Live Richly. Experience Life.

2011-10-22T15:54:00.000-07:00

Burning Man

This is an extraordinary video about Burning Man which you will appreciate if you have been or if you are merely curious. This will explain why it is such a magical place and why Time Magazine chose Burning Man as one of "Civilizations 100 most important sites."

Video - In the Dust

Wanderlust Festival Speakeasy 2010, Lake Tahoe

2011-05-10T08:14:00.000-07:00

Here is a talk I gave at the Wanderlust Festival Speakeasy 2010 in Lake Tahoe along with Soren Gordhammer the founder of the Wisdom 2.0 conference and author of the book by the same name.

Video
Wanderlust Festival 2011 site

2011-03-01T22:47:00.001-08:00

Antarctica
December 2010

Antarctica, it is becoming clear to me, is at the end of the earth. I have flown from San Francisco, California to Lima, Peru to Buenos Aires, Argentina to Santiago, Chile to Puenta Arenas, Chile and finally to King George Island in the South Shetlands to arrive in Antarctica.

There were a few other options for getting there that I considered. The most popular one is to get to Ushuaia, the southern most city in the world in Tierra Del Fugo in Argentina and board a ship. But two weeks ago things looked treacherous in the notorious Drake Passage, which divides Antarctica from Tierra Del Fugo at the southern tip of South America. The Clelia II had run into thirty-foot waves and floundered as this dramatic video showed (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rkPVwE8XQCs ). Wharton Leadership Ventures from my alma mater, The Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania offered a spot on their student expedition to Antarctica. But the prospect of camping on a glacier - a moving sheet of ice, no matter how slowly it was moving - and discussing leadership through the examples of legendary explorers Shackleton and Edmundsen was not appealing. Or I could fly or sail directly to one of the many research stations all over Antarctica, including a few on the South Pole. But that would have meant volunteering at the research station for six months as my colleague from Google, Pablo Cohen, was doing at the McMurdock research station. So it was that a rugged sea captain called Ben Williams from Puerto Williams in Chile found me a seat on a six-person plane flying to King George Island.

Antarctica has always held endless fascination for travelers and explorers. It is the largest wilderness on the planet and is owned by nobody. Despite its abundance of natural and mineral riches, somehow a group of otherwise quarrelsome superpowers have agreed to share the continent and use it only for peaceful and scientific purposes. This is a land covered by a sheath of ice so thick that you can drill for five miles before you get to the actual continental surface; a brooding mass of land with an ethereal silence, larger than Australia and Europe combined, tucked away out of sight on most maps and globes at the arbitrarily defined bottom of the world; and a land of endless sunlight and glistening glaciers during summer and a haunting black night throughout the winter.

As our tiny aircraft touches down on a gravel strip piloted expertly by two retired Chilean air force pilots, I look around the diverse group of five other people making this trip with me and wonder what drew them here. Michelle is in her final year studying human biology at Stanford University and lives just five miles from where I live in the San Francisco bay area; she is here on a quest to get to all the seven continents. Slava, a taciturn Russian man, is here to trace the footsteps of his parents; his deceased father, a Russian scientist and metrologist, had spent six years on different Russian research stations in the Antarctica and his mother had lived for one year. Slava himself has lived for eleven years in the Arctic.

Then I discover even more unique ways to see the Antarctic: a few minutes behind us lands a larger chartered plane and out tumbles a friends and family group led by someone from New York. They are boarding a private yacht that will take them around Antarctica. The yacht itself has been brought in from Fort Lauderdale, Florida by a South African captain who was to hand over command to an Ice Captain more familiar with the Antarctic waters. I do a quick math on what the trip must be costing them and the figure of half a million US dollars emerges. Hedge fund manager is what I conclude; who else could spend that kind of money on a summer vacation?

At the runway we are met by a grizzled man with a long white beard looking every bit the part of an Antarctic explorer. If you were making a movie about the legendary Ernest Shackleton, this is who central casting would send you. But Alejo Contreras Staeding is not just any Antarctic explorer; he is a living legend. For the last thirty years he has spent every summer on Antarctica, making him the one human (living or dead) who has spent the most time on the continent. He has made seventeen trips to the South Pole including one in 1989 when he walked all the way to the South Pole from the Weddell Sea, becoming the first South American to do so. For 97 days he pushed uphill on cross-country skis along with Indian Army officer Col. Bajaj, the first Indian to walk to the South Pole. They hauled behind them on sleds all the supplies they needed for their trip. He says that more than the physical endurance, the biggest challenge was mental in trying to deal with the monotony of plodding through an endless flat expanse of white for more than three months.

One of the people visiting with us is Josephine, Alejo’s 22-year-old daughter who is spending the summer with her Dad on the continent. She is a psychology student at the University of Chile in Santiago. I suggest to her gently that for her research thesis, perhaps she should study the psychological makeup of her father and other similar explorers and what gives them such remarkable sustaining power.

Alejo has also climbed Mount Vinson Massif - the tallest mountain on Antarctica - sixteen times including six times with celebrated climber Rob Hall, who died on the Everest summit (made famous in the book and movie, Into Thin Air). As if that was not enough, in 1994, Alejo also sailed around the entire continent in a clockwise direction against the wind, which no sane sailor would wish to do. I am endlessly fascinated as I listen to this living legend the entire trip.

From the Magellan Straits to the South Pole, when someone needs help of any kind from logistics to rescue operations they seem to call Alejo. The Chinese research station is nervous about their vice premier visiting in three days and want a solution to house the 43-person entourage in case the weather turns bad and they are not able to fly out; they turn to Alejo. The expedition from The Wharton School needs a large quantity of food and fuel; Alejo has organized it. Late at night, although the midnight sun is still bright in the Antarctic summer, the radio crackles with the call signature “Big Fish” wanting to talk to Alejo. It is a crew member from the Hedge fund manager’s yacht, whose signature is Big Fish - with no trace of irony. So, even in the Antarctic where Orca, Minca, and humpback whales roam freely, hedge fund managers from New York like to be known as the big fish. “Big Fish” wants an option if they decide not to tow a smaller motorboat behind their yacht; again, Alejo is the man they turn to.

Two sailors from the Chilean Navy take us on a Zodiac to a beach at nearby Ardley Island where there is huge Penguin colony and hatchery. Things look busy in the colony. All the adult penguins I am watching have arrived here after swimming thousands of miles from places like the Falkland and Christmas Islands. With uncanny natural instincts as perfect as a human-built GPS, they return to the same place where they nested before.

Penguins are monogamous birds and Dad arrives first to get the nest ready before Mom finds her way here swimming on her own the entire journey. This is when things can begin to get a bit nasty as neighbors encroach on the nests or steal stones from them to build their own. There is much puffing of chests, expressions of indignation, tut-tutting, and penguin name-calling before it is all settled and the chicks arrive. Penguins are hopelessly devoted to their young, with either the Dad or Mom being constantly present and holding their young close to their chest with their flippers while the other parent is out on their fishing shift. After all, when your nest is a pile of rocks on an exposed beach or rock with predators circling overhead, you are a sitting duck - or in this case a sitting penguin. A momentary lapse of attention could mean your chick disappears in an instant.

The top of the hill on Ardley Island is packed with resident penguins; a virtual skyline of penguins nesting in a neat row. This is a particularly puzzling decision because there is plenty of space on the beach below; sure, the view is spectacular and having a summerhouse on top of the hill overlooking the ocean and bobbing icebergs must buy you status back in the penguin society on the Falkland Islands, but you are now an even worse sitting penguin with no place to hide your chicks from predators. Moreover, penguins, while graceful swimmers in the water, are terrible walkers. Five million years of evolution and they still have not mastered it; with their fins spread out for balance and their underbelly thrust out like badly anchored diapers, they waddle clumsily around the beach on their webbed feet looking very much like two-year-olds lurching around their parents’ living room.

As I look up the hill to a penguin path leading to the top of the ridge, it looks like a freeway at rush hour in Los Angeles. Penguins are waddling up and down ungracefully all day long heading down to the water to fish and heading back up to relieve their husband or wife from babysitting duties. Along the way they stop and exchange news and gossip with a friend going the other way. Perhaps whispering scandalously “Puffy has been hanging out with the hot Emperor penguin who just arrived from South Georgia”.

Across from Ardley Island on the other side of the bay we are in, a 60-storey tall sheet of ice glistens menacingly back at us; a really massive ice cube that could be 5 million years old. All the glaciers on Antarctica between them account for the largest collection of fresh water on the planet. I want to get close to the glacier. but as the wind whips up we have a small crisis when our engine dies and the Chilean sailors work hard to get it restarted. They turn the nose of the Zodiac back to the base; weather changes quickly in the Antarctic and winds can whip up to a speed of 300Km per hour. Instead, the sailors take us to the Navy clubhouse and away from the roar of the elements. Here, they graciously serve us hot coffee and biscuits and ceremoniously present us with certificates that show we landed in Antarctica. Given the bleakness of the social life in an Antarctic base, new visitors are a welcome relief to them.

Back on King George Island, after hiking down a field of ice I find myself on a beach overlooking Nelson Island that looks neatly sculpted and thrust out of the ocean like a dining table for the Antarctic gods. A big colony of Weddell seals and elephant sea lions are tanning on the beach and moulting. If you think penguins are awkward walkers, seals and sea lions do an even more terrible job of dragging their fat bodies along the sand. Yet still they choose to drag themselves as far as half a mile from the water. Small cliques lie together on the beach pressing their bodies tightly, scratching each other with their flippers and looking like the poster children of fat, sloth, and laziness. They allow us quite close to them, having no predators on land. Apparently their reserves of fat (for the long winters with no food) also act as a kind of protection - land-based animals don’t want to eat a sea lion rich in fat and end up with a clogged artery.

China is an economic and industrial powerhouse. This may seem out of context, but I reach this conclusion while in Antarctica. We get invited to the Chinese research station on King George Island thanks to Alejo’s connection and because one of the members of our small group is a venture capitalist from Beijing. The newly built Chinese research station and aptly named Great Wall Base is a monument to the country’s industrial machine: it is breathtaking in scale and impressive in its organization. The base is a beehive of activity, with young Chinese geologists, meteorologists, biologists and oceanographers buzzing around. The chefs are whipping up delicious Chinese cuisine in their kitchens and the leaders of the station are in a frenzy. Two days later, a Chinese vice premier who is also the highest ranking woman in the Chinese government, and a 42-person entourage of Government officials are arriving to inspect the station.

Mr. Shiu, the head of the base, on deputation from the Polar Research Institute in Shanghai, has many questions for Alejo: “What is the weather going to be on Saturday? Can we house the delegation if the weather turns bad and they are not able to fly back? Can we use your white truck as backup?” The Chinese base apparently has an impressive physical fitness center with basketball and badminton courts but, alas, we cannot see it. Having made it sparkle in anticipation of the Vice-Premier’s visit, Mr. Shiu has locked it up till her arrival. No time for fun and games for the Chinese scientists. The conference room has been made ready more than three days in advance with nameplates in beautiful Chinese calligraphy already set up in front of each chair. Perhaps most impressively, an auditorium with a lectern and Chinese flags on the stage has been erected. No doubt the Vice-Premier will stand there and thank the Great Wall Base researchers for sacrificing a year of comforts to support research in Antarctica and to work hard for the glory and greatness of China. I remind myself that I am witnessing all this in the Antarctic frontier and not in The Great Revolution Chinese Comrades and Friendship Hall somewhere in XinJiang province.

When I step outside the cluster of buildings that form the Great Wall base, our Chinese guide leads us to two carved stone dragons brought from China presumably to protect the base. The smell of Chinese food is heavenly. The feeling is almost like walking through any Chinatown in the world – San Francisco, Vancouver, Calcutta, or Jakarta. Just like in most countries I have visited, I realize there is now a Chinatown in Antarctica and soon it will be mentioned in the Lonely Planet guide.

The Russian research station called Bellinghausen meanwhile looks eerily quiet, as if it has seen its glory days and is now hanging on to its badge of honor as the oldest research base in Antarctica. I find it puzzling that the two bases – Chinese and Russian - are both products of communist systems and yet are so different. I only get to walk around the outside of the Russian base. Slava is the only person invited to visit inside and later he comes back to report that pictures of his father are still on the walls inside the base. He even spoke to one scientist who had worked with his father in Antarctica many years ago. As I ask Slava about his visit he is visibly emotional.

The Russian base is dominated by a Russian Orthodox Church on top of a hill overlooking the entire cluster of research stations on King George Island. It comes complete with a Russian Orthodox priest brought in from Russia. A tiny but magnificent structure, it is made entirely of logs of wood, with no nails used in its construction and anchored by chains that rise to the roof to keep it stable in the fierce Antarctic winds that could blow it away like a paper bag. There is something delightfully ironic about the presence of the Church. I don’t think of Russians at large as particularly religious people. This is what I would expect from a group of devout Ecuadorean catholic immigrants in California or a group of Hindu migrant workers from around Varanasi being brought to Fiji by the British. But a group of rational Russian Scientists wanting their own church in a remote research station in the Antarctic is an unexpected twist.

There is anxiety I have about how Antarctica - the last pristine place on earth - could be destroyed carelessly by us humans as we have done so with such ferocity and talent elsewhere in the world. All these permanent settlements mean that we have to cart in so many things from outside and much like the ethos of Burning Man are expected to cart it all out with no trace left behind. As a monument to how humans easily fail at these things, two rusty Chilean amphibious vehicles sit in the middle of the bases. Originally Russian built, Chilean dictator Pinochet purchased them and they ended up in Antarctica for usage here. When they broke down, the friendly Russians from the nearby base offered their help but to no avail; the amphibious vehicles sit exactly where they broke down. The intent was to ship them back to Chile on a cargo ship, but ten years later they sit there rusting - an eyesore and a painful reminder of our power to add ugliness to our beautiful natural gifts. Still, I have a sense of hope. Since western man first set foot on Antarctica, and the Antarctic treaty came into force in 1961, nation states have largely respected it, using the continent for scientific and research purposes, leaving its mineral wealth alone, working hard to preserve its pristine environment and mostly cooperating with each other.

When our small plane lurches off the gravel runway in wet, windy, squally Antarctic weather, Alejo stands by himself along the runaway and waves us goodbye in an exaggerated overhead gesture. The sky is grey, cold and rainy; Antarctica is brooding and the sea looks angry. Alejo cuts a lonely, pioneer figure. While we go back to the comforts of the other world we know, Alejo looks perfectly happy and at home in one of the most inhospitable terrains on the planet - and a place where he and Josephine were personally able to show us enormous warmth and hospitality.

2011-02-25T22:43:00.000-08:00

Continuing on the TEDx Berkeley 2011 theme Renee Blodgett, CEO/Founder of magicsauce Media writes an excellent Blog at down the avenue which is about bringing passion to technology, business, and life.

She has written a series of excellent posts on the conference and I include here a good summary of what I spoke about.

Another one her great blogs is We Blog the World a blog network dedicated to global storytelling across a wide array of topics ranging from technology, business, the economy, culture, politics and the arts, to nature, education, sports, marketing, music and more.

We Blog the World covers 30 topics across cultures worldwide. Here is a post from the blog on the TEDx conference as well.

Thanks Renee.

TEDx Berkeley 2011

2011-02-21T15:25:00.000-08:00

I spoke at TEDx Berkeley on Saturday (Feb 19, 2011). Tedx events are independently organized but officially sanctioned "baby TED" events that take place around the world. An amazing group of speakers which included Chip Conley, founder & CEO of Joie de Vivre, Erin Ganju, co-founder & CEO of Room to Read, and Robert Fuller, former President of Oberlin College enthralled the 1200 person audience at Zellerbach Hall on the University of California, Berkeley campus. All day long an amazing set of thought provoking and out of the box ideas flowed from the speakers challenging the audience. And more importantly all of them collectively have the potential to propel the human race forward. It was interesting to see how many of the speakers focused on the theme of elevating human consciousness and the need to apply technology for the greater good of humanity.

MeiMei Fox who is the author of the blog intent has done an excellent job summarizing the ideas from the day in her post today.

Videos from the event will be on the TEDx Berkeley site shortly. Watch them! They will fire up your imagination. Congratulations and thanks to the great group of volunteer organizers led by curator Kevin Gong who put the event together.

Outsourcing your life away

2010-06-03T21:48:00.000-07:00

How to outsource your life away

A guest post I wrote today on "Life after College - no one said it was going to be easy"

http://www.lifeaftercollege.org/blog/2010/06/02/guest-post-how-i-outsource-my-life-to-over-13-people-by-gopi-kallayil/

Guest Post: How I Outsource My Life to Over 13 People (by Gopi Kallayil)

Note from Jenny: When my friend and fellow Googler Gopi Kallayil first told me he outsources his life to over a dozen people, my jaw dropped in awe. I’m having a hard time figuring out how to outsource to one! (An unpaid intern if anyone is looking for a cool gig. And by cool, I mean I need your help to even figure out how to help).
So I asked Gopi how he does it, and he replied with an email summary of his outsourcing tactics. I was absolutely blown away! Talk about priorities – Gopi has figured out how to employ dozens of people to make his life easier – and let me tell you – it works. Gopi is one of the kindest, happiest, most generous, and energetic people I know! His enthusiasm for life is contagious, which you can see for yourself in his award-winning Toastmasters speech, My Cup Runneth Over.
Even if we are all at varying places in our lives to afford this kind of outsourcing (though some would argue we can’t afford NOT to), I hope you’ll get a kick out of seeing how Gopi manages his life.
How I Outsourced My Life Away (by Gopi Kallayil)
There are some things that are perfectly egalitarian on this planet. Birth and death for one. And the fact that in between we all have 24 hours each day of our life. President Obama gets 24 and I get 24. But as our lives get busier and there are more choices for us it becomes difficult to do everything we want to in 24 hours. So we lead frenzied, busy lives, lurching from one commitment to another under the tyranny of schedules.
That is when I stumbled upon a concept that shifted my paradigm. You can BUY time in a free market capitalist economy and as a result have 28 or 32 or 36 hours in a day. I first read about it when A.J. Jacobs tried personal outsourcing and wrote an article in Esquire titled “My Outsourced life” which has done its rounds around the Internet. His point was that corporations were outsourcing so individuals could do likewise. Rock stars and Hollywood celebrities have assistants. So can regular folk like me.
My inspiration came from Timothy Ferriss, author of the best seller “The 4-Hour Work week“ when he spoke at Google (video). His compelling logic is as follows: Take your annual salary and divide it by 2,000 hours which is the number of hours people in America work on average. The resulting number is the economic value of an hour of your time based on your current compensation. Let us say that number is $40 for example. If there is something you need to get done but it is not your passion and someone else can do it for you for less than your hourly cost ($40 in this example) then you should give it to them and use that hour to focus on your passion and joy.
Simple! So I read his book, followed through and did much of the outsourcing he does, plus some more I have invented. It is likely, you may assume, that this is the lifestyle of the rich and the famous. I am discovering it is not and that you could get help as little as $4 an hour or even $0.
Here is what I have done to outsource my life:
Personal Assistant — I have a personal assistant in India through Getfriday. Her name is Nancy. Nancy sits in Bangalore but can handle anything that can be done on the phone or web. For example, if I am going on vacation she will stop my mail and all my subscriptions. Once my car got broken into and my navigator was stolen and she arranged for a repair shop to come in to my office in the San Francisco bay area and replace the glass before ordering a new navigator on the web. She saved me so much money by calling around and finding the best provider that with one transaction she paid for her fees for the next two months. In addition it may have taken 45 minutes of my time which would be difficult to find on a work day. So the problem would not have been resolved for several weeks.
Personal Organizer — There is stuff that accumulates around my house – books, mail, photos, CDs, bills, etc. Stuff that keeps piling up on my desk and kitchen counter and dining table. Erinne is my personal organizer and she comes in for a few hours on some weekends. We work together around my home office and in two hours my study is clutter-free and all my to-do items are in two small folders labeled “Urgent” and “Medium Priority.” The psychic energy of having a clutter-free office is tremendous.We execute as a team for a few hours and I am done with home office work for another two weeks till things pile up again. But thanks to this system I can find find things when I need them such as a favorite CD, book, that picture from my reunion or the receipt for the music system I bought two years ago and need for warranty repairs.
Webmaster — I have my own website where I am interested in writing content but not in dealing with the technicalities. So I found Viggie in Madurai, India to maintain my personal website.
Housekeeper — Alma my housekeeper comes in a couple of times a month to tidy up, She is fantastic and does a terrific job. Thanks to her expertise and my own effort to keep it so in between her visits my house feels like a home. It is a haven for me.
Personal Chefs — I like entertaining but lack extensive gourmet culinary skills. Through Craig’s List I found a few excellent personal chefs. When I host a dinner party we do menu planning together; one of us does the shopping, and we cook and get the place ready as a team. In this case I am not technically outsourcing to a caterer; however, since entertaining is something I enjoy (but don’t have all the expertise) I am using an expert to complement my meager skills in this area.
Interior Decorator — As I mentioned before my home is my haven and sanctuary. I want it to look and feel that way. Kulvi my designer and I work closely together on the aesthetics. It is primarily my self-expression but Kulvi layers on her ideas. Other advantages including getting furniture from some show rooms that are open only during business hours (so hard for me to go) and open only to designers. And special prices only available to designers.
Editor — I love writing but need a skilled editor to polish my articles. My friend Nicky in the UK does a fantastic job like she did here.
Speech Coaching — I am a competitive public speaker and very active with Toastmasters. There are experienced toastmasters like my coach Henry who take me under their wing and provide the coaching when I am in competitions.
Graphics Artist — When I need very sophisticated graphics for my presentations I reach out to my long time graphics artist Kathy who I know from my McKinsey days. She takes my rudimentary designs and magically transforms them.
Bike, Run, Swim Coaching — I am a member of the Silicon Valley Triathlon Club which costs me around $5 a month. For that nominal fee I get free biking, running, and swimming coaching by some extraordinary athletes.
Handyman — Scott the handyman takes care of all the stuff around the house that need fixing and does a much more professional job than I could if were installing garden lights on my own.
Gardener — I have only indoor plants as the property association takes care of the ones outside, but historically there has been cultural herbicide at my place. Plants readily shrivel and die under my care. So Louis helps me pick the right plants from nurseries and keep them alive despite my efforts. I have him come over about once every three months.
Wardrobe consultant — Now you are all laughing real hard. So I will stop here. But I do I get some help from a friend and from a professional; both of them have a good taste in styles and labels, which saves me the trouble of dealing with the bewildering experience that clothes shopping is for me. Jenny doubts if it has made a difference. (Note from Jenny: Not true – Gopi always looks amazing!)
But don’t you need a fortune to live this way?
Now I am sure you must be wondering how one affords all this if you are not a rock star or the Sultan of Brunei, which I am not. The well keep secret that I learned from Timothy Ferriss is that you can take advantage of free market capitalism, labor market arbitrage, and currency exchange rates and get all this for some relatively inexpensive rates.
For example, my website designer is $4 an hour and spends about 5 hours a month on my website, so that is a $20 bill. The triathlon club fees are about $5 a month and for that you get free coaching in three sports 2-3 times a week. Toastmasters dues are $3 a month and experienced members are always happy to be mentors. A personal assistant can be as low as $10 a month and for a 5 to 10 hours of their time you pay a nominal fee but get lots done.
More importantly, what do I do with the time that I’ve freed up? Focus quite exclusively on five things that are important to me and I want to spend most of my time on. Those five are:
Personal growth and spiritual practice
Family and friends
Physical, mental, emotional, financial health
Professional passions, which currently is my work at Google doing marketing
Personal passions, which includes global travel, yoga, public speaking and live music
Here is an example of the kind of trade-off I am making: I teach free yoga lessons and have done so ever since I trained to be a yoga instructor in India. This is my gift to the world. I am consciously choosing to pay someone to take care of tasks that are not my passion so that it frees up two hours a week when I can teach yoga for free.
How successful am I with this concept? Modestly successful, although this is still a work in progress.
Good luck if you choose to go down this path.
***
About Gopi: During the day, Gopi Kallayil works as a marketer at Google. He also teaches yoga, travels the world, speaks, writes, sings, lives freely and joyously. At other times he espouses radical ideas like outsourcing your life and can be a general threat to orderly, civil society. Visit his website or follow him on Twitter.

2009-12-06T01:05:00.000-08:00

Cyprus - Part 3 - Beaches and Mountains

It is the contrasts in Cyprus that stand out the most. Contrasts in nature, contrasts in time, contrasts in life. At one point I am standing on the lovely sandy beaches of Kourion visually uncluttered by the resort developments that I find in other towns like Agia Napa. A few minutes of driving up the hill takes me to the excavation of the city of ancient Kourion, perched on a hillside overlooking the beach. It became a Roman settlement in the 13th century BC. Let me do the math for you. That is 3300 years ago. Walking through the remains of the ancient city, I note the number and elaborateness of the Roman baths. Clearly the Romans in the city were obsessed with personal hygiene. Or did the lack of water to keep the baths going lead to their downfall? I am not able to see any obvious water sources for miles around.

Pushing past Kourion into the mountains of Troodos Massif I am looking at the country’s highest peak, Mt. Olympus. For a small country, the variety of landscape in Cyprus is astounding. Winter dumps snow in these mountains and Troodos becomes a ski resort only hours from warm Mediterranean beaches. Around the bend, and up the hill past the village of Kalopanayiotis with just 290 villagers is the richest and most famous of Cyprus’s religious institutions – Kykkos monastery. The fabulous wealth of the monastery is displayed in the Byzantine museum where again with effortless ease the artifacts state that they are from several centuries B.C.

Kykkos is also the home monastery of Archbishop Makarios III, ethnarch and religious leader of Cyprus as well as its larger than life President in its brief period of independence as a united island from 1959 to 1974. While this juxtaposition of religious leadership and political leadership may seem strange in many parts of the world, Cyprus has had a long history of this model of governance. And then of course history had to rear its head again in Cyprus . A CIA-supported Greek Junta plotted a coup. The coup backfired. Makarios escaped. The Turks invaded the north. Cyprus was divided into two. The Greek Junta in Athens fell. Makarios returned to preside over a now truncated state. And so on it goes with Cyprus’s history.

Even the sleepy fishing town and seaside resort of Larnaca does not fail to surprise with interesting tidbits of history and contrasts. It offers the tomb of Lazarus. He of biblical fame, raised from the dead by Jesus and expelled by the Jews from Jerusalem, came to Larnaca and remained its bishop for 30 years. Then he died a second time and was buried here.

And then of course there is Agia Napa, once a tiny fishing village, with a few houses, fishermen, and a monastery. Now it is the gravitational center of Cyprus’s fun and sun tourist industry with the predictable and often not very pretty run away development, that has resulted in a Flintstone cave bar with the name Yabba Napa Doo and another one called Organ Grinder. For a town with a resident population of less than 3000 people it offers three dozen bars and nightclubs with a rotating stable of DJs from Europe.

Towards the end of my trip Evie and her erudite husband Costas invite me over for dinner. Evie tells me that in her 20 years as a tour guide I am only the second person to receive this honor and the previous guest was the secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury. I am clearly not worthy and feel a certain sense of burden. A very well read and intellectual couple, their house is a delight. It has an excellent collection of art from Cyprus artist Christos Christou, classical music and a stupendous collection of books on art, philosophy, history, and geopolitics. The conversation veers from Oscar Wilde to Epictectus to Noam Chomsky. And in a telling reminder of the powers of globalism, their daughter Laura works in the hi-tech industry in Silicon Valley just miles from where I live and work in the San Francisco bay area and their son is a chemical engineer faculty at the University of Edinburgh. Together Evie and Costas roll out the very best of the famed Hellenic hospitality. Their kindness and graciousness to a complete stranger from half way around the world moves me deeply and remains etched in my heart as the most defining and memorable aspect of Cyprus.

Now I realize why Constantine P. Cavafy wrote around 1899 in "Going back home from Greece":

"Well, we're nearly there, Hermippos.
Day after tomorrow, it seems—that's what the captain said.
At least we're sailing our seas,
the waters of Cyprus, Syria, and Egypt,
the beloved waters of our home countries.
Why so silent? Ask your heart:"

2009-12-06T00:48:00.000-08:00

Cyprus - Part 2 - Nicosia

Walking through Nicosia and traveling around Cyprus, I am struck by the modern day waves of immigrants. Instead of conquerors and colonizers using military might, a shifting of labor markets is happening, perhaps not well documented by the International Labor organization. At an individual level it is a human story full of hope and emotion, and devoid of the coldness of statistical tables that don’t tell the richness of individual stories. I find them everywhere: The Cameroonian sales clerk in the music store who makes recommendations to help me pick contemporary Cypriot music by Anna Vissi and Alkinoos Ioannides; Basheer from Bangladesh, who is both a student and mans a news kiosk (He loans me his cell phone to call a taxi); Meekness from Zambia who staffs the Clinique counter at the airport advising newly rich and badly sun burnt Russians going home after their holiday in the sun on how to care for their skin; Pepe from India who provides home care to an elderly Cypriot woman; The beautiful Hungarian waitress who shares a taxi with me from Larnaca and discusses the Paul Coelho book she is reading; The Nepali waiters who scurry around the seafood restaurant in Agia Napa; Yannis the former professional football player from Georgia, who arrived to play for a local team until his bad knees killed his football career; ( Now he drives a taxi and has become my official taxi driver); The Sri Lankan nanny who takes care of the two year old brother of Diamandis, the psychology student at the University of Cyprus I meet during a shared taxi ride. Each story is labyrinthine in its detail of hope, opportunity, economic migration, and cultural displacement.

If there were an Olympics for culinary events, the Cypriots would be in the finals. And their winning entry would be Meze. I am at the Xe Foto restaurant in the old city of Lefkosia. Andreas Loizides the owner is explaining to me that he picked the name because of the play of light streaming through trees into the courtyard around which the restaurant is set. Foto is the Greek word for light he clarifies for me. His house band has been performing Rembetika and more contemporary Cypriot music for 20 years. Andreas himself gets on the mike in between and his guests break out into Syrtaki and other Greek dances.

This is one of the best places to try Meze, which is as much about food as it is about bonding with friends and family around a dining table in that uniquely Mediterranean way. The waiter keeps bringing in Mezedes, little delicacies. Much of the experience has to do with the sharing and passing around, savoring each dish, and recommending it. First comes the olives, salads, bread, tahini, talatouri, and hummus. Next comes the vegetables, garnishes, raw pickles, all served with haloumi. The meats follow in an assembly line of lamb, chicken, beef, pork dressed up as souvlaki, klefliko, sheftalia. Just when you think it is over the waitresses reappear with fresh fruit and pastries. The secret I discover is to pace myself and listen to the advice of my Cypriot friends, siga, siga, slowly, slowly.

I am walking around Lefkosia’s old city. Surrounded by Venetian walls that from the top look like a snowflake or a sliced Grenade. The Venetians built the fortifications in 1570 to keep the feared Ottomans out. The bastions were named after wealthy Venetian merchants who paid for the them in a clever fund raising model long before Harvard and Wharton learnt to name their buildings after wealthy alums. But they turned out to be a complete failure. Well, the Ottomans arrived just three years later, scaled the walls, took over Lefkosia and stayed for 300 years. Another reminder that walls don’t really keep anyone out.

Driving us around the old city is Ahmet, a Turkish Cypriot with a handlebar mustache. There is a sense of gravitas about him. He bikes across the international border everyday to come to work and drives a quaint school bus that looks like it could be from the 60s. I almost look around to see if beat poets and hipsters Alan Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and Wavy Gravy are on the bus. Ahmet tells me that he used to be a truck driver who drove tractor trailers from Finland to Bangladesh in marathon 20 day trips across all the central Asia “sthans”, and Iran, Pakistan, and Afghanistan. “Anda, Kela, Aaap Khana Kaho” he tells me using the few Hindi words he remembers from his trips and guffaws loudly.

Evie, a tour guide is guiding me through the old city. At one point she leads us to the border that separates the two sides of Cyprus. The watchtower set up by the UN forces are now deserted. The forces are long gone since things have become more peaceful. An elderly Cypriot gentleman comes out to greet us. His house backs up against the border. He probably grew up and lived all his life in this house till one day someone drew the green line across his backyard and arrived with rolls of barbed wire to prove it. Beyond the barbed wire fence behind his house is a no mans land where houses, schools, hotels, sit dilapidated, abandoned and out of bounds for everyone to avoid people stepping on land mines.

Evie herself is a refugee from across the border. Her family were wealthy farmers on the northern side when history came calling. They abandoned their orange orchards and everything else they had and were forced to hit the “reset” button on their life. Even though the border is now open she has not gone back. The memories are too haunting for her to confront them.

Evie leads me to the house of Zambella, the former mayor of Nicosia and one of the best known art collectors on the island. The first floor of his house is an art gallery with a treasure trove of works by Cyprus artists. Some of the paintings are of Zambella himself. I find it disconcerting that he looks like George Bush. Perhaps, it is one of the approved looks in the political reference books. I just hope he did not mess up the city he governed.

Evie and Ahmet then take us to the village of Kaimakli, where right on the village square is a 19th century traditional building known as the Monoportis house. Its current occupant is Julia Astreou-Christoforou whose family has lived here for six generations going back to the mid 19th century when the Patriarch Hadjipetris built a dominating central arch in the big room on the marriage of his son Tzirkako to Hadjikatina. This kind of history spanning many generations and easily traced and documented seems to come effortlessly to the Cypriots. Julia now weaves hand-loom fabrics in the same house using traditional Cypriot looms. Her beautiful daughter Daphne, a product of French design schools, now models the Arete shawls her Mom designed for Queen Arete’s costume for the theatrical production of the Odyssey.

2009-10-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

Cyprus
"Siga, Siga" - Slowly, Slowly

From the sky Cyprus looks like a lotus leaf floating in the Azure blue Mediterranean basin. With fewer than 800,000 people it is smaller than San Francisco in size and population. When my plane lands in Larnaca airport the ground crew wheels in a staircase for us to disembark. I know instantly that I have arrived in a place where I can truly get away . From Banjul in The Gambia to Ulan Bator in Mongolia, to Thiruvananthapuram in India to Liberia in Costa Rica this test has always worked well. The reassuring sight of stairs being wheeled in means you are getting off in a place very different from most International business cities around the world which have increasingly started looking and feeling like each other – Chicago, Frankfurt, Shanghai, Dubai.
This has been a year of saying “Yes” for me; A year of saying yes to interesting experiences in life. So when a long time friend, Alka called me and told me that she was moving from Hong Kong to Cyprus and invited me to come visit, I told her, “Yes, of course”. From India to Hong Kong to Cyprus her house has been a haven and every time I step through the door I know I have come back home .

View Larger Map

Surrounded by Greece, Turkey, Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and Egypt, Cyprus is a testimony to the aphorism that Geography is Destiny. The island is divided into two uneasy, disconcerting parts – a Greek side and a Turkish side – that continue to sear the soul of a nation. Over the centuries invaders, settlers, and immigrants have come through – the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Lusignans, Genoese, Venetians, Ottomans, British, Turks, each leaving their stamp on Cyprus. Reading about Cyprus’ past and all the occupation evokes Churchill’s definition of history in my mind - “One damn thing after another”.

Cyprus has a love affair with love. Cypriots are quick to tell me that Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of sexual love and beauty arose from the sea off the south coast of Cyprus. She was born out of the white foam produced by the severed genitals of Ouranos when they were thrown into the sea by his son Kronos. After emerging from the sea she entertained her lovers, leaving behind her an amorous scent that continues to intoxicate lovers. Richard the Lionheart married his wife Berengaria at Lemessos in the 12th century. The British continue to come here to get married in large numbers, resulting in a shortage of priests to officiate at the weddings.

I walk through downtown Lefkosia, the capital, through Ledra street to the Ledra street crossing. A pedestrian-only street it is a quaint medley of cafes, music stores, boutiques, and a monument to modern day commerce. At the end of Ledra street I walk across the “Green Line” past a sign that says “Last divided capital in the world” from the Republic of Cyprus side towards a sign that welcomes me to the “Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus”. The very existence of this country I am now standing in defies logic; it is recognized by just one other country - Turkey.

In 1963, when the British were occupying Cyprus (why does this sound strangely familiar?), in response to communal disturbances between Greek and Turkish Cypriots the British military took a green pen and drew a line on the military map, creating the “Green Line” dividing Nicosia into a Turkish and Greek side. I suspect that when the British colonise a country and predictably there is discontent among the local population, they reach into a colonial handbook, thumb through the index for the entry that says “How to govern local population effectively”, and there find instructions from a British civil servant that say with clinical precision, “Take map, take green pen, draw a line across map, tell population to shift from one side of the line to another based on tribal, ethnic or religious lines”.

I grew up in India which was similarly divided into two countries by the British before splintering finally into three – India, Bangladesh, and Pakistan – a situation that continues to cause a simmer to this day. And in Palestine, Arabian Gulf, and much of North Africa, the British colonial pen across maps has reorganized and splintered populations across divides that has led to much strife.

In 1974 after military activity involving Greece and Turkey, Cyprus was divided into Greece and Turkish parts and the Green line extended across the entire island. As George Santayana once famously remarked, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it”. Another partition tragedy for humanity repeated as hundreds of ordinary Greek and Turkish Cypriots who did not have a choice in the matter had to abandon their homes, farms, and livelihood, uproot themselves, and to cross over to the other side of the Green line to start their lives over.

In 2008, abruptly the borders were opened by Raul Denktash the leader of the Turkish Cypriots. For 29 years the Green Line had divided a people from their friends and families. Similar to the fall of the Berlin wall, in emotional scenes, people from both sides crossed over to see for themselves what life was like on the other side, sometimes traveling back to homes and friends they had left behind.

2009-10-31T20:48:00.000-07:00

Christopher McDougall | Born To Run

Two Fridays ago Chris McDougall, author of Born To Run spoke at Google. I got an opportunity to listen to his talk and go for a run with Chris.

As the event description said -
"Full of incredible characters, amazing athletic achievements, cutting-edge science, and, most of all, pure inspiration, Born to Run is an epic adventure that began with one simple question: Why does my foot hurt? In search of an answer, Christopher McDougall sets off to find a tribe of the world's greatest distance runners and learn their secrets, and in the process shows us that everything we thought we knew about running is wrong. Isolated by the most savage terrain in North America, the reclusive Tarahumara Indians of Mexico's deadly Copper Canyons are custodians of a lost art. For centuries they have practiced techniques that allow them to run hundreds of miles without rest and chase down anything from a deer to an Olympic marathoner while enjoying every mile of it. Their superhuman
talent is matched by uncanny health and serenity, leaving the Tarahumara immune to the diseases and strife that plague modern existence. With the help of Caballo Blanco, a mysterious loner who lives among the tribe, the author was able not only to uncover the secrets of the Tarahumara but also to find his own inner ultra-athlete, as he trained for the challenge of a lifetime: a fifty-mile race through the heart of Tarahumara country pitting the tribe against an odd band of Americans, including a star ultramarathoner, a beautiful young surfer, and a barefoot wonder. With a sharp wit and wild exuberance, McDougall takes us from the high-tech science labs at Harvard to the sun-baked valleys and freezing peaks across North America, where ever-growing numbers of ultrarunners are pushing their bodies to the limit, and, finally, to the climactic race in the Copper Canyons. Born to Run is that rare book that will not only engage your mind but inspire your body when you realize that the secret to happiness is right at your feet, and that you, indeed all of us, were born to run."

See Chris on The Daily Show - http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/tue-august-18-2009/christopher-mcdougall

Last Sunday as I was running the Silicon Valley half marathon in San Jose, California another runner pulled up along me and he was running barefoot inspired by this story. He told me that ever since he started running barefoot he has been able to run longer and more easily.

Here is Chris's talk at Google on YouTube.

2009-02-27T23:32:00.000-08:00

STATE OF THE ART
Geniuses At Play, On the Job
by David Pogue of NYT

David Pogue wrote an excellent article in the New York Times today about the hidden gems in Google labs. To read about iGoogle, Google Reader, Flu Trends, Google Maps, Gmail Labs, Translator, Goog-411, Google SMS, Google Sets, and Secrets of the Search Box, go here.....

Geniuses At Play, On the Job
by David Pogue of NYT

2008-11-08T10:38:00.000-08:00

No Limits

This morning I got the following invite from my tri club, the Silicon Valley Triathlon Club. Here is a perfect example of two people telling theselves "No Limits"

Our monthly club meeting is coming up next Monday night (November 10), at 7pm at Sports Basement Sunnyvale. Our featured speakers this month, Christine Thornbern and Ted Huang, are just back from the Beijing Olympics, where Christine raced for the US womens cycling team. Christine is a world class time trialist, (shes also an ex-collegiate runner -- should we see if she can swim?) who, among her many other racing accomplishments, also placed 4th at the 2004 Athen Olympics --> and to top it off she is a medical doctor specializing in rheumatology!! Do you feel inadequate yet -- read on! Her husband Ted has been a respected force on the Bay Area cycling racing scene for the past 15 years - coming in 12th overall in the San Francisco Grand Prix in 2003 - and has been to two previous Olympics in the sport of windsurfing (because cycling is his "other" sport!). Come and see their pictures from Beijing and hear their stories about racing at the worlds highest level.

(photo credits: www.emerys.com, www.llanellitriathlon.org.uk, www.socius.or.kr)

2008-07-13T17:28:00.000-07:00

In the End....

Browsing through a Lululemon store yesterday I came across this beautiful thought.

In the end what matters is
Did you live well?
Did you love well?
Did you let go?

2008-07-13T17:23:00.000-07:00

Maarteen Troost | "Lost on Planet China: The Strange and True Story of One Man's Attempt to Understand the World's Most Mystifying Nation, or How He Became Comfortable Eating Live Squid"

Paul Theroux and Pico Iyer are among my most favorite travel writers on the planet. Having lived, worked or traveled in 41 countries, another perspective of places I have been to are very welcome. Here is another travel writer that I stumbled acorss recently (he is speaking at Google Mountain View later this week) that sounds very, very promising.
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Lost on Planet China finds Troost dodging deadly drivers in Shanghai; eating Yak in Tibet; deciphering restaurant menus (offering local favorites such as Cattle Penis with Garlic); visiting with Chairman Mao (still dead, very orange); and hiking (with 80,000 other people) up Tai Shan, China's most revered mountain. But in addition to his trademark gonzo adventures, the book also delivers a telling look at a vast and complex country on the brink of transformation that will soon shape the way we all work, live, and think. As Troost shows, while we may be familiar with Yao Ming or dim sum or the cheap, plastic products that line the shelves of every store, the real China remains a world—indeed, a planet--unto itself.

Maarten Troost brings China to life as you've never seen it before, and his insightful, rip-roaringly funny narrative proves that once again he is one of the most entertaining and insightful armchair travel companions around.

J. MAARTEN TROOST is the author of Getting Stoned with Savages and The Sex Lives of Cannibals. His essays have appeared in the Atlantic Monthly, the Washington Post, and the Prague Post. He spent two years in Kiribati in the Equatorial Pacific and upon his return was hired as a consultant by the World Bank. After several years in Fiji and Vanuatu, he recently relocated to the U.S. and now lives with his wife and two sons in California.

PS: Maarten's talk at Google can be found on YouTube on the Authors@Google channel. The talk is at this link.

2007-11-20T23:44:00.000-08:00

Kiva - Changing the world one microloan at a time time.

Inspired by an article in the The San Francisco Chronicle about a former Googler and later by Bill Clinton's latest book "Giving", I came across an organization called Kiva (www.kiva.org). Based in San Francisco (of course) they use the power of the web to connect small entrepreneurs who need microloans with people around the world who want to make loans as small as $25. In their own words:

Kiva lets you connect with and loan money to unique small businesses in the developing world. By choosing a business on Kiva.org, you can "sponsor a business" and help the world's working poor make great strides towards economic independence. Throughout the course of the loan (usually 6-12 months), you can receive email journal updates from the business you've sponsored. As loans are repaid, you get your loan money back.

I gave it a whirl. It was a breeze and in a few minutes I felt like an International Banker having extended two tiny, tiny loans to two entrepreneurs in Cambodia and Kenya.

Meet my entrepreneurs.

2007-03-08T22:23:00.000-08:00

Blogger now allows users to type Hindi text in English and blogger transliterates it for you. So even though I can barely write in Hindi any more due to long years of disuse I can still speak it। So all I need to do is to hit a toggle button, write Hindi text in a rough English equivalent and Blogger transliterates for me. Very cool and nifty feature.

An ancient chant like

Asatoma Sat Gamaya
Tamasoma Jyotir Gamaya
Mrityoma Amritam Gamaya

when typed into blogger becomes

असतोमा सत गमय
तमासोमा ह्योतिर गमय
मृत्योमा अमृतं गमय

I await the explosion of Hindi blogs from what MTV calls the Hinglish generation.

2007-01-07T02:06:00.000-08:00

Dont Worry. Be Happy

Bobby McFerrin rode to fame in 1988 with his album Simple Pleasures, where he scored a chart-topping pop smash with "Don't Worry, Be Happy". But last week The Economist , yes that purveyor of the dismal science, joined the ranks of sappy happiness Gurus when it tried to analyze why people are not getting any happier even as the world economy is on its way to notching up its best decade ever. Market capitalism is doing its job well in terms of raising living standards but not necessarily making people happier which may be best left to saints and philosophers.

There are some fundamental problems according to The Economist. Capitalism is highly efficient in bringing to the masses what only a few elite enjoyed - cars, fashion goods, gourmet food, exotic vacations. But these luxuries soon become necessities. Once you are on the tiger you cannot dismount.

Second, there are a set of good and services that people believe will make them happy that are limited by necessity. These "positional goods" such as a a tony address or a fancy car or a top education lose their value if everyone has it. So a Harvard degree is no longer prized if everyone who applies is accepted into the program irrespective of the intrinsic value of a superior edification of the mind.

The race to be happy forces people to climb to the highest rung of the social ladder which forces others to climb harder and faster to keep up. What is the point?

As The Economist editorial concluded, "Capitalism can make you well off. And it also leaves you free to be as unhappy as you choose. To ask any more of it would be asking too much". I must admit that, John Micklethwait, the 16th editor of the August publication does have a sense of humor.

2007-01-03T22:55:00.000-08:00

There were many holiday greetings and messages that arrived over the last few days. But this one from Louis a fellow burner and an annual visitor to and denizen of Black Rock City gently touched my heart.

Dear Members of the Tribe, the Clan, The Family, The Extended Family:

Happy Solstice!

This has been an amazing year !!!

Filled with wonder and discovery !!!

Filled with love and friendship !!!

Filled with conflict and the ability to sit with it !!

Filled with events that require more energy to negotiate and navigate !

Filled with new love and transformed love, growing friendships and continuing friendships and friendship that span almost an entire life ….

and for all the above I am grateful

I am connected to all of you as I am connected to all things

I wish you all safe journeys whilst you follow your path

I wish you love & light

I wish you joy & wonder

I wish eternal curiosity

I wish you gentleness and firmness in all things

I wish you intentionality & will

I wish you strength & courage

I wish you quietness & stillness

I wish a rich tapestry upon to weave your life story

I wish you a smorgasbord of experiential delights

I wish for you what you want for yourself…..

With love & gratitude

Louis

2005-12-11T19:37:00.000-08:00

Zambia - South Luangwa National Park

I am at the Mfuwe lodge set in the middle of the South Luangwa national park in Zambia. There are no fences around the lodge. The chalet I am staying in is on a oxbow lagoon. Just outside there is a herd of ten elephants noisily splashing around. A small family of Warthogs are getting out of the way with three tiny babies scampering behind their parents, unaware that they could be squished by the elephants. A wild buffalo got stuck in the mud earlier and the herd abandoned it to die haplessly. The guides told us that hyenas and lions would set upon the easy prey later that night and we would have to deal with the rotten smell of a carcass. But then these are the rules of the jungle. A mother baboon and its baby have occupied my patio and are looking intently through the screen mesh at what I am doing, cocking their head curiously at the unfamiliar strains of Bob Dylan from my laptop wailing,

“Windows were shakin' all night in my dreams

Everything was exactly the way that it seems

Woke up this morning and I looked at the same old page

Same ol' rat race

Life in the same ol' cage.”

Assorted clusters of grazing herbivores - Impalas, Zebras, Waterbucks, Kudus, Pukus, Vervet monkeys, and Baboons are walking the dry lagoon bed to the wet patch in the middle having a drink or grazing on the few patches of green. The only part of the lagoon that has deep water has been colonized by a large group of hippos who have marginalized the crocodiles to the edge of the water. The hippos seem to fear no one and grunt threateningly most of the day and night. The animals walk freely around the lodge between the chalets. A certain herd of elephants is particularly fond of the mangoes from the mango tree in the courtyard next to the bar. It is an astonishing sight to see wild elephants walk through the building, stopping at the reception, sniffing at the strange smells from the vodka bottles in the bar before heading off to the tree. The lodge staff escort me between my chalet and the main lodge which reminds me that this is the wild, these animals roam free, and I am caged in my room or in my safari jeep.

Yesterday evening I saw a herds of elephants gather in a very organized fashion on the edge of the Luangwa river where they meet up every night. Once the herd was about 160 strong they crossed the river in several groups led by a senior matriarch. Upon crossing to the other side they dispersed into their respective family units to wreak havoc on the villages outside the park and eat up the mangoes and other crops the Chewa, Bemba, and Kunda tribes grow. Patson, our guide, tells us that they show up at his village every night and it is a complete nuisance. In the morning they make the trip back. They collect as a large group at a crossing point, make the crossing and then disperse again. Their social organization and intelligence demonstrated through this daily behavior is astonishing.

All this is a remarkable sight for a city dweller. To understand how to deal with wild animals if I encounter one on my way to grab dinner at the restaurant I refer my Lonely Planet guide to Southern Africa and it has this advice among much other useful information, "If a Rhino charges and you cant immediately climb a tree, then face the charge and step to one side at the last moment in bullfight style." The other guests in the lodge include a mining rights lawyer from Canada, a health care accountant from Belgium, and Brazilian couple who work in the Zambian copper mining industry. I spend the afternoon running little video clips in my head of Rhinos charging and how each one of them would do the clever sidestep maneuver as perfectly as the Lonely Planet guide suggests.

2005-09-21T01:08:00.000-07:00

Iceland
Exotic Foods, Human Migration

Food is great way to experience any place you travel to. But Icelandic specialties will require Viking like courage and a suspension of your sense of smell. The most stomach churning is Hákarl – putrefied shark meat buried underground for upto six months. The stench can be unbearable – like ammonia – and the after taste requires to be washed down with Brennivín, sledgehammer schnapps made from potatoes and flavored with caraway. Someone long ago discovered that certain shark meat could not be eaten fresh and decided to bury it in sand, let it decompose, and try it again six months later. How human beings research these things is a great mystery to me. Then there is bl?ðmör, sheep’s blood pudding packed in suet and sewn up in the sheep’s stomach. And finally Svið, singed sheep’s head, sawn in two, boiled, and eaten fresh or pickled. The king of Icelandic gastronomic adventures is Sursadir hrutspungar, pickled Ram’s testicles. All of a sudden you feel grateful for the great invasion by Macdonalds, Pizza Hut, and Subway.

Human migration is always fascinating. Seeing people living in a context completely different from their usual one is always intriguing. As the editors of Lonely Planet are fond of saying, “Ever since our first, faltering, upright steps, humankind has traveled. Everywhere is migration, exploration, pursuit. Terrible things have been caused by this restlessness, but it is also the source of much that is extraordinary and wonderful.”

It is this great migration that brought the Celtics and Norse settlers including the Vikings to Iceland in the first place nearly 1400 years ago. And they continue to come from as far away as America, Mexico, Thailand, Pakistan, and Tibet.

Shalimar is a small restaurant in downtown Reykjavik run by a Pakistani couple. The three person staff consisted of an Icelandic waitress, Tse-Wang from Tibet, and a waitress presumably of North African origin. Tse-Wang is a fascinating case of this migration. Originally from the remote, landlocked, Himalayan country of Tibet he was driven out from his land and forced to live as a refugee in India. Now one of only four Tibetans in Iceland, he goes to college here, learns Icelandic, and tells me that he occasionally feels lonely and isolated from a larger Tibetan community. We banter about the Dalai Lama and the Kalachakra sermon, one of the most elaborate rituals of Mahayana Buddhism. The one ironic parallel is that he once lived in country that has the nickname of “roof of the world” and he now lives in another that also feels like the roof of the world given how close Iceland is to the North Pole. Similar fascinating tales pour out from the Polish, Portuguese, Chinese, Indians, Germans, and other nationalities I meet in Iceland. Each tale of migration unique in its own way – Kathleen the German nanny who has traveled through Mongolia, Febian the Frenchman who works on a chicken farm and wants to be a monk, Marco the Portuguese who along with his father and sister work on the Karunjukkar hydroelectric project.

The world is a breathtakingly big place. Iceland in particular is imbued with special magic. Pick up your bags and go.

2005-09-15T00:04:00.000-07:00

Iceland - When economics meets environment
Karahnjukar Hydro Electric Project

In Iceland it is easy to be environmentally correct. The country has a small population, large tracts of uninhabited land, almost no polluting industry, and the ability to live off geothermal and hydroelectric power without using fossil fuels except for automobiles. The lack of natural resources also means that there is very little to export except for products that come out of the ample surrounding ocean. You cant export hydro-electricity if you are an island nation. The next best option is to bring in industries that are thirsty for electricity. That has set economics and environmental issues on a collision course like everywhere else in the world. The Karanjukkar hydroelectric project is building a dam across two glacial rivers Jokulsao a Dal and Jukulsa i Fljotsdal flooding a remote part of the already remote Eastern Highlands. The power from the project will be used exclusively by the American aluminum company Alcoa in nearby Reydarfjordur creating jobs in an economically deprived area dependent mostly on fishing. The week before I got there angry environmentalists had camped out near the site and chained themselves to the construction equipment to protest the dam.

I cannot comment on the issues as I had not researched them. But to my untrained eye it looked like in the barren, desolate, cold, windswept, mountain side and valley that was being flooded there was really no life to protect – no trees, no animals, no plants, not even grass, or birds. The nearby town of Reydarfjordur, population 650, could do well with the 1000 new jobs expected to be created.

The dam is being constructed by the Italian company Impreglio and we are guests of some engineers working on the project. It is the fourth largest, earth fill dam in the world, possibly at the highest elevation, and definitely the one closest to the north pole. Nothing screams globalization like what I see here. The project site is one of the most remote, desolate, barren, and inhospitable work locations I have been to. All of a sudden it has created a new reverence inside of me every time I flick a light switch because I realize that someone gave a big chunk of their working life, living on a harsh project site to pipe electricity into my house. Toiling away on the project site are professionals from 43 countries. In the club house and dining halls I hear Icelandic, English, Italian, Chinese, Portuguese, Hindi, Urdu, Russian, Spanish, Arabic, French, Nepali, Malayalam. To my delight there is even a Malayalam speaking procurement specialist called Babu from the Indian town of Trissur where my parents live. We unleash verbal volleys in the machine gun style rapid fire exchange of our mother tongue. “Babu, ivade vannu yetra kallum aayi?”

During a visit to the restricted construction site I stand in awe outside the cavernous water intake tunnel. The tunnel will be submerged below the waters and carry massive quantities of water down a 500 foot drop to the bottom of the mountain that will power the giant turbines. Emerging out of the tunnel driving various kinds of earth moving equipment in an ant like fashion are workers of various nationalities, a lot of them Chinese. I am told that there are over 300 Chinese working on this project. Given the number of hydro-electric projects in China it is one of the best sources of skilled workers experienced in operating complex dam construction equipment such as tunnel boring machines. The Chinese ambassador to the region is visiting the project site to acknowledge their contribution and the Chinese flag is flying on the flag mast outside the dining hall. I had always imagined the Chinese economic power to mean simple things like the toys in Toy’R Us to be manufactured in Guangdong or the washing machines in Circuit City to come from Shenzhen. In more complex examples it meant to me that US Government bonds are being increasingly held by Chinese investors and that the Baltic Shipping Index is at an all time high because the Chinese are buying up all available shipping capacity. But this is stretching the limits of my imagination. Globalization is at work in remote eastern Iceland highlands unseen by the editors of The Economist and the Wall Street Journal. Chinese labor working for an Italian company is generating Icelandic electricity to fuel an American aluminum plant to boost the Icelandic economy. This would make the editor of Mother Jones spill his coffee in outrage.

To beat the loneliness and monotony of the project site the project team has found interesting deviations. The Indians, Pakistanis, and the Nepalese have a cricket club and I am invited to join a game. It is a surreal sight to be playing cricket at 10PM at night under the artic sun, in the shadow of a glacier, in cold windswept conditions, close to the artic circle. The founders of the game had intended the game to be played during the English summer wearing white flannels on a grassy field with a break for tea. Later they exported the game to their warm tropical colonies. But Wisden would never have thought that the sounds of “Howzaat” would be heard near the north pole.

Late at night, after a post-game chat session with some of the cricket players, I am trying to find my way to the guest rooms reserved for us in one of the living quarters, I stumble across a raging party. The gym where I had exercised earlier is now the scene of strobe lights and dance music. The people working on the project are kicking up a fuss on the dance floor. Two young men, who look to me of Latin American extraction and in their twenties stop to chat with me. They tell me that the party is hopping but there are not enough girls to dance with. Apparently, they had invited the “Sodexho girls” – the Icelandic girls who work for the catering and cleaning services contractor Sodexho on the project site. But most of them did not show up. I reassure them that some problems are universal. Their friends attending parties at the Copacabana in New York city or the Velvet Lounge in San Francisco would be bemoaning similar gender ratios at their parties. I encourage them to get back on the dance floor and work their salsa, mergengue magic.

(photo credit: Iceland Tourist Board, Linknot.com)

2005-09-14T00:28:00.000-07:00

Iceland - Fire and Ice
Volcanoes, Glaciers, Farms

The power of nature and the magnificence of a land being actively shaped is most visible to me as I circle the island along the ring road, leaving from Reykjavik and driving along the south coast from west to east.

Driving past the moody volcano Hekla, ‘the hooded’, almost always shrouded in clouds and the horse-breeding area of Hella we are headed to Fellsmork. Sigurlaug “Silla” Gudmundsdottir, a friend of Pramod’s has invited us to stay in her summer house. Tucked away in beautiful settings around the island these are popular getaways for all Icelanders. Silla’s summer house is a cozy wooden cabin tucked into a fold on a mountain side. It is off the grid and has no electricity, running water, or telephone. The soft light of Icelandic candles adds to the soothing effect although the artic summer nights don’t need me to light them till close to midnight. Looking out of the bedroom window you can see the giant Myrdalsjokull, Iceland’s fourth largest icecap. Tongues of ice extend down from the glacier and the melt water streams converge into a roaring river to the right of the cabin. From the living room I look out to a vast glacial pain, flat as a pancake, fringed by a black sandy beach deposited by volcanic activity in the past. Just beyond sit the icy cold waters of the North Atlantic ocean with a jelly like constituency. And in the middle of the flat plains is a small mountain shaped like a loaf of bread sitting all by itself. It makes you scratch your head wondering what geological activity could have caused this formation. I conclude that one of the lesser gods must have been hurrying back from the grocery store when he dropped a loaf of bread which fell to the earth and turned to stone.

As we drive into south eastern Iceland the next day the most dominant geographic feature is the Vatnajokull icecap on the left. It is the third largest in the world after Antarctica and Greenland. Huge glacier tongues reach menacingly down the steep-sided valleys towards the sea. The road winds its way through a sandur - flat sandy plains of glacial deposits. The most dramatic of these is the Skeidararsandur that stretches some 25 miles between icecap and ocean from Nupustadur to Oraefi. The scene is one of a flat deposit of black volcanic gravel, sand, and silt, fierce winds, and fast flowing glacial rivers the color of beer. Travelers on bicycles pedal furiously across the bleak stretch to getaway before the winds whip up a stinging cloud of talcum powder like sand dust. The Sandurs are a result of Jokulhlaup – glacial floods. The Vatanajokull icecap actually sits on top of an active volcano, Grimsvatn, and acts as a tight lid. Occasionally Grimsvatn erupts in anger as it did in 1996 shooting a six mile column of steam. The ice began to melt creating a massive lake trapped under the icecap. Scientists waited with bated breath. Over a month after the eruption had started, the trapped lake lifted the entire icecap, peered out from below towards the faraway ocean, and drained in a massive Jokulhalup releasing 3000 billion cubic feet of water in just a few hours. A river, five times the volume of the Amazon, flowed towards the Atlantic ocean dragging with it icebergs the size of multi-storey buildings, snapping bridges and roads along the way like matchsticks. It was Iceland’s natural fire and ice show at its best.

Things are a lot mellow now as we approach a bend in the ring road and see luminous blue icebergs floating in a lake right next to the highway in Jokulsarlon (Glacial River Lagoon). The lagoon is a crammed with icebergs with interesting shapes creating an arctic scene. It is a breathtaking scene that has also drawn James Bond to film “Die Another Day” and Angelina Jolie to film, “Lara Croft: Tomb Raider”.

Iceland can also present a stark scene with almost no trees anywhere. It is so bereft of trees that when I drive past Hallormsstadur what I see is a small collection of native trees – dwarf birch, mountain ash, and Alaskan poplars - reminding me of the wooded area behind my old house in North Carolina. I am told that this is the Icelandic forest. Icelanders flock here over the weekends, to camp in a quiet forest and throw raucous parties in the night.

The best person to tell me about Iceland’s lack of trees is Haraldour “Hallie” Antonson. Hallie is Pramod’s landlord and neighbor who has invited us to visit his farm house in Lambleikstadir near Hopn. He used to work in a soil conservation and tree planting program for the forestry commission and now spends his retired life during the summer months on the farm raising horses. Hallie walks me through his farm with his sheep dog Loki sniffing my travel worn shoes picking up foreign scents. The horses look at us briefly with a snobbish half-interest before going back to their grazing. The grandkids Karin, Byarki, and Egitl are building a house and campfire under the watchful eye of their German nanny Kathleen who speaks no Icelandic. But that is no hurdle for the kids who communicate naturally and un-selfconsciously as children do and get what they want. Kathleen, herself is a well worn traveler, who although in her 20s tells me tales from Mongolia, the Trans-Siberian express, riding in army trucks across Afghanistan, and biking down the ring road of Iceland.

The Sagas record that when Iceland was discovered it was covered by trees from seas to the mountains. If that were indeed true the early inhabitants did a pretty efficient job cutting down the trees for fuel and allowing their sheep to finish up by devouring young shoots. Hallie explains to me that sheep are super efficient destroyers of vegetation, if grazing is not managed, chewing plants and young shoots down to the roots and leaving the underlying soil vulnerable to erosion by water and fierce winds. Once the top soil is blown away it is almost impossible to restart vegetation. The reforestation program has been quite successful and new clumps of trees are beginning to dot the country. I explain to Hallie proudly that my grandfather was a rice farmer in a village called Chittliencherri in Southern India although his total landholding was the size of a couple of football fields. I ask Hallie about the size of his farm and he waves to the distance towards the Vatanajokull icecap where his farm ends. I had read that the lack of humidity in the Icelandic air makes everything much closer than it is. I realize with a gasp that Hallie’s farm which has four adults and three children is about the size of my home village Chittilencherri itself where 20,000 people live and farm. Standing on a mound we spot a group of sheep grazing in the distance that had strayed over from the neighboring farm. “Woof, woof “ barks Hallie pointing them out to Loki. “Woof, woof” responds Loki excitedly as he spots the sheep. Curling himself into a tight ball, he explodes into a charging, sprint towards the sheep. From a mile away they smell danger and scatter clumsily in different directions towards their farm in a fine demonstration of sheep dog skills. “Yau (yes), Yau”, Hallie,acknowledges proudly.

(Photo credits: Iceland Tourism Board)

2005-09-13T04:37:00.000-07:00

Iceland - Sticker stock in Reykjavik and touring the Golden Circle.

Why everything is so expensive and how Icelanders manage to live here is not so clear. Of course island nations from Tahiti to Iceland have to deal with importing most everything from somewhere else. Other than fishing, some cattle raising, and plenty of energy from geothermal and hydroelectric sources Iceland has to depend on other countries from produce to cars and computers. Add a hefty 25% tax on goods and cost of living can be frightfully high stripping clean your precious US dollar travel budget.

My simple comparative economic analysis makes it all very clear. A no frills meal at Shalimar, a down to earth, Indian-Pakistani restaurant costs $100 for three. A similar dinner at the Shalimar in downtown San Francisco (same name, similar food, similar ambience, similar Pakistani owners) would cost $45. As the average price for a gallon of gas in the US crossed $2.20 it set off a flurry of angst ridden calls on radio talk shows. In Iceland I pumped gas for $6.43 a gallon. I checked out the most trusted of benchmarks that The Economist uses everywhere in the world – the health-unconscious Big Mac. The MacDonald’s in Palo Alto, California serves it up for $2.90. The MacDonald’s in Aukereryi, Iceland will hit you for $7.40.

So how do Icelanders cope on what looks to me like modest salaries I ask many people. The explanations I get leave me unconvinced. Many people live off two or more jobs. Living off credit cars and other forms of debt are common. That sounds like a reasonable short term solution. I am baffled about how this model has been sustained over the years.

The economy is tiny, compact, and quaint. The Iceland Stock Exchange trades 15 stocks, Market capitalization is at $22 billion thanks to a threefold rise in three years making it one of the hottest but mite-sized markets in Europe. The market rose a stunning 58% in 2004 alone. Nevertheless the market is thin with seven companies accounting for 71% of the total equity trading last year. The big three – Iceland’s three largest banks – alone have assets three times the GDP of the country and account for two-thirds of market capitalization.

What makes Iceland really, really interesting lies outside Reykjavik and its stock exchange. Pramod and Aroma, an Indian family living in Iceland indulge me by driving full circle around the island over a few days. I have never met them before and only had a few email exchanges after an introduction through a mutual acquaintance. Their hospitality for a complete stranger leaves me very touched. Their Icelandic friends in turn extend their hospitality by inviting us to stay in their homes, summer houses, farms, and guest rooms. Add to that the delight of a precocious five year old called Vibhu with intelligent questions and jokes delivered fluently in three languages – English, Malayalam, and Icelandic – and I had the trip of a lifetime. By the end I am chanting nursery rhymes in Icelandic, “Ullen, Thullen, Thol, Pike, Pane, Gol…..”

Iceland and Greenland urgently require a name swap. Iceland is actually quite green with endless rolling hills and green plains. Greenland, as I flew over it, looked formidable and forbidden with its huge desolate snow plain, scarred by mighty glaciers, massive icebergs creaking in the ocean, and soaring snow covered peaks. Although massive compared to Iceland the frozen plains of Greenland are a land of snow and silence and home to only 56,000 people and some polar bears, reindeer, and artic foxes.

Iceland also needs a giant construction sign over it. Sitting on top of active volcanoes and geothermal hotspots, you almost want to check the weather report before venturing out in case your day is interrupted by rattling earth, stampeding lava, or showering ash. As recent as 1963 a volcano erupted in the waters off Iceland. TV cameras hovered overhead and people around the globe watched in fascination on television the creation of a brand new island called Surtsey named after the Norse God Surtur who has the duty of setting fire to the earth at the end of the world.

Vestmannaeyjar (the Westman Islands) is one of the friendliest places in Iceland due to its relative isolation; Vestmanaeyjar was hosting an annual festival the weekend I arrived in Iceland. The festival sounded like a cross between Burning Man and the Bonnaroo festival. One night in 1973, a volcano erupted on the island spewing 30 million tones of lava over the town of Heimaey. TV viewers around the world watched the chillingly compelling and morbidly fascinating footage of residents fleeing their homes against a background of angry, boiling lava.

Most visitors to Iceland will experience its natural beauty as they drive around the golden circle close to Reykjavik. Just outside the airport the Hitaveita Sudurnesja geothermal plant uses superheated water pulled out from a over a mile below to produce electricity. The water is then piped into one of Iceland’s most visited attractions – The Blue Lagoon. Throngs of tourists bob around in the waters wearing masks of silica. The eponymous lake gets its name because of its surreal pearly blue glow under a hazy, steamy pall created by the steam rising from the piping hot water into the frigid air. At Thingvellir, you can see the 2.5 mile gap between the European and North America tectonic plates. The gap is widening by about two inches each year as America and Europe drift away from each other tearing apart the heart of Iceland. Pingvellir is also the site of the Althingi, the Viking parliament from 930 AD. The Vikings had a fairly, sophisticated parliamentary process for far-flung settlements that gathered here once a year to settle disputes and ratify laws. Even as the rest of us were still clubbing each other to death over issues like “your cow strayed into my pasture”.

A little beyond is the community of Geyser with the original Geysir discovered in 1294 that can spout scalding hot water 250 feet. Every other Geysir in the world derives its name from the original one here. Alas, Geysir stopped spouting in the 60s after being bunged in by rock, dirt, and soap tossed in by tourists trying to set it off. Now it only comes to life after an earthquake and so the last spout off was in 2000. But right next to it is the little cousin Strokkur (the churn) which erupts faithfully every 10 minutes as the geothermally superheated water and steam trapped in a fissure and seeking an escape blasts out the cooler water on top shooting up about a 100 feet. The Golden Circle rounds off at Gullfoss, Iceland’s most photographed waterfall, where the Hvitao (white) river tumbles 90 feet into a steep canyon kicking up a fuss and lots of spray creating shimmering rainbows over the gorge. The falls almost disappeared in the 1920s when the Government accepted a proposal from investors to dam the river for a hydroelectric project. The landowner Tomas Tomasson refused to sell and his daughter Sigridur Tomasdottir walked all the way to the capital in protest and threatened to throw herself into the falls. The Government ignored her anyway and approved the project. Sigridour stayed dry on the side of the waterfall. The investors defaulted on the lease. The Government canceled the project. Where environmental activism did not triumph basic economics did – no pay, no way. The laws of economics are immutable even in Iceland, even if they are inconvenient.

2005-09-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

Iceland – Small place, Big Soul

Iceland is a small pace with a big soul. It is designed to startle you all the time. Driving out of Keflavik airport you pass a barren lava field that looks like a lunar landscape. Steam hisses out from geothermal springs underground reminding you that this is a land forged literally out of fire and ice. It is also frightfully expensive and can suck up your devalued dollars out of your wallet like an industrial vacuum cleaner. A 20 minute cab ride from the airport to the center of Reykjavik the capital will set you back $150. Dotted by steaming lava fields, icecaps, glaciers, hot pools, and geysers, the Icelandic landscape has an elemental rawness that makes you aware of the awesome creative power of the earth. Reykjavik, the northernmost capital in the world has a raging nightlife earning it the title of the coolest capital of Europe

Iceland has always held a fascination for me. Tom Clynes had written in the National Geographic about a dramatically lit, ghost-brown place, peppered with lava flows and geysers, populated by farmer-poets and fair beauties. He called it the last great wilderness in Europe with no castles or palaces.

But Icelanders have a strong sense of history and myth woven through the Icelandic sagas. Written by anonymous authors between 1200 and 1400AD, these stories are a mix of real life incidents and glorious exaggerations, that Icelanders use as a key to comprehending their extraordinary environment, their countrymen, and themselves. The sagas are all wild eyed tales of Viking valor and treachery, love and destroyed hopes, soaring heroes and brutal violence. Romantic, fairly tales they are not. Impossible epics of gore, grit, and greatness they are. The Grettis Saga, for example, is the tale of a superhuman outlaw, Grettir the strong, who was on the run for 20 years. Armed with a sword and reciting poetry he roamed the land, plundering travelers, helping widows, and had an occasional tryst with saucy farm girls and the daughters of a giant. In one episode he has an argument with a farmhand named Skeggi which ends when Grettir strikes Skeggi with Skeggi’s own axe through to his brain. He finally holes up on the tallest peak on Dragney island and lives there for several years. The saga ends when local farmers who wanted him to leave storm his hut and with Grettir’s own sword cut off his head

With only 270,000 inhabitants – less than a third of the population of San Francisco living on an island the size of Kentucky - Iceland has emerged as a high-tech welfare state with one of the highest standards of living in the world. Iceland sits remote and mysterious just a few hundred meters south of the Arctic Circle. The sun never sets in the summer and people live in daylight for 24 hours. During winter there is almost no sun and most of the day seems like night. When he is told to get ready for bed, a common question I hear from Vibhu, my host’s five year old is. “Is it night or day?” As far as he can tell, it is bright outside, and he could be out there still playing with Hringur, Byarki, and Ulli.

Reykjavik is small, compact, and very walkable. Modern buildings with interesting architecture live in peace with clapboard house that feature colored tin roofs. Although a small town by world standards and a teeming metropolis compared to other Icelandic towns (Akureyri, the next biggest has 15,000 people) it is packed with restaurants, cafes, museums, theaters, and music venues. The feel is that of an upbeat, fashionable, expensive, youth-oriented small city with a vibrant, art, culture, and music scene.

Reykjavik has an ultra-trendy club scene earning itself titles like the capital of cool and the hippest city on the planet. The nightlife rages mostly around Laugavegur street. On Friday and Saturday nights all the impossibly good looking people in Scandinavia seem to have received the big summons for The Runtur, the great Icelandic pub crawl where party goers go from club to club with names like NASA, Pravda, and Hverfisbarinn progressively getting louder and less inhibited. The Sun is a natural ally. Even at 3AM, Laugavegur street can feel like an Icelandic Times square on New Year’s eve. Why go home yet because the Sun has not set for three months now?

Every Icelander you meet in a bar seems to either perform in a band, writes songs, or is otherwise connected to poetry, writing, or art. Iceland publishes the greatest number of books per capita in the world. And this is the land that gave birth to Bjork, Sugarcubes and Quarashi.

2005-07-09T23:37:00.000-07:00

Plaxo

I have been using a free software and service called Plaxo (www.plaxo.com) and would strongly recommend it. The concept behind Plaxo is elegantly simple. How do you keep your address book with hundreds of contacts current as people change homes, jobs, emails, and phones. Plaxo has a simple solution. It keeps your address book current using a simple process. If the other person is a Plaxo member then everytime he or she updates his address Plaxo will automatically update your addressbook. For all others Plaxo makes it simple to send an email whenever you choose to saying very simply," This is my latest contact information, Here is the contact information I have for you in my address book, can you confirm or update this". Any changes made by the other person is automatically inserted into your address book.

There are several features that Plaxo offers. The one I like best is their address book optimizer which does an intelligent scan of your address book and identify duplicates which you can then get rid of. This service has an annual fee of $29.95. But the clever way in which it cleans up your address book and the time you save makes it worth it.

2005-01-22T14:02:00.000-08:00

The New iMac G5 and the Mac Mini

Walter Mossberg, who covers personal technology for the WSJ is probably the most influential tech journalist in America today. On Wed, he wrote that he has been receiving emails from his readers asking if they should switch from Windows to the Mac and he feels that this is now an attractive and affordable option. He claims this is the best personal computer he has every worked on, the price point is right, and the security is excellent. No viruses or adware. See one of his articles below. He has been saying this for a while and prompted my switch.

http://ptech.wsj.com/ptech.html

Jan 20, 2005

With New Mac Mini, Apple Makes Switching Attractive, Affordable
By WALTER S. MOSSBERG

If my e-mail from readers is any indication, more Windows users are thinking of switching to Apple Computer's Macintosh models than at any time in a decade. A significant minority of Windows users are so fed up with battling viruses and spyware, or so impressed with Apple's iPod music players, that they are seriously tempted to jump to the Mac.
But some are put off by Apple's prices. The widely praised iMac G5 starts at $1,299. And the lowest-priced Mac, the eMac model, is $799. When you compare them with truly comparable Windows machines, their prices are competitive. But they look very high compared with the cheapest Windows machines, which are under $500.

So, this weekend, Apple will start selling its lowest-priced Mac ever, a tiny but full-featured desktop computer called the Mac mini, priced at just $499. But there is a catch. The mini doesn't include a monitor, keyboard or mouse. Apple says it was designed to work with the monitors, keyboards and mice from Windows PCs that it assumes switchers already own.
I've been testing the Mac mini under just that scenario for several days, and it does indeed work, quite well. I connected a mini to a Dell flat-panel screen and a Hewlett-Packard keyboard and mouse, all about three years old. The little Mac fired up and worked perfectly at every task I threw at it.

The mini comes with Apple's older G4 processor, which in some ways beats the Celeron processors used in low-end Windows PCs. It has 256 megabytes of memory; a 40-gigabyte hard disk; a video card with 32 megabytes of video memory; an Ethernet networking port; and a DVD drive that can also burn CDs. It also comes with Apple's superb suite of multimedia programs, called iLife.
In addition, the mini comes with Apple's latest operating system, called Panther, which has so far never been attacked by a successful virus and has been plagued with little or no known spyware.

All of this is packed into one of the tiniest cases I've ever seen on a desktop computer. The Mac mini is just 6.5 inches square and 2 inches high.
Before going into the details of my mini tests, let's talk about price. Even at $499, the mini isn't as cheap as the cheapest Windows PC. Dell is selling a model for $399, including a 17-inch monitor, keyboard and mouse.

The Dell has less usable memory than the mini, and it can't burn CDs. It also has only a 90-day warranty, instead of the mini's one-year warranty. But you can add CD burning, a one-year warranty and extra memory for $115, or a total of $514.
Second, for many switchers, the mini will cost more than its $499 base price. I recommend doubling the memory to 512 megabytes, which adds $75 (I suggest doing the same thing with a Windows PC). And because the mini has only two USB ports, which will be filled by a Windows keyboard and mouse, I recommend buying something called a USB hub, which adds extra ports so you can plug in a printer or other USB gear. Such a hub costs about $20, so that brings the minimum cost for a mini to $594.
I also suggest adding stereo speakers to the mini, in place of its small internal speaker. You can use the speakers from your existing Windows PC, but if you need to buy them, they cost about $30. That would bring the price to $624.

For some switchers, the costs won't end there. If your old Windows PC is a laptop, or if you want to keep it intact, or if its keyboard and mouse are an older type that doesn't use USB connectors, you may need to buy a monitor, keyboard and mouse for your mini.
A low-end TV-type 17-inch monitor runs about $160, and a USB keyboard and mouse can be found for about $29. These three items add about $189 to the cost, bringing our notional mini setup to $813.

In my tests, the mini did very well. I plugged it into my cable modem, and within minutes I was on the Web and sending and receiving e-mail.
I copied hundreds of songs, hundreds of pictures and dozens of Microsoft Word and Adobe PDF documents to the mini from my Windows PC. The mini's built-in programs played the music and displayed the photos and PDF files swiftly and perfectly. I burned CDs and played DVDs with no problems.

The Word documents also opened perfectly in the mini's rudimentary built-in word processor. However, if you are going to use a lot of Microsoft Office documents on the mini, or any Mac, I recommend getting Microsoft Office for the Mac, which can be bought for as little as $150. I tried Office on the mini, and it ran fine.

There were a few downsides. The mini is generally quiet, but its combination DVD player/CD burner makes a lot of noise. You can't place anything on top of the mini or the DVD drive could jam. And, with a Windows keyboard, some Apple keyboard features aren't available, such as volume and brightness controls.

Overall, the Mac mini is a good choice for Windows users on a budget who are tempted to switch. It's not a technological breakthrough, but it may just be one of Apple's smartest business moves.
Write to Walter S. Mossberg at mossberg@wsj.com

2004-12-17T21:48:00.000-08:00

The Travel Book
A Journey Through Every Country In The World
Lonely Planet

"The World is a book and those who do not travel read only a page" - St. Augustine

If you are looking for a good gift this season especially for someone who is a world traveler then you may want to take a look at Lonely Planet's fascinating pictorial book. Recently published, it is titled "The Travel Book - A Journey Through Every Country In the World""

Consisting of 444 pages, 1200 images, 230 countries, and weighing nearly 4 lbs it is one complete and fascinating picture of our lonely planet.

As the flap jacket says - Ever since our first, faltering, upright steps, humankind has traveled. Everywhere is migration, exploration, pursuit. Terrible things have been caused by this restlessness, but it is also the source of much that is extraordinary and wonderful. This book seeks to inspire the right kind of travel in today's world, through a definitive expression of its promiscuous diversity and difference. The world is a breathtakingly big place, and this book has attempted to capture the spirit and magic of every single country. It shows the slice of life in every corner of the globe, and all points in between.

The world is viewed in a pleasing kind of egalitarianism- USA and UK get the same two pages with half a dozen pictures and a block of text as does Cote D'Ivoire and Togo. The book starts off in an A to Z format from Afghanistan, Albania, and Algeria and painstakingly works its way to Zambia and Zimbabwe. There is a sense of wonder as dramatically different countries follow each other. Belgium after Belarus, Martinique after Marshall Islands, Tuvalu after Turks & Caicos, Virgin Island after Vietnam. Countries are mysteriously handcuffed through history and heritage that now links their names through the English alphabet barely hiding a deeper connection shared by humans. The images are haunting - Gitaga dancers leaping in the air, volcanic plugs in Rumsiki, herders following a flock of sheep in Cotopaxi, donkeys picking their way down cobble steps on Santorini, and a bejeweled Bedouin girl smiling beneath a florid headscarf.

I flipped through the pages excitedly, stopping at some of the countries I had been to - Australia, Czech Republic, French Polynesia, Gambia, Israel, Malaysia, Mongolia, Vatican City.............and flagging the places I want to go to- Argentina, Bhutan, Dominican Republic, Iceland, Panama, Tibet, Turkey, Tuvalu, Vanauatu...........

Traveling with respect, curiosity, and a sense of humor is a satisfying and liberating pleasure. So travel more, travel well, travel safely. Wander around the planet or at least the pages of this book. Lose your way and find yourself some place else.

The books costs $US 39.99 but you can find it at Amazon for $23.99

2003-08-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

A Classroom on Top of the World

We paused to catch our breath and looked at the majestic sight in front of us. Mount Kangchenjunga, at 28,168 feet the third highest mountain on the planet, towered above us. The bright sunshine glistened off the icy slopes of this Himalayan skyscraper. A plume of mist rose from the top of the peak and was swiftly carried away by the ferocious wind. Suddenly the radio crackled to life: "We are on top of Go-Cha La pass and will start our descent shortly." The message was from five team members who had reached the high point of some 17,000 feet beneath the shear south face of Kangchenjunga. Cheers broke out among the remainder of our trekking party of eighteen.

Supported by a staff of Sherpas and porters and a herd of yak, Wharton Leadership Ventures had brought a group of MBA students and alumni and several participants from the Wharton Executive Education programs to the Indian state of Sikkim in the Eastern Himalayas. Now in its fifth year, our trek had earlier been slated to reach the lower slopes of Mount Everest in Nepal. But due to the sometimes violent unrest in Nepal this year, the trek had been redirected to the slopes around India's towering colossus of Kangchenjunga.

The trek's lofty goals were in keeping with the heights we were scaling. Leadership is a capacity that draws on all aspects of an individual and an organization. Developing a vision, articulating it, and inspiring others to achieve it require not only careful analysis and technical knowledge but also a sense for what is important for the organization and for the people in and around it. We knew that mastering these abilities is a lifelong endeavor, and this leadership trek promised an opportunity to continue our leadership development, exercise our body, cross-train our mind, and reflect on our leadership future amongst the awe-inspiring peaks of the Himalayas.

Teaching leadership in a classroom is challenging enough. But how on earth do you teach leadership by shifting the classroom to a remote mountain landscape reached only by days of international flights and treacherous road travel?

Our trek started at Yuksam, a tiny Himalayan village at a height of 6,800 feet, passed through dense pine and rhododendron forests to Alpine meadows above the tree line and finally to a point where there was no e-mail, no electricity, no plumbing, no human settlements, no plant or animal life -- just a vast cold emptiness on a glacial moraine with some of the most remote, desolate vistas I have ever seen.

Within hours of hitting the trail it was clear that our trekkers came with varied backgrounds and abilities. Lindsay Patrick, who had grown up in the Canadian Rockies and captained the Wharton women's soccer team, scampered up the steep slopes and slithered down snowy stretches like a mountain goat. I by contrast had grown up a few hundred miles north of the equator and had not seen snow till I was in my thirties.

Our second night's campsite was the windswept plateau of Dzongri at an altitude of 13,200 feet. Lynne Dant, a marketing manager for a specialty chemicals company, and Eric Byrne, a software consultant, were anxiously anticipated the evening as this would be the first time that they had ever camped in the great outdoors. They were shocked as we neared the campsite when we were hit with a fierce Himalayan ice storm that rattled even our experienced guides. The wind howled and thunder cracked all night and into the following day, blanketing our tents and the landscape with layers of hail and snow.

As the storm continued through another night, we began to face a critical decision: whether to stay put until the weather abated, or to push higher in the storm. The snow-covered trail ahead initially dropped more than 1,000 feet into a river gorge, and then back up the other side onto a treacherous boulder field. We had no idea how slippery and dangerous the descent and subsequent ascent would be. Some of us urged that we remain at Dzongri until the storm abated, while others were eager to go. Everybody weighed in with their opinions, and the collective will came to point toward climbing higher despite the conditions. This turned out to be an excellent decision, as the sun emerged several hours later to melt the new snow and reveal an array of spectacular peaks soaring above us.

Several nights later we readied for a 3 am departure for the high pass of Go-Cha La. Our trip physician, Brad Reinke, warned us to pay close attention to any signs of altitude sickness once we ascended over 15,000 feet. A trip leader added in no uncertain terms that while going up was voluntary, getting back was mandatory. As we climbed up, each of us had to continually assess how we felt, how much higher we could ascend, and how much reserve remained for getting back down. We knew that the latter would be critical not only for own well being but also for the safety and success of the entire team.

Most of the team made it to the Go-Cha La point at 16,700 feet, and five pushed all the way up to Go-Cha La pass at 17,000 feet. Lynn Dant and I had set our own personal "Go-Cha La" of reaching at least 16,000 feet, and we succeeded in climbing higher than that and getting a magnificent up close view of Kangchenjunga before our inner voices said that was enough. With our type A personalities it was hard to say "no" to going all the way to the top. But we had to make a sensible call to leave ourselves with enough reserves to descend safely and not jeopardize the rest of the team. It proved a personal leadership moment.

(Original article in the Wharton Leadership Digest. See the 5th article from the top)

Photos from the Himalayas

2003-01-16T19:28:00.000-08:00

Two months ago I became an American citizen in a moving ceremony and thus participating in a 200 plus year experiment in freedom and the pursuit of liberty and happiness. A close friend Suku wrote this article when he witnessed his brother go through the ceremony earlier.

On Becoming American
Sukumar Ramanathan
Oct 24th, 1996

There are fifteen hundred people crowding the Masonic Auditorium on California Street in San Francisco this autumn afternoon, about to become freshly minted citizens. There were eleven hundred others on this morning in late 1996, eleven hundred who raised their right hands and said seven sentences and just like that, a breath of air, went from being Cambodian and Irish and Ethiopian to becoming American.

I am not yet one of the fifteen hundred. Instead, I sit with my sister-in-law and her mother as my brother, the younger of the two Ramanathan boys, embarks on the momentous journey. Around us are people from every corner of the world: a shy Vietnamese couple who can't seem to stop beaming; a Russian grandmother who stumbles as she walks towards her seat; a strong Haitian man, deep ebony skin, in a fine tan suit; a large Mexican family, four children, mother in a bright floral dress. There are Poles and Uzbeks and Chinese here who have been imagining this day all their lives. And between themselves the people speak urgently, in Farsi and Spanish and Czech, admonishing their children and posing for group photographs and asking for advice on filling out the voter registration form. The best Sunday suits are on display here. Brightly shined shoes and crisply ironed sleeves, and skirts in every color you can imagine.

For many, this is the day of days, as important to them as the day they graduated school or uttered their vows of marriage. This is the culmination of years of sacrifice and effort, of the pain of leaving behind their home and family, of struggling in a new land where language and culture are perplexing, of endless lines in endless consulates with plastic pouches full of forms that say I-94, H-1, J-1, Resident Alien. After this day, they will have the same blue passport as everybody else. They will fill out the same tax forms as their neighbors and be able to vote for the same candidates. There is so much joy and hope and optimism in this auditorium that it makes me blink back tears.

The United States awes me in its ability to fashion an American out of any person that it takes in. I am still at a loss when asked to picture a typical American. The term encompasses for me the Lebanese owner whose gyro shop I haunted in Chapel Hill, the Russian scientist that I assisted at Kodak Labs, the Indian that I worked for in marketing at Sun Microsystems, and the Costa Rican who runs the cash register at my cafeteria. But Rasoul wasn't Lebanese, he was American. He collected vintage Fords and had pictures of JFK on his wall. Sergei could talk for hours about the music of Leonard Bernstein. Deepak is more fluent in the American idiom than his native Tamil. And Jader served in the US Special Forces in Panama for three years. In facial features, accent and heritage, not one of them should be American. But each of them, in his own unique fashion, is.

I can imagine a Chinese citizen. He looks Chinese. And a French citizen is French from her language to her sense of style. But American? I have no idea. What connects Arnold Schwarzenegger to Professor Chandrasekhar? What is common between Monica Seles and Amy Tan? Mario Cuomo and Wayne Huizenga? What is it about this singular country that gives it the ability to take Jewish prisoners of conscience and Taiwanese students,Swiss nannies and Vietnamese boat people, Australian tycoons and Cuban balseras, and out of this jumbled polyglot stew, fashion human beings that you instantly recognize as American?

America is the only country I know of that defines it's citizenry not by race or creed but as the embodiment of an idea. The idea of the primacy of the individual and of the attendant rights and responsibilities. Try arguing for equality in Malaysia if you aren't Moslem. Or publishing a newsletter of ideas in Singapore if those ideas happen to be at odds with those of the government. It is then that you truly appreciate the American experiment.

I once spent an entire morning in Washington in the museum that houses the Declaration of Independence. There is something that is both shocking and inspirational about a document that dares to hold some truths to be self-evident. About a charter that believes that one of the inalienable rights of a human being is the pursuit of happiness. That contains instructions for its own destruction should it fail to meet its goals.

The other document that I hold in reverence is the U.S Constitution. Imagine. A group of contentious politicians gathered more than two hundred years ago on a steamy Philadelphia summer to draft a mission statement for the ages. This short document has since guided the affairs of over two hundred million people over two centuries, through a Civil War that almost rent the Union, through a catastrophic global economic depression, through two World Wars, the assassination of four heads of state and the resignation of one. And it has had to be amended a grand total of only twenty-six times.

I see a country based on ideals, not on circumstance of birth or religion. This is the siren call that has brought in Irish potato farmers and Chinese railroad workers, Italian bakers and German scientists, Hungarian code-breakers and Cambodian grocers, Indian engineers and Salvadoran restarauteurs. It doesn't matter where you came from or what you came with. What are you capable of becoming? I know of no other country that gives you such a fair shake.

This spring, I would sometimes hear the speeches of Pat Buchanan on my car radio, and fume silently. Not because I would be one of the aliens that he directs his tirades at but because he chooses to ignore the history of this country. He was schooled at Gonzaga High and studied at the finest institutions of higher education that the U.S has to offer. Is this what the Jesuit priests taught in his classroom? Where is his optimism, his imagination?

But there is strength even in that conflict of ideas. Buchanan is voicing his opinion, much different from mine. Both of us are exercising a guaranteed right. I believe as strongly in diversity as he thinks that the current rate of immigration will lead to economic catastrophe. It is a wondrous nation indeed that allows us both our forum, just as it grants the freedom of public opinion to Howard Stern, Ellen Goodman, David Dukes, the Reverend Al Sharpton or the Freemen.

We all rise to our feet. The San Mateo High School Honor Guard marches in and presents the colors. On either side of the judge, there slowly unfurls the Stars and Stripes and the flag of the California Republic. Mohammed Samini, a lawyer from Iran, leads the oath of allegiance in a tremulous voice. Fifteeen hundred voices resonate with his. The judge smiles and says, "Welcome, citizens of America". The clapping that follows rises in waves to the roof.

As the throng leaves the auditorium, many more family members and friends descend to greet the new citizens with hugs. Everyone seems to be smiling. Camcorders record every movement and the continuous flash of cameras is dizzying. We pose self-consciously, taking photographs of each other to commemorate this precious moment. Then we ask others to take pictures of us all.

We scatter outside onto the shiny mosaic floor of the foyer, among us the newest ensigns of a two hundred and twenty year old experiment in governance.

Sean O'Casey.
Olga Rachevsky.
Thanh Vo.
Ramon Guittirez.
Jaikumar Ramanathan.
*-*-*

2002-09-14T20:19:00.000-07:00

Remembering September 11, 2001

This week marks the first anniversary of the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington on September 11, 2001. As I pause to reflect on the events that have unfolded since then I am struck, both by the human ability to cope with almost any crisis and the seeming inability to learn in certain areas. On the one hand the tales of heroism by families that lost a loved one and the people who reached out to help are inspirational. On the other hand I wonder what is it about human beings that gives us this capacity to create anger and hate against another human being that is externally different from us and wants us to destroy the other person. On many levels human being over the years have demonstrated the tremendous capability to learn and deal with nature, the physical world, diseases etc. Otherwise we would not be flying in airplanes, reading this blog, or working on the 100th floor of office buildings. But when it comes to the futility of a cycle of hatred and violence we seem unable to draw any lessons.

Last year in the days following the September 11 attacks I sent the email below to some friends.
My friends Maureen, Hal, and I just came back from a very moving gathering in downtown Palo Alto near Stanford University. It was an interfaith gathering of human beings in support of Peace, Justice, and Healing organized by the First Presbyterian Church of Palo Alto in an open air plaza in the middle of the downtown area. There were about 400 people. It was organized as a prayer meeting and started off with a Muslim Cleric reciting verses from the Koran, followed by Catholic Priests, Buddhist ministers, Jewish Rabbi, Quakers, Mormon Clerics, representatives from the Bahai faith, Black Baptist ministers, and a number of varied faiths from all around the San Francisco bay area. The message throughout the evening was one of love, peace, tolerance, compassion, forgiveness, and healing. Joan Baez was there and led us all in song in her beautiful voice. It was a small enough gathering that I was able to go up to her and give her a hug and thank her for helping us with the healing process. But I was too emotional and was barely able to say much between the tears. She just gave me another hug and said we all need this healing process. Her niece also sang another song in a beautiful voice that shows much promise.

There were Arab-Americans and Muslim women with their head covered in the gathering. A Lebanese-Palestinian- American spoke and talked about all the terrorism and mayhem he had witnessed growing up and how he loved this country for accepting him . They are all struggling with the pain like everyone else. In fact when a Muslim cleric or speaker spoke or led us in prayer the applause was the loudest. Clearly the message from the people present was that we need to
get through this together and not turn against each other. People held hands, hugged each other, sang together, and wept openly. It was a moving
ceremony. I wept several times as did my friends who were with me all of us of different ethnic heritages.

It has been an emotionally exhausting week for all of us. I have wept a few times through the week. I think I am grieving for many things - at the immediate loss, destruction, and displacement in NY/DC. I am also grieving for the loss of a free and trusting way of life. I am grieving at the fear of the unimaginable limits of evil that human beings can go to. I am grieving at our inability to comprehend both the scale of what happened and why people do what they just did.

Everyday on my way to work I go through a list of ten different things that I am grateful for. A different list for each day. On many days a fact that made the list was the fact that we live in a time of such peace and prosperity. The second was that we live in such a multi-cultural world united in many ways while at the same
time celebrating our diversity. I think I am grieving because I am frightened that this may change.

My hope is that there will be lots of love, patience, and healing around the world over the next several months. On the one hand we have to create a
world where these events don't happen while at the same time we don't lose the above things I am grateful for. We have to preserve this beautiful world
we know because we borrowed it from our children.
-------------------------------------
(In June 2001, I was in the mountains of Colorado rafting rivers and climbing mountains as part of an outward bound course. Tom Peterson was one of the people with me during this program. Tom wrote the thought provoking article below shortly after September 11, 2001)

I have a two year old child. Two. The age where they say 'I'm two my next birthday" and hold up any number of fingers not understanding age or the
fact that the next birthday they speak of has long since past. She is now laying on my lap, in my arms, head folded forward and eyes closed. She
sleeps.

I lean forward and push the fine blond hair from her temple and rest my lips there long enough to feel the warmth of her soul and I know I am on
the kissing spot and that is what I do. Not once or twice or even three times but more as my eyes peer out the window and thoughts of the world
swirl and I think if I were to die this would certainly be a wonderful way to go. With that I look at her and I wonder what would become of her or
would she perish with me. Would that be better?

I just finished reading an email written to the perpetrators of the horrendous crime that has turned our world and knocked it off the axis we
are so familiar and comfortable with. Things are turning a bit differently now and no one has yet learned to walk on this platform which spins beneath
our feet differently than it once did. There is talk of love and hatred, each side calling one another a coward. Each speaks of God as if he is the
captain of one team and not the other and each side claims him. They don't know much about us, we not much about them. They hate us. We don't know
enough about them to have had thoughts one way or the other nor did we really care but now we hate them- whoever they are.

I look at my daughter and I think that in this country she could grow to be a Muslim. Certainly she was born into and being raised as a Christian but
in this country people end up making decisions as to how they will lead their own lives. So I wonder what benefit is it to perform such acts and
plant a seed deep within her that shall possibly create an enemy with both knowledge and hatred of them when in fact she could choose to follow that
faith some day. But this coin is not unlike any other which has another side.

We are hated. Hated by a people who have had countless bombs dropped from their sky for countless reasons killing innocent people and babies- such as
the one I am holding both in my arms and my heart. Are those parents who lost children and children who lost parents different than I or my child?
Do I understand what it is like to live day by day fearing attacks?

We have now tasted the acid of such an event. We are now starting to live a similar kind of life were we fear such things as getting on a plane for
vacation, attending an event like those which draw large crowds to football and baseball games where we watch multimillionaires play a sport.
I dare say we have a long way to go before we are as steeled to it as they and are able to walk down a street as the gunfire is chatting with such
predictability that newscasters have no problem capturing it for us to see from the comfort of our homes.

Cowards- they to us, we to them. They willing to train for years to meet their ends and give their lives in fighting their fight against a
super-power- cowards? We, willing to openly march in with the might a world power holds to protect our soil and freedom- cowards? I think not in
either case and what difference does it make anyway. Is it just another reason for one to condone a planned offensive or defensive move?

Who is right, who is wrong- both sides know the answer and that is why we are about to go to war. It is always the other side and both sides now
have enough hurt and pain to prove it and to march.

What should we do? I do not know. There is fear, there is doubt, there is questioning. Each one of us will sort through these things and come to our
own opinion and those will be debated as time goes on and in the days to come. But now I must trust in our leaders and support them. As the debates
commence, we must continue to be unified as there is no real answer- right or wrong. There is only action and reaction, circumstance and response,
cause and affect. We debate the lessons of history and disagree, how do we know the results of todays actions upon tomorrow? We can only go
forward and hope as going forward in a straight line offers more predictable consequences than stumbling all about.

One thing is for sure, though, it cannot happen again. The pain, the damage, the suffering, the agony. It is just too devastating. It just
cannot happen again- not just here but anywhere. Not by any group or to any group. So I guess we need to do it again- just one last time: just like Grandpa did and great grandpa and those before him.

As I lay my daughter down I look at the peacefulness there before me and I know that all children are like this where-ever they call home. And I
realize that seeds are being planted in these children both here and afar to hate. Those seeds will germinate, they will sprout and my daughter
will be hated by those she does not know and it is also possible she may well learn to hate those who do not know her.

With this in mind I lean over and place my lips to her kissing spot and hope for the best for all. The peace and tranquility in planting that kiss
and feeling the warmth of her soul through my lips cause me to think if I were to die this would certainly be a wonderful way to go.

2002-07-15T18:22:00.000-07:00

'TERENCE, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'

Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all the springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
--I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.

A. E. Housman (1859-1936).

2002-06-28T00:10:00.000-07:00

I was getting ready for a musical treat this Wednesday when my current favorite band The Counting Crows would open for a former favorite band The Who at my favorite outdoor concert venue The Shoreline Amphitheater in Mountain View.

But earlier today John Entwistle bassist and founding member of The Who was found dead in his room at the Hard Rock hotel and casino in Las Vegas, victim of a heart attack. He was 57. The Who were to start their summer tour through the US tomorrow with the first concert at the Hard Rock hotel.

Entwistle, was known for his stoically self controlled presence on stage while his hyperkinetic bandmates wreaked havoc around him. Their stage antics were infamous: Townsend's had his frantic windmills and stage jumps, Moon's was a wild animal behind the drum kits, Daltrey spun the microphone and sprinted all over the stage, while the impassive Entwistle surveyed it all. At the end of a set, no instrument was safe. During a concert at Britain's Rikki Tik Club in 1966, Townshend whacked Entwistle in the head with his guitar; the following year, as the band ended a performance Moon detonated an explosive that destroyed his drum set, shocked the audience and detonated Townshend's eardrums.

Entwistle outranked Paul McCartney, Led Zeppelin's John Paul Jones and Cream's Jack Bruce as Guitar Magazine's "Bassist of the Millennium."

So just for tonite let The Who rock on your stereo with Behind Blue Eyes, Babba O' Riley, and I Can See For Miles.

2002-06-19T15:24:00.000-07:00

Fragile

If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour of the evening sun
Tomorrow’s rain will wash the stains away
But something in our minds will always stay

Perhaps this final act was meant
To clinch a lifetime’s argument
That nothing comes from violence
And nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star. Like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are How fragile we are

---Sting in "all this time" which he recorded on Sept 11, 2001.

As troubling news of violence continues to come in from around the world - violence at a personal level, community level, and at a national level - I sometimes despair if we are incapable of learning from 5000 years of human history that nothing comes from violence and how fragile we really are as human beings. But then I continue to dream on as a hopeless romantic that we will heal as people and come together in one spirit on this lonely planet we live on.

2002-06-15T13:23:00.000-07:00

I first came across BLOGs in an article by Chris Taylor in TIME (Feb 11,2002). Four months later, I was sitting in a train station in Hong Kong, when I came across another article in TIME that mentioned how BLOGS were spreading like wildfire across the web. I knew then that I would be hooked before long.

This then is my BLOG, a vehicle for me to share with friends and interested travelers through this planet the richness of life on our lonely planet as I experience it.

I just returned from a three month trip through India, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Australia. During this trip I joined a group from The Wharton School of Business, University of Pennsylvania on a trek to Kanchenchunga in Sikkim in the Eastern Himalayas. The trek was part of a leadership program led by Wharton Professor Mike Useem and took us to 17,000 feet in the neighborhood of Kanchenchunga which at 28,168 feet is the third highest peak in the world.
More details of the trek...
Photos from the trek....

During the trip I also finished reading a fascinating book, "Dot.con, The Greatest Story Ever Sold" by John Cassidy, a staff writer at the New Yorker. In a lively and entertaining narrative, Cassidy describes the creation, inflation, and deflation of the Internet bubble. In a well researched account, full of interesting anecdotes, the book takes you through a history of the nationwide epizootic that was fed fuel by entrepreneurs, venture capitalists, investment bankers, the financial press, the fed, and the investing public.