken Kurma and Sex

Been extremely busy. Missed out on a few important things – like Mak’s art exhibition. Amazed at her imagination and talent, but it raised just one question in my mind: aren’t we all a skinny bunch? I mean slim n trim, in a sort of ‘healthy’ way? Except for the fat, dead guy that is.

I’m glad even the old dudes like yours truly and RD are still good-looking. I mean no pot bellies or anything. If only you know how hard it is to burn 400 calories on a treadmill... keeping fit becomes a major headache when one crosses the big three zero, especially when one is confined to an office job. Four hundred calories is like a plate of Chicken Kurma you get at the Elite Restaurant. To put things in perspective, it’s takes five hours of intense sex to burn that much of fat. Come to think of it, I like chicken kurma, and I love sex – only foreseeable problem is the “five hour” factor...

Nevertheless.

Stayed away from the Lankan blogsphere for just a while, and see what they have done. Jerry ditches Blogspot, migrates to Wordpress. Traitor.

Chavie sports a new look. Now that he has the driving license, I guess he could consider stop running. Black isn’t black, it’s psychedelic. At least the title. And the new-found three-wheel fella is quite entertaining. Thanks Dee for the discovery.

DD is third world? Totally new look or is it some kind of a trick I wonder.

But, I’m most puzzled by my inability to create a link to Gadget Girl’s blog. Just noticed that it has switched from GG to VVG – and no more purple socks on my blogroll. I guess GG and VVG are one and the same person – there had been far too many cases of mistaken identity in the recent past in the blogsphere, I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet.

The weeds, turds and trolls seem to have died and gone to hell. And there is relative calm for the time being.

Now that I have caught up with most of the posts that I’ve missed, it’s time to get ready to watch the T20. Sri Lanka and Pakistan deserve to be in the final – they need to wrap up the game that ended up in a military helicopter ride.

Thambi’s Only Daughter...

Chilling out after work, watching VIVA Polska, and this song catches my attention:



Baila music, from the other side of the planet – from Brazil. But the lyrics could easily be substituted with the famous big match/paparé song “Thé pan saadayi thambi kadey...” and this becomes one of our own.

An extremely popular song in the clubs, Rap Das Armas (Rap of Weapons) is banned in Brazil – it is not being played on Radio; but hit the No 1 Spot in Music Charts in Netherlands, says Wikipedia.

Reading a Blog: Tarantino Style

Monday evening, chilling at home. While catching up with the Lankan blogshepere, I find a rather strangely-titled post in Kalusudda’s blog. “Cruel Story of Youth (Seishun Zankoku Monogatari)” it reads.

Click, click and I’m reading the comments. You know there are moments when one’s choice to read a blog or not depends on the length of the post? I was living one such moment. So I start with the comments and begin reading the post, down-up.

The last paragraph, first.

Then the one before. And the one before that.

Soon, I was reading the entire post ‘down-up’ and found myself enjoying the ‘suspense’ in the chaotic order. Like a Tarantino movie.

And... it worked. The post made perfect sense.

Of Mixing and Matching... People.

So there we were. An Armenian, a Lebanese, a Palestinian-Canadian and yours truly, having lunch at a Chinese Restaurant, in a Middle Eastern country. Add the Bengali steward, Philipino cashier and the Chinese chef, it was kinda U.N. assembly, but in a much smaller scale.

The Armenian hates the Turks, naturally because of the Armenian genocide. Born to a refugee family that migrated to Lebanon, he is married to a Philipino girl and they have a little daughter who’s just about 18 months.

The mini-U.N. conversation leads from genocide to refugees and how the communities get mingled and the mixed-race marriages take place all over the world. Kids born to mixed-race families are supposedly genetically stronger, smarter and prettier than the pure-breds, and there is an increasing number of these wonderful creatures overtaking the world.

I mean, creatures like Adriana Lima overtaking the world. How wonderful it would be!

Few generations down the line, there would be Mr Meatloaf Contests instead of Miss Universe, me thinks, thinking along the lines of conversation.

My Lebanese friend wants to know if the kid looks like a Philipino and if she’s got chinky eyes. “Nope, she’s a pretty little Armenian girl” comes the answer, with some proprietary air. Perhaps the genetic-cocktail didn’t mix well in this instance.

“Everyone is going to look like either Chinese or Indian, sooner or later...” quips my Canadian friend, with a cheeky grin on his face. POP goes my Brazilian, Victoria’s Secret thought bubble.

Academy for Begging in Foreign Languages

Yes, you read it right. This ingenious idea comes from across the Palk Straight. New Delhi’s Rohini’s Lal Quarter, an area where over 1,200 beggar families reside, is gearing up for the Commonwealth Games scheduled to be held in 2010. Looking at the possible tourist influx, they have set up an informal academy that coaches shanty town kids begging in foreign languages.

“More than 100,000 foreigners will be in the city during the period,” Vijay Babli, reported by Hindustan Times as the leader of the community, told the paper. “Even if one beggar earns Rs150-200 per day, you can understand the turnover for us,” he added.

“Bright children are taught how to say phrases like, I am an orphan, I have not eaten for days, I am ill, have no money for medicine, please help me in the name of God,” Raju Sansi, reported as a head tutor at the school, told Hindustan Times.

Patni, an eight year-old girl who had never been to school, could speak English, French and Spanish, thanks to the makeshift school, the paper said.

Real foreign currency notes were shown to the children so they can recognise them, Patlu, who trains some of the children in Katputli Colony in west Delhi’s Patel Nagar, told the paper.

Source: Khaleej Times