Green Papaya Kutcha

On the eve of a family prayer, the women in the family gather and cook together for the lunch that will follow the prayer. Kutcha can be made from unripe mangoes, fruit-de-cythère and a number of unripe fruits, including papaya. You may be frustrated by the lack of specific measures, but it's all done to taste.

To make green papaya kutcha, you need:

One green papaya
Vegetable oil
Mustard seeds, coarsely ground
Turmeric powder
Crushed garlic cloves
Salt


1. Chop off the papaya where the stalk was attached, and use the 'little hat' to wipe off the 'milk' that will ooze out.


2.Cut the papaya in quarters and peel it.


3.Next, scrape out the white seeds inside and grate the papaya finely.


4.Add a lot of salt to the grated papaya and leave to stand for 30 minutes. Then wring the grated papaya using your fingers or a fine piece of muslin until the mixture is more or less dry (to avoid spluttering in the hot oil later).


5.In a frying-pan, heat the oil then remove it from the stove.

6. Stir in the ground mustard, crushed garlic and the turmeric powder in the warm oil.

7. Add the grated papaya, stirring all the while until you get a deep yellow mixture. Taste it and add salt if necessary.

The kutcha can be served as an accompaniment to rice and dhal or puris and curry. Labour intensive, but tasty!

Étudier ≠ Apprendre

Comment passe-t-on du cuisinier amateur au cuisinier professionnel?

Il y a les études bien sûr. Mais il y a surtout l'apprentissage.

Interview de Yannick Alléno, Chef, L'Express, 24 novembre 2006

Last night we listened to a lady of about 70 years old tell us of her marriage. She married at 16, and has spent a lifetime rearing her children, now well-to-do adults, and taking care of her home and husband.

She spoke of her husband like a young bride does. She told us how he still sulks whenever she stays a little late at one of her children’s place, and how he refuses to drink the tea she makes then, feeling neglected. She insisted on the fact that her husband, despite his moods, was a very good man. She cited the example of her children who do not raise their voices to her and her husband and patiently accept even unwanted advice calmly.

She recalled how she left a house of 11 rooms to arrive in her husband’s house of one bedroom, and how she prayed on that day to simply have the courage to make this work. She said she thinks her husband loves her perhaps more than her own sons love their wives, from what she can observe. She said values, rather than money had proven to make a family stand strong. She spoke of him in such terms as made us start to love this 78-year-old man.

As we were dropping her off home, where her husband had returned with his son a little earlier, she said, grinning cheekily, “Let me go and get my little scolding now”. He was waiting at the door for her and waved us goodbye before closing the door.

Wives are not merely wives and mothers now, and husbands sometimes struggle to fulfil their traditional bread-winner role. But really, listening to her speak, also knowing well how unromantic it actually was sometimes, it was not so bad.

How sweet...

...is summer.

Choisy, on the North Coast.

Sandalitius

Sandals.
If there's one country where you're going to see them, it's in Mauritius.

I used to think having three pairs of sandals was being girly and self-indulging. I still think so. But you've seen nothing until you've seen some of the private collections here. Sandals of all shapes, colours and heel-height.

Wearing a pair of black standard sandals just doesn't cut it when you have girls matching the blue of their T to the exact blue of the open-toed swirly-girly shoe. And imagine coming back from Thailand with 14 pairs of shoes, of which most are various kinds of sandals!

The yawning gaps in my own possessions glared out at the recent wedding. You should have seen the show! Once more, no over-arching "black is good with everything" logic. Instead, shades and detail outshone each other to match with the sarees and salwaars...

Then again, you might be wearing the most innocuous pair, but if it's bought in a different country, everyone notices it. That's because every woman worth her salt knows the range available locally, and will not grace those with a comment.

The season for them is back soon. The ultimate compliment? "It's 'different'!" :D

"She looks back to the time she appeared to have everything, and reckons she was a mess of confusions. "Your twenties are torture, really, because you don't know what you are going to be or whether it's all going to work out, and you are supposedly an adult but you haven't really learnt anything. You're always looking for your own place in the world, but you're insecure - you think you're wonderful one minute and you think you're a disaster the next. I think your thirties are a wonderful time." And her sixties? "It's brilliant, really, the way life organises itself, because you just slowly get used to what you are, don't you?"

- Helen Mirren, actress, The Guardian, Saturday September 2, 2006

The grip of a tune

There is such a thing as being contaminated by a tune. Everyone knows it. Someone hums past you, and one minute later, you're humming a song. You're not quite sure where it came from, and sometimes the initiator cheekily gets you by pointing out that you caught theirs.

There is another thing as being gripped by a melody. When you've been even slightly exposed to playing music, this grip can last really long. If you have no access to an instrument, a piano melody can haunt your fingers for years. Every time you sit down to "play" a tune in your mind, your fingers "see" the ivory keys.

And when I finally sat down in front of a keyboard after 3 years, it felt like I had already played it several times. We are not talking about proper piano-playing here. I have never been trained. But the feeling of release is undescribable. I can only imagine what it is for real musicians. It was as if suddenly a long-suppressed sigh was allowed to leave and stroll through the air.

It felt like a part of myself had come back home.

Pride, such a dangerous thing.

Among the different kinds of people I know, two tendencies stand out.

With some of them, I’m regularly surprised to realise that they’re actually happy. You find that out one day, when, accidentally, they voice out something positive, or you catch them smiling, and you realise that they must be happy. You’re surprised, because if you only listened, you’d never know. I think those people are scared that talking about their happiness would make it go away, and so they can only share the grey and black.

And then there are the others, whom you look at and you’d think they’re always well. You never really worry about those people, because somehow, you feel they make it through. I think those people feel that talking about the greys and blacks in their lives would be off-loading on others what they should deal with on their own. And so they share happy things which sometimes strike the first kind of person as being frivolous and unimportant when weighed against the really heavy problems.

The truth, of course, is that both those people have both in their lives. As a friend though, it can be hard to know when something is serious or when it’s just temporary drama, or when something is wrong behind the positive outlook on things.

I guess that’s why listening, with the heart, remains irreplaceable.

Sister's wedding D-17

So. It's my sister's wedding :) Soon.

In two days it's the civil wedding. It's a small family thing, but it's a very solemn occasion and I am privileged to be one of the witnesses. If I reach there on time to witness it that is.

It happens to be on the ONE Saturday where I have to work until 16h30. That was arranged months ago. The civil wedding date was settled 2 weeks ago. The signing will take place at 17h00 in our living room, at home.

Granted I'm only 15 minutes away from the place. It'll only take a high-speed taxi to get there, and fast-dressing skills. It's a networking activity at work, so it's going to be lightning switch between "Hello, we are so great!" to "Oh my God! My sister's married".

Sometimes those American slap-stick comedies don't seem so strange, nor even that funny. It's all in a day's work.

Comfort from the earth

Potatoes, golden fried, crispy outside, melting inside. Soft and creamy, mashed with milk and black pepper. Small, boiled and pale, with poppy seeds, sesame oil, boiled eggs and chopped tomatoes. Stewed and warm, on the verge of being tipped into the chicken casserole.

Sweet potatoes, deep orange, caramelised after an hour in the oven and oozing honey scent. Shredded and turned into exotic chips. Pearly white and stuffed into pastry for childhood cakes.

Spuds, patates, pommes-de-terre, potatoes, potah-toes, the most earthy food, the most homely food :)

The foolishness of humans

It starts with a country that lacks control on the guerilla forces within its boundaries.

The Lebanese government does not control the Hezbollah. The Hezbollah practically rules Southern Lebanon and is widely credited for Israel’s withdrawal from Southern Lebanon in 2000, earning itself mass popularity among the Lebanese. Its “civilian” wing is a minority party in government, whilst its “military” wing operates missiles and drones.

And so when Hezbollah’s military wing decides to kidnap two Israeli soldiers on July 12 to use them as pawns for a prisoner exchange, they set up the beginning of a new Israel-Lebanon crisis taking place right now.

The beautiful country that is Lebanon is now suffering for what its guerilla forces have brought upon it. Israel has the perfect excuse to bomb the whole country. Again.

Where is the line drawn between an Israeli state that has to defend itself, a Lebanese state that has prisoners of an unjust war rotting in jails in Israel and governments that have abdicated in the face of a powerless Security Council hijacked by the US?

What makes a man lose his calm like this?

Zidane has given other demonstrations of frustration in the past, also translated by head-butting. In the end, Man keeps trying to control the world outside more and more, when the real challenge is actually getting a grip on oneself inside.

I love Zidane, although I'm less fervent about the French team. He would have deserved better had he known how to rein in his temper. We still don't know what it was, but it's likely a combination of deep provocation and pent-up frustration at not scoring earlier. None of which mattered once he was sitting in the changing rooms ruing his gesture.

And that's the tragedy of it: plus tard, c'est trop tard.

Consuming is not a civic duty

This Guardian article is about two people who decided to cut off from the consumerist folly for a year. I am no stranger to impulse-buying or splurging, but I believe there's something in this story for everyone. There should be no internal or external compulsion to buy. And we need less than we think.

Some excerpts:

In New York, only a day after the towers fell, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani counselled his trembling constituents to "show you're not afraid. Go to restaurants. Go shopping." When the world's people asked how they could help, he responded, "Come here and spend money." Shopping became a patriotic duty. Buy that flat-screen TV, our leaders commanded, or the terrorists will have won."

This is freedom? I asked myself. This is democracy?"

But, I ask myself, can a person have a social, community or family life, a business, a connection to the culture, an identity, even a self, outside the realm of purchased things and experiences?"

Consumption is an exercise in hope - hope for more happiness, more beauty, more status, more fun."

Fashion depends as much on repulsion as attraction. At the turn of the 20th century, Veblen described the way in which "the best of our fashions strike us as grotesque" a few months past their prime. He called the phenomenon "aesthetic nausea"."

-Judith Levine, "Bye buy", The Guardian, Saturday July 8, 2006

Thai monks mix Buddha with Beckham

by Kate McGeown, BBC News, Bangkok

Like billions of other people around the world, 25-year-old Phra Prawit is avidly following the World Cup - and especially his favourite team, France.
On the other side of Bangkok, 28-year-old England fan Pramaha Preecha is equally addicted to the beautiful game.

But Prawit, Preecha and their football-mad friends have a problem: they are Buddhist monks and have to be awake at 5 am every morning to collect alms from the local community.

Because of the six-hour time difference between Germany and Thailand, many matches do not start until the early hours of the morning, and since the World Cup began there have been reports of monks sleeping in, leaving local Buddhists waiting in vain with their morning offerings.

One report in the Nation newspaper cited an angry woman in the city of Chiang Mai who said her birthday celebrations had been ruined because she arrived at a temple with her carefully-prepared alms, only to find that most monks were still in bed.

But Prawit and Preecha know where their priorities lie. Despite their allegiance to the football, they rarely stay up past midnight.

"I watched some football the other night, but I fell asleep after 15 minutes," said Preecha. "I had to follow up what had happened the next morning."

His friend Phra Phitak has an established World Cup routine. "I get up early, meditate and collect alms. But as soon as I get back to the temple for breakfast, I turn on the TV or check the internet to find out the score from the previous night's match."

Football fever

The issue of whether monks should be allowed to watch football has been a topic of debate in Thailand over the last few weeks, with the subject featuring in newspaper reports and TV chat shows.

After all, Cambodian monks have apparently been asked to steer clear.

The chief monk in the capital, Phnom Penh, told the French news agency AFP that monks found watching the World Cup should be kicked out of their temples.

In Thailand, though, it appears the consensus of opinion is that monks should be able to follow Beckham as well as Buddha - as long as they don't take their passion for football to an excessive level.

One senior abbot I spoke to, Pramaha Grissana, said: "Some Thai Buddhists don't want monks to watch the football, as they think we should be separate from the lives of laymen. Personally, though, I think it's fine."

In any case, it is hard to prevent young Thai monks supporting a sport that the rest of Thailand is obsessed with. Their country might not be in the competition, but that has not stopped Thais from following every free kick, red card and own goal of the 2006 World Cup.

Bars showing the football are packed to capacity whenever a match is on, and according to one research centre, Kasikorn, Thai people will wager up to $1bn on the tournament, despite the fact that gambling is illegal.

Average Thai citizens think nothing of watching into the small hours of the morning.

"I've seen every single match," said 32-year-old Brazil supporter Protpinan Buranayooyti proudly. "I've specially kept some of my holiday allowance, so I can take some days off work and not get too tired."

So it's not surprising that while temples may be places of sanctuary from the outside world, even they are not completely free of the all-pervasive love of football.

In Pariwas temple, where Phra Prawit lives, the monks have taken this one step further. A golden statue of David Beckham - forever immortalised with his late 90s-era floppy hairstyle - is nestled among the Buddha images.

Since it was created in 1998, the statue has become a tourist attraction, but the temple's monks are non-plussed by all the interest.

"Beckham's all right," said Brazil supporter Phra Phitak, busy washing bright orange robes outside the temple, "but personally I think Ronaldhino is a better player."

Red card on excitement

The one stipulation that senior Thai Buddhists agree on when it comes to the World Cup is that monks should not become too emotional when they watch their teams play.

"It's not good for monks to shout and get too excited," said abbot Pramaha Grissana.
"It's not the Buddhist way - we should be calm and take things slowly."

His colleague, Phra Pornchai, agreed. "I'm supporting Germany, but I've been a monk for a long time and I've learnt not to get emotional. If Germany win, I'll be happy, but if not I will accept it."

"I support my team in a quiet way," added Pramaha Suriya, "But it's difficult, because my temple is near Khao San Road [the main centre for foreign backpackers] and I can hear people yelling and shouting when the matches are on."

As the World Cup final approaches, there is little doubt that monks throughout Thailand will be glued to their screens.

But the question is - unlike the rest of the world's football fans - can they contain their emotions at the result?

Story from BBC NEWS

© BBC MMVI

This is still...

Mauritius on a Sunday morning.

Surprise at the Final?

Oh well! England is out. Outer than out. Any comment on that one can only unearth miserable feelings.

I certainly hope the Germans beat the Squadra Azzura to a pulp today. Hopefully the Italians' reputation for simulation is well known enough that they won't get any random penalties from the referee, that is, if they haven't already bought him off! (See Italian match-fixing scandal.)

And what now of the Final? I'd go with Germany against France. The second semi-final will depend on how resilient France is. As for who will win the Cup, all the bets are open now.

"A mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed
that uses it."

-Rabindranath Tagore-

By the skin of their teeth

England barely made it through to the 1/4 finals. A tepid game, and really, incredible luck. Beckham did his job, and showed again what a difference a striker like him can make.

But what was that game between Holland and Portugal? Such ugliness at such a level was shameful. We seriously thought they'd be playing 3 vs 4 by the end of it. The Netherlands, instead of focusing their energy on scoring after some frustrating misses, dispersed it in reckless angry moves against Portugal. Portugal spared no low blows, with a referee who was just not looking when he should have, a number of times.

Portugal sails through in tatters, and leaves one more chance for England to move forward.

A few unrelated gripes

1. Why, oh why, can't the French coach get Dhorasoo to start that game against Togo tonight? The voodoo sorcerer in Togo threw some cowrie shells and already forecast that Togo will score first, that France will win 2-1 and that France will still be eliminated because of the insufficient goal difference.

2. Shampoo that claims to eliminate frizz and conditioner that claims to tame the "straw effect" need to be removed from the market. They are blatant liers.

3. Microsoft ought to be ashamed to put out a product such as Word 2003 where it takes TWO hours to format headings and tables for a 100-page document, and get a table of contents going, only for it all to shift and the numbering to go haywire in five minutes. And yes, I'm ashamed we use it.

BUT
Today is Friday.

The War on the Plastic Bag

by Stephen Moss

Plastic bags are used for an average of 20 minutes each, but can then stick around for 1,000 years (presumably this is an estimate, rather than an established fact, as plastic bag production was low in 1006). They get into the sea and kill whales and dolphins, which confuse them with jellyfish, eat them and choke. There are also a large number littering my street. They are clearly a menace, but does anyone know how many there really are - not just in my street, but in Britain as a whole?

- The Guardian, 6 June 2006 -
Read the whole article

The Math of it

Angola managed to withhold elimination last night. A brilliant game against Mexico, even while playing with 10 players after the 79th minute, ensured that Angola is still in the Cup. The details of how it should get through though are not exactly straightforward.

For that to happen, Portugal must beat Iran today. That will ensure Portugal is top of the group with 6 points. Then on Wednesday June 21st, Portugal must beat Mexico with at least a 2-goal difference AND Angola must beat Iran with at least a one goal difference.

If Portugal only wins by a one-goal difference, then Angola will have to ensure it scores 3 goals more than Iran! One thing is clear: Iran had better lose all its games. Africa could still be in the next round :)

It's launched!

Yesterday, you could really tell the World Cup had begun. A disappointing game from France, with the only breath-taking moment being the near miss by Vikash Dhorasoo, a French player born of Mauritian parents. About 400,000 people must have jumped off their seats in Mauritius alone. I favour three teams in this Cup: England, Holland, and Dhorasoo ;)

The Croatian fight against Brazil was remarkable. Instead of simply retreating behind a defensive game, they were there giving it their everything, risking it to the end. A beautiful game, with many missed occasions, and a beautiful goal by the unfortunately named Kaka. Croatia deserves to go far in the Cup if they keep this up. France had better get its act together, and England too, after that poor showing against Paraguay. The surprise so far? Australia. Let's watch the Roos.

Despite my strong prejudice against Brazil, I have to admit the gorgeousness of their game. There's work to be done this time, but the smooth passes, the reckless dribbling, the playfulness of it all is a lesson in itself.

Serbia & Montenegro

This team has made it to the World Cup Final Phase and will never get there again. There is no longer such a country. After the 21 May referendum, these are now two countries. It is of quirky historical interest to note that while a World Cup has been co-hosted by 2 countries, I don't believe it has actually happened before that two countries play as one team. There is only one Montenegrin in the team: the goalkeeper. Knowing that the secession of Montenegro is considered by most Serbians to be an insult to their former grandeur, that player's place is not a very good one to be in. I would have loved to be a (blind) fly on the walls of their dressing room. Football is less than ever simply a matter of ball. Here's some information in French, and more in the article below.

Say hello to Miss Montenegro, 12 June 2006, by Tim Garton Ash

How many countries are there in Europe?
It depends on what you mean by Europe - and what you mean by a country.
The European Union has 25 member states. The Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe has 55 "participating states," but they include Andorra, the Holy See, Liechtenstein, Monaco and San Marino, which are all within the bounds of the EU without being members of it. The Council of Europe, which claims on its Web site to represent "800 million Europeans," has 46 member states.

The Miss Europe beauty pageant has had contestants from Turkey, Israel and Lebanon. However you tally it, there's no question that Europe has more countries per capita than any other continent. China is one country for 1.3 billion people; Europe is somewhere between 45 and 55 countries for (at most) 800 million people. And this week, we'll get one more. Step forward, Miss Montenegro!

On May 21, 86 percent of the 484,720 people on the newly cleansed Montenegrin electoral register turned out to vote in a referendum - and 55.53 percent of those voters chose independence. According to rules embraced by Montenegro under pressure from the EU, a majority of 55 percent in a turnout exceeding 50 percent was needed for the independence vote to be valid. So they just scraped through.

The Montenegrin parliament has to formalize the claim to independence, and the knotty details of a velvet divorce from Serbia must be negotiated, but there's no doubt that a country called Montenegro will soon appear on the political map of Europe. Or, rather, reappear - Montenegro was there before, for 40 years between 1878 and 1918.

The original Montenegro, a kingdom created after an armed struggle for independence against the Ottoman Turks, was the model for the comic Ruritanian-style kingdom of Pontevedro in Franz Lehar's operetta The Merry Widow. Montenegro was extinguished with the help of the Western allies after World War I and replaced by Yugoslavia.

Its reappearance today is, in the first place, a shattering defeat for the nationalist project of a Greater Serbia opportunistically embraced by the post-communist Slobodan Milosevic. When Kosovo follows Montenegro to independence, as it surely will, then Serbia will be a landlocked rump state - a bruised loser of European history.

Yet the Montenegrin pole vault over the high bar set by the EU is also a defeat for a certain West European approach that kept urging the ex-Yugoslavs to stay together when they obviously wanted to part. In the region, people referred to the Union of Serbia and Montenegro (the ramshackle state structure that Montenegro voted to leave) as "Solania" - an ironic reference to the EU's foreign policy chief, Javier Solana, who was its main architect. Solana's fear was that a Montenegrin dash to independence might encourage Kosovar Albanians and Bosnian Serbs to demand the same, undermining the fragile peace that the EU was working to preserve.
Though the fear was understandable, the approach was misguided. If people really want to divorce, and if it is possible within the frontiers of viable states, they should be allowed to do so. What matters is that they do it by peaceful, constitutional and democratic means.

The unresolved issues of sovereignty and constitutional status have crippled attempts at economic and social reform in Serbia and Montenegro and Kosovo for the last five years. Sometimes it's better to cut the Gordian knot. Now the citizens of Montenegro and Serbia know that they have to make their own way to prosperity, democracy and the rule of law.
The end of Solania need not mean a return to Ruritania.

Timothy Garton Ash is a professor of European studies at Oxford University.

Angola

Yesterday Angola, the former Portuguese colony, fought a brave game against Portugal. Portugal won 1-0, from a goal scored at the 4th minute, but this game was beautiful for the history behind it, and for the sheer determination displayed by players on both sides. I certainly hope Angola makes it through. This article from National Geographic provides great insight.

Greater Goal: Healing a War-Torn Land, by Henning Mankell

The first time I visited Angola I was not aware that I was in that country. It was 1987 and I was living in the northwestern corner of Zambia, near the Angolan border. Narrow sand roads twisted through the endless bush. It was easy to get stuck while driving, and I often lost my bearings on my way to some distant village. When I'd stop to ask for directions, if the person I spoke to answered in Portuguese then it was imperative to get back to the right side of the invisible border quickly. Angola, so deeply wounded by its long colonial period, was throttled after liberation from Portugal by a violent civil war. The rebel leader Jonas Savimbi's warriors, infamous for indiscriminate violence, were everywhere. A generation of Angolans did not know what it was to live in a country where peace reigned.

But there was also something magical about that land beyond the invisible border: Soccer was everywhere. On gravel pitches and sandy beaches, on sidewalks and city squares, the ball was played back and forth between hordes of young men. The balls were made of the most remarkable materials, an old T-shirt or fishing net or woman's handbag filled up with paper and grass. But they rolled and bounced, and you could do headers with them and make goals with them. War could never kill soccer in Angola. The soccer fields were demilitarized zones, and the face-off between teams conducting an intense yet essentially friendly battle served as a defense against the horrors that raged all around. It is harder for people who play soccer together to go out and kill each other.

Angola has seen many of its soccer players leave the country to seek their livelihood, mostly in Portugal. But they have not given up their citizenship. And when they are called home to put on black shorts and red socks and jerseys, their national team colors, they do not hesitate. They are known fondly as Palancas Negras, the "black antelopes."

On the eighth of October 2005, Angola arrives at Amahoro Stadium in Kigali. At that moment the astonishing situation is that if Angola can beat Rwanda by even a single goal, it will qualify for the World Cup ahead of Nigeria—no matter what happens in Nigeria's game against Zimbabwe. It is a nightmarish wait for all the Angolans who sit with their ears glued to radios. Luanda stands still, Huambo, Lubango, Namibe, Lobito, Benguela, Malanje, every city, every village is gathered at radios. Perhaps even the antelopes themselves stand out on the savanna with pricked ears.

When the first half ends, the score is tied at zero. Meanwhile, Nigeria is on its way to victory over Zimbabwe. But in Kigali the game continues without a goal. It all seems to be ending badly for Angola. One wonders what the players and coaches said to each other at the half. Nervousness spreads among the players. Rwanda, playing only for its honor, comes close to scoring on several occasions. Everyone agrees that Angola is playing miserably. It is a team at the edge of a breakdown, missing passes and misunderstanding each other. There are ten minutes left. The Angolans are almost unconscious in their desperation. Then the last-minute replacement Zé Kalanga makes a cross pass that is as surprising as it is brilliant. Fabrice "Akwa" Maieco is in the right place. With a header he perfectly launches the game's only goal, past Rwanda's goalie, one bounce on the ground, and then the ball flies up into the net.

A person would have to live for a long time in Africa to understand what this victory means. Of course no one imagines today that Angola will get very far in the tournament. But it is in the very nature of soccer to be unpredictable. If it were not the case that underdogs can sometimes defeat the predicted winners, soccer would be uninteresting.

But a great victory has already been won. It brought no gleaming cup. This triumph exists first of all in the hearts and minds of the Angolan people. To go to the finals of the World Cup in soccer means an enormous amount to the self-confidence of a country that has been ravaged by war and deprivation. A country, battered for so long, will be built up again.

(Henning Mankell is the author of some 40 novels, including crime novels featuring inspector Kurt Wallander. He divides his time between Sweden and Mozambique, where he directs Teatro Avenida.)

Ivory Coast

The Way to Win: Juju on the Field, by Paul Laity

The party began at ten to six. Ivory Coast had just qualified for the World Cup—for the first time ever. In an instant, the city of Abidjan was full of people and noise. Fans in tangerine and white and green poured onto the streets, drivers hooted their horns; loud zouglou music was playing, and pots and pans were joyously banged. The partygoers danced a new dance, the "Drogbacité," named in honor of the team's star striker, Didier Drogba: They mimed his feints, turns, and the unleashing of unstoppable shots. Others tried out the fouka-fouka, Drogba's trademark celebratory hip-swivel—a little piece of Ivoirian culture known to soccer fans everywhere. The maquis—open-air cafés, bars, and mini-nightclubs—stayed open all night serving "Drogbas," bottles of local beer, so called because of their size and potency. A number of the drinkers had "Les Éléphants" painted on their chests, the nickname of the national team: Elephants represent power and are said to be lucky, too—protected by a spell. The team had suffered its share of disappointments; finally, the name seemed appropriate. Excited fans announced that soccer could do more than any politician to put an end to the civil war.

Over the past six years, the Ivory Coast's southern-based regime has fomented hatred of immigrants and Muslims, yet many of the country's best soccer players are from Muslim and immigrant families, so the national team has become an irresistible symbol of unity. At the end of the Abidjan victory parade, the head of the Ivory Coast Football Federation addressed a plea to President Laurent Gbagbo: "The players have asked me to tell you that what they most want now is for our divided country to become one again. They want this victory to act as a catalyst for peace in Ivory Coast, to put an end to the conflict and to reunite its people. This success must bring us together." The party on the streets lasted another whole day.

President Gbagbo did his best to be identified with the conquering team. He talked of a rejuvenated nation and gave each of the players the equivalent of a knighthood and a swanky villa. But Henri Michel, the French coach of the Ivoirian soccer team, was notably absent from the celebration at President Gbagbo's residence. He was, presumably, an awkward reminder of the colonial legacy. The governmental sponsors of anti-French thinking in today's Ivory Coast face a difficulty when it comes to soccer, however. Of the first-choice players on the national team, many play on French teams during the regular season, and a number have lived in France most of their lives: Drogba left the Ivory Coast at the age of five to stay with an uncle and tells of a childhood watching European soccer on TV.

Gbagbo will choose to ignore the importance of France to Ivoirian soccer as long as Ivory Coast keeps winning, and he has loudly publicized the extent to which his government has financed the national team. But he is likely to distance himself from another form of assistance. In 1992, the only time apart from this year that Ivory Coast played in the final of the African Nations Cup, the sports minister enlisted a battalion of fétisheurs—juju men—to give the Ivoirian team a supernatural advantage against Ghana. The story goes that when the minister reneged on promises to pay the fétisheurs, they put a hex on the team, which suffered a ten-year run of disappointing results. In April 2002, defense minister Moise Lida Kouassi approached the witch doctors to make amends, offering them bottles of gin and large sums of money. The hex was lifted, and presto: World Cup qualification.

Witch doctors scatter charms on the field or smear the goalposts with magic ointments to keep the ball out. In 1984 no fewer than 150 fétisheurs stayed with the Ivoirian national team at their hotel before a crunch game in the African Nations Cup: Each player took a bath in water treated with various potions, before being invited to make a wish in the ear of a pigeon. Another soccer club was taken to court in 1998 when, following a decisive league match in Bouake, its players admitted to drinking a concoction prepared by a juju man (the case was dismissed).

Soccer's governing body in Africa is aware of the PR damage done by juju stories and has now banned "team advisers" from being part of a squad's official entourage. But superstition, of one kind or another, has always played a large part in sport, and fetishism is sure to continue in Ivoirian soccer. Before last September's crucial World Cup qualifier against Cameroon, the gutters of Abidjan ran red with chicken blood. For better or worse this is V. S. Naipaul's Africa: a place of magic that is also on display at the many roadblocks in the north and west of the country, where soldiers are convinced that the amulets they wear around their necks will ward off bullets. War, too, encourages superstition.

Everybody—on both sides of the war—is willing the team to do well in Germany. But the mix of soccer and politics can get ugly. When the Ivoirians lost for the second time to Cameroon in the qualifiers, and it was believed their chance had gone, Drogba—who had played brilliantly in the match and scored two goals—received threats and menacing messages from fans, and was worried enough to consider not playing for the national team. In 2000 Gen. Robert Guei, who had just engineered the country's first military coup, held the national team in detention for two days as punishment for being knocked out of the African Nations Cup in the first round. He stripped the players of their passports and cell phones, publicly denounced them, and suggested they should learn some barracks discipline. "You should have spared us the shame," he said.

With qualification for the World Cup secured, there is, for the time being, no shame. By itself, soccer will never bring about national reconciliation. But the summer of 2006 promises to remind Ivoirians, however fleetingly, of a national life beyond politics.

(Paul Laity is an editor at the London Review of Books who plays left back in pickup soccer games.)
-National Geographic, June 2006-

Ah! The World Cup!

My staff and I are on the same wave-length : we should close at 16h instead of 18h and get home in time for the first game everyday.

But as socially responsible citizens living in times of dearth and desolation, of which today’s Budget Speech will remind us, we have sensibly refrained from voicing our dreams. We will trudge on.

No matter that we will be missing those heart-tripping moments when the national anthems play, or those corny clichéed descriptions of star players in each team before the game begins, or those ads which we will be mouthing simultaneously by the end of the Cup.

How we will survive such trepidation when England or France (bearing Dhorasoo of Mauritian descent) plays, God only knows. My next demand to my director will not be a microwave for our kitchenette, nor a fridge, nor even a raise.

It might well be for a flat-screen TV with surround-sound to be hung in our open space, just loud enough for us to run to the show each time a goal is nearly scored, i.e., all the time.

Actually, I might just bring it in tomorrow.

England

Faded Glory: Taming the Hooligans, by Nick Hornby

It was all so straightforward back in the '60s, when I started to watch soccer. England had just won the 1966 World Cup and, therefore, unarguably, were the best team in the world: fact, period, end of story. Then everything went wrong, pretty much forever. For a start, I became a grown-up and much more troubled about what it meant to belong to a country; meanwhile England's soccer team was hopeless. (I may not have been so conflicted about the subject of patriotism if they'd been any good.) The team didn't even qualify for the World Cup of 1974 and 1978; the world-class players we'd been blessed with in the '60s had gone, and by the '80s, the whole subject of patriotism and soccer had become much more complicated.

In the mind's eye now, England games during that decade were only just visible through a cloud of tear gas, used by European police to disperse our rioting hooligans. England fans were fast becoming a pretty sinister bunch. If you went to see England play at Wembley, you could observe people around you making the Nazi salute during the national anthem, and abuse of black players—even those playing for the home team—was commonplace. Sometimes it seemed as though the thousand worst scumbag fans from every single league club were gathered at Wembley so they could make monkey noises and sing anti-IRA songs. If you saw someone coming toward you in a T-shirt sporting the Union Jack, you'd have been best advised to cross the street. The T-shirt was a graphic alternative to a slogan that might say something like, "I'm a racist, but I hate you no matter what color you are."

And so some soccer fans started to feel a little conflicted about the national team. In 1990, when England played Cameroon in the quarterfinals of the World Cup, it wasn't hard to find people in England—middle-class, liberal people, admittedly, but people nonetheless—who wanted Cameroon to win. I watched that game with some of them, and when England went 2-1 down (they eventually won 3-2 in extra time), these people cheered. I understood why, but I couldn't cheer with them, much to my surprise. Those drunk, racist thugs draped in the national colors. . . . They were, it turned out, my people, not the nice liberal friends I was watching the game with, and England was my soccer team. I mean, you can't choose stuff like that, right? The 1990 World Cup turned out to be a turning point. The team wasn't embarrassing. The fans weren't embarrassing either. After a horrendous couple of decades, the national team once again basked in the warmth of the nation's affections.

The rebirth lasted about five minutes. There was a disastrous managerial appointment, which resulted in yet another failure to qualify. And by 1998 soccer was a different game. Many of the players in our top division came from outside the British Isles. The globalization of the transfer market was beginning to rob international football of much of its point. In the old days, you'd look at the best players in the club teams and think, What would they be like if they played together? And the answer was they looked like the national team. Now, Chelsea, Manchester United, Real Madrid, Juventus, AC Milan, and Barcelona have replaced the national teams as fantasy soccer teams.

In 1989 England played out a goalless draw against Sweden, helping to ensure qualification for the 1990 World Cup. The enduring image of that game is of the England captain, Terry Butcher, swathed in a bandage, his white England shirt and shorts covered in blood that had pumped steadily out of a head wound throughout the game. "Off the pitch I was always an ordinary, mild-mannered bloke," said Butcher in an interview. "But put me in a football shirt and it was tin hats and fixed bayonets. Death or glory."

That was the old England: the war imagery, the crucial nil-nil draw against modest opposition, the unavoidable replacement of style and talent with blood and graft. Those who loathe David Beckham, the current England captain, would claim that he will wear a tin hat and bandages only when tin hats and bandages become de rigueur in some ludicrously fashionable European nightclub. That's not fair, because despite his looks and his cash, he has worked hard to compensate for things he lacks as a player, notably pace. But there's no doubt he is brilliantly illustrative of a new kind of English sportsman: professional, media-aware, occasionally petulant, and very, very rich.

The England fans who went to the 2005 friendly match against Argentina (resulting in a meaningless but enthralling last-minute win) were still singing their "No surrender to the IRA" song, and there's more than a suspicion that they'd rather be watching Terry Butcher and his fixed bayonets than David Beckham, a man who, after all, has been photographed wearing a sarong. But then, that's England all over at the moment. We'd still rather be bombing the Germans; but after 60 years, there's a slowly dawning suspicion that those days aren't coming back any time soon, and in the meantime we must rely on sarong-wearing, multimillionaire pretty boys to kick the Argies for us. We're not happy about it, but what can we do?

-National Geographic, June 2006 -

The nano wave

"The main thing to know about nanotechnology is that it's small. Really small. Nano, a prefix that means "dwarf" in Greek, is shorthand for nanometer, one-billionth of a meter: a distance so minute that comparing it to anything in the regular world is a bit of a joke. This comma, for instance, spans about half a million nanometers. To put it another way, a nanometer is the amount a man's beard grows in the time it takes him to lift a razor to his face.

Nanotechnology matters because familiar materials begin to develop odd properties when they're nanosize. Tear a piece of aluminum foil into tiny strips, and it will still behave like aluminum—even after the strips have become so small that you need a microscope to see them. But keep chopping them smaller, and at some point—20 to 30 nanometers, in this case—the pieces can explode. Not all nanosize materials change properties so usefully (there's talk of adding nanoaluminum to rocket fuel), but the fact that some do is a boon. With them, scientists can engineer a cornucopia of exotic new materials, such as plastic that conducts electricity and coatings that prevent iron from rusting. It's like you shrink a cat and keep shrinking it, and then at some point, all at once, it turns into a dog."

-Jennifer Kahn, National Geographic Magazine, June 2006 -

You can see some pictures from the report on this link. Nanotechnology looks like the most amazing phenomenon we will come to witness in the next decades, with possible uses such as killing cancerous cells without the side-effects of chemotherapy. The risks are also great, as with any new technology, and scientists are only discovering the tip of the nano-iceberg. If we have to exert so much energy anyway, it might as well be to push back the limits of human imagination and realisation.

On the 10th day, a meal is offered to the family. It is a hustle and bustle of saree-clad aunts chopping, stirring and diatribing on cooking techniques.

On cooking "besan"
The cake, that is, not the flour. You start with oil & ghee heating in a deep pan. Then add chopped onions, pureed onions & garlic, and ground aniseed and turmeric. Stir until well mixed and then slowly add boiled water.

Yes, adding water to hot oil will cause dangerous geysers in the pan.

Then slowly add the previously pureed dhal and salt, then chopped coriander leaves. Stir until your arm drops. The liquid will evaporate and the remaining paste can then be pressed into a shallow tray to be later sliced into lozenges and served as a side dish.

Food is only an excuse to be together as a family, to face the loss, and to grab on to some sort of normalcy.

Fuelling our way to destruction

"There is no shortage of oil shale, much of it in the US and Canada, but it must be dug out by strip mining and heated to 450-500°C before being enriched with hydrogen from steam to separate the oil. The resulting sludge, which has increased in volume by 30%, must then be disposed of. The process is said to emit four times as much CO2 as traditional oil production. It also requires large amounts of water."

-The Guardian, Friday 2 June, 2006-

Mots d'une grand-mère française du 21e siècle

"Nous sommes des survivants rescapés! Nous sommes nés avant la télévision, avant la pénicilline, avant les produits surgelés, les verres de contact, la vidéo et le magnétoscope et avant la pilule. Nous étions là avant les radars, les cartes de crédit,la bombe atomique, le rayon laser, avant le stylo à bille, avant le lave-vaisselle, les congélateurs, les couvertures chauffantes, avant les chemises sans repassage et avant que l'homme marche sur la Lune.

Nous nous sommes mariés avant de vivre ensemble.

Nous datons de l'ère d'avant les HLM et d'avant les Pampers. Nous n'avions jamais entendu parler de modulation de fréquence, de coeur artificiel, de transplant, de machine électronique, ni de jeunes portant une boucle d'oreille. Pour nous une puce était un parasite, une souris était de la nourriture pour chat. Un site était un point de vue panoramique, un joint empêchait un robinet de goutter, l'herbe était pour les vaches et une cassette servait à ranger les bijoux. Que de changements nous ont bouleversés mais nous avons su les négocier! On a su sauter le fossé entre nous et la génération d'aujourd'hui. Nous sommes après tout, un bon cru!"

On Death

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there.
I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the autumn rain.
When you awake in the morning hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of birds circling in flight.
I am the stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there.
I do not sleep.

-Source Unknown-

Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.

Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!
Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

-Shakespeare, King Lear, Act I Scene V -

Old age

There is such a hard thing as seeing a childhood hero reduced to the harsh reality that old age brings.

We as younger generations who will eventually reach that stage, strive to keep our elders intact through our love, memories and stories, the only recourse we have to deal with ultimate death.

Writing with light

Photography has gradually become a passion for me. It has its downsides. It can be almost a compulsion to capture a scene or object, to freeze it in time and come back often to admire that moment or thing or person. Mostly it's a moment that I'm always trying to hold on to, even when it's just through one object.

It reminds me of Vikram Seth's statement in From Heaven Lake: "What is the purpose, I wonder, of all this restlessness? I sometimes seem to myself to wander around the world merely accumulating material for future nostalgias."

Sometimes it might have been better to forget the camera and simply absorb. Photography is what I would call a contemplative obsession. It is anti-nihilistic.

"Les étoiles mesurent pour nous les vraies distances. La vie paisible, l'amour fidèle, l'amie que nous croyons chérir, c'est de nouveau l'étoile polaire qui les balise..."
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Courrier Sud -

A small pearl

Yesterday morning, while walking in Black River, I found this tear, and the pearl :)

À la mémoire de...

This school is found on l'Ile St Louis, in Paris. On the wall next to this gate, this message was written.

Of raclettes and tartiflettes

Potatoes and melted cheese are an addictive combination.

My stay started with 3 days in the Alps, in a small village near Swtizerland. In 3 days, I had a number of the culinary specialities of Haute-Savoie. First, the tartiflette, which consists of melted reblochon cheese and cream over potatoes and usually cold cuts.

This was followed the next day by raclette where a slab of cheese is melted under a sort of heater. You scrape the melted cheese with a special tool and add it to your meal which consists of...potatoes and cold cuts, or in my case, potatoes and vegetable brochettes.

Next came croûte de fromage, where slices of bread are first soaked in some sort of alcohol, then topped with mushrooms, cold cuts and cheese.

And finally, the berthoud, which had a small dish filled with a mix of melted cheese, light alcohol and cream I think, that you scooped over your... potatoes.

So the cuisine is not exactly diverse, but what made all this really great was the welcome. The people were friendly, the food good, and the atmosphere just generally jovial.

Believe it or not, I can still tolerate the taste and sight of potatoes and cheese :)

Loos in Paris

It may be unusual to start with commenting on public toilets in Paris. But they are worth it (L’Oréal should have a look). When you take walks that last 8 hours, you get to know the land.

Rule 1
The poshest café has the lousiest loo : no paper, no hand towel or dryer and a light that switches off every 10 seconds! Who can be that fast?

Rule 2
The hippest restaurateur will allow you the use of their loo at any time, even if you’re not a patron. It seems to be part of agreed common decency in Paris.

Rule 3
Some loos will allow you to set the timer on the light. Then it slowly winds its way to off. An anxious stretch.

Rule 4
Who ever labelled Asian toilets Asian (you know, no proper seat, scary)? Most train stations in France have those. They should be renamed European loos.

Rule 5
Some of them are coin operated at the door!

Rule 6
Go before you leave home, before you leave the café, before you leave the cinema, the way your mum always taught you.

Sous le ciel de Paris...

...j'ai passé dix jours. I will be sharing some of my views on what turns out to be a gorgeous city, despite all the prejudice I had.

Reflexion...

We are as women biologically designed to be mothers. So, no big deal.

But really, faced with a young woman who had just given birth to a little girl this morning, I could not help but be awed by the strength. She looked the same, and yet, it seemed she had crossed to a place where nothing could ever be the same.

There is no miracle like giving birth.

Are we so cynical?

I am one of the faulty humans. So, far from me the idea of being self-righteous about what others do wrong. Yet an incident that occurred two days ago provoked some thinking about our society.

An old man needed help crossing the streets in Port-Louis. He was trembling and was obviously scared about crossing with the cars honking even at the pedestrian path. He asked a young guy who must have been about 20. The guy did not react for the first 2 times and finally could not ignore him any longer. So he held the man’s arm one third along the way, then left him there and went on walking. The old man was terrified. He held out his hand silently asking for someone to help him. I was there so I did.

But the question was: why did that guy just leave the man? He must have thought, “Oh, he’ll be ok for now”. Maybe he was embarrassed. I feel that a large part of the answer was that he was embarrassed but I may be wrong. There were construction workers lined up for their lunch break just opposite of us, watching. Did the guy think he was doing something uncool? Did he think that his image was worth more than helping that old man? Or did he not realise that even in today’s sleek world, helping out was better than not? What could have prompted him to think that something else could be more important than holding that man’s hand?

The answers to those questions could be good clues to what “un mal de société” means. And we Mauritians living here cannot hide from the fact that our society is not well.

Stone egg and the wave

Before...




















...and after.

South Coast hotels

South Coast hotels in Mauritius are different from North Coast ones. The ones on the North have the whiter beaches, are the most expensive ones and rank among the highest worldwide. The service there is professional to the utmost but often leaves Mauritians with a bitter taste after they've left the place. Because those are not really meant for us, and we were never expected to be able to afford those. If I change my mind about those hotels some day, I'll let you know.

The hotels on the South, pictured here, have often had to build their own little beach. They have lusher vegetation, and the atmosphere is closer to that of a Creole island. The service is warmer too, and locals are welcomed in what I consider to be the really classy manner: with a smile and warmth.

Hell is 57 varieties

Or is it? Choosing intellectual nourishment is not as simple as choosing ketchup, which is why imagination cannot and should not be limited to what already exists...Excerpts for a Guardian article:

Sometimes it's just hard to choose. You're in a restaurant and the waiter has his pen at the ready. As you dither, he gradually begins to take a close interest in the ceiling, his fingernails, then in your dining partner with whom he conducts a silent eye-rolling conversation. Each dish on the menu becomes a blur as you roll your eyes up and down it in growing panic. Finally, you desperately plump for something that turns out to be braised foot in a phlegmy green sauce.
(...)
Schwartz offers a self-help guide to good decision making by helping us to limit choices to a manageable number, and ultimately derive greater satisfaction from the choices you have to make. This is a capitalist response to a capitalist problem.
(...)
However, these self-protective responses may create new problems. John Reith, the BBC's first director general, once said that good broadcasting gives people what they do not yet know they need. If you use SkyPlus as a filter against irksomely endless choice, you will also ensure that you hermetically seal yourself from TV programmes that you wouldn't have thought you would like."

-Stuart Jeffries,The Guardian Unlimited-

Mauritian coast

This is one side of Mauritius :)

What independence means

Tomorrow Mauritius celebrates its 38th independence anniversary. It's also 14 years since we became a republic.

We became independent from the British in 1968: no blood-soaked wars here. We were lucky enough to be among the last pearls of the Empire's crown. By the time it was our turn, the British were more or less happy to let go.

Mauritius has taken itself from being an economy based exclusively on its sugar industry to one where it was able to manufacture textiles and develop five-star tourism. We have no raw materials in our soil, a blessing in disguise, since there is no gold or diamond for our politicians to slip into their pockets. We depend on our people.

Today Mauritius is facing a new challenge, similar to the one we knew right after independence. This time, there is no safety net: no sugar quotas reserved on the European market, no agreements to guarantee markets for our textiles.

We are trying to fit into a knowledge-based world. We depend more than ever on our people: business-process outsourcing is a great part of what we can do, excellent customer service and conditions in our tourism industry, sound financial regulations to attract investment, IT conception and programming to satisfy clients based around the world. The backbone of these industries is people who are able and willing to learn continuously to remain on top of the fast-evolving demands. I believe we can do it.

I'm not sure how many Mauritians realise that in the new economy, having tea at 10h and 14h and leaving work at 16h sharp while blaming the government for our problems is not really going to make a difference. We are now more than ever alone in determining our survival. We are also more than ever interdependent. We are each as responsible as the government. We are also more intolerant towards the squandering of our funds by that government.

Succeeding in and as today's independent Mauritius is far from being a pleasant stroll on the beach. More like something between rock-climbing and body-boarding. And that can be fulfilling too.

Hyphenated Identity

The term "hyphenated identity" was not coined by Ms Lahiri, but features prominently in her article. Ms Lahiri's intelligent novel The Namesake has been made into a film which will come out this year. Her story is part of the special Newsweek feature on India last week. As Mauritians, we are still coming to terms with our own multi-hyphenated identity.

I have lived in the United States for almost 37 years and anticipate growing old in this country. Therefore, with the exception of my first two years in London, "Indian-American" has been a constant way to describe me. Less constant is my relationship to the term. When I was growing up in Rhode Island in the 1970s I felt neither Indian nor American. Like many immigrant offspring I felt intense pressure to be two things, loyal to the old world and fluent in the new, approved of on either side of the hyphen. Looking back, I see that this was generally the case. But my perception as a young girl was that I fell short at both ends, shuttling between two dimensions that had nothing to do with one another."

Newsweek, March 6, 2006

Cra-Zee

Anyone who’s ever had to tolerate my raves knows how crazy I can get about the Bombay film industry: actors, actresses, lyricists, directors, art directors, composers, cameramen, make-up artists, I know all about them. Do not ask me which part of my brain stores such trivia. It seems there’s room enough.

So imagine my awe when my very generous uncle offered me a ticket to the Zee Cine Awards which took place in Mauritius yesterday: Shah Rukh Khan, Preity Zinta, Rani Mukherji, all that! Despite the Class 2 cyclone warning prevailing, we joyously braved the winds and umbrella-ed our way through the rain to reach the venue.


It was odd.

Seated celebrities were separated from the rest of the audience (platinum-tickets notwithstanding) by metal chest-level barriers, which gave the very weird feeling to a number of ministers sitting with us that they were suddenly very out. Ladies who had actually shelled out the whopping Rs10,000 for the tickets still had to get soaked in their sarees (compelled by their non-celebrity status to park far from the conference centre), looking like Bollywood actresses in a dhak-dhak number long before the heroines climbed on stage.

The dreamt-up sequence of Abhishek jumping to Dus Bahane was never to materialise, Mr Bachchan having come down with the flu and decided not to come to Mauritius (probably shying away from chikungunya too).

The joke was on from the moment they all kept insisting the show was being broadcast live worldwide (Karan really digging that one in) when in fact it wasn’t. Black took all the awards and so most of the other actors were disillusioned before the show began. (It gets tiring of being asked “who do you think will win?” when everyone already knows).

Still it was thrilling to watch SRK pick up Preity for a remake of Veer-Zaara, to see Rani looking charming in her white and silver saree, and listen to two young singers belt out last year’s hits.

All in all, I’m really glad I got the chance to be there, which I would not have done had someone not thought of me. I’m happier having seen it and clearly remembering how very starkly we should draw the line between reality and show than I would have been fantasising about what it must be to attend such a show. Watching it on TV from home later was fun, because when every wrinkle had been edited out and you actually got to see the stars’ faces, it was a good show.

The “janta” of Mauritius was certainly lucky to welcome the Zee Cine Awards, if only it brings along the hordes of tourists we are now expecting from all around the world.

All about love

love (n.)
O.E. lufu "love, affection, friendliness," from Proto-Germanic.
*lubo (cf. O.Fris. liaf, Ger. lieb, Goth. liufs "dear, beloved;" not found elsewhere as a noun, except O.H.G. luba, Ger. Liebe), from PIE
*leubh- "to care, desire, love" (cf. L. lubet, later libet "pleases;" Sanskrit. lubhyati "desires;" O.C.S. l'ubu "dear, beloved;" Lith. liaupse "song of praise"). Meaning "a beloved person" is from c.1225.
The sense "no score" (in tennis, etc.) is 1742, from the notion of "playing for love," i.e. "for nothing" (1678).
Love-letter is attested from c.1240; love-song from c.1310. To be in love with (someone) is from 1508.
Love child "child born out of wedlock," first attested 1805, from earlier love brat (17c.).
Lovesick is attested from 1530; lovelorn from 1634 (see lose). Phrase for love or money "for anything" is attested from 1590. To fall in love is attested from 1423.
The phrase "no love lost" (between two people) is ambiguous and was used 17c. in ref. to two who love each other well (c.1640) as well as two who have no love for each other (1622).

-Online Etymology Dictionary-
For an idea of what the abbreviations mean, check the list.

Da Vinci drama before the actual film

This should make for interesting reflexion on history, art & plagiarism:

Da Vinci trial pits history against art
Nothing less than the future of Western literature is at stake in the High Court tomorrow. Or so the publisher of The Da Vinci Code, the money-spinning blockbuster by Dan Brown, is expected to argue in a ground-breaking trial.
Brown, whose tale of clerical conspiracy and murder has become the bestselling hardback adult novel of all time, is accused of plundering his plot from a non-fiction work called The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail

Historians Michael Baigent and Richard Leigh, who co-wrote the book with Henry Lincoln, claim that Brown plagiarised 'the whole jigsaw puzzle' of their decade's worth of research - that Jesus married Mary Magdalene and had a child, founding a bloodline that was protected by the Knights Templar.

The Observer, Sunday February 26, 2006
Read the rest of this article

Tongue-smacking sour

A craving for something sour can be as maddening as a craving for chocolate. It sneaks up on you while your mind is on a different subject altogether.

Then the craving makes a little nook for itself in a corner of your mind, and from that nook, it drills and hammers its way to your tongue, until all you can taste is the tangy sour-salty taste that is actually not there.

I found* a wonderful recipe to fit such situations: chopped green lime with sliced green chillies drowned in olive oil with salt and a little pepper. Spread that mixture on slices of baguette and you have the best Sunday afternoon snack you could dream of.

PS: I believe this will not be to the taste of everyone. Tastebuds are divided between those that understand half-ripe mangoes & oranges sprinkled with salt, and those that don't.

*Two of my aunts mentioned it one afternoon.

The wild world of Michelin stars

C''est sur l'île Rodrigues, un caillou de l'océan Indien balayé par les alizés où il séjourne, qu'Olivier Roellinger, cuisinier des Maisons de Bricourt à Cancale (Ille-et-Vilaine), a reçu confirmation de son entrée dans le club, entrouvert pour lui seul cette année, des restaurants trois étoiles. Alerté par les indiscrétions d'usage sur l'imminence de cette promotion, Olivier Roellinger, coureur d'océans, n'a pas différé son voyage. Un exercice dont il est friand chaque année pour se ressourcer au contact des "beautés sauvages, rustiques et âpres" de la nature sous les tropiques.

Cette distinction prend pour lui un certain relief, car, cuisinier atypique et d'une extrême sensibilité, il est donc le seul à faire son entrée dans le cercle fermé des titulaires de trois macarons, dont le nombre de 26 reste stable. En effet, son entrée est compensée par la sortie de Lucas-Carton, dont on se souvient qu'Alain Senderens, son chef, avait décidé au printemps dernier "de rendre ses étoiles au Michelin". Il s'agissait, affirmait-il, de pouvoir se consacrer à une cuisine "sans chichis". N'avait-il pas assuré que la pression entraînée par l'attribution des étoiles l'empêchait de proposer des sardines à sa clientèle ?

(...)
Après les turbulences créées par la disparition de Bernard Loiseau voilà trois ans, les fuites et les loupés du Guide l'an passé, l'équipe de Jean-Luc Naret, son nouveau directeur, paraît avoir repéré quelques-uns des mouvements de fond qui vont agiter le monde turbulent des casseroles.

Le Monde, 22 février 2006

Rang De Basanti

Rang De Basanti, the rage of 2006 so far in Indian Cinema. The article in the link above is a good indication of the impact of the film. The music is unusual to say the least and the story apparently simple. I came out thinking that if politicians had watched the film before it came, they might have banned it.

Not that it's that controversial. Rather that it hands back some sort of power to action to the hands of the youth.

Then again, politicians well versed in the art of appeasement know that oppression is the best trigger to revolution. Maybe this film is simply one way to channel today's frustration through other means than actual hard-hitting rebellion. But I really enjoyed it. In the end, it's up to us to know how to keep our thinking free.

For a less political viewpoint, have a look here.

Ah! Ces Français!

Did you know that when French people say 1.421, they actually mean one thousand four hundred and twenty-one? And when they say 1,421, they mean one decimal four two one. They say "un virgule quatre deux un"

Obviously now, the British use 1,421 to mean one thousand four hundred and twenty-one and when they write 1.421, it's one decimal four two one.

We can imagine the complications that could arise from British & French writing to each other about money. E.g. "Cher Monsieur Stuffton, je suis heureux de vous transmettre par virement bancaire le montant de 3.421623 euros. Veuillez me confirmer réception. Monsieur Dupont"

And the British guy simply not understanding what the fuss is all about. There is apparently a convention now, and that should help the French, but not the British.

A cloudy sea

This was taken one Sunday afternoon at Flic-en-Flac two weeks ago.

Chinese New Year

Last week was Chinese New Year.

Mauritius has a sizeable community of people whose ancestors came from China three generations back. Those Mauritians actively celebrate the festival here

Throughout the week, there were echoes of fat red firecrackers everywhere. In the background through the windows at work, far-off at night before we went to bed. In the morning, the malls (what we call 'arcades' here) were strewn with red petals from those crackers.

On Sunday morning, I chanced upon a Lion Dance. The lion jumped and scampered in front of the Chinese store, to the beat of cymbals wielded by two silk-clad Chinese Cultural Association artists. It was one of those joyful, angry and scary dances where all negative energies are purged, and as far as I know, evil spirits chased off.

We got cakes from friends who had celebrated: one called wax-cake which looks a little like...wax but tastes really good (this does not sound good, I know, but it is), then salty snacks, and also cakes made from rice flour and sesame seeds. And, well, a public holiday, even if it was already Sunday.

The view from behind the wheel

No, not mine. The taxi driver's view from behind the wheel. As you can guess, I've been cabbing a lot to and from work.

So one of my openings to the world outside of my ceramic-tiled flat-screened workplace is conversations with taxi-drivers.

The main villain in the story is the government. The main hero is the "small man" eking out a life for himself and his children by driving people around.

The government offered free public transport to old people and students, one of their greatest offences against taxi drivers. God knows it's now a choice for pensioners to stay home or travel around our big country. It was never a choice between a cab and a bus in the first place. But anyway...bad, bad.

The government raised the price of petrol. Taxi drivers need to raise their rates. And become less competitive. And lose clients.

The government allows lorries to go round belching dark smoke but enforces the law on cabs getting regular servicing. And this injustice hurts.

As you can tell, I find this humorous, because I'm able to see the other side. But to those people hoping that their children will get scholarships to study abroad, trying to go and fetch their kids from private tuition and also make sure their passenger reaches home on time, worried about the state of traffic on today's streets because if they have an accident they lose one month's income or more, it's no fun.

So this is Mauritius at the moment, through a taxi driver's eyes. But we all agree that another election (our last was last year, a regular 5 years after the previous one) now is not the solution, and that whatever money the nation has is better invested into future projects than another campaign. At least it would seem that, somehow, we've got our priorities right. Let's hope.

Black sand

When I was little, I used to only like really white sand. I was used to it. Any speck of black or brown was frowned upon as dirty. Rain used to be bad. We had to run from it.

The other day I went to Tamarin. It was cloudy and raining slightly. In Tamarin the sand is black. I think it comes from the dirt, but for some reason, it was not repulsive. It felt wonderful feeling the grains through my toes, watching my feet get dark under the sand, then be washed by the waves as they raced to the beach. The clouds looked as if they might burst any minute in a futile attempt to flood the sea.

There was an expectant dampness in the air, and a magic moment of complete peace.