Selected Yambient Words

Week 9: To Everything Turn Turn Turn

2007-01-12T07:11:00.000-08:00

Week 9: To Everything Turn Turn Turn

Firstly: Shout-outs to the amazing people who sent us DVD's of the
Eastenders Christmas specials. Big up yourselves…

I'm turning into an alpha-male. It started last week, a little, with
the introduction of touch rugby into my life. In the last week, I've
lit barbeques, played football, been a football coach and started
'torching fat' with the aid of a lad's mag supplement. Next week, I
plan to wrestle a crocodile, burp the theme tune to Match of the Day
and read some Andy McNab books, before hunting some deer and starting
a fight at my local. All the while this strange change is happening,
I'm living in a block we have dubbed the 'woman's hostel.'In 9 flats
in our block, there are 9 women living here, and one guy… me. I am the
protector of the Mombasa Academy Woman's Hostel, the only bloke
around. I feel so male here. It's strange that I should be leaning
towards alpha-male-ism though. Surrounded by female teachers, all I
hear is talk of students, make-up, celebrity gossip, make-up, boys,
the benefits of different types of bra, make-up and periods. And we
watched a Hugh Grant film last weekend. And I laughed a couple of
times. These girls are trying to turn me into a sissy.

So there is a strange battle raging in my head. The Alpha-Male versus
the Pansy Boy. I'm not entirely sure who's winning. I know the soft
sensitive poet in me is suffering. He can't take all this conflict and
is hiding in the corner, whispering 'It's going to be okay' to himself
over and over again.

It is a strange feeling though. Much as I exaggerate my alpha-male
behaviour, I do find myself missing male company. I never thought that
possible. All of my friends out here are female. I miss talks about
stupid videos on YouTube or a particularly vicious Jimmy Carr quip or
just good ol' fashioned blood'n'guts. Or do I? Maybe I will emerge
from this whole experience a lot more feminine.

I have getting more and more involved in school life in the last week.
Today I start a Rap Club for young'uns in the school, where I will be
doing workshops in positive lyrics and hopefully getting the kids
involved in some slam poetry competitions as the term moves on. I have
also been asked to help pick the school football team, seeing as I
play football with the kids twice a week. Shame I know next to nothing
about football beyond see ball… kick ball… score goal… elaborate
celebration.

I have never had any interaction with Katie's students before, so it's
bizarre being in such close proximity to them. I'm not their teacher,
yet they still address me as 'sir', unsure of my level of authority.
They then go and whisper and gossip that I'm going out with one of
their teachers. Other teachers refer to me as 'Mr Shukla'. I can't get
used to it. Even when I was doing workshops in schools last year, I
was 'Nikesh'. I am not a teacher, so prefer some level of familiarity
as a workshop leader. The kids here can't deal with it. They feel
uncomfortable calling me 'Nikesh', so 'sir' or 'Mr Shukla' it is. I'm
a little nervous about Rap Club. I've only once run workshops on my
own. It should be fine. But this time, I'm walking into the classroom
with a stigma attached to me. I'm going out with one of the teachers.
It's common knowledge. It's hard not to notice. We live on campus at
the bottom of the school field. Kids have been curious and asking
Katie why on earth her boyfriend would be running a Rap Club. People
will turn up out of curiosity, just to see what on earth I think I'm
doing.

Another curious thing I am finding is the lack of interaction with
black Kenyans and Africans I am having. There appears to be some sort
of segregation going on, along class and race lines that I am not
entirely comfortable with. The whites hang out and live with other
whites and they all live in white areas and go to white-friendly bars
and clubs. The Asians hang out and live with the Asians on their
walled and fenced and secure compounds, and go to each other's houses
for dinner, and the black Africans… well… I see them out and about but
have no idea what they do or where they go. My life is mostly dictated
by the school and school life, as I live on campus. Not many black
Africans can afford to go to the school. Sadly, the most interaction I
have with black Africans is through our cleaner, Gladys. It doesn't
compute in my brain how this social segregation can still exist.
Appearance-wise, Mombasa looks cosmopolitan. There is a healthy mix of
black, brown and white faces, through residents, economic migrants,
ex-pats and tourists… yet they do not mix. They aren't really seen out
in public together. A friend's dad was moaning about how when he had
gone out for lunch with a business associate, a black female, his
friends had assumed that she was a prostitute. He was appalled at the
insinuation that anytime anyone white or Asian is seen with a black
male or female, there must be some sort of transaction happening
there. It's an appalling stereotype and mostly perpetuated by the
immigrants here. The Brits are the immigrants here, the Asians are the
immigrants here, and they really are 'stealing jobs, stealing women…'

Whenever I get on a matatu, there is a double-take…. Why is an Asian
man taking public transport? Shouldn't he have his own car and driver?
This makes people clam up. Whenever I am walking about, people do a
double-take at my smiley face. Shouldn't the Asian man be in a car?
The assumption is that the brown and white people want to segregate
themselves in their cars and their compounds and they want nothing to
do with the black Kenyans, so I look out of place doing what is deemed
normal back home (walking and taking buses). Much of it, I am sure is
not down to race itself. I think a lot of these problems are down to
money and class. All the Asians and whites out here are incredibly
wealthy, and have servants and cars and gated houses. The majority of
the black Kenyans are not. It's sad. People made to feel like second
class citizens in their own countries by economic migrants, who have
turned the indigenous population into their workers and their slaves.
It's incredibly sad.

Last weekend was incredibly quiet. The teachers were so shocked by
having a month off and then back to school again for three days that
by the time the weekend rolled around, everyone was tired and in
desperate need of somewhere to sit. We spent evenings watching telly
and eating, grazing… and days by the pool or at the beach. It was
incredibly lazy.

This week, I have been working more and more on my Britishness
project, which is starting to really take shape. I have been reading
articles and articles about the notion of Britishness and getting a
notion of where this project is headed. The folk album continues to
take shape as songs are being rehearsed and fine-tuned. There are
about 12 songs finished. They need to be recorded. Vee-Kay has kindly
offered to mix the album at his Sweatbox on my return. I have also
booked my return flights. Back in the country in March for a short
break, and then back for good, Take That-style, at the end of July.
Life here is slow and quiet and different and occasionally
frustrating, but there is something comforting in the solitude I am
experiencing. I am teaching myself discipline. I am learning to be
entirely self-sufficient, creatively, professionally and emotionally.
I have no one creative to bounce ideas off. I have no 'boys' to be a
boy with, just my girls. It's a simple life, akin to that of an
ascetic. Except with occasional Eastenders DVD's sent out to you. In
the absence of the constant entertainment/numbness of television, we
are making our own entertainment. The website www.housegymnastics.com
has given us much hilarity and we are now in the process of using our
block of flats to finesse some of our own house gymnastics to win us
the much-coveted prize of 'move of the month'. Lack of television is a
glorious thing.

To everything… turn, turn, turn…

Week 8: New Years, No Tears

2007-01-06T03:29:00.000-08:00

Week 8: New Years and No Tears

This last week has been without incident thankfully. There have been no attempted muggings, corrupt coppers or hospitalisations. It has been relatively quiet, and all the more enjoyable for it. Now enough time has passed and all our friends are back in town, we are able to laugh at our disastrous holiday. Otherwise we’d still be crying. Luckily, it’s starting to be funny. This week has been pretty quiet compared to the last few weeks.

We spent most of our mornings at the airport, doing airport runs for various returning teachers, all bringing back with them tales of home and tales of Sadaam’s execution (we are a little news-starved out here) and NME’s and cheese. The cheese was greatly appreciated.

Friday night saw us visiting a friend’s dad, who lives here, for drinks. He has a flat on Nyali beach and a vast selection of red wine. He had friends over from Canada and the UK, and invited us to join them for a few drinks. Sitting with his friends drinking and discussing the finer points of Nyali’s restaurants, talk soon turned to my dad living here in the 60’s. Both of the friends lived here in the 60’s, one even went to dad’s school. I fished for information about the school and the off-chance of whether the guy knew my father. He did not, but gave us precise instructions on how to find the school, and confirmed that it still existed. This filled me with hope. The one thing I have yet to do here is retrace my dad’s footsteps and live in his shoes. I have mostly been living in Nyali, not really venturing into the city centre for much, aside from exchanging traveller’s cheques and giving bribes to coppers. We drank copious amounts of red wine and chatted with these amiable Gujarati fellows. My friend’s dad talked of the past, and of growing up. He even told us some of the stories that inspired my friend to write a song about them. When I informed him of the existence of the song, he was quietly proud of his son.

More booze was drunk, and talk soon turned to that Gujarati sore spot of race: do we like Africans and Muslims? A heated debate emerged about whether you could accept a black or Muslim into your family. My friend’s dad and one guy said of course you could. The other, the more he drank, became quite stubborn about his beliefs that it was essentially not right and whatever you told your kids, deep down you would always know that it was wrong. The others argued with him that he needed to evolve and adapt to his surroundings or else he would find it hard to deal with the events before him. Katie and I sat back and watched the debate. It was much more interesting to see these old dogs fight rather than get involved. By playing Devil’s Advocate, I got a clearer insight into the older generation of Gujarati men than I will ever have I think. We took our leave shortly afterwards to go to the airport to pick up a friend. A phonecall en route told us that she was stuck in Nairobi for the night and would be back the following day.

The next day, we returned to the airport and picked her up. We feasted on cheese on toast in the afternoon, revelling in the creature comforts of a toaster and a block of extra mature. We tried to get into the New Year’s Eve swing of things and started planning what party frocks we would all be wearing. A trip to the beach and a hot sweaty day full of heavy air and heavier food meant that by the time dinner rolled around, our eyes were drooping and we were all ready for bed.

We headed out up the coast to Splendid View Café (which turned out to be a misnomer as there was not a splendid view of anything). Splendid View was offering a buffet dinner till half midnight, at which point it would close. We were with some other older teachers for dinner. Our plan was to stay with them till midnight then head up to a haunt up the coast called Il Covo, where they have loud cheesy music, cheap drinks, and the social life of the local white community seems to revolve. Splendid View Café was empty. Which was surprising as the tunes the live DJ was spinning were suitably cheesy for New Year’s Eve and the buffet was tasty, if a little meat-tastic. We stayed and chatted and ate and ate. The venue was practically empty and we were right next to the food so it was all too easy to go and refill your plates. By 11, our grazing had taken its toll and we were in need of serious dancing. We looked up and found we were the only people left in the venue. And we were all flagging. Too much food, sitting and wine had made us all extremely tired. We needed to dance. However, the dancefloor (and the venue) was empty and the DJ kept shouting an embarrassing cry of “The Place To Be For 2007”. We decided to leave at 11.45pm, to find a vantage point on the beach to watch the fireworks that most of the hotels had at midnight. Traffic going up the coast towards Il Covo, where we were hoping to end up, was at a standstill, so we headed back towards our beach. We headed to a Shiva temple on the beach, speeding along the dirttrack, trying to ignore our driver’s erratic fast driving. We reached the Shiva temple. It was closed. Plan B was quickly formed at 11.57: head to our beach at the school. At 11.59 we swerved on to the tiny path that led us down to our beach. At 12.00, the car parked as far as it could go up the path. At 12.01, we realised it was 2007. At 12.02, we decided that without a torch, taking the treacherous steps down to the beach was a little foolhardy. At 12.03, the house we were parked behind starting doing fireworks right on the other side of the fence to us. We saw rockets lift up and explode through trees, we saw the glow of roman candles between the brickwork of the fence. It was a strangely serene moment, subdued, but calm and all the more poignant for it. We had been so up for having a large night out to dance away the demons of our disastrous holiday, that we forgot what we were celebrating: The passing of time. And here we were, stood with everyone who really mattered. We all hugged for the 07 dream and headed back to our apartment block to watch more fireworks from the roof. We sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ along the way, well, hummed the melody. Not much firework action was going on. We decided that perhaps it was a little silly venturing out now seeing as we were all knackered and headed to bed early.

The next day, we were fighting fit and up for a party. We headed down to Diani Beach on the South Coast. This is a beautiful stretch of beach further down the coast. You have to take a ferry to get there from the other side of Mombasa. We drove through Mombasa at midday, revelling at how much of a ghost town it was. It was amazing. My favourite time in the city centre. No cars, no traffic, no matatus. Diani Beach is gorgeous. The sea is gloriously blue. The waves are choppy. The reef is further out so there is hardly any seaweed. We parked up at a beach bar called 40 Thieves, and ran into some Nyali friends still revelling from the night before. They were all a little worse for wear and still drinking. We swam, drank and listened to a calypso covers band sing multiple versions of “I Will Survive.”

The rest of the week involved all the girls preparing for the return to school and me preparing to get stuck into work. Just as I was getting into it last term, the holidays started and my routine was broken. Wednesday saw me playing football with the schoolkids again, scoring a spectacular free kick goal and colliding with the heaviest guy on the pitch, winding me thoroughly. In the evening, I indulged some alpha-male impulses and went to play touch rugby for the first time. Even though I am rubbish, I managed 3 tries. And because I was rubbish, my team only passed to me when absolutely necessary, preparing to showboat and team up with each other. It was fun playing touch rugby, and though there was a little of the overly masculine attitude on the pitch, I managed to keep my sensitive side intact. The next day, I ached. Two and half hours of exercise and my body was killing me. Muscles that I didn’t know existed ached. Muscles in my feet, in strange parts of my arm, multiple hamstring muscles all ached. Maybe touch rugby isn’t for me, I wondered.

Not much doing this week, thankfully. It has been quiet and slow and relatively free of incident, which I’m proud to say. More to report next week.

Week 7: Jingle Bells, Batman Smells...

2006-12-29T02:51:00.001-08:00

Week 7: Jingle Bells, Batman Smells

We arrive back in Mombasa on Friday morning and immediately get down to the task of retrieving our Christmas presents from the Kenyan post office (see Week 5 for a run down of the horrific procedure we have to endure every time we do this). We retrieve our parcels, and head back to the car to come home and feel Christmassy.

In central Mombasa, the main parking spaces line the middle of the road, like a spine of parked cars. We try to reverse out of the middle of the road so we can leave. A boy helps us by stopping oncoming traffic and ushers us out when appropriate. A matatu, thinking it has spied a gap in the traffic, cuts in front of the boy helping us and it drives into the back of our car. We are momentarily confused as to what has happened. Katie quickly re-parks her car and I get out to inspect the damage. The matatu, a beaten up thing, has been parked on the side of the road, and the driver is ushering off his passengers, while the conductor inspects the damage done. We are unsure of what has happened at this point. We think it may have been our fault. A copper approaches us and tells us we have caused an accident. The ‘law’man tells us we need to immediately settle this matter privately with the matatu driver or he will have to get involved and impound the car. We tell him that we are insured. He demands to see our papers. Every time I try to get involved, he hushes me and speaks to the white driver, Katie. We say that we are insured and that we wish to get the insurance details of the matatu driver, knowing that they are probably not insured. There is negligible damage to their matatu. Where the damage we have caused ends and pre-existing cuts and scrapes begins is not obvious. We wonder whether we have done any damage at all. They still insist we have caused a potentially dangerous accident. The policeman tells us that regardless of our insurance, it is better to sort this out privately, as for claiming insurance we will have to obtain a police report, from him, and pay for it, amongst other administrative charges. And he will have to impound the car. He takes his leave so we can negotiate with the matatu driver. The driver asks for 1500 shillings (a tenner) for the damage. It may not sound like much, and the fact that he is asking for such a low amount means that there probably isn’t that much damage and they want to scare some beer money out of the ‘rich’ Westerners.

A crowd of staring children gather. We negotiate. They demand money. We demand their insurance details. We are locked against each other. We do not want to give them cash and they do not want to give us their insurance details. A completely unnecessary fuss is made and we are fighting a losing battle because the policeman hovers in the background, waiting for a private settlement. More bystanders continue to stare, menacingly and Katie is visibly upset, to the point where it is just easier to give them the money to go away, rather than try to pursue the course of what is true and just and procedure. I shove the money into the driver’s top pocket angrily and take my sunglasses off to glare at him. ‘Merry Christmas, you horrible man’ I hiss at him and he walks off, smiling at his personal victory, in the direction of the bystanding police officer. To give him his thirty pieces no doubt. We drive away, upset and shaken. It is only through replaying the event later that we realise we have been had. We were vulnerable and confused and we got taken for a ride. We need to toughen up, or be eaten up here.

It puts a dampener on the rest of the day, and we lose our festive cheer… again. What a trying few weeks it has been. Well, NWA said the be all and end all of my opinions about the police, and my mum reads this so I will spare you the profanities they use. The rest of the day we spend trying to gather up some Christmas cheer. Thousands of miles away from our loved ones, in the land of crap robbers, unwashed vegetables and bent coppers, means we are simply NOT having a wonderful Christmas time.

On Saturday, I perform at the local Cinemax complex, at a café. Two weeks ago, when I had arranged the gig, the venue had assured me of a sound system. When I arrive to soundcheck, there is nothing there beyond a stereo clamped to the wall behind the counter. I am to perform outside, and unfortunately, the system will not move. I am whisked away to a nearby music shop, where we are refused permission to hire equipment out.

When the gig actually arrives, we faff about with the microphone for about 30 minutes, trying different ways of holding it up and positioning it before settling on taping it to a hookah pipe. Then, when I go to use the microphone, as it is cordless, it is too far from its receiver, and my words keep cutting out. I give up and perform anyway. My acoustic guitar and the power of my voice, compete with coffee drinkers, cinema-revellers, and boy racers testing out their speakers with dancehall beats. It is nearly a disaster but luckily, I have an attentive audience for the first song. By the third song, I have lost them, because only the table directly in front of me can hear me. I try walking around and singing, which people appreciate, but makes me feel like a performing monkey. Eventually, I give up and sit down, dejected… That dream of being Kenya’s next big star is momentarily crushed.

On Sunday, we travel up to the impossible posh Serena Beach Hotel to meet a relative who mum has sent a care package with. She has included my post (a bunch of bills – great), a weekend broadsheet (a delectable read), some proper mince pies and our presents. My mum is made honorary queen for the day. We have a quiet lunch with my relatives and their friends at the beach resort. My relative was an 11 year old refugee from Uganda in the 70’s when Idi Amin rose to power, and it was interesting to hear him effuse goodwill and passion for Britain and good old fashioned Britishness.

On Christmas day itself, I wake stupidly early, filling myself with as much excitement as I can muster. Katie and I are both cheer sections for the spirit of Christmas today, for each other. With no Christmas holiday saturation around us, it is imperative we keep our spirits up all day. Luckily, our spirits are raised when we see Santa has left us some stockings. Santa has left me a stocking full of men’s hygiene products. Santa thinks I smell obviously. We phone both our parents at 7am their time, and wake both sets up from their Christmas Eve hangovers. This is enough minor revenge for all those weekends they have forced us out of bed at unnecessary times. We swap presents. Katie has bought me a toaster, and I have bought her a kettle… aren’t we thoughtful? We celebrate with tea and toast and open up presents from home. At midday, I light the barbeques and we set about having a barbeque roast. It is semi-successful, despite the roast potatoes falling in the charcoal as we lift them off. Despite our lack of oven, we manage to have stuffing, roast potatoes, vegetables and gravy. It is a Christmas miracle. We are triumphing against the elements. After some board games, we decide to take a walk down to the beach to limber us up for the evening, where we will go to the next building and eat more barbeque with the Bombay-ite deputy head and his wife. A walk on the beach brings more phonecalls from home. We return to the flat for dusk, and more phonecalls from home come.

We head over to the deputy head’s house with our smouldering barbeques and I try to reignite them with a dribble of meths. A bystander shouts: ‘Get one of the guards to light it. That’s what these Africans are there for! They’ll have it up for you in 5 minutes! They’re masters!’ I’m sure there’s a compliment in there somewhere. A guard is summoned while I trooper on with trying to do it myself. The guard comes anyway, and has a superbly fierce barbeque lit in about ten minutes. I am amazed and a little emasculated. Here I am, in Africa, trying to be the alpha-male: all-barbequeing, all-footballing man, and someone betters me in 10 minutes flat. I do learn some barbeque tips from this African genius. The bystander gives me a look to say, ‘why try when they’re here for your beck and call?’ and I note loudly that we should take the guard some chicken for his effort.

More food is cooked. This time, we have barbequed red snapper and tandoori chicken, and we find new ways to shove it all in. Our gracious hosts keep loading our plates up or noting we have no drink or food, and by the end, we’re double the size. We return home, tired but contented in a surprisingly pleasant Christmas so far from home.

The rest of the week we spend at the pool, reading books, playing our new board games and working out an exit plan for Kenya. The sun occasionally rears its head. I catch a nasty cold and spend the rest of the week in bed. The perfect end to our Christmas holidays.

See you in 07.

Week 7: Jingle Bells, Batman Smells...

2006-12-29T02:51:00.000-08:00

Week 6: Meeting Ghandi and Gujarati Hospitality

2006-12-27T22:49:00.000-08:00

Week 6: Meeting Ghandi, and Gujarati Hospitality

The next day in the farmhouse, we wake and are bombarded with a full English breakfast that really sets us up for the day. Over breakfast, we agree with the Dutch family to all go to the swamp together the next day. That way, they can drive us and we can split the charge of the expensive swamp guide, much to Mad Jo's annoyance. She is essentially losing money here. She attempts to convince us that the Dutch family's car is too small, but we ignore her. The Saiwa Swamp is famous for being the home of evolved antelope who are now semi-aquatic and spend their time submerged in water. It's also a good place to spot debrazza monkeys.

We head out with our guide from yesterday to a nearby waterfall. We take a matatu to the next village where we take a taxi up to the hills. There, we trek down towards the waterfall. We are high up in the green and tree-filled hills, and have a clear view of Mount Elgon in Uganda. As we start to descend towards the edge of the waterfall, my vertigo kicks in. I start to feel like the wind is pushing me to the edge and I am being dragged down. My legs are shaky and my mind is all over the place. Katie and the guide continue down to the edge, while I sit in a field of grazing cows and try to calm down a little. They return and we walk back to where we left the taxi, to find that the taxi is no longer there. Our guide loses his cool and starts cursing the driver, who is apparently a friend of his, who has driven off, leaving us stranded in the hills, next to a crazy Pentecostal church where they are singing in tongues, and a red soiled dirt track. Plus, the driver has driven off with the guide's only waterproof jacket. He is not happy. We trek 2 miles back up to the main road and wait for passing cars.

Some kids come out to play with us. Their mad dad soon joins them, wild dreads under his beret, slightly insane tone to his English accent, he is a great conversationalist. He keeps us company. He asks where I am from. I say, 'England' and he tells me he doesn't believe me. I don't look white. I run him through the gamut of my parent's origins in India, Kenya and Aden and he laughs and says that I could not say I am an international because it is obvious my heart is in England, so I must be English. He says, it's important to know where your heart feels most at home. He calls his brother-in-law, who has a taxi and he comes to pick us up and drive us back to the village where we got the original taxi from.

In the village, Katie and I decide to go back to the farmhouse and tell our guide to point us to the right matatu and leave us to it, as he lives near this village and it makes no sense to drop us off and come back again. He explains that he cannot bring us back early as Mad Jo will be angry. We tell him that either way it's our choice as it's our holiday. We say that we will go back but he should just go home. He says that Mad Jo will tell him off for allowing us to go home unaccompanied. We note aloud that she sounds like a difficult boss. His knowing smile speaks volumes. We decide to wait for the taxi driver who stranded us, so the guide can get his jacket back. We wait an hour and the guy eventually returns, leading to a tense showdown between the taxi driver and the guide. The guide, looking like he may lash out at the driver, catches sight of us in the corner of his eye, remembers himself, wrenches his jacket off the passenger seat and leads us away. It turns out the driver's excuse was nothing more than 'I didn't know if you would be coming back.'

Back at the farmhouse, we meet a new arrival, an American called Jenny travelling on her own. Mad Jo approaches Katie and orders her to make friends with Jenny, 'unless, of course, Nikesh values his privacy too much' she adds snidely. Jenny is travelling alone and came to the farmhouse on the same pretext we did, that it appeared close to the swamp. We learn that Jenny has been subjected to some Mad Jo-isms in the last hour. She has been banned from coming to dinner tonight as this will upset the table arrangements. She has also been forbidden from going to the swamp with the Dutch family and us the following day. This will not be appropriate. Mad Jo sends us over some tea and cake.

Over dinner, we learn more about Mad Jo. She is not in Saiwa out of choice. Her mum is ill, and so she has been summoned from the coast to help with the running of the farmhouse as her mum refuses to move. She has been here since 1997. She grew up in Kenya. Mad Jo's family were some of the original settlers. They are now the only ones left in the area and Mad Jo's father helped turn the swamp into national parkland. We understand her Victorian attitude to servitude and money a lot better now that we know that she is not in fact an ex-pat. She is a white colonialist, one of the originals and one of the last few remaining. This does not excuse the horrid attitude she carries towards her black staff.

We are able to sneak Jenny into the farmhouse for dinner on the pretext of her having tea and sitting by the warm fire. During dinner, the Dutch family invite Jenny to come with us all to the swamp. Mad Jo's face turns sour. We eat a hearty roast. As we all say our goodnights, Mad Jo, in an attempt to confuse Jenny, asks her what her plans are for the next day. Jenny states that she is going to the swamp. Mad Jo asks her how she plans on getting there as the Dutch family have said they have no room. She says she will manage, deciding that ignoring her is better than fighting her on her home turf.

Saturday morning and we are up at 6am to go see these semi-aquatic antelope. We all squeeze into the Dutch car. Mad Jo comes out to note surprise at all the tag-alongs. We go on a nature trail around the swamp, seeing rare monkeys and those fabled antelope and other creepy crawlies. It's an amazing experience. The swamp is quite a sight. We return to the farmhouse, pack up and settle up with Mad Jo. We discover that Mad Jo is charging us for all those benevolent cups of tea and pieces of cake. We inform her that we are all splitting the cost of our swamp guide three ways and we will be paying her by cheque as we do not have enough cash. She makes us add a handling charge, and a service charge for all her staff. She tries to test our honesty by writing the wrong number of beers down on the bill, before questioning us on how many we drank, just to see what we say. She catches me out, as I am unable to remember how many beers I have drunk, it being her responsibility to keep tabs not mine. We pay, worry about cash and head back into Kitale.

We end up staying at the Bongo Lodge, which is a dingy dirty tiny sweet little hotel next to our bus station in Kitale. Our room is right outside the huge water tank that seems to be in constant use, despite the lack of running water in our taps, showers or toilet. It is noisy every night and we lie awake listening to the cleaners work through the night, arguing and singing their ways through their twilight tasks. That night in Kitale, we want to head to the swankiest restaurant in town to watch the Miss Kitale 2006 competition. When we arrive though, it is dark and we're still shaken up by the effects of Kisumu so we end up going to a bar a few doors down from our hotel. There, they make a calypso and ska version of traditional Kenyan lingala music. People throw shapes, dancing all over the shop. Katie and I watch and learn a few things, laughing at the young men pointing their gyrating hips at Katie, thinking obviously that one thrust of their crotch at her and she would be theirs. Obviously not. As we leave, a drunk man tries to talk to us. Another drunk man tells him to leave the Westerners alone and they end up having a fight at the top of the steps as we leave quickly. Crazy town. Sunday, we spend mostly walking about museums and swimming.

Monday, we decide to head to Nairobi as we are running out of money and need to go to the bank. We wake up early and go to the bus station. Our hotel in Nairobi is in Westlands, which is where all the Asians and ex-pats live and is considerably safer than other areas. We worry slightly about arriving after dark but are anxious to just get there all the same. The bus journey is surprisingly painless. We have a bumpy 8 hours, but the sight of the Rift Valley, baboons, zebras and quiet mountain idylls are enough to keep us entertained till the suburbs of Nairobi. The bus is full of proud fathers and their pained sons all returning from a mass circumcision ceremony near Kitale. There are chickens trapped in boxes too. When we reach Nairobi, serendipity caresses our worries and we see our hotel on the side of the main road on our way in. We jump off the bus early and head up to the hotel. The hotel is manned by a security guard who locks the gate all the time. Taxis have to sign in and out of a book each time they enter. The hotel is perfunctory. We walk down to the Westlands Mall, ten minutes down the road. It is a big Western shopping mall, full of shoes and T-shirts and places to drink. We have returned to civilisation, it feels like. Am I that much of a city boy. I wonder, that I equate commerce with civility?

We wake up the next day and Katie has been struck with food poisoning. She is vomiting and toileting like no other. She cannot keep down water without throwing it back up. She is incredibly weak. I find a chemist and get her something to settle her stomach. Unfortunately, she soon throws the pills back up along with the water. We worry about dehydration. There is no way of hydrating her without her vomiting the water back up. Worried it may be something more serious, we take her to the hospital. We find there, that her medical insurance will only kick in if she is admitted. Otherwise, everything is going to cost money. I pay the 1000 shillings initial consultation charge. I panic a little. Luckily, the unluckily-named Dr Rajiv Ghandhi, a kind slightly goofy goateed young doctor takes pity on a slumped Katie and takes us straight through to be examined. We bypass an incredibly long line. Katie is eventually put on a saline drip, and they begin the process of re-hydrating her. However, when I take her blood samples to the lab for analysis, they demand money from me. I have none. I panic and call the aunt and uncle I stayed with when I first arrived. Dr Rajiv Ghandhi (lucky for some) and I discuss the money situation. We have none. Katie was taken ill before we could head to the bank. We are screwed. We will even need to pay for the saline drip. I panic. Katie is shivering. She has a slight fever. She is getting worse to get better. Shame I can't pay for it. The option we discuss is admitting her for a night so her medical insurance will cover everything. She agrees that this is best. We are otherwise looking at a fee of 10k shillings.

When the decision is taken to admit her, I become three people all at once: the worrywort, the signature courier (carrying an endless number of forms between the ill and the administration) and the loving fiancé.

My aunt and uncle arrive and meet Katie for the first time, lying half-asleep on a gurney, on her second saline drip and turning from blue to red again. They invite us to stay with them. We agree. First things first, my uncle and I go back to my hotel and pack up our stuff. My adventuring spirit has broken by constant disaster over the past 10 days, and I am ready to be embraced back into the Gujarati bosom. We take our stuff to my aunt and uncle's house. I pack an overnight bag for Katie and return to the hospital. We walk to her ward, where she is put at the back of the ward where all the beds are empty. It's deathly quiet and eerie and we asked to be moved to where there is people. I stay with her. She is starting to feel better. She feels hungry. The doctors have confirmed it was a severe case of food poisoning and dehydration and not malaria. We breathe a sigh of relief. We have to, though, go through the admissions bit now. I stay with her while she eats her first meal in 24 hours: chips and soup. We pay cards and then I return to my aunt's house for a Gujarati vegetarian feast. I eat heartily, warm in the bosom of Gujarati hospitality. I've come full circle to the creature comforts I've always had and the familiar glow of family life.

My parents phone, worried. My dad tells me he told me so when I tell him about our adventures. "I told you this was a lawless country," he says. My grandparents also phone to check on Katie. She is fast asleep three miles down the road.

The next day, I am anxious to see her. The doctors have told her she should be out today. I head over to the hospital an hour before visiting hours start. I lie and say I am her husband so they'll let me in. She is fine and glowing, feeling nearly back to normal. There have been more saline drips and blood tests during the night. It appears this hospital is leaving nothing to chance. We spend a lazy day talking and playing cards and sitting outside in the sunshine waiting until 4 when she will be discharged. This is the most time we have spent together since she left for Kenya in August. I leave for the lunch period when visitors are not allowed. I head to a mall nearby and doing some Christmas shopping. I return and am told by the security guard that my constant presence by Katie's bedside is upsetting some of the other patients. Katie is in a female-only ward and they were perturbed when I sat at the end of her bed to play cards with her. I sit on a chair facing Katie's bed, not moving my head at all to my surroundings. We wait 2 hours for the doctor to discharge Katie. He eventually comes and we leave, marvelling at how trying our holiday has been and how we haven't explored Nairobi much and how un-Christmassy we feel. We walk outside to wait for my uncle to pick us up and find 10 members of staff all decorating Christmas trees on the front-lawn with tinsel and lights and baubles and ding dong merrily on high… our festive faith is momentarily restored – it's a Christmas miracle.

Our bad luck prevails though when our uncle's car, on our return journey, leaks all its petrol out on the road and we break down a mile from home.

The next day, we spend in Nairobi, doing some museum sight-seeing, some recuperating and some shopping. We feel a little more Christmassy now. We try to soak up the town, going to a display of modern Kenyan art. We buy some bits and bobs and end our day eating dhal and rice and marvelling at a day spent like a typical holiday should be.

It's Christmas in a few days and it's the end of our holiday. We are grateful to my aunt and uncle for their amazing hospitality and the rescue job they did for us. We hope that our return to Mombasa will signal the end of our bad luck, and all our Christmas presents from our families and friends will have arrived safely and Christmas will be a relatively normal affair, without muggers, hospitalisations, car troubles and feelings of paranoia.

Next week: some tropical festive fun, our run of bad luck continues, and more bent coppers…

Week 5: Bent Coppers and Bungling Robbers

2006-12-27T22:48:00.000-08:00

Week 5: Bent Coppers and Bungling Robbers

We are driving over new Nyali Bridge when a copper spots the Asian guy in the new Japanese car with two white girls, one of which is blonde and he smells money. He pulls us over. The cop walks around the car trying to find something wrong, looking for something to cause a fuss about. He notices that the backseat passenger does not have her seatbelt on. He motions for us to wind down our windows. He demands to know why she is not wearing her seatbelt. We apologise and she hastily puts it on. He demands to know what possessed her to think she could get away with not wearing her seatbelt. We apologise. He asks for the driver's licence. The driver does not have her licence with her.

"Well, that is your second mistake," grins the red-toothed leering man as he leans into my window and looks the blonde driver up and down. "For two mistakes, I am afraid I will have to impound your car. What do you say to that?" We all apologise once more, desperate to get out of here. He ushers us to shut up and speaks directly to the driver. "How will you get out of this?" he asks. The driver, flustered, apologises once more. The woman in the back bellows that he wants money. The driver says that she is happy to go to the station with the copper if need be and fill out any necessary paperwork. The copper shakes his head and says, "For two mistakes, I have decided to forgive you. How will you show your gratitude?" The driver says that she can apologise again, that is all she is prepared to do. The copper says, "I have already forgiven you. You have to give me something to show your gratitude. How much gratitude will you give me?" We are all furious at his insinuation. Every time a non-driver tries to speak, he shuts us up and stares at the driver. "Two thousand shillings (£20)?" she offers. He says that this is low for two mistakes. She says, well, we can go to the station. He motions to get into the car and then stops, telling us we will need to pay more if we go to the police station and there will be a lot of paperwork. It is easier to sort it out now, but two thousand is too low. We settled on 3000 and drive off, our cheeks burning with shame and anger.

I don't know who I'm more afraid of here, the cops or the robbers. Either way, I don't want to get into trouble with either one.

We drive into Mombasa to the post office. This is how the post office works when you receive a package. You get a yellow slip in your letterbox telling you to go and collect the package. You go on down to the post office, give your yellow slip and ID to one person. They retrieve the package, you check the address and name on the front and sit down. You are then called by another person, who gets you to open the package in front of them (imagine if this is presents or pants, or in our case this occasion, both) while they write down and itemise everything you receive. They then, using the power of imaginary mathematics, work out how much duty you should pay on the items you have received and give you a bill. Your package is taken away from you. You are ushered into a room where you present the bill. They explain to you that the duty you owe them is the amount on the bill. You sign somewhere to prove you understand this. You then go and stand in the cashier queue and give them the bill. They write you a new bill and take your money. You are paying to receive presents and gifts and care packages your friends and family have already spent a fortune sending around the world to you. They stamp your bill, the receipt they have just given you and a copy of the original yellow slip you came in with and give them back to you. You take these pieces of paper back to the original person you started with and he writes your passport number on each bit of paper. You give him 70 shillings each per parcel for handling. He writes you a receipt for the 70 shillings. You then get to take your package and go home and wonder what the point of having a birthday or Christmas is while trying to enjoy the contents of the package, but instead you sit in disappointment, your spirit broken by bureaucratic procedure and paperwork.

The day after Katie finishes for the Christmas holidays we fly to Nairobi and from Nairobi (or Nairobbery – as a friend referred to it once) we catch an incredibly bumpy 7 hour bus to Kisumu on Lake Victoria in the Western Highlands of Kenya. The bus driver is fast and reckless and the roads are worn and feckless. The roads are terrible. We shake and rattle and roll with every nut and bolt holding the bus barely together. What at first feels like a thorough back massage starts to eventually feel like systematic bodily trauma. The journey is fun though. We drive through the Rift Valley, see giraffes and zebras and try to read despite the shaky journey. We arrive in Kisumu, tired and worn and unused to being still. I retrieve our backpack from the boot of the bus. Katie and I look around for a taxi. The bus driver glares at me and screams at me in Swahili, like I have done something wrong. I shrug at him dumbly. I cannot help him. We walk out of the bus station towards the main road assuming we will find a taxi to our hotel.

"OI! STOP IT! YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" I hear a scream behind me and whirl round to find a young boy trying to rip Katie's handbag from around her head. The bag is around her neck so every time he yanks it fiercely, he pulls her towards him, so savagely that she bites him on the nose. I run to her aid, grab the bag and wrestle it from his hands. He grunts and looks fierce. Katie starts to acquiesce and tries to take it off from around her head as he is getting nowhere yanking it off her. He continues to pull though. I continue to wrench it back, on autopilot. A crowd gathers and stares. The boy drops the bag into my hand, punches me square in my beautiful nose and runs off. A security guard blows a whistle and runs off after him.

Katie and I walk off quickly trying to find a taxi. The gathering crowd looks shocked. One asks if we are okay. We scream that we are fine and that they should have helped us. My nose is bleeding freely all over my face and the back of my throat is tinged with blood. Katie and I walk off. The curb is steep and she trips, twisting her ankle as she falls off the curb. A man asks if we need help finding a tuk-tuk. He leads us in the direction we were walking in, down the deserted main road. We eventually find a tuk-tuk. My face is covered in blood. My beautiful nose throbs. The tuk-tuk driver drives us two streets to our hotel and overcharges us in our hour of need. Opportunism. Thanks. We address my nose and Katie's ankle with some ice and eat and marvel at our luck that he didn't have a knife or worse and also that he didn't get the bag, which contained all Katie's money and passport and other useful bits.

I read the Lonely Planet's dangers and annoyances section about Kisumu. It warns us against steep curbs and glue-sniffing purse-snatchers. Why oh why did I gloss over that bit?

Our night is fraught with fear and paranoia. Should we go home? Are we safe? Is everyone under suspicion? All those friendly warnings our paranoid Asian friends gave us, are they all true? Of course, walking out of a bus station lamenting your disorientation and the lack of taxis and wearing a big Western tourist backpack does scream vulnerable but still, why us? We feel like victims.

The next day we get up feeling miserable. Both of us have dreamt about being attacked by unknown forces. I go downstairs to enquire about buses back to Nairobi as we are considering just going home. As I relate our tale to a worried receptionist, an American lady who overheard approaches us and tells me she is a relief nurse and will look at Katie's ankle and my nose. My nose is fine, just emotionally scarred. Katie has twisted her ankle. The nurse dresses the ankle and gives her some tiger balm to ease the swelling. We decide we need to regain our adventurous mojo so take a walk around the town in the daylight in an attempt to demystify the air of dark forces by facing them in the daylight. Unfortunately, it is foggy and cold and everyone stares at us menacingly (actually, or in our heads, we never quite decide). Kids follow us, sucking on bottles of booze, their eyes glazed and fiercely red. We do not like this place. We contemplate going home the next day. Katie suggests a field trip out of the town to a fishing village on Lake Victoria to raise our spirits, as we cannot go back today. We hop in a taxi and go to Dunga, by Hippo Point, on Lake Victoria.

Dunga is tiny and thin, on a long stretch of road. People are surprised to see Western faces pass through and all look at us. The kids are fascinated and smile at us, shouting 'how are you?' as we walk past. We cut up the coast of the Lake towards a beach resort where we are spotted by a bunch of playing kids. Two of them stop, fixated by Katie and they run up to her. They stop in front of her and she greets them. They touch her skin, fascinated by its whiteness. One of them rubs a mole on her arm. One kid is playful funny and full of giggles. The other has a distended stomach, bites all over his face and legs and an unhappy grimace. He is extremely clingy. He takes to Katie the most and grabs her little finger with his entire small hand. The other kid does the same with her other hand and they walk with us as we walk to the beach resort. Everyone we pass laughs at them, obviously knowing who they belong to. There is no fear here, like in Britain where we fear the paedos and the crack so we lock our children up in front of playstations and sky boxes. Here, children are free and if they want to escort two fearful Westerners to a hotel on the Lake, then that's what they will do. The children are silent as we walk. The unhappy kid eventually grabs my little finger as well and we become a huge walking family. Our fears start to dissipate. These children are melting our hearts. I consider doing a Madonna. When we arrive at our destination, it takes some effort to disconnect ourselves from the kids. We consider taking them inside for a snack but disapproving looks from the doorman make them scarper. We have a drink inside.

Later, we go up to Hippo Point on Lake Victoria, which is the best place to see hippos in this part of the lake. We get on a rickety wooden boat with some other Kenyan tourists and a man I swear to this day was Sir David Attenborough, and we paddle out on to the Lake. Katie and I are careful to try not get too splashed by the water as it is notorious for being full of snail-parasites. We see hippos and monkeys and fishermen. A hippo rears its head not far from the boat and starts to give it chase, giving us a momentary panic. Everyone, it seems, is out to get us. Through conversation with one of the guides on the boat, we discover that Kisumu is changing. It used to be a thriving port town, but now there is nothing and children, with no hope of future employment, are turning more and more to robbery. He tells us of two incidents of vigilante justice in the last year: One, where a would-be mugger was shot by the guy he was trying to mug. Another, where a would-be mugger tried to mug a Japanese tourist. The Japanese tourist broke his arm first and then gave him the money anyway. That's gangster. The guide marvels at our luck that the would-be mugger didn't have a knife or worse. The sun shines off Lake Victoria as we sail about, the water itself is brown with mud and contains potentially violent hippos. We return to land.

The next day, Thursday, we check out of our hotel and drive up with a taxi driver to Kitale in the north. Our taxi driver for the day yesterday, it turns out, was planning to drive up to Kitale anyway to take his son there for Christmas. Our temporary fear of buses and matatus means that we offer to pay his petrol and a little extra to go with him. He agrees. As we drive out of Kisumu, we drive past an incident of mob rule. A would-be mugger is being beaten by a huge crowd of people. It is a horrible sight, one of real violence and contempt. I cannot watch. We wonder whether to call the police, until we see them idly standing by. Mob rule is more disturbing than actual mugging. Although, it does make me wonder whether petty theft is the crime of choice for Kisumu. None of them seem any good at it.

The drive to Kitale is slow. We are rising up and up into the Western Highlands and it is getting colder and colder. Along the way, we drive through 10 separate police check-points. We are stopped at 3 different ones, so the police can walk around the car and spot something wrong. Only once does a policeman spot something wrong with the licence plates. Our driver has all the correct official paperwork showing why there is a problem with the licence plates and that it Is in the process of getting sorted. The policeman causes a fuss though, and in the end, for the sake of ease, the driver gives him some money to not be difficult and we drive on. The driver notes to us that even when you are in the right, if they want to cause a problem they will, the easiest option is to always just give them money and move on. They can cause a fuss about anything, and they will. It makes you not want to get in trouble here. As I said before, who would you rather? The cops or the robbers?

In Kitale, we are dropped and we find transportation to 20 km out of Kitale, a farmhouse near a swamp we are visiting. The farmhouse is owned by Mad Jo's mum. Mad Jo's mum is away so we deal with Mad Jo. An eccentric 50 year old ex-pat spinster with a growth defect on his arm, a shrill voice and a career in meddling. She is short with wild stringy mousy blonde hair. She is bossy and confusing and commanding and irritating all at once. She greets us with a barrage of confusion about where we will be sleeping. She has so far neglected to send us a current tariff for staying with her, so when we arrive and find out how expensive the rooms are, we immediately downgrade ourselves to a tent at the back. We also find out that the farmhouse is not walking distance from the swamp, as inferred in our guidebook, but a good 6km away. The tariff also hints at hidden costs. She offers us tea and cake, which we accept. She is gracious and we are thirsty. She tells us she will only accept cash as cheque is useless. We worry about how much cash we have left. She coerces us into paying one of her guides (but paying him through our final bill, so she can take her cut obviously) on taking us for a walk. We are a bit annoyed at her subtle coercion but it ends up being an entertaining walk.

We walk. The guide tries to flirt awkwardly with Katie. She laughs it off. He tells me about his love for Wayne Rooney. We meet all the local children, who run up to us to say 'how are you?' and beg us to take their photo, which we do and show them the results immediately on the camera screen. They are amazed and shriek that they are now INSIDE THE CAMERA. We see fields of tea plants and fields of guava and avocado trees and coffee plant orchards and are amazed that this stuff is just there, growing. The kids keep coming, thick and fast, fascinated with Katie's skin. When she replies to their 'how are yous' we find that they cannot reply, so we switch to our pidgin Swahili and they are amaze that we speak their language. Later Mad Jo chides the guide for not shooing away the children and we defend him, saying it was the best part of the whole experience. We have our first hot showers in months and go up to her farmhouse for our expensive half-board dinners. She puts on a huge three course spread. There is oodles of food. She has three smiley Kenyan servants who she commands through the use of a bell on the table that she rings. We find it embarrassing, as do the other guests, an amiable Dutch family, staying there. We all smile at the servants and try to communicate to them with our eyes and our 'thank yous' and 'pleases' that we're sorry she's so bossy, and a bit Victorian England in her treatment of them. No one should be summoned by bell.

We go to sleep that night, freezing, with hot water bottles, outside with the creepy crawlies. I am cold and so is Katie and we huddle in one of the tent's single beds, shivering and trying to fall asleep in the pitch black surroundings…

TO BE CONTINUED…

NEXT WEEK: Nairobbery, hospitals and shopping!

Week 4: Crow vs Monkey; Man vs Ant

2006-12-27T22:46:00.000-08:00

Week 4: Crow vs Monkey; Man vs Ant

This week has been fraught with battles of nature and throwing caution to the wind. Caution in this tale will be represented by my buttocks.

Last weekend was fairly sedate. On Friday evening, I sound engineered for Katie's first ever school music concert, which was a brilliant success, despite Katie not being a trained music teacher. She rocked it and so did the kids. The highlight was a gloriously silly customed version of the Jabberwocky poem, complete with sound effects. I sound engineered for the event and the student rumours started, 'That's Miss Thoburn's fiancé!!'

An aborted Christmas shopping trip in the old town left us with plane tickets to Nairobi for next week and a fistful of cash. I went to exchange some money at an exchange place in a hotel. It was caged and manned by a rifle-toting security guard in a cricket helmet. He led me into a booth with a teller who exchanged my traveller's cheques. It was a tiny suffocating booth with a time release lock and the teller sure enough left me with a strong meaty fart to contend with while he went to photocopy my passport. Nice.

After a spot of lunch and haggling unsuccessfully with market sellers for a pair of second-hand Etnies trainers, Katie and I decided to head to Kongowea Market, a little market on our side of New Nyali Bridge. It is a massive sprawling and dirty market, full of cool modern clothes. It's strange, you walk around surrounded by Top Shop and H&M and Abercrombie and Fitch's latest collections and you wonder, how on earth did it all end up here in Mombasa? Well, dear reader, this market is where the relief clothes sent by charity shops seem to end up. So all those donations you make to charity shops that aren't sold in the shops themselves, or the bags you take to those weird green nuclear containers in supermarket car parks, well the clothes all end up being resold in Kongowea Market for diggedy-dirt cheap. I bought muchos shorts and t-shirts for a total of 500 shillings (we are talking 150 shillings to a pound). Kongowea Market is a tough experience. It's extremely intimate and everything is close together. It's muddy and there was sellers everywhere. You step over them in the path. Everyone is chewing qat (that leafy stimulant). The shacks chocker with stuff back on to other shacks all chocker with stuff. As soon as the sellers see the musungu ('honky') and her strangely dressed boyfriend ('Nikesh') they all follow us and call for us to come visit their stall-shack. More often than not the clothes are those weird Hawaii shirts or t-shirts with company logos (Kudos: for all your photocopy needs; MacMillan Finance) that you can easily walk on by, Dionne Warwick-style.

My favourite bit of bartering came when I had agreed on a price for some shorts with a guy. His mum shouted out, 'And 50 extra shillings so I can buy lunch. Go on, 50 more shillings so I can eat lunch.' I peered around the man to see the woman talking to me. I found a plump lady, lying on pillows, with her feet up, eating a big plate of rice and lentils. I said, 'But you're eating lunch now.' The man said to me, 'Do you want my wife to starve?" I replied that she didn't look like she was in danger of starving, besides, she already had her lunch and was eating it. They wanted me to reimburse her for it. I declined.

After the sweaty perusals in Kongowea, we headed back home to cool down in the pool. No sooner had we dived in when we noticed… bloody pool is being chemical-ised again. All these chemicals I keep diving into, I might grow an extra leg or nipple by the end of the year.

Saturday evening brought with it some oppressive heat and my worst nightmare: a trip to see a Bollywood film, 'Dhoom 2'. I hate modern Bollywood. With all its apparent silliness, the derivative copying of Western films, the usage of rippling actors saying the most bizarre English phrases 'Do the needful', and the need to no longer bother integrating the songs into the plot structure, it's an all-singing all-dancing all-action day-glo nightmare. 'Dhoom 2' was a mixture of 'Heat', 'Entrapment', 'Mission Impossible 2' and a bizarre subtle hint of 'Brokeback Mountain' with songs. There was a scene with a garish transvestite playing our glorious queen. It was a nightmare. Sunday involved swimming and relaxing at the beach before the week's battles commenced.

Monday morning and I was the harbinger of death for ants. I found multiple ant trails all over the flat. Most heading for the warmth of my laptop. I got out the bug spray (handily called 'Doom') and I Doomed their asses, leaving trails of dead ant carcasses all over the flat, as a message to other errant guerrilla ant factions and their splinter cells that I was not to be trifled with. There was an ant trail from our toilet cistern all the way across the room to the shower head. I Doomed their asses too. I am the Ant-Killer. I will go down in ant history for this genocidal destruction. It all started when I found ants crawling all over my laptop, trying to get inside and eat things and cause mischief. Sufficed to say, I f**cking lost with those ants on Monday morning so I got trigger-happy and Doomed their asses. I felt a bit bad for all the destruction. But it was self-defence. They invaded my area first. Monday and Tuesday I spent working on 'Mantra' and recording songs. An album of little acoustic songs is starting to emerge. Loads of 2 and 3 minute poppy acoustic tracks, kinda anti-folk style. I'm enjoying it. This will constitute 'The Blatteroon' LP. Research on my Britishness project has started too.

Tuesday was the ultimate show-down: Crow vs. Monkey. It was quite the battle too. Outside our balcony is a tree. I was sat on the balcony innocently typing away when I noticed a commotion in the way of hastily rustled branches. I looked up to find a monkey trying to grab a crow from a branch and throw it to the ground. The crow resisted, using the power of flight to escape the monkey's clasp. The monkey bared its teeth and launched an airborne attack, jumping at the crow. The crow fought back though, and turned round and flapped in the monkey's face, pecking out as hard as it could, trying to peck the monkey's eyes. The monkey, blinded pushed the crow back and there was a flap and a tussle before two other crows arrived to help crow 1 out. The monkey had no chance so it lunged for glory, landing a vicious punch on the crow and falling to the ground as the crow and its mates flew away.

1-0 to crow I think. Although, we are checking the rule books to see what they say about getting your mates to help.

Wednesday night, Katie and I decorated a plant on our balcony with fairy lights, tinsel and baubles in an attempt to feel more Christmassy. Obviously, we are completely oblivious to Christmas saturation at home and it feels a little weird. We both felt tinges of homesickness for a regular Christmas this week. No adverts or omniscient Santa or present-shopping or roast potatoes. The Christmas plant kinda helped with our Christmas pines (:arf: what a pun!). We also have been learning Christmas songs on the guitar and piano. Our crowd-pleasing favourite is 'Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart' by George Michael. On a drive to a restaurant nights later with Katie G (another teacher) we sang carols the whole way. Well, I say sang, but the truth is we all sang the first few lines with confidence and hummed the rest with the occasional word thrown in because, hell, we can't remember the words. It was nice to see that other schools sang 'O Come All Ye Faithful' like our school did. A whisper for the first two 'Oh come let us adore him' before a loud and racous 'OH COME LET US ADORE HIM, CHRI-I-IST THE LORD!!' as loud as you can to upset the teachers. Yes, we're missing Christmas out here. I'm sure people are celebrating it but there aren't many decorations and we don't have a television so it's passing us by a little. Plus, it's ridiculously hot and neither of us associate Christmas with heat.

Crow vs Monkey round 2: Thursday afternoon. I came back in from football (two days in a row in the heat, running around breathing in hot air… suffocating) to hear a tussle going on. I ran to the balcony. I missed the fight but monkey was in the tree looking pleased with himself, a feather sticking out of his mouth (okay, I made the last bit up, but a metaphorical feather). So I reckon he's evened it up. 1-1 Crow vs Monkey.

That afternoon I had thrown caution to the wind. I had gone food shopping and decided to take a matatu home. Except, matatus are tiny and you have to contort your body into all manner of shapes to sit down anywhere, and I had a backpack on and two full bags of shopping. I struggled and twisted and tried to turn my body round to sit down but as I did so, the matatu started driving and before I knew it, my buttocks were hanging out of the matatu, I was holding on and standing up proud as a father. My bum caught the glorious wind and threw caution to it. It was a liberating airy experience and I emerged from that matatu journey a changed man.

So, people's Eastender updates have been a bit rubbish so allow me to ruin Christmas Day for you: Pauline Fowler dies.

Next week, Katie and I head to Nai-robbery then to Western Kenya to see some rainforest, a swamp and some tea plantations. The week after will be a mammoth entry with Christmas and our West Kenya adventure all in one. It's a bumper Christmas issue one might say.

Have a great Christmas people. We'll miss you. But then we're planning to have a Christmas barbeque and head to the beach so I imagine it's an even trade.

Love and avocados,

Nikesh

Week 3: Malaise and Work Days

2006-12-04T06:53:00.000-08:00

Week 3: Malaise and Work Days

Week 3: Malaise and Work Days

Friday saw the start of Katie's birthday weekend extravaganza. We went to a Japanese restaurant in Bamburi up the coast and ate sushi. The restaurant, Misono's, was all decked out like a traditional Japanese kabuki place rather than the cool sleek feng shui-ed minimal design masterpieces I had come to associate with Japanese food. In any case, the food was nice and afterwards, we popped round the corner to a local Mombasa drinking hole: an outdoor Irish pub called Bobs. The music was loud 80's power ballads and the Tusker beers flowed like a babbling brook. Tusker beer here is cheap and tasty. Under a pound for a pint of Tusker (50p if you buy it in supermarkets and even cheaper if you take in your empty bottles for recycling), a tasty beer with a dozy elephant as its logo. Bobs was loud and crass and fun. A few drinks later, Katie and I headed back to the restaurant to meet our taxi. As we stood outside the restaurant, bearing our doggy bags, loads of workers walking home in the twilight stopped and asked us what promotion we were giving for the restaurant. We smiled them on. Not I, said the walrus.

Saturday morning meant old town for some Christmas shopping. Being so far away from home and the cold and the constant jing-jing-jingerling sleigh bells ringing, I keep losing perspective of what time of year it is. Christmas is approaching, we have no idea who's vying for Christmas number one, what the must have toy is this year and what we want for Christmas. It feels like summer here because it's hot and sticky every single day. In the old town, we ate at a local café called Kasims, where they served a simple meal of bhajis and chapattis with passion fruit juice. We headed over to Nakumatt, the Kenyan version of Tesco, to pick up supplies for the evening (for it was Katie's birthday celebrations) where we managed to win 5000 shillings worth of free shopping. However, while waiting to collect our vouchers, we experienced a power cut and the shop lost all recollection of our winning.

The evening brought much entertainment. We had a barbeque of burgers and paneer kebabs on the roof, star-gazing on the clear hot night. We let off some fireworks for Katie and lit some sparklers under the starry sky. We then got dressed up in fancy dress (theme: the sea) and headed out to witness Mombasa night life. Katie dressed as a star fish. I dressed as Katie at the beach (a daring outfit involving a sarong, a bikini top, a wig and a rubber ring). We headed out to Il Covo, an Italian restaurant/club on the beach. There we attracted many stares, some disparaging, others embarrassed, mostly horrified at our fancy dress. We laughed it off. Simon, one of our party, attracted the unwanted attentions of a huge scary man at the bar, who kept grabbing his rubber ring and demanding he eat with him. We protected Simon. We danced, drank and had a merry old time till 2 a.m. when the fabled Mombasa-based Russian prostitutes decided to jump on to the bar and pole dance for a captivated crowd. Which I found a lot more embarrassing and cringe-worthy than my silly little fancy dress outfit.

The next morning, we nursed our hangovers at the pool before giving Katie her final birthday surprise: a dhow trip from Moorings bar up Mtwapa creek. A dhow is a sizeable boat made of one tree trunk split in two. It is long and narrow. We sailed up the creek as the sun set and the lights started to flicker along the banks and the stars started to illuminate the sky. The hazy pink sky slowly disappeared behind the high banks of the creek. We saw swimming snakes and drunk Germans and listened as the delicate strains of Kenyan folk music echoed quietly over the silent creek.

It was most definitely an enjoyable birthday weekend.

The week brought me the beginnings of routine. I started working on songs and on poems and on finishing that pesky book I started writing so long ago. I wake up at 7 when Katie leaves, go for a run, eat breakfast, work till 12, join the teachers at the school pool for lunch, then return to work till half 3, when I play football with the kids, before returning to work till 5. It's a simple quiet life, with the beginnings of ascetism in there somewhere. So far, the book is starting to ressemble a novel finally, rather than a collection of short stories; my Britishness poems are being drafted and I've recorded two short songs, one about London and one about New York… oh ever the jetsetter. Katie and I even demoed a song called 'Mdudu (mosquito)' on Monday.

On Wednesday, we went to the Nyali premiere of the new Bond film at the local Cinemax. I really liked the film. The Parkur stuff is amazing, he's a surprisingly great Bond and the grittiness of the storyline and the focus on plot rather than big action thrills was a welcome change from the cartoonish elements that blighted Brosnan-era Bond. The film was probably thirty minutes too long, but I really enjoyed it.

The premiere itself was a charity premiere where you paid 1000 shillings, and received a vodka martini, shaken not stirred (except, they replaced vodka with gin for some unknown reason), a free bag of popcorn and a coke, and the chance to enter a lottery to win free bets at the casino next door. It felt like a community centre event, especially with the prize draw over a PA system before the film. My world at that instant felt incredibly small. We all stood for the Kenyan national anthem before the film.

Kenyans don't like to improvise, I'm finding. Everything seems to be down the middle, or by the book. In restaurants I am unable to make alterations to my meal, for it must be prepared exactly as shown in the menu. Rules are there to be followed. At the Bond premiere, there was a lot of standing around waiting for the film to start and the draw to be made, and so when I took my seat early due to tiredness and boredom, I was told I had to stand till instructed to sit. It's not a bad thing, just different from London life, which seems so far away.

It's all generally quite good though. Tonight, I am sound engineering and roadie-ing at Katie's first music concert for the school. This weekend, we Christmas shop and book our December holiday. Next week, who knows?

Things I miss:

Roast dinners (we have no oven)

Spider-man comics

Kopperbergs cider

Friends

Wireless internet

Simpsons/Eastenders

Newspapers

An ant-free life

Things I don't miss:

Bills

Last trains

Last orders

Metropolitan Line

A sun-free life

Kenya Chapter 2: Orientations in a Sweaty Nation

2006-11-27T07:00:00.000-08:00

Chapter 2: Orientations and Sweaty Nations

Starting to slowly settle in now. The first weird thing to get used to is that we have a cleaner. It's a bit bizarre. Someone to do our washing and dusting. She's provided by the school but we pay her. Her name is Gladys and she is lovely. She sings while she cleans and gives me advice on songs as I compose them on the balcony. She tells me what she likes and she doesn't like. She is also teaching me a little Swahili. She speaks great English though, and her choice phrase is 'Bravo to you.' I just have to get used to the idea. It's a little weird!

The weekend brought English germs to Kenya. Katie was pretty much floored all weekend with a common cold. It was her first for months, and the heat didn't exactly help. So she was knocked out most of the weekend. Saturday afternoon, I went swimming in the school pool only to jump out when I noticed a huge sign saying it was currently undergoing chemical cleaning. Whoops. So far nothing has burnt off so I may be lucky. Saturday morning, two of Katie's colleagues had gone deep sea fishing with some visitors. One of them managed to catch an 18 pound momma of a fish. It was massive and juicy. Saturday night, we barbequed the fish under the stars on the roof of our building and listened Lily Allen and thought of London, so far away.

It's strange being away from popular culture. No NME's, no Scrubs, no Spidey comics. I'm having to learn to exist without all these stimulations, and find other things to keep me entertained. DVD's, cards, reading and playing the guitar all figure, as well as taking practice British citizenship tests in a book I have brought out here to help me with some research.

On Sunday, Katie felt a little more energetic so we went exploring the beaches up the coast. She took me to a picturesque hotel on the beach near some headland, where you could walk out to the reef, and sink your toes in squelchy white sand. We swam in the pool, I played some beach football with some local beach boys and some German tourists, we listened to an old Kenyan man play 80's pop classics on a Casio keyboard and went home. The beach boys are an interesting bunch here. They'll hawk anything. They will sell you things, guide you, give you company, take you fishing, anything to get you money. They'll even sleep with whoever pays. Some even dress as Masai-Mara for the tourists. Prostitution is treated quite blasé here. It's uncomfortable. In the evening, we drove up to Mtwapa, further up the coast and went to a bar in a creek called Moorings. Shane's dad had introduced Katie to this bar and it's quite majestic. It's in the middle of a creek, it's a little pier that you have to climb over a narrow bridge to get to. The sun sets over the creek and beauty throughout the entire surface of water reflecting off the trees. We had a few drinks there and watched the sun set over distant Mombasa.

Monday and Tuesday I got to work, reading and researching about Britishness for the poetry project I am about to work on. For lunches, I would meet Katie at a little shack at the school gates where the smiley Mama Fatuma makes lentils, spicy cabbage and chapattis for 30 shillings (5p or something ridiculous), all tasty and served with mounds of steamed rice. We then took our dishes and sat by the school pool with the other teachers. I have also been visiting a complex near the school where there is a cinema, English style pub showing football and a Café Mocha (the same chain as the one we performed at in India). Life is easy here. Quiet, sleepy and chilled. Well, it's too hot to be particularly urgent about much. On Monday and Tuesday afternoons, I went to the school cricket nets and played cricket with the 6th form cricket team. They are all great players and really helpful. They helped me get to a decent medium pace seam. Once I've warmed up next week, they'll see the return of my demon swing. Wednesday was spent working and in the evening, we went to the pub. Well I took a guy called Simon (who is visiting one of the other teachers) to the pub to drink Tusker beer play pool and watch FOOTBALL, while the girls watched some girly film 'Devil Wears Prada' or something equally offensive to my man-like eyes.

Speaking of masculinity. Another visitor left an FHM for me. I haven't read the magazine since I was 16. It's appalling. But anyway, there's a teacher here who teaches geography (those who can't, teach… geography) when he really wants to be a rugby teacher. Blessed with Small Man Syndrome, he is constantly trying to assert his manliness over me. When he saw me running around the school field, he demanded that I come with him to play a more serious sport… touch rugby (yep, serious games for woosies). I've never got on with rugby types. Watch out for him.

On Thursday, Simon and I decided to visit the old town. We took a mutatu (like the local buses, colourful minivans decorated with the logos of hip-hoppers like The Game and 50 Cent) into town. Mutatus are laws unto themselves. They don't move for anyone in the road. They speed up. They may only have 14 seats but they will seat up to 20 people in the cramped low-ceilinged back of the van. They drive fast and they only cost a maximum of 25 shillings for a long journey. (130 shillings to the pound). We got to the old town. I marvelled at how untouched by a lot of western society it was. We walked all over, and didn't see a single McDonalds or billboard for Nike anywhere. It was amazing. There were however, graffiti slogans celebrating Al-Queada everywhere. Simon and I tried to find some decent hip-hop but could only manage soft raga-influenced dancehall. They didn't seem to get that we wanted the rugged hard shit, like Prophets of da City or X-Plastaz. We walked down Jomo Kenyatta Avenue where my grandfather once owned a shop. We walked to the giant tusks that greet you on entering the city. As we walked away from the tusks, I noticed a bar that my father had mentioned called Casablancas. It was starting to rain so we ran for shelter inside. Inside, there were 10 female prostitutes lined up at the bar all staring at us as soon as we entered. We maintained eye contact and chatted as much as we could and kept ourselves to ourselves. It didn't stop the girls' madame, an elderly lady with glazed eyes approaching us and telling us that her girls wanted to sleep with us. We said we weren't interested and she got offended, taking up an uninvited seat at our table and spitting as she frothed about how we could possibly turn down her girls. We shrugged and said it wasn't our style, not our bag. She remained sat there and said ok fine, can we talk? We said ok. She kept asking questions about where we were from and what we did, trying to suss out our financial situations. Eventually she left.

Another girl replaced her. She introduced herself as Jassinder. We told her that we were on our way to the airport. She stayed anyway. She asked what we did for a living. We said we were poor students. Simon and I carried on our conversation and she sat there at the table like a lemon. She said nothing before reintroducing herself again 10 minutes later. We nodded and called over the waiter. Our food was 45 minutes late and we were wondering whether the delay was so that we could get proffered out. All the girls had been speaking to the waiter and he knew who they all were.

Our food arrived and we ate. It wasn't good at all. I silently rued my father mentioning this place. I'm sure he wasn't to know. Kenya has probably changed a lot since he was last here in 1966. We finished our food and we prepared to leave, a woman approached us wearing a low boob tube and short skirt, jiggling as she bounced over to us. She pinned Simon to his chair with her eyes.

'So, we going to sleep together?' she demanded of him. He was taken aback by her forthrightness.

'Errr, no.' He replied.

'Why do you not want to sleep with this sexy lady? We can do anything you want.' Simon was flustered. He said we had a plane to catch in 30 minutes. She said 30 minutes was plenty as there were rooms upstairs. He said no, she frowned at him flirtatiously. I interjected.

'We're married.'

She shrugged.

'We're married… errrr… we're both priests… and we respect the sanctity of marriage!!' I offered. She shrugged. She could not understand why we didn't want to sleep with her.

We finally managed to find our way out of the place with her snapping at our heels in frustration. I don't think we'll be going back. By this time, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out. It was HOT. We found sanctuary in a guide-book approved bar. I read about Casablanca in the same guidebook. It was notorious for hookers. Whoops.

We returned that evening on another mutatu, one even more cramped and that evening, Katie and I planned our December holiday. We have a month off so we're heading to Victoria Falls and a tea plantation in West Kenya.

In the meantime, this weekend is her birthday weekend so lots of fun to be had.

In the meantime, I wonder what's happening in Eastenders!!

Kenya Chapter 1: Arrivals and Reunions

2006-11-22T06:07:00.000-08:00

The Story So Far…

Once upon a time ago in a continent far far away…

The intrepid Yam Boy decided to sequester himself in the 'dark continent' in order to write a book of poetry and some music. He travelled to New York to give his farewell address before retiring to Africa-ca-ca-ca, where it all began.

Chapter 1: Arrivals and Reunions

The journey was completely nondescript and uneventful. Sadly, the in-flight films were exactly the same as the ones shown on my transatlantic trip to America the previous. Golly gosh, that makes me sound such a hoity-toity jetsetter. But anyway, a strangely unemotional goodbye with mum in the morning, as it was early, I hadn't slept and I was still bewildered by going.

I managed to stare out of the plane at the exact moment the Mediterranean Sea became the deserts and dunes of Egypt. It was completely magical. But as I said, the flight was pretty nondescript. I slept most of the way. On arrival, I raced through customs and immigration. I was relieved (and a teensy-weensy bit disappointed) to not encounter scary immigration officials wanting bribes. Everyone had warned me about corruption and some relatives had even expressed concern that I may need a licence for the musical instruments I was bringing in. Alas not. The only question I was asked was about the Shiva badge I was wearing. The customs official asked who he was. I told him. He asked when Shiva would arrive to save us all. I replied with something enigmatic like, 'He is already within us' or something and carried on.

This reminds me of something I forgot to mention about Newark. Hard Kaur and I were standing outside our hotel one morning, waiting to be picked up for an event. An elderly white guy and a young black guy approached us. They said they had met someone in the park who knew us and knew our grandfathers and they had spoken at length about us… who were they talking to in the park? Yup, good ol' God.

Anyway, I was met by an uncle at Nairobi airport and his friend and a miscellaneous man who was never properly introduced to me. He asked if I had had any problems. I replied that it was all fine and not to worry. He double-checked I had all the correct paperwork for staying here. He double-checked my tickets and whether I had all the correct phone numbers in case of problem. I showed him everything as we drove through a dark and dimly lit Nairobi back to his house.

We arrived at his house in a compound full of mainly Indian houses all tucked together and locked in with a huge guarded gate. I entered the house. It was like being back in Harrow. Inside the house was the exact same Gujarati décor I had become accustomed to in the NW London burbs. It was comforting. My aunt had prepared a lovely Gujarati feast for me and I ate heartily. Pure comfort food. I retired to bed tired and excited about seeing Katie the next day.

The next day, I awoke in the middle of the night to what I thought sounded like gunshots. I put this down to sleep-deprived dreams and went back to bed. I woke up proper to the sound of rain on the roof. I got up and went downstairs to watch the rain. It was thick and incessant. I watched it and sipped freshly squeezed orange juice and ate freshly cut watermelon and papaya. Fresh.

I packed up my suitcase and got ready to leave. I struck up a conversation with someone in the compound as I watched my aunt insist her servant take my suitcase to the car. I thanked the servant and apologised for the heaviness of the suitcase. I tried helping her but my aunt shooed me away. I spoke to this passer-by who told me that the Kenyans were beautiful sweet people, but, he lowered his voice, make sure I keep my money locked up cos they all steal. I grimaced at this horrid paranoid dispersion and felt sad. Do Indians and Africans mix here, I wondered? I had heard stories from Shane.

We drove through Nairobi to the airport. Nairobi looked like Mumbai, but with black instead of brown people. It was strange. Tall buildings suffocated by advertising billboards skirted shanty towns and roadside shacks selling tea and water and fresh mangoes and mobile phone top-up cards.

On the one hour flight to Mombasa (take-off and landing lasted longer than the flight, and I saw Mount Kilimanjaro peeking through the clouds), I spoke to a Punjabi male wedding planner who was in Nairobi to plan a huge wedding for a relative, and was heading to Mombasa for some party-sharty. As we got off the plane, I steeled myself for the big reunion with Katie. I had waited 11 weeks to see her. I could not wait to see her. The two months had been horrendous but the last week was tortuous as we counted down the final moments of our separation. I rushed out of the baggage reclaim into the outdoor arrivals area expecting for her to drop from the sky and fall into my arms and she….

Eeeeerm…. Where was she?

I looked around frantically. Where the hell was she? I felt my pocket vibrate. Phone message. She was on her way.

I stood around like a gooseberry basking in potential anti-climax till… I… saw… her… and damn she looked fine. She looked amazing. Tanned and healthy and curly and gorgeous (bleugh, cheese). We did all those coupley things and slipped slowly back into our old groove (with the added spice of her having this new life here that I was to be a part of), We drove through Mombasa. It looked small and sleepy and colourful. We drove to Nyali, a suburb of Mombasa on the mainland, through a huge second hand clothes market and through all the places I will come to know well over the coming months. We drove to the school where we'll be staying. As we pulled up, Katie's friends Jo and Katie G jumped and performed a welcome dance for me, full of jazz hands, and some of Katie's students chased our car down the road intrigued as to the arrival of this new brown man.

Our flat is great. It's slighter bigger than our flat in Brixton. It's spacious, we have a fraction of the stuff and sleeping under mosquito nets is quite romantic. That night, Katie and I walked in near darkness to the local Gujarati restaurant and ate.

The next morning, I awoke to find a cleaner cleaning the room around me. Katie had gone to work. The cleaner's name is Gladys and much as I am uncomfortable having someone clean for me, especially with me fulfilling the role of house husband at the moment, she was all smiles and welcomes. She showed me how to use the water tank and things like that. I boiled up water for the day, unpacked and chatted with her about nothing much.

Katie had left me some orienteering tasks so I decided to do one of them. I walked out of the school, past a family of huge spiders (if one of them has to bite me, let's hope it's the radioactive one) and on to the beach where I was to comb the beach for crabs and find some interesting driftwood, which I done. The beach is amazing. The shallows stretch for about 200 metres before hitting a reef at which point it gets deep. There are reef sharks on the other side of the reef. The beach is gorgeous. The colourless but blue water mixing with the aroma of the skyline. I returned from my first successful challenge and sat on some bleachers in the school field that our flat looks out on to. Jo was teaching a transition class raquet ball so I watched for a while before returning, making a sandwich and setting up a little writing space in an unobtrusive part of the flat. I sat on the balcony and started to work on arrangements for a few new songs. As I played my guitar, an audience of 5 monkeys appeared on the trees inches from the balcony and listened. They scarpered when I stopped for a second.

At 4pm, I picked Katie up from school and we took a walk to the supermarket where we picked up provisions. They have most things here, like Bounty bars and Marmite and Cookie Crisp cereal. That night, we ate pizza in a restaurant on the sea.

This place is quite magic.

London->Newark->New York->London->Kenya

2006-11-13T03:01:00.000-08:00

London->Newark->New York->London->Kenya
Wednesday:

Met Hard Kaur at the airport early. She was feeling chirpy, I was still dreaming. Mayur and Lucia had put me up the night before and the evening ended with Jim Beam and singing. My head was sore. We checked in for our flights and messed about till it was time to go to the departure lounge. In the lounge, we saw an old sikh man get his beard frisked. We were busking with my guitar at the time. The sikh man was a homeopathic doctor and taught me some energy-restoring breathing exercises. The flight was long, laborious and an hour late.

Newark was quite a strange city. It had all the hallmarks of the American suburbs, but in close proximity. It also had an alarming number of liquor stores and fried chicken places. We checked into our hotel, met our artist liaison from the performance venue (across the road and quite spectacular) and then I decided to head to the city to see an old friend, Anand. We met in the East Village and drunk till we were drunkenly sat on a drunken stoop chatting drunken shit and doing the whole 'waaaaah, I've missed you' emotional bit. We then dined on amazing couldn't-get-it-anywhere-else New York City PIZZA. mmmmmmmmmm. I returned to Newark with a fatigued half-drunk skewered view of the world. This resulted in a ridiculous argument with a surly cab driver trying to overcharge me.

Thursday:

No sleep for the Keshle. Hard Kaur and I wandered around Newark looking for a decent breakfast place, feeling heavy and tired. We couldn't find anywhere. We resorted to asking a copper for the best place to eat. I joked about donuts or something obvious and he called me a wiseass, saying he was not above beating me up. No one gets me, I thought. The cop moaned about having to buy his own uniform before pointing us to a diner. There was no chance of getting anything unfried so we settled for eggs and bacon. Heavy.

That afternoon, Hard Kaur and I sat on a panel with a Greek hip-hop theatre artist and a Cuban radio DJ/hip-hop DJ and talked to some students at a nearby college about the importance of hip-hop and it's cultural values with regards to identity. The kids were rowdy and violently opposed to bling. There was interesting debate had by all. I did have to laugh when I mentioned grime and Sway and the tutor responded by addressing her students, 'Remember grime and Sway? We studied them in last week's lecture.' Wow, I wish I had done this degree!

In the evening we attended the opening of the hip-hop festival we were performing at. Fatigue sent us to bed but I found my insomnia returning. I went into the city to visit my old hitch-hiking buddy Karen and an old girlfriend. We hung in Union Square and caught up. Hard Kaur slept like a baby. I returned late, sober but sated.

Friday:

Hard Kaur and I continued searching for some fresh salad/fruit but ended up eating sandwiches. Hard Kaur tried a salad and remarked that the sizes we were dealing with were too much. This was expanded when we went shopping in the nearby shopping district. There we found some amazing hip-hop 'get at me dawg' clothes but for some reason, sizes started at XXXL and went up to XXXXXXL. We couldn't believe it. I felt thin. We asked someone why this was so. They said, ' Boy, you in the ghetto. We live large here.' I nodded absently. I was unsuccessful in finding anything I could buy. hard Kaur on the other hand filled her bags with new stuff.

We returned. She played me her new album. It sounded excellent. A real mish-mash of sounds. We went over to soundcheck.

The gig itself was in a small seated room with a full length window behind the stage opening out on to the Newark skyline. I was nervous. This was the gig Mrs Yam and I had put ourselves through two months of missing each other for. I had to rock it. The first few acts were amazing. I got ready.

I was called up. I started at the back of the room playing mariachi chords. There was whooping and confusion. I segued from mariachi into my version of my verses of D'Archetypes' 'London', bellowing Shane's chorus out to the crowd. As I hit the stage and the microphone, I started spitting and everyone was with me. So much so that my inbetween song banter got laughs and 'Superheroic Poetry' got its crowd participatory celebratory 'KAZAM! SHAZAM! It's YAM!' from everyone. 'A Tale of Two Centres' got sympathetic laughs and 'Mangoes' elicited some awwwwws. I rocked it good and proper, selling many CD's in the interval and getting plaudits.

After the interval, Hard Kaur took to the stage, and despite all the swearing, she hyped up a sitting crowd and rocked their socks off. She is a true hype-master, a real talent. Whereas my set was acoustic and introspective, her set was loud passionate and hyped. She mustered up the crowd in to a huge frenzy.

After her set, we left with Karen and my school friend, Anand and retired to our hotel bar where we chatted about the intricacies of tipping, foreign policy and the etymology of the word 'cunt'. The bartender tried to pick up my friend and with that, we left. I was supposed to go with the guys into the city but by this point, it was midnight and Hard Kaur and I were dead on our feet.

Saturday:

I got up early and headed to Brooklyn to meet Karen. She was to be my host for the day. Brooklyn was gorgeous. All the redbrick town houses and trees and spirally out of control gardens - it was magic. Every street was straight out of a film. She took me to brunch at a cajun place where I was finally able to have spinach and mushrooms and feel a bit fresher. We then went to the Superhero Supply Store on 5th Ave to pick up some supplies for Yamtastico. The shop is amazing. it's dressed up like a superhvillain's layer. They sell everyday things repackaged as superhero necessities, like capes, masks, voice recorders, suction cups, gloves and a brilliant civilian kit. It was an amazing shop. The shopkeeper showed us a secret door that lead to a backroom where there were books and computers and wall charts. The shop is actually a front for a community centre where children can come to get tutored in anything they need, and take classes in creative writing. Amazing.

Afterwards, we were for a walk in Prospect Park which was woody and gorgeous as all the leaves fell off the trees in front of our eyes. We then headed to Williamsburg (hipsterville) where we visited a huge second hand clothes shop, full of col NY arty types with assymmetrical haircuts. I found an old KMD 'Black Bastards' tshirt. We headed to the main Williamsburg strip where we had a walk, had a coffee and debated with the coffee-maker about the differences between a transgender and a transexual. I admit my ignorance with distinction between the two. I headed back to Newark via 6th Ave in manhatten, where I jumped out to grab me some more NYC pizza. In Newark, Hard Kaur and I attended the main Planet HipHop event. There were some good breakers, some AMAZING beatboxers and then the one Rob Swift destroyed the place with his immaculate turntablism. There was a weird bit of stage-vagueness where one of the scratch DJ's seem to decide mid-set that she didn't want to play and Hard Kaur and I ran backstage to meet Rob Swift. He was a lovely lovely lovely man. We returned to the hotel happy bunnies.

Sunday:

Hard Kaur took me out for more eggs then I got the flight home. I read 'Anansi Boys' by Neil Gaiman most of the trip.

Great trip.

Thanks NJPAC!!!

Right, off to Kenya now!

Fare Thee Wells...

2006-11-07T00:13:00.000-08:00

Last Friday, I had leaving drinks with all my friends and it was certainly a touching affair. Everyone came to well-wish. I felt extremely blessed. Lingo and Vee-Kay had gone the extra mile. They had collated phone messages from friends giving me a goodbye and put them on CD for me. I must say, the amount of swearing on Nerm's one is appalling. I nearly uploaded a megamix of the messages but I don't think the Beeb would appreciate the abundance of 'cunts' on his message. Shane couldn't make it because of his knee, which was a shame. But all my cousins, Gautam and Nimer and Excalibah and Nils and the Videowallah and the Studio Mogul, members of Sonik Gurus, Paris Motel, D'Archetypes, Funk from the Trunk and Shiva all came, as well as other close friends. It was a beautiful event. Lingo and Vee-Kay had also pressed up a dubplate of Vee and my tune, 'Cuppa Tea, Sir?' and drawn a comic of Yamtastico on the cover. Amazing. Absolutely amazing. These two are the sweetest guys ever. I feel blessed.

We all met at Pool Bar. I chatted and mingled before getting absolutely hammered and boogeying on down with people. Watching Neel and Nick have their much-touted dance-off was amazing. it was close but I think Neel pipped it. On leaving Pool Bar, Lingo, Neel, Nick and I headed up to Wildcats for a few after-hours drinks. We stayed there for a couple before deciding to head home. I played a practical joke on Nick that didn't work. I noticed I had my bike lock in my bag so when he was in the toilet, I ran out and clamped his bike. When he left, he strolled past the bike I had clamped to which I panicked thinking I had clamped the wrong bike. Turns out, it was his bike but he had gone for a kebab.

When we left the bar, we grabbed kebabs. Some stupid Shoreditch twat bitch came up to me and demanded chips. I offered them to her and she walked off. I lamented that stupid blonde rich trust-fund bitches in Hoxton dressed like slum-chic idiots never say thank you. She shouted out a forced thank you, tutted and walked off. I was in a drunken rant-state so shouted out after her that she was an impolite facist and she was dressed like an idiot.

Neel, Rob and I grabbed a cab and sang 'Yo Momma' by the Pharcyde all the way home.

Wicked night.

Right, off to New York this week and Kenya next.

Who knows when I'll be able to blog again.

Take care till we next meet!

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

2006-11-06T03:29:00.000-08:00

With great power comes great responsibility...
Last night, I was Spider-Man again... in my dreams.

This was a new adventure though. Spidey's uncle, here helpfully played by my dad's brother Nilesh, was Aquaman and he needed help from Spidey. He needed me to swim with him into the middle of the ocean and help save the survivors of a plane crash before they sank and drowned. I was a little reticent. There was good stuff on TV and I couldn't be bothered. Aquaman, my uncle Nilesh, forced me to go so I grabbed my all-over wetsuit and a wet-mask (looking suspiciously like a gimp mask and we set off. However, we needed energy food first. We ran to the doughnut shop to get some sustenance. As we did though, I dropped my wetsuit (ending up in my boxers - Spidey never had to worry about boxers exposure) and had to swing out of eyesight. As I swung on to the roof, I saw Batman and Superman and a drunk, and they said they were pretending they were trick-or-treating so they wouldn't be mobbed.

And that's about all I remember.

Had an amazing Friday night with mates well-wishing for my year away... will tell you all later...

Last Night I Dreamt I Was Spider-Man

2006-11-03T00:46:00.000-08:00

Last night I dreamt I was Spider-Man.

I started off as Peter Parker. I was in a bar with Mary-Jane Watson, my girlfriend (bizarrely played by Dr Reid off Scrubs - yes, I've been watching lots of that lately too). She had just come off holiday and was acting strangely. I (Peter) wondered whether there had been another man. I interrogated her till she finally admitted that yes, there had been another man, a mysterious Eastern European man called Krim. He held her in his power, she said. I (Peter) wondered whether there was more to this. I returned to my hotel room and decided to do some investigating as Spidey.

I scaled walls, swung across buildings till I found Krim. He was entering a school notorious for how many of its students had ASBO's. I followed him in. As I entered, I was showered in glass and needles as the ASBO-students started firing needle guns at me. I ducked for cover and ran out. I would return later to find out the connection between Krim and this school and why he needed Mary-Jane in his plan. I web-slung back to my hotel room where I was attacked and taken away by Krim's henchmen. A man appeared at my hotel room, claiming to have been sent by S.H.I.E.L.D.. He had to move my stuff from my room so no-one would find out my secret identity. Mary-Jane turned up at that moment and believed him. She helped him move my suitcases and bags to an adjacent room (next door to Krim's). As we entered the room, we saw that the room was full of arcade games and electrical equipment. The room was run by Japanese students who were developing the ultimate virtual reality game and needed ol' Spidey for their plans.

The camera cut away to me (Spidey) slumped and unconscious in the corner...

What was the connection between Krim, the Japanese students and the ASBO school... I was about to find out when my sister woke me up to ask if she was allowed to wear trainers to the bar we're all meeting in tonight...

DAMNIT. I was close to solving the mystery.

Inundated with Goodbyes

2006-11-02T11:38:00.000-08:00

So many goodbyes to make and people to see but 5 jabs in under 24 hours has made this week quite the bust. I've been hallucinating, unable to lift my arms and feeling quite sorry for myself. Oh well, maybe I shouldn't have left all my jabs to two days. More next week. Nice.

I said goodbye to my grandma yesterday. She's off to India on Saturday so I won't see her now till I return from self-imposed exile. She regaled me with stories from her time in India. From getting married at 13 to a guy 10 years her senior to taking a boat to the Middle East, to my granddad being arrested for a day pre-Independence for protesting the British hold of the cotton industry. He and his fellow protestors bribed their way out by giving the Indian police a box of 'ladoos'. That is certainly bribery and corruption at its most sinister. She told me about her depression on moving from Yemen (hot and beautiful and full of friends) to Keighley (up north where it's grim and cold and no friends) and having to work in a battery factory. She wasn't allowed to wear her saree so she wore leggings and a floor-length overall. She told me about having to work her entire life, whether it was waiting on her husband hand-and-foot, being a go-between for her kids and their father, and working for money, she was always working.

As I was leaving, I asked her if she enjoyed living on her own. She laughed and said she was revelling in it. She said after a lifetime of a demanding husband, well-wishers of her swami (who she gave a house to), grandchildren, constant vistors, work and the rules she was forced to follow (no talking to men, working, no television except news, food at a certain time), she was so happy to finally be free. She wasn't lonely, she was happy. She no longer needed company. She could get up when she wanted, go to bed when she wanted, eat what she wanted (within reason). She loved living by herself. It was almost like she'd just moved out of her parent's house for the first time.

She gave me loads of stories that night. I felt like I was finally getting to know some family history. I had originally started asking because my missus was scared so many of these stories would die with my grandparents. Also, it's useful research for a potential book.

Grandma's off to India today to get her 20 day fill of socialite-life before she returns to her quiet empty humble semi-detached house in Harrow to bask in her own fortress of solitude.

Tomorrow, I am to be completely inundated with goodbyes. I'm going out with loads of friends to say goodbye. It's a bit of a weird concept. But, hey, this is Britain. Any excuse for a piss-up eh?

Fortress of Solitude

2006-11-01T05:23:00.000-08:00

Fortress of Solitude

I built these walls. I didn’t buy the wood or supply the nails, but I erected these walls, tall and proud, impenetrable and grand. I’m teaching myself the discipline of waiting. I am teaching myself solitude. I go without, I abstain, I am fasting spiritually.

In the first few days, it was easy. I didn’t answer my phone, I responded to people only by text or email. I made them get used to not hearing my voice or seeing my face. Slowly, I stopped answering emails. I ordered food off the internet. I turned off the television. I threw my computer out of the bathroom window. It wasn’t enough though. There were visits from Jehovah’s Witnesses, postmen, window cleaners and well-wishing neighbours. The interruptions halted my work, the constant ringing of the bell sent shivers and anxiety spasms down my spine. I could not concentrate.

I am getting closer to my goal. The more I go without the outside world, the more time I have to immerse in depriving myself of feeling. When I reintroduce these feeling, I will be more sensitive, more overflowing with emotion.

I gave up on simply wanting to be left alone. I needed to actually be left alone. I had to try keep people out. So I built these walls.

I’m doing this for you. The solitude I bask in cleanses me, surrounds me, absorbs me and lets suck at its willowy teat. I need only myself. And your memory. Any outside interference is lost in the grinding static I create with my home-made antenna. Any intruders are caught in the bear-traps I lay. Those smart enough to beat the bear traps have to contend with the walls. The walls I erected and electrified with psychic energy. No one is getting past these walls. No one.

This is my fortress of solitude. It belongs to me. It is my classroom for the future. It is my home for the next few months while I wait for you. I did this for you.

This fortress of solitude is my model for self-discipline.

the Tooth Fairy DOES Exist...

2006-10-31T00:35:00.000-08:00

The Tooth Fairy exists...

Although, last night she may have made a mistake. None of my teeth fell out yesterday. Even so, I woke up this morning to find two shiny pound coins under my pillow. I have no idea how they got there.... the only explanation is the Tooth Fairy.

Maybe it's a message from her to tell me to drink less fizzy drinks.

NEW TRACKS UP ON MYSPACE

2006-10-31T00:34:00.000-08:00

www.myspace.com/yamboyandgoondaraj

**NEW TRACKS**NEW TRACKS**NEW TRACKS**

Yes yes yes yes!!!

Excitement abounds, we have new Yam Boy and Goonda-Raj tracks up and out and ready to go... Wicked stuff wicked stuff...

First up we have:

Superheroic Poetry (The Further Adventures of the Fantastic Yamtastico): a booming thriller about Yamtastico's battles against the evil Ignorance-wallah. It features an all-star cast. Watch out for part 2, how the Dynamic Duo of Yamtastico and Goonda-Raj came about.

Earth's Shadowlands featuring Swami Baracus:

This is collaboration with the immensely talented rapper, Swami Baracus. It's all about climate change and trying to make a difference in these times of organic this and recyclable that.

If Only All Policemen Were Cuddly...:

This is a remix of an old idea featuring reports from an actual incident that befell Yam.

ENJOY!!!!

Meat Tombola, and other stories from Friday Night

2006-10-31T00:33:00.000-08:00

Meat Tombola:

Meat tombola
Killed my sister, Lola
She was sipping coca-cola in the middle of the summer
When it fell down on her
Now she needs a heart donor
Or she'll catch ebola
Sitting on the sofa...

Death by meat tombola...

-----
Peepul Centre:

Last night was supposed to be my last gig as a D'Archetype (proper), before becoming collaborator and hopping off to Kenya for a year. Sadly, Shane was in hospital this week (get well soon!!) with mystery knee problems so he had to drop out of the gig. So it was just Sam the Secret Weapon and me. We spent the day rehearsing D'Archetypes songs with me doing Shane's bits. I even did a version of Jerusalem. We felt ready so we headed up to Leicester. We met up with Sam's old friend Phil in St Albans as he was to be driving us up.

As we bombed up the M1, we were called by Amy May, out on tour with a crazy medievil prog rock group called Circulus. She gave us a mission. We had to write a song en route called 'Meat Tombola.' We thought about it, Sam came up with a gorgeous bass line and we wrote the lyrics above. We sang them over the phone to an impressed tour bus on its way to Liverpool. We gave Amy her titled. She and Circulus had to write a song called 'I Don't Like the Toothpaste My Mum Buys'. As we waited for her response, we rehearsed in the back of the car as Phil tapped out a rhythm section on his steering wheel. Amy called back and told us the song title was rubbish and they had adapted it into a new song called 'Minty Mummy'. It involved a rather orgasmic sounding vocal percussion and Amy rapping. It was truly amazing.

We finally arrived in Leicester and navigated the flyovers and ring roads and found the venue, two hours late for our soundcheck. We soundchecked, were shown to our dressing room and grabbed some food. As we neared our last bites, we were summoned to play. We grabbed our guitars and stood at the back of the room. As we were announced, we started playing mariachi music and walking through the crowd, playing booming spanish rhythms as we made our way to the stage. We got to the stage and started playing. The crowd was extremely reserved and muted and we weren't too sure how well we were playing. We played our hearts out, running through new numbers, D'Archetypes songs and Yam Boy songs. We got laughs, dancing children and a bit of clapping during London. But the overall reaction was quite nonplussed. The two best songs that went down were a new one about my mum, called 'Mangoes', that Sam played the most deliriously delicious solo for, and a crazy boisterous rap/beatbox/guitar cover version of Punjabi MC's 'Mundian To Bach Gaye'.

We finished and walked off dejected that our energetic performance compensating desperately for no Shane was met with not much of a reaction. The feedback from the venue was that the material was too intelligent and poignant for an audience wanting easy listening. This made us sad as we tried to give our message the most accessible sound we could. But then, this wasn't so much the arts centre we thought it was... it was ful of old ladies, masis and aunties, and little kids, for whom the political content was probably too much. Also the rap delivery was probably too uptempo for them.

We had done as good a job as we could though.
-------

Teenagers Lie, then They Steal Your Bike:

As we waited in St Albans for our ride to Leicester, we were accosted by a group of 7 14 year old teenagers with the need to swear. Sam was dressed in an eccentric manner anyway. He was wearing a big 60's hat, alpine boots and a white Japanese dressing gown, with a massive grapefruit peeking out of his pocket. The teenagers ran up to him and asked him why he was in his dressing gown and whether he was going to Amsterdam. They asked him why he had a big orange in his pocket. He explained to one that it was a grapefruit. Another boy ran up to us and said, 'Wow, that's a huge orange.' The previous teenager turned to him and shouted, 'It's a fucking grapefruit, you fucking idiot' in that brilliant way teenagers do when they want to hoarde new information over their peers with superiority. The teenagers walked away and then returned, begging Sam to give them his orange. He reexplained that it was a grapefruit and said no. They called him a fucking wanker and ran off to hang out on the first floor of an adjacent car park.

Phil drove up and parked in front of the car park. The teenagers peered down and watched us loading up into Phil's car. They begged some more for the orange. Sam reexplained it was a grapefruit. They called us fucking wankers. Sam threw the grapefruit up to them. They watched it fly behind their heads and shouted down to us that we were fucking wankers. So much for Sam's act of fruity kindness. Don't they realise a grapefruit counts as one of their 5 a day fruit'n'veg? Anyway, they threw the grapefruit back down, narrowly missing Phil's car.

Fucking teenagers.
First they lie, then they still your bike.
---------

Dave-ntry:

Imagine a place on the M1, a sanctuary for all Daves, from Big Dave to Fik Dave to Dave the Bouncer... they can all live in Daventry, near Northants. Read 'Book of Dave' by Will Self.
----------

Recording with Swami:

I recorded with Swami on Thursday. First off, his studio is amazing, and is a guitar haven. Secondly, he is a producer with amazing communication skills. I have worked with loads of producers, and they have never been as diligent with me in getting the best out of me apart from Goonda-Raj. Now I've worked with Swami. When an MC brings lyrics to a beat, he doesn't always have the concept of what will work as a song in terms of actual songwriting, what will work musically. It is the producer's job to ensure the MC gets the delivery right, gets the cadence right and gets the interplay of words right. Also, the producer needs to make sure the MC/rapper/vocalist is doing what the producer wants for the song. I came into the studio with lyrics and an idea of what I wanted to do. After long discussions and brainstorming about what to do on the track with Swami, we rewrote the lyrics, worked on the delivery of each word in each line and rehearsed it till it was perfect. Then we recorded guide vocals then we recorded multiple takes till he had a treasure trove of material to pick the best bits of. He definitely worked me hard and got the best out of me. I look forward to the track. Big up Swami...
-------

Next week is my last week before I leave... so

-rehearsing for America
-packing
-tidying
-sorting out loose ends (££££££ etc etc)
-leaving drinks
-a few collaborations
-seeing friends and families....

Snapshots of the Past Week

2006-10-25T12:48:00.000-07:00

D'Ealers:

So, last week Shane and I were getting together the press packs for the D'Archetypes first release, 'Jerusalem; (coming in Nov... buy it from www.darchetypes.com). We had the idea of selling weeds/grass from this green and pleasant land in little baggies commonly associated with eighths of weed, with a little D'Archetypes sticker, as a little promotional item. I spent most of the afternoon cutting grass with scissors and my bare damned hands and weighing and measuring eighths of grass to roll up and stuff into this special bags. Nice way to be employed, I thought... this is my job, masquerading as a drug dealer for a laugh. Brilliant fun... highly recommended. Although the grass fumes, with a fragrant faint whiff of dog piss, do get to you after a while and you start to automatically skin up and try and smoke them. This is not recommended. So, when you do your bagging up of grass, do it in small doses.

And just say no.

Temping:

God, temping is tedious. I took a temping job earlier this week for a bit of extra cash. I arrived at the school on time, and found myself in a cold Portakabin facing yellowing piles of paper. I was soundtracked by a shrill Australian making sneaky personal phone calls. I had to type up the numbers on all the sheets into an excel document and write the name corresponding to the number next to it.

This was a three hour job, tops. I had to make it last for eight hours. I started typing the data up... listening to the shrill Australian's baby talk to who I hope was her boyfriend on the other end of the phone. 90 minutes later I was half way through my day's task. I struggled to stretch the task over eight hours. I managed five and gave up and came home, my head throbbing, my brain cells actually leaking out of my ears and actually physically dying in front of me. Depressing.

Lying to Coppers

Last week, we did some filming for Shane's one man show (check the D'Archies page for details). It was pouring with rain so we decided to go into some train stations and film my verses and choruses in 'Shakin Spears'.

We took to a crowded King Cross and I stood there being filmed. We got told to move on by three different people. We went to the British Library and do a quick guerilla shot in the gardens. Then we did a quick take in front of fifty builders on a tea break. We then rushed up to the Swami Narayan Temple in Neasden (the amazing one) to film more. They had erected marquees in the grounds as it was Diwali. We decided to take the camera into the grounds anyway and do what we could. We were expressly told by four coppers that cameras were not allowed inside. Shane attached the camera to his belt and pulled his top over it. We walked up to the door and stopped. They had X-Ray machines and metal detectors everywhere. It was to be quite the job. We ran around doing MacGuyver-esque manoevres trying to exploit a weak point in the security. There wasn't. These Hindus are good man. Not even MacGuyver could find his way in.

Other things:

- Goonda has mixed three new tracks. The mixed versions are currently in the post to me so expect a mega upload this weekend... Huzzah!!
- Predictive text doesn't recognise the word 'Hurray'... it always comes out as 'Huspaz'.
- I am recording with Swami this week.
- Shane is ill so Sam and I are rocking the Peepul Centre ourselves.
- The new twist in the Civil War Marvel comics cross-over involving Spidey vs Iron Man is a stroke of masterful genius.
- That 70s Show and Scrubs are Yam's new favourite sitcoms.
- Magical Anjali's new tracks are BANGING.
- Yam leaves in 3 weeks for Kenya. He is scared and a little sad but exhilerated at his forthcoming reunion with Mrs Yam.
- New Mo Magic album is great.
- Oh my god, The Departed is the film of the year.
- We love you all.
- One old school friend is a well known stand up comic, www.myspace.com/mattkirshen. Another, Nimer, as previously mentioned, won a frickin Emmy... and Brian who was geeky at school (weren't we all?) is now a ladykilla!!! I witnessed his moves in action last Friday.
- Check these new trailers out... one is for the new Tarantino/Rodriguez film and looks amazing:

http://www.aintitcool.com/node/30358
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x_bxgG1RuEQ

Laters for now...

Diwali 2006: Season's Greetings

2006-10-22T01:29:00.000-07:00

Happy Diwali everyone. I hope your's was full of love and light and will signify an increase in your fortune and prosperity.

Last night, my family celebrated Diwali at my parent's house. We've celebrated Diwali at mum and dad's house every year ever since we've lived at this house but yesterday there was a Mrs Yam-shaped void that everyone noted. She has attended Diwali for the past two years and is now an integral part of the family. So her absence was repeatedly noted.

Diwali is always a funny affair. Whenever non-Hindus ask you to explain the concept behind Diwali, the easiest explanation is to say it's India's Christmas. Which is a shame, because it is nothing like Christmas. I don't really celebrate Christmas, but man oh man, the vibe on Christmas Day is electric, with the prospect of stuffing and presents thick on the air.

Diwali doesn't work like that. There are no presents, no excitement. Beyond a few courtesy texts and phone calls during the day, Diwali doesn't happen till about 7 where you eat, then you light some fireworks, then you eat then you go to bed. Which is what Diwali is to me. Well, I guess it's slightly different for women. They spend the whole day in the kitchen. No change from Christmas then.

This year, I tried to make it different by helping my mum in the kitchen and cooking what I could. She was kinda receptive, although she wondered what my boyish game was.

When it came to actual Diwali styles, we all sat down to pray. As we waited for my granddad to finish writing out the blessed sheet of accounts (that we were in effect blessing for dad's company). I listened as my two uncles argued about the origins of the god Ganesha. They were both wrong in their own sweet way, but adamant they were right. I grew up reading and devouring Amar Chittra Katha comics, which depicted the origin stories of all the Gods. They also told all the stories in 24 page spreads. So I feel like my knowledge of Hinduism is really good. I read those stories. My uncles didn't. And their knowledge is a bit rubbish. Listening to them made me laugh, and when I tried to correct them, they shot me down. What did I know? I am a coconut!

We prayed and chanted and sang. The family was tuneful and rhythmic as useful. Eveyone was singing in different keys at different speeds with different volumes from different prayerbooks. It was amazing. When I introduced some percussion (clapping and slapping my knee) to give everyone a tempo to work to, it confused them more.

Fireworks next: My uncles were more daring than ever, standing close to fireworks, poking Cathering Wheels to increase their speed, laughing and screaming. We were using year old fireworks and thus there was less bang for our buck. We ate a feast.

Then we sat. My uncles and dad continued their theological misinformed discussion about Hinduism. And they were all so slightly stubborn and wrong, I couldn't listen to them. I sat with the girls and we gossiped about various members of families and various beefs each had with the other. It was hilarious. I let slip that I had written a short story about some of the beefs in the family and it had been printed somewhere. My mum panicked and demanded to know the contents so she could assess how much trouble I could get into if anyone ever found. I laughed and said that you're supposed to write what you know, and unfortunately, my warring family is a brilliant and unending fountain of material. My cousins and sister were so excited. They thought I was striking back for the team. They insisted they read it. I smiled enigmatically. They begged. I decided, it was midnight, nearly bedtime, I would read them a bedtime story. I read them the story, they shrieked, they laughed, they furrowed their brows at the high-brow language (!). My mum panicked. Her worst fears were confirmed. I had certainly not held back. I had embellished and I had reported the truth about our family.

My cousins thought it was brilliant. They insisted I record some of their beefs with family members in some of my stories. They begged me. They said they could come round and give me information. I nodded and said that we'll see. They pleaded. Mum said NO, she couldn't take more and no one could tell me any more gossip anymore in case it ended up in my next book or a short story. She was only half-joking.

Everyone left, leaving mum and me talking about getting older. Mum also told me some stories about her family. The less frivolous ones, the sadder more tragic ones. I had been recounting the silly stories about how petty and ridiculous people were. Listening to my mum reminded me that some things are more serious than I report them to be, and hell, families can be difficult.

Happy Diwali 2006. Live long and prosper.

Short Short Story 6: A Henchman's Work Is Never Done

2006-10-17T13:25:00.000-07:00

Short Short Story 6: A Henchman's Work is Never Done...
Unemployment is boring. Beyond meeting friends for lunches you can..t afford and drinking endless cups of tea watching endless repeats of ..Cheers.. on endless channels of Sky, there really ain..t much in it. Sending out job applications, downloading tasteful and tasteless pornography, emailing friends who are at work and creating increasingly outlandish sandwich combinations, these are the routines you inevitably fall into, apart from waking up later and later, and ignoring three quarters of your mail because they contain bills.

I need a job. Badly.

I scour most job listings, have my CV advertised on the most and least reputable recruitment websites on the net, have had meetings with job agencies specialising in all manner of work from investment banking to silver spoon catering, and nothing has come through. Also, nothing seems to have taken my fancy. Also, I don..t know what I want to do. Maybe I want to be a henchman for an evil megalomaniac, hellbent on taking on the world. I have never, ever seen a listing to be a henchman for a megalomaniac. Where do these guys advertise? How do you get a job with a megalomaniac? What special skills do you need? Weapons training or karate skills or fast car driving? How much do they pay? Do you get to keep the uniform? Can you get fired, or do you only leave in a bodybag? I have always wondered these things.

'Required: Henchman to work for evil megalomaniac. Good for graduates. £20,000 p.a. Must be prepared to work long hours and give own life for cause of world domination. Must be CRB checked and have clean driving licence.'

I have definitely never ever seen anything like that, ever. But, I guess, megalomaniacs are quite the cautious species. Maybe they..re a lot more subtle than that.

'Required: Project Coordinator to work for ambitious corporation with international plans. Perfect position for graduates. Must be prepared to work long hours and dedicate themselves to the corporation..s vision. Must be CRB checked and have clean driving licence.'

I..ve seen loads of those types of adverts. Maybe they..re covers for the real thing. Yeah I reckon that..s it. These non-descript adverts for no position in particular. They must all be fishing for a henchman. They can..t all be for some miscellaneous desk job in an anonymous company doing photocopied tasks where you fill in forms, and transfer data from paper to computer and create graphs and none of it quite makes tangible sense in the real world.

Can they?

They must all be megalomaniacs recruiting more and more henchmen, no? I mean, the rate these guys get through their henchmen, what with disposing of stupid ones to make examples and government spies dispatching of whole platoons of henchmen.. there must be quite a high turnover rate.

I don..t understand this whole megalomaniac..s henchman thing. I mean, they can..t ever think it..s going to end well. And what of their families at home? And where do they go after work and do they ever turn up to work hungover? And do they spend their days chatting rubbish to their mates over the internet instead of working.

..God, my boss is such a wanker. He wants me to work late again! Wants me to torture some spy or some shit. Anyway, Brick Lane again tonight boys and girls?..

Or do they have time to spend with friends outside of work? It must be quite physically and mentally demanding working for a megalomaniac. Also there seems to be a lot of overseas travel involved. Actually, the megalomaniac..s human resources department should make sure they include that on their adverts. Loads more people will apply. You..re required to spend all your time in some complex on some hidden tropical island somewhere realising your boss..s evil machinations..

Do you get paid overtime for that?

I wonder if you get Christmas Day off? I might apply next time I see one of their ..adverts...

A Dream In Which History Repeated

2006-10-16T02:27:00.000-07:00

A Dream In Which History Repeated

Last night, I dreamt I was in a classroom doing a poetry reading for the guy who was my chemistry teacher in school. I had brought my guitar in (the new team member, Jasmine the Jazzman guitar) so I could play guitar for another classmate. As he was asked up to read his poetry, he shook his head at me to say that he no longer required my guitar. I was a little annoyed because I had made the effort to bring it in.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye, the guitar falling to the floor. I looked up and two young 6 year old girls had taken my guitar and snapped it in two so it was left with the same death-knell injury delivered in real life to my guitar Velulah back in summer. I was intensely upset, especially when they refused to compensate me.

I had to wake myself up and look at Jasmine the Jazzman just to ensure it was, as they said in Dallas, 'all just a dream'.

The night before, I dreamt that a peripheral friend of mine had been given his own sitcom starring Kate Hudson as the girl next door. The dream involved watching the pilot of the sitcom, and it being incredibly and cringe-inducingly unfunny.

Sorry man!!

Thank the Lord for the Sky channel Jetix... I wake up every morning, switch on the laptop, start work and put on Jetix... in the background, I get the 60's cartoons of Fantastic 4, X-Men and Spidey... brilliant!

Goonda-Raj is currently mixing 3 new tracks. Uploading in the next few weeks!

A Tribute to Nimer Rashed

2006-10-13T05:10:00.000-07:00

A Tribute to Nimer Rashed

www.myspace.com/nimerrashed

This guy is seriously the man... the hottest writer in the country... He's one of those secretive geniuses who will always enquire about your projects and keep his underwraps and be really interested in you, all the while perfecting him. This guy is a true genius. I'm sure he's secretly written oscar winning films and Booker-winning novels but is waiting, calucating and incubating, waiting for the right time... well, screw it... let's celebrate him!! He's just won an International Emmy for gawd's sake!! A true friend and someone I'll be close to for the rest of my life. He is humble, talented, sweet and truly blessed with individuality.

Read his short stories here:

http://www.transmissionhq.org/

http://www.pulp.net/fiction/stories/43/goodbye-fort-knox.html

BIG UP THE RASHED!!!!

love and respect everytime,

Yams

thus endeth the web-love-in

Chapati: The Last Stand

2006-10-13T05:09:00.000-07:00

"It's over... you don't need to tell me... I hope you feel safe in your sleep... I won't kill myself trying to be in your life..." Damon Albarn

Fuck a Chapati retrospective... when it was hot, it rocked, when it was not it was tedious. I had a great time, most of the time. Let's talk about last night, which rocked harder than your seventh pina colada. It was always going to be the last Chapati, due to my impending Africa trip next month. I decided to keep it simple and rock the party hard with some DJ sets. So, i belled the one Magical Anjali cos she's always got the beats for bollyhood freaks, and she was down like wells in the guaon...

sorry, I must interject here, and inform you that I am brimming with similes today, like a simile cascade <--- see what I mean.

At the least minute, I decided to do an acoustic troubadapper-rapper set, to preview some of the material I will be taking to America (or, as the desis say, Umrikaaa) next month and then to Mombasa to produce as the first Bala Ashonis/Blatteroons release next year.

Halfway through my DJ set (think KMD/Black Star Liner/Plan B/Portishead/Nitin Sawhney), the DJ's second worst nightmare happened: a cheeky cigarette nearly set alight one of my records. Then the DJ's worst nightmare happened: the needle of one of the decks snapped off and scratched up my favourite Cornershop 45 (no Brimful of Asha for me :arf:). So we had to rock the party with the one deck soundsystem bhangra-funk styles. We managed it.

I did an acoustic set, comprising of old favourites, acoustic intepretations of Goonda-Raj-produced ditties, a freestyle with everyone's favourite Dirty man, Bonecatron. I ended up 'Mangoes', a new song about my mummy. Don't worry, it's not as slushy as one would think. It's very silly, quite tragic and a hint of bittersweetness.

Anjali rocked the party hard with bhangra and sitar-funk vibes, killing it and getting people dancing. We had a blast... now it's over [sad face]

oh man, brixton is where it's at... the place was popping last night. Sadly that was my last residency at the ritzy cinema. had some great times, we've rocked it with dancers, quartets, rappers, poets and cross-dressing. sad that it came to an end yesterday. anjali and i rocked the one deck soundsystem bhangra-funk vibes....

I'm off to NY in 3 weeks, with Hard Kaur, to perform at a Hip-Hop festival and do some panel-discussions on the global impact of hippety hoppety. Then i'm off to Mombasa for a year, to chill, write and make music... oh, and teach Kenyans how to rap in school rap clubs i will be running.

I'll still be around to chat rubbish and hit you up with my random thoughts. Check this blog on the regs. It's updated weekly, it's quite entertaining and you can read my short stories, as well as check the status of the album i'll be writing over the next year, and the book i've just finished writing... hopefully, that should be out too in the next 12 months! It's called 'I've Forgotten My Mantra' and it's been illustrated by my good friends at www.cabein.com

so, yeah, that's about it guys!! keep in touch, check the blog and i'll see you next yurrrr... keep it str8 h33t...

oh yeah, before we go though, Goonda-raj and i have produced three new tracks, "If Only All Policemen Were Cuddly", "Superheroic Poetry" and "Music For Climate Change" featuring Swami Baracus. It should all be up for preview on our profile page shortly. And The D'Archetypes' 'Jerusalem' EP will be available from itunes in 2 weeks time, and on CD through www.darchetypes.com in November!!

Oh yeah, can you help a brother out...

The Blatteroons or The Bala Ashonis... you decide.

Much respect,
Jean Claude Van Yam

Short Short Story 5: We're Really Happy to Have you Here

2006-10-11T13:37:00.000-07:00

“We’re really happy to have you here, Amit. Can’t wait to get you stuck in. Can we get you anything? No? Okay, we’ll leave you to it.”

Amit’s first day and he was nervous and he was well-dressed and he was more than eager to please. It was, after all, the bottom rung leading to his dream job. He had to make the most of this opportunity to start in the industry he had always dreamt of working in. He glanced over his job description and the introductory books he had been given to read, as well as the staff handbook. He could sit here and absorb these until two o’clock when he was to be met by his team for his first team project meeting. He smiled and leafed through the books he had been given, making both necessary and unnecessary notes.

The rest of the morning passed quite uneventfully: He snuck a few emails to his girlfriend and friends; he made two cups of tea; he continued making notes; he did a doodle of Spider-Man; he made small-talk with some of his new colleagues and got more and more bored as the clock seemed to tick by slower and slower. Suddenly, the bottom rung of the dream job wasn’t so exciting. He found enough in it to keep him interested though. Just about. Two ‘clock eventually came about and Amit walked over to conference room A for his first team meeting. The rest of the team joined him soon afterwards and he was introduced to each one in turn. They all seemed friendly enough. They told him they were looking forward to working with him, to having him on the team. The team leaders began discussions about the next few projects that they would be working on. They discussed various ideas and directions. They talked about branding and they talked about future planning. Amit kept a relative low profile in the meeting. He laughed at the odd joke. He made a few quips. He made a few suggestions. Well, they weren’t suggestions, they were the beginnings of suggestions but as it was his first day and people weren’t used to the sound of his voice, he wasn’t able to get past “But…” or “If you…” before people talked over him.

Jobs were delegated, tasks were handed out and people were given due dates for each action. Amit was noticeable by his lack of anything real to do. He had hoped he would be tacked to a lower level project and be given menial jobs to do, just so he could get stuck in and see how the team operated and thus, start to fit in and fill in where he was needed.

The team meeting ended two hours later and everyone filed out, all coffee-d up for the last hour of the day. Amit held back so he could talk to his team leader and demonstrate his abundance of enthusiasm. The team leader however was sprightly, the first out of the room, and Amit had to stop himself rudely pushing past his new colleagues to get out of the room and chase her. He waited till most people were out of the room and he politely pushed back into the corridor. By the time he had caught up with her, she had ended up in her office with the door closed. Amit knocked tentatively. He wasn’t really thinking. His idea was just to go for it, balls akimbo, confident, and full of enthusiasm and energy. This was the mark of the new employee on his first day.

He knocked on her door. She looked up and saw him through the glass panel to the side of the door. She beckoned him, beaming. She asked how he was, how he found the team meeting, how he was finding the induction process, if there were any problems, what his favourite project was… he used this moment to interject and say, yes there were a few projects he was particularly interested in. He was keen to get stuck in so were there any projects she felt he could join in on and get stuck in, throw himself in at the deep end, as it were? She laughed. She looked up and said Amit needed to slow down. He smiled back, diplomatically.

“There’s no rush, no rush at all. Take your time. We’ll find you something to do soon enough. Look, Amit, just so we’re clear, we hired you because you seem so lovely, you’re a sweetheart. Your CV reads well too. So don’t worry. Give it three, four months and we can start thinking about slowly introducing you to a project in a low impact way. In the meantime, get to know the job and yourself and your environment. So, there’s no rush eh? Let me know if there is anything else.”

Amit smiled, thanked her and returned to his desk. He looked at his necessary and his unnecessary notes. He looked at the materials he had been given as induction. He opened up a word document and started typing up his notes quickly. As soon as he had enough words written on his screen for it to appear like he was working, he stopped.

He opened up an internet page, logged into his email account and sent out an email to three of his close mates:

Bit shit here. Going to be a doddle. So, someone entertain me. Scarlett Johansen [sic] or Jessica Alba?… discuss.

He clicked send, sat back and awaited the responses. They would come back soon enough. That dream job was slowly fading away into the reality of mundane office life.

Short Short Story: Conversations With My Grandfather

2006-10-09T06:46:00.000-07:00

Conversations with my Grandfather

While the women toil in the kitchen, men toil in front of the television, wincing as another wicket falls and as their beers edge towards to the bottom of their cans. I’ve asked the women about forty times if I can help or do anything. They’ve all laughed at me and told me to sit with the men. They kinda appreciate the offer but realise that kitchen-work is their Gujarati boon in life and thus can handle it. It doesn’t stop them having a dig at me for being a man though. “No, no, it’s fine. Go and sit with all the men. Go on.”

The sarcasm makes me go and sit with the men in defiance. “Ha,” I say internally. “I will, and you can’t stop me. Woman.”

I sit with the men. My dad and two uncles are engaged in some serious cricket watching. It’s an India versus Pakistan grudge match, so their eyes are glued. India are doing particularly not very well.

My grandfather recognises my ambivalence towards the cricket and turns to me.

“So, what is your job at the moment?”
I’m unemployed at the moment, and using that unemployment to write my tiny little spider-man pants off. “I’m a writer, grandfather. I write. I’ve just written a novel.”
“Awwww, do you? That’s sweet. What about money? You can’t work for no money.”
“I get paid grandfather. Anyway, making loads of money doesn’t bother me that much.”
“That’s nice. You could be a well-paid lawyer right now. Instead of being unemployed.”
“Money isn’t everything.”
”Money is God.”
Silence.
“Are you a Communist?”
“No, I just want to make enough money to be happy. God is God, if there is a God. Not money.”
”You sound like a Communist.”

Another time:
“So, you make music too. How much do you make?”
“I don’t know. I try to make a song a day.”
My grandfather laughs at my apparent stupidity and hits me on the knee.
“No, how much money you make?”
“Depends on the concert. Why?”
“Just making sure you’re not living like a vagrant. I worry about your money. Would you like to borrow some? I haven’t got much to give. But I would gladly give you money if you need it.”
“I get by.”
“You can’t get by on much. This is not a good career for you. No future. Not like being a lawyer. You could make so much money, you could buy a huge house.”
“I’m fine, grandfather. I get by well enough and I’m doing well. I am happy in my life.”

Another time.
“So, all these concerts you do, how do you come home?”
“I dunno. By taxi or bus or whatever.”
Concerned face.
“What precautions do you take from being attacked?”
“I’m careful.”
”You should be careful. You know what people are like these days. They’re just after your money.”
“Granddad, we live in leafy Middlesex. It’s fine.”
“Just make sure you keep your money in your sock or make a special secret pocket in your jacket. And always offer them your watch first. That way, you don’t lose any money. If they say no, then offer them your jewellery or phone. If they say no, they can check your wallet and it will be empty.”
”Why carry a wallet then grandfather?”
My grandfather laughs at my apparent stupidity and hits me on the knee.”

I ask him another time why he values money over human contact and happiness. He laughs and responds that money brings happiness. I ask how, if you end up in a job you hate working sixty hours a week and never having the time to actually spend your money. He tells him I am being young and naïve.
I exclaim: “God, I must seem like such a hippy to you lot.”
He scoffs, “More like a Communist.”

The D'Archetypes in India

2006-10-03T09:46:00.000-07:00

Thursday: Mumbai

We landed in the evening heat. For twenty seconds between the heavily air-conditioned airplane and the heavily air-conditioned airport building, searing heat tickles up our trouser legs, our brows moisten with pearls of sweat and… ooh, lord it’s just hot.

We pile through immigration, busk at the luggage collection conveyor, chat to some heavily starched sailors, try and drum up punters for our gigs in Mumbai from the passers-by and watch stoic scary guards soften and ask us to watch them tap out tabla rhythms on counter-tops.

We arrive at the Sun and Sand hotel in Juhu beach and it’s lovely. What was my cousin so scared of 2 years ago when we tried to stay here and he said categorically no. The rooms are gorgeous. Sam and Shane have a huge suite for one night. Amy can see the sea from her room and I’m just happy to swap my shoes and socks for slippers. We wander down to the beach. Guards tell us we cannot go down to the water as the beach is extremely dangerous. No one tells us why. Sam goes anyway and a guard rushes out to tell us off. They repeat that it is extremely dangerous. The suffocation begins.

Friday: Mumbai

I oversleep as Shane, Sam and Amy go to visit a guru in Breach Candy. I try to follow them later on but Breach Candy is a way away so it’s not worth it. I take a cab to Bandra and wander around a market and visit a Waterstones-esque bookshop called Crosswords before returning to the hotel for some gorgeous pool action. I’m soon joined by the others and their tales. Shane has found me a Krrish mask. We swim and then Amy is asked to do some press for a woman’s magazine about being a woman. They dress her up in one of her fancy Paris Motel dresses and make her wade through the shallows of the sea. A crowd of over-anxious men gather to gawp at her and smile and oscillate their heads. She causes quite a stir.

Then, it’s gig time. We gather our things and head to Café Mocha in Juhu. It’s a coffee shop with a sheltered outside bit on the beach. Outside, people smoke hookahs and inside they sip coffees. It’s hot. The stage is tiny but it’s intimate and that’s how the D’Archetypes get down. A bright camera shines on us throughout our performance, so it can broadcast our moves on a screen in the outside bit. It’s hard to vibe with the crowd as we cannot see them. First night nerves beckon and we get through the set quite nervously. People seem to enjoy it though and so our fears are momentarily quelled.

We meet Jesse who helped to bring us out to Mumbai. He’s quite anxious to take us out to a club called Xenzi and then to Insomnia (90 minutes away in the Taj, a tourist trap). We stay at Café Mocha as Shane has met some old friends. Sam Amy and I eat and chat to some lovely friends of Jesse’s about designing computer games and the quirks of the British. We move on to Xenzi, which is apparently the cool place to be. It is really cool but just like being in Ibiza or a Hoxton house bar. House music throbs. You can’t hear anyone talk. Drinks are superbly expensive. Sam and Amy get down on the floor. I join them for a spot of ‘dance like a…’ where you call out different inanimate objects to dance like. Shane disappears and meets a guitarist called Randolph and his girlfriend Monica.

After Xenzi closes, Jesse urges us to join him at Insomnia. We are all tired and Randolph has invited us to his flat around the corner. We decide to join him, which causes minor friction with Jesse.

Randolph’s flat is lovely and we have a nice time playing charades, listening to tunes, chatting and connecting with people and hear Shane’s friend Martin’s story of his experiences with a Kali death cult in Varanasi. Eventually, though, drunkenness and jet lag combine to form a massive collective spaced-out feeling in all of us, and we all grab a cab back to the hotel.

Saturday: Mumbai

We wake late. Well, I do… Everyone else heads to the beach. I’m suffering insomnia so not really sleeping till daylight and they are grabbing a few more hours than me. I join them on the beach and then I decide to head to Santa Cruz to buy a sherwani jacket and look at some instruments. The others stay at the pool. I successfully buy a cheap jacket and a cheap guitar. This is after being lectured on economics by a shop assistant and discussing the craziness of currency. £1 is Rs100. Rs1 is less than a penny. Does my head in. I return and we have a quick swim and debrief in our room before heading into the centre of Mumbai.

We are playing in a girls’ college in Breach Candy, called Sophia (pronounced So-fire) College. It’s a convent college. We are urged not to swear about a thousand times. We worry a little about what is acceptable and what is not. On arrival we find nuns and over-attentive stage managers and we panic a little. It’s a huge auditorium with a massive stage.

There is a strange vibe between us all but we plough on anyway.

We’re a little lost in the big auditorium. Beyond the spectacle of the costume changes, our dramatic entrance piece goes over the girl’s heads. We are heckled and people leave in droves. When the music starts, they all get into it and whoop where they need to, and shriek at all the dancing bits. The ones who make it to the end seem to really enjoy it, though the material is probably a little too challenging for them. I try to fill the huge stage with energy and jumping and dancing and it seems to push our performance up to fill the big space. We are too used to intimate gigs.

The weird vibe permeates after the performance. Shane heads out to party. Sam, Amy and I head back to the hotel. They retire for the evening so I head down to the beach to stare out across the Indian ocean. I phone Katie and I speak to her as we both search for each other across the sea. I feel really sad. I miss her so much tonight. I am so close to her. I eat an excessively creamy kebab and drink a beer in the hotel bar. I read my book, “A Night at the Call Centre” and then retire to bed.

Sunday: Mumbai to Pune

It’s Amy’s birthday today. I give her a present of a carnatic violin book and we all pack to move on to Pune. We leave between 9.30 and 10. Everyone is mashed from the night before. Amy and Sam stayed up late. Shane got in at 6ish. I couldn’t sleep all night. The energy is low. It’s a pleasant drive out of Mumbai through a bit of the countryside, taking in a truck stop where we eat greasy comforting Batata Vadas. We hit the mainland and drive through fields. We sleep and sing and beatbox and write poems about the inspirational countryside.

We arrive in Pune. It lacks the city-like pretensions of Mumbai. It seems more like a normal place. Our hotel is a lot more normal as well. It has a huge gallery in the lobby but the rooms are smaller and more down to earth. It’s so much nicer.

Amy and I head to the pool. It’s horrible and not deep enough to swim in. We get dressed and we all go for a walk around the block, ending up in the Indian HMV, Planet M, buying CD’s and DVD’s for home. Opposite is a really American looking strip mall. The whole world is USA’ing, much to my depression. We return. Shane and I are sharing a room. We had sent our costumes down for pressing before leaving. There is now confusion as to where the costumes are, which lasts a good 15 minutes.

It’s a 30 minute drive to the venue, another Café Mocha. This one is also a venue within a venue. There is no stage for us, so we take one of the booths near the front door and turn it into a stage. Shane and I do a good little interview with the local newspaper, while Sam and Amy soundcheck. We have decided to do the gig all acoustic, no backing tracks, without the dramatic beginning. No costumes. Just Kesh and Shane and Sam and Amy, rocking it like a band.

Performance-wise, it is our strongest one and we all buzz at the end. We all really enjoy the performance and think we’ve all done a good job. This does well to create a vibe between us. After our performance and after I’ve hustled some CD’s to the crowd (this has been my job all alone, dressed in my Krrish mask), we have a chocolate cake for Amy. The waiters all sing happy birthday to her. The crowd joins in. Tas, our lovely Nina Wadia-esque British Council liaison takes us to an amazing paratha hut where we all order different types of paratha. They are all amazing. I start to wash mine down with a salt lime juice before realising it is dirty. Upsetting. We find some street children and give them the last few pieces of our cake.

We head back to the hotel to celebrate Amy’s birthday. We all get dressed up and join Amy for champagne in the bar. It’s lovely. We have some fun. Shane deejays (after 1 hour of convincing them to let us put on some music instead of the AOR soft rock they already have). Sam and Amy dance. We are told off for the dancing and for Shane playing an electronica version of “Vande Mataram”, a sacred song that the barstaff feel should not be played in such a den of inequity.

We retire to our rooms where Shane and I chat for a bit. As we’re settling down to bed, the phone call arrives. Sam tried to do a knee-slide across the floor and tore his knee open. He is rushed to hospital for stitching. The secret weapon has been compromised.

Monday: Pune to Kolkata

We have a morning in Kolkata. Shane wakes early and goes for a walk. I wake moments later and go down and sit and read and eat a horrible breakfast. We wake Sam and Amy and decide to head to an ashram nearby that Shane and Sam are interested in seeing. Unfortunately, this place of spiritual healing has rules concerning visitors, and hefty prices and we are too late and poor to go inside. Sam and Amy go for a walk. Shane and I walk over to a school for the blind across the road, where we are given a tour and meet some of the amazing kids. They have their own Marathi Braille and are all so energetic. Smiling, we stop for a masala chai. We catch up with the others and head back to the hotel, where Vijay, our gentle driver takes us to the airport.

After much confusion about our luggage (why are there so many instruments? Why does Shane have all these electronic devices? Who are we?), we are finally allowed on to the plane. The plane stops in Mumbai first, before going to Kolkata. We do not realise this and so when the captain announces we are going to Mumbai, we all shriek and panic that we are all on the wrong plane. Everyone laughs. We are fine. The plane goes to Mumbai first, then to Kolkata. The flight is uneventful. Shane watches ‘Rang de Basanti’, I read, Sam recovers from stitching and Amy makes song notes in her little book.

We arrive and take taxis to our hotel.

Oh my god, our hotel. Oh my god, our hotel… is… truly amazing. It’s 5 star. It’s massive, a huge complex. Between the main building with all the facilities and the rooms is a huge watery lake with lily pads and pagodas in the middle. We are all given the executive suites. They contain triple beds, DVD players, a seating area, a lazy boy massage chair, a shower and a bath and a screen from the bath opening into the main room. The rooms are gorgeous. Truly breathtaking!

We are performing in the hotel, so the hotel staff have upgraded us to executive suites… each. We hang in our rooms. I order a pizza, massage myself in my massage chair, watch Spider-Man DVDs, phone my mum to wish her happy birthday and fall asleep.

Tuesday: Kolkata

I wake early and go to the sauna. I take a long luxurious swim, then naked Jacuzzi and a steam and then back to my room for a hot gragrant shower. I go to breakfast and eat a hearty buffet of everything I could want. I gorge on fruits and puris. Gorgeous. I’m joined by the others and we then have interviews for most of the day. Shane and I do most of the interviews. We take photos out on the grass in the humid Kolkata stickiness. We eat, soundcheck, do a TV interview and rest before having a quick rehearsal and then heading to the venue.

We decide to do the gig acoustic again but re-add the dramatic beginning. I introduce the piece, create an audience-performer contract allow the audience into our world and then it starts. Shane arrives as Madhu.

We get many many laughs. Kolkata gets us. We put in a hearty performance and Kolkata, laughs, cries, dances and whoops. They really enjoy it, they really really enjoy it. We get the biggest and warmest response here.

We are happy. After the gig, while hustling CD’s, I meet Sammi, a hip-hop obsessive from Kolkata and another rapper. The rapper freestyles for me while I beatbox before disappearing. Sammi and I chat hip-hop, getting mad geeky (discussing rare Japanese import only 12”s etc etc). We drink… a lot. Then we head to quieter surroundings where Sammi and I have a furious and fast witty freestyle, crossing continents. We laugh hysterically as we get mad stupid and lyrical. The alcohol has loosened our internal rhyming dictionaries. There is a lot more dancing and silliness. Shane then drops his “Menstruation” poem to the crowd of dancers. They laugh nervously and with embarrassment. No one has said penis in public before. We meet another Shane. Sam teaches me breakdancing.

We go grab some dinner, and have an interesting chat with Sammi about the nuances of Kolkata. He, Shane and Sammi’s friend Diya join me in my room. We drink beer and listen to assorted hip-hop on my laptop.

Then, sleep. Well-deserved content sleep.

Wednesday: Kolkata

Our flight does not leave till the evening so we check out of our bling rooms and into Shane’s bling room before heading to the centre of Kolkata to look at musical instruments.

As we wait on the street, we buy ice creams for kids and marvel at the sexual self-help books being sold on the newsstand. A man approaches me and asks where I am from. I tell him, he tells me I have a really nice body and walks off. I am perplexed. We find a street full of music shops. Amy buys a zither, and she, Sam and I buy tabla machines (drum machines for tablas). It is so hot outside though, so we quickly head back to the hotel where Shane and I take a dip to cool down. We check out. We are ready to return.

We end up doing a gig for the staff to say thank you for their attentiveness to us and we have a grand old time. It’s our last gig in India.

And we leave.

Thursday am: Kolkata to Mumbai

Our journey home is uneventful apart from us seeing Hritik Roshan at Mumbai airport, looking so effortlessly cool. As we rush towards him to take pictures (alas, my Krrish mask is packed in my suitcase), we find him shouting and screaming at airport staff for not looking after him properly. We take cheeky photos of Shane and me in the background.

We get on our flight. Everyone is tired. We all fall asleep.

An intense trip, full of interesting experiences. Definitely worth it. Things change, things mutate and people, away from their home-life, are able to see things a lot clearly. An amazing experience.

Someone's Stalking the D'Archetypes

2006-09-30T07:11:00.000-07:00

Orifice Vulgatron (Foreign Beggars) flexes his guns for the D'Archetypes... while a creepy Nerm watches on from behind!

short short story 3: there is an ocean between us

2006-09-30T03:42:00.000-07:00

Short Short Story 3: There is an Ocean Between Us

There is an ocean between us. A body of water that separates our bodies. We are closer now than we have been in months and I can feel you moving mere miles away. Your presence is stronger to me here. I can feel its each throb and pulse with the ebb and the flow of the water.

I walk down to the water. The lights that engulf Mumbai line the length of the coast. I search for Kenya, across the ocean, hoping to catch a glimpse of you, feel the shudder of your curly hair, watch your movements and reach out and hold your hand.

I wave to you. Hello! I whisper into the sea breeze. I can see you in my third eye (see how Mumbai has made me spiritual?), feel you, I listen to the soft crashing of the calm waves and I can hear your voice, poetic in its rhythms, calm and soothing, beautiful and moving.

There is an ocean between us. A body of water that separates our bodies. We are closer now than we have been in months and I phone you. You answer. We smile and laugh together. I can see you, I say. I can see you too, she says back. She goes to her balcony and looks out across the barrier of water. I walk down to the beach. We talk, a quick catch up. She worries about my phone bill, I worry about our distance. We both do. We’re not that worried though. We know we will see each other soon. I dip my toe in the water and send a positive vibration full of love and passion and intensity across the watery ripples in the direction of Kenya. My love is carried in those waves, growing in force as they escape India and stroll over to Kenya. I stifle a tear. She does too. This is quite romantic, she whispers. I wish I could see you, I whisper back.

We lift our hands like antennas to the sky. We are already connected by the telephonic satellites in our hands. Our hands are more organic connections. As we lift our hands like antennas to the sky, we will the other to see the movement. As we lift our hands like antennas to the sky, they start to glow and emit small beams of light upwards and then across the ocean that separates us. The beams are enough for us to catch a glimpse of each other for just a second.

We say goodnight and smile. I return to my room.

There is an ocean between us. Sometimes geography is only a state of mind. There is only an ocean between us.

short short story 2: Vanessa Hopes Vinod Doesn't Call

2006-09-27T07:52:00.000-07:00

Short Short Story 2: Vanessa Hopes Vinod Doesn’t Call

Vanessa is drunk beyond belief. She can’t breathe, she can’t focus her eyes ahead of her, the upper echelons of her head throbs with spiralling gesticulations of dizziness. She can’t wait for this taxi ride to be over. The taxi driver keeps asking her for directions, despite the glare of the satellite navigation system on his dashboard telling him where he needs go. In reality, he’s just trying to keep her awake so he can gauge whether or not she’s going to throw up in the back of his cab or not. That would not be nice to clean, not after the long week he’s had.

Vanessa cradles her phone in the palm of her hand, trying to work out how close she is to home. She passes through what she thinks is the familiar glow of Brixton High Street (actually Waterloo) and closes her eyes in comfort. Ahh, nearly home, nearly bed. She’ll force a vomit out before she goes to sleep, she decides. Everything’s spinning, and an empty stomach will calm her sick dizzy feeling enough for her to pass out.

She really really hopes Vinod doesn’t call her. She is really anxious that he’ll try and give her a bell, like he promised he would earlier on. That would not be good. She can barely talk, she definitely can’t communicate. It would be disastrous. And she might say something stupid. And then he might have a window into the truth of her soul because in vino veritas and there was a lot of vino tonight.

It’s always awkward in those first months of a relationship. Everything is lovely and amazing and full of roses and breakfasts in bed and amazing back-breaking spine-tingling sex. But on the flipside, there’s the making sure your dirty pants are picked up before Vinod can see, making sure your toilet is clean and making sure that you’re not rude to waiters and bartenders like you are in your usual routine. Or like, when you go out with your girls and go dancing and get wasted to the point where you can only babble, you start phoning people up and saying stupid embarrassing things about sex and your paranoias and the ridiculous lengths you go to be the cool one in the bunch are revealed… stuff like that needs to be put on hold until the second or third “I love you” or a decent-sized first argument… everything else is just too early on in the relationship.

God forbid Vinod phoning now and this perfect world – this honeymoon period – comes crashing down around Vanessa. That would not be recommended. He would definitely not be interested in this warts and all person passed out in the back of a cab. It was bad enough them both deciding earlier on that they needed a night off from each other and needed to have some laddish and girly time and thus going their separate ways. The results… are this mascara-strewn sprawled mess before you.

She checks her last text from him: Hey fitness, avin a bangin time wid da boyz. Hpe ure wll. Will call u 4 night-night. Kisses, V.

She can’t actually read it in the state she’s in, but she’s sure it says something like that.

“I have to talk to him about that teenage text-speak bollocks…” she suddenly says out aloud to no one in particular.

The cab driver turns around. What he heard: “ Talk abaa… that… teenager….bollocks.” He shrugs and speeds along through Kennington. Nearly in Brixton where he can get rid of this fallen angel with lipstick on her teeth.

She sighs. Please don’t call, she wills. I don’t want you to hear me like this. Please don’t call me. Please don’t call me. Please…

God he is fit.

She wants to stick a finger in his arse.

He is so fit.

She can’t believe she just thought that. Oh fuck, if he calls, there is a huge possibility she’ll tell him she wants to stick her finger up his arse… and put make-up on him and… oh god, please don’t call… I’ll say something embarrassing. I know I will. Hurry up cabbie! The sooner you get me home, the sooner I can pass out and ignore my phone. Please! Vanessa drunkenly urges the cab driver to hurry in a silent way. She actually snorts while thinking all this but doesn’t realise.

They pass Brixton Academy, where thousands of goth teenagers are emerging into the night. Ugly pricks, Vanessa thinks, I hope you all die…

Her phone starts vibrating in her hand.

short short story 1: A Yam on the Pull, or juicy avocados won't last the afternoon

2006-09-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

Short Short Story 1: A Yam On the Pull, or juicy avocados won’t last the afternoon

The bananas had told the yam that the juiciest avocado fancied him. The yam couldn’t really get this through his head. She had never said anything to him. Plus in that pretend humble part of his brain, he thought, no one ever fancies me! On the one hand, the bananas were outrageous gossips, so they could very well be lying. On the other… the juiciest avocado had been seen harrumphing every time he had been picked up, caressed and fondled by one of the shopping ladies. She had been throbbing with juicy jealousy at the shows of affection the yam was being shown. The bananas were now backing up this story with their snickering gossip. The yam wasn’t sure what to believe. But he decided to give the bananas the benefit of the doubt, because the juiciest avocado sure looked tasty.

The yam needed a plan. He needed to find a way to find out the truth. Obviously, the yam thought, the easiest way would be to just go up to the juiciest avocado and ask her out. But, the yam had grown up on a steady diet of American sitcoms, and he had learnt everything he knew from those sitcoms. He knew that the only way to ask a girl out was to come up with an insensitive emotionally stunted unnecessarily outlandish plan to win her over. He thought for a few minutes. He came up with three separate plans, which he actualised over the course of the day.

Plan A: The yam picked on a bunch of cherry tomatoes, squelching them all with his immense weight, feeling their juices pulse out underneath him as he crushed them, menacingly. This was meant to demonstrate a display of power and strength.

Plan B: The yam helped a particularly old and yellowing broccoli be picked up and sold over the newer, fresher broccolis. She was being left behind while the new (and organic) stock was being picked. He helped to push her over the edge into a passing basket. The customer did not notice, and thus, the old decrepit broccoli was bought, and saved from death as mulch, or rubbish bin. This demonstrated his kindness, sensitivity and willingness to help people in need.

Plan C: The yam planted a microphone under the box of juicy avocados, to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, to ensure that the juiciest avocado did fancy him and was talking about him. Also, he wanted to find out what her favourite things were, so he could pretend they were his favourite things too. This was a secret mission, and meant to demonstrate his cunning, initiative and ruthlessness in getting what he wanted. He found out that the juiciest avocado enjoyed hummus, travelling and books by Will Self.

The yam, armed with his new knowledge and the kudos from successfully carrying out plans A and B, strode over to the juicy avocado’s box, with some tulips and strawberries in his arm, ready to ask the juiciest avocado out on a date.

He looked up in panic and horror, as a blonde yoga teacher from Brockley picked up the juiciest avocado, smiled at her juiciness, mumbled something about craving guacamole and skipped off to find some organic smoked garlic and bell peppers to actualise her plan. The yam shed a tear and returned to his box, sad.

The moral of the story: Time waits for no yam. And don’t watch too many American sitcoms.

Rogues Gallery

2006-09-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

So here are the headlocl photos from the Indian Electronica Fest, courtesy of Mr Lingo's camera...

Yamtastico vs D-Code from Shiva Soundsystem

"What's that coming over the hill??? IS IT A MONSTER??? IS IT A MONSTER??????"

Yamtastico vs Radio 1's Bobby Friction (who appears to want to lick his nips)

Yamtastico takes on Shiva Soundsystem's NERM

Yamtastico vs. Dr Das

The message: YAM YAM HE's OUR MAN!

short story... "...We Are Friends..."

2006-09-20T13:41:00.000-07:00

“…We are your friends…”

It all started the night Cam and Roy went to the party and Vijay chose to stay at home and study. Well, he said he was staying home to study. The truth was that he was new to social situations, especially those taking place at night, and he felt really uncomfortable at the idea of being around weed and alcohol at some stranger’s house. Cam and Roy were astounded. They couldn’t believe he was turning down the opportunity to go to this party. They were flabbergasted. The girls from the sister school were going to be about. There would be drink and weed, and girls, and tunes, maybe some new Ice Cube or Gang Starr. The host, Rishi, had come back from America, armed with brand new hip-hop tapes. His parents were away for the weekend. Rishi had the house to himself, and knew all the buffest girls in the sister school and even had a dealer and come on, Vij, you have to come. Vijay made some vague comment about being grounded for something or other and he was going to have to stay in. They should go on without him. He had yet to experiment much with alcohol and weed and girls and his cheeks burned at the thought of being in the same room as all three. Obviously, he was up for experimenting in the abstract. The reality scared him so it was much easier to make some crap excuse and stay at home.

Cam and Roy accepted this. They were generally okay with his disappearing acts and ‘studious nature’ and his painfully shy social demeanour. In private, he was funny, scathing, silly and action-packed. In front of others, he was stoic, like a flunky or a henchman. They wanted to break him out of his shell. They really did. They were all good friends, and he could do with loosening up. But they didn’t want to push the issue.

The night Cam and Roy went to that party… That was the night it all started.

That night, Cam and Roy got dressed up in their Toking hoodies and their Spliffy jeans and headed over to Rishi’s 4 bedroom detached house in Northwood. The leafy exterior celebrated the suburban taste in the air. The driveway up which they walked was gravely. They smiled at each other, impressed at being invited into the inner sanctum of the school posse. They weren’t too experienced with weed and alcohol and girls either, but, fuck it, they thought, you have to start somewhere.

Meanwhile, Vijay was sat at home twiddling his thumbs. Dinner and ‘Only Fools and Horses’ became a Blockbuster rental became comfort in the warmth and safety of his house. He understood these four walls. He could cope with them. He could talk back to his mum and dad with the utmost confidence, and throw stroppy teenage tantrums with the best of them.

Mum and dad eventually retired to bed. Vijay snuck upstairs and fetched his Pamela Anderson Playboy tape. He put it on, placed a Kleenex within reach and began to fast-forward to the good stuff. He loosened his belt and unbuttoned the top of his jeans. He stretched out on to the whole of the sofa, feet up, toes akimbo, other protruding implements pointing to the sky in celebration. Pamela strutted with her nipples akimbo.

*RING*
*RING RING*

“What the fuck,” Vijay whispered as he yanked his trousers up and ran towards the phone. Guys may not be able to multi-task but they are certainly able to disguise a wank on the pretence of doing something else with the utmost lightening reaction. He grabbed the phone by the fourth ring.

“Hello?” he whispered into the ether.

“Yes, Vijay. Yes, yes Vijay, easy now…”

“Roy? That you?” Vijay coaxed more authority into his voice.

“Yes, yes, what’s up man? You cool?”

“Yeah man, safe, innit. How was the party?”

“Still there innit…”

Awkward silence. Vijay fumbled with his semi-hardness, silently easing it into a more comfortable position.

“… so yeah, Vij, man, listen, there’s this girl here… Natalie… I’ve been telling her all about you, man. All about you. She’s seen you around. She told me she fancies you big time. Big time. You know what I’m saying?”

“Right,” said Vijay, bashfully, his heart perforating with pride and fear. “ Right, okay…”

Awkward silence.

“… Vij… you still there? You wanna talk to her?”

“What?!” Vijay was momentarily distracted by the fist-pounding sounds in his heart throbbing, his bowels slackening with embarrassment and his erection disappearing into itself.

Awkward silence. Shuffling on the phone, Vijay took a deep breath and wiped his forearm against his forehead. A female voice announced itself on the phone, gravely playful and full of mirth.

“Hello, Vijay?”

Vijay’s jaw dropped, his heart pounded faster, his mouth was stuffed with thick cotton. He stammered out a positive answer… yes it’s me became… yyeed itds rgrunfrew.

“Vijay, Cam and Roy have been telling me all about you.” She spoke like a really bad actress, over-egging every word in a failed attempt to sound sincere. “They said you’re amazing. I’ve seen you with them. Boy, you are buff, ya get me. You get me? You are buff.”

Background laughter, quickly stamped out with shushes. A quiver of mirth in her voice. Vijay ran through the possible scenarios in his head. She told him one more time how buff she thought he was. There was more laughter. He saw what was going on here.

He gulped, took a silent deep breath to try steady the rhythms of his heart and concentrated on his voice. “Errrrmm…. Yeah…. Thanks…. Can I…. speak to…. R-R-R-Roy please?” He was talking to an actual girl. How amazing.

Confusion back from Natalie quickly replaced with an overly sexy, “Sure, anything for you, honey.”

Awkward silence. Shuffling on the phone.

“Yes, Vij… you’re welcome. That was a short conversation, man. What’s up? You wanna come out now? Meet her? Some alone time?”

Big laugh quickly stifled. Vijay took a deep breath, grabbed his penis, adjusted it, grabbed the wall, screwed up his face and spoke, “Fuck you, Roy, you prick…”

He hung up the phone, and breathed, in and out. He was proud. They were laughing at him, taking the piss, mocking him, playing on his insecurity with girls, laughing behind his back. He stood up for himself… wait, what the fuck had he done? What the fuck had he done? Oh god, he’d just hung up on his mate… who had been taking the piss out of him… it was fine, he was in the right… even so, the guy didn’t deserve to be called a…

*RING*
*RING RING*

Vijay snatched up the phone.

Roy’s voice over the line cold and clear… “I am going to make your life a living hell.”

*CLICK*
* * * * *
Monday morning was tortuous. So much so because Vijay misjudged his journey in and arrived at school half an hour earlier than he needed to. He wandered around the school, panicking about his fate. It was one of those abnormal November days where there wasn’t a cloud in the sky but not one iota of warmth in the air. Vijay huddled himself in his Karl Kani bomber jacket and listened to Wu Tang’s first album, rewinding the same song over and over as he prolonged his arrival at his form room’s door.

Wu Tang Clan ain’t nuttin ta fuck wit’
Wu Tang Clan ain’t nuttin ta fuck wit’…

Vijay wasn’t sure what to expect. He had thought about phoning Roy, or the more level-headed Cam all Sunday, but had thought, if they wanna phone me and apologise, they can. Also, if I phone them, and they’re pissed at me, I will make it worse. I can’t make it worse. I fucked up big time. I shouldn’t have answered back. I should have gone with it, you know, for a laugh. Stupid idiot. We were all still new at this school. Now I had gone and messed it all up. I felt like a fool.

He sat in the classroom, quickly ingratiating himself with some of the nerdier kids in the class. They made for a good comfort zone, they could deflect any blows and also there was safety in numbers. The entire class arrived. Cam came in first. He had walked up to Vijay, made as if to high five him and then turned his back and walked to the other side of the class, shaking his head. Vijay had been mid-high five at the time, and was left hanging. Cam tutted at him and called him a ‘prick’ under his breath.

No show from Roy till mid-registration. He strolled in, cool as a cucumber. He strolled over without a care in the world and plonked himself next to Vijay, smiling inanely. Vijay breathed in, it was all fine. Panic over. It was all fine. Roy leaned in close to Vijay and put a hand on his shoulder. Vijay smiled and nodded and Roy. Roy nodded back and smiled, half-listening to the form tutor’s announcements. Vijay turned his head back to the front. Roy spat in his hand, a thick globule throbbing with green phlegm, and smacked it on Vijay’s head. Vijay recoiled in horror and disgust.

Roy laughed, the people behind them laughed and he got up to sit somewhere else. Vijay wanted to cry. He struggled to find enough of a tissue in his pocket to wipe it off. He felt disgusting. He felt dirty. He felt like the spittle was still daubed on his forehead, inching it’s way towards his eye sockets. He couldn’t think of anything else.

VIIIIIIIIIIJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

A tuneless chorus rose from a whisper behind him – 3-5 boys all singing his name out of tune, trying to harmonise like they were singing Beatles songs, but failing miserably and purposefully.

The teacher was so spineless. He never said anything. He got through the rest of his announcements. Vijay tried to tune out the chorus of his name, sweating, wanting to cry, but outwardly appearing quiet and stoic, like nothing was bothering him. His head was bowed, his knees were clenched together, his hands shaking, his forehead warm with spittle remnants. He asked to go to the toilet.

As he got up to go, Roy starting blowing loud abrasive kisses at him. He turned away quickly and left the classroom. Vijay ran out quickly.

* * * * *

Cam wouldn’t talk to him. Cam refused to acknowledge his presence. Cam walked away when he approached. Cam was always the level-headed one, the one with an obvious heart of gold. Roy was always the slight loose canon, the one you couldn’t tell if he was joking or if he meant it. It was obvious now that he meant it. While Vijay wanted to melt into the background quietly, Roy was determined to keep himself in Vijay’s face at any given time. He took every opportunity to speak to Vijay. He sat next to him when he could, called him every now and then, made sure they were partnered up. Just so he could remind Vijay who was boss and who was the prick. He was aggressive, never physical, just mental, just scathing and cutting, edgy and spiky. Roy had been wronged. He had been hung up on. He had been called a prick. You don’t hang up on your friends after calling them a prick, do you Vijay? Do you understand, Vijay?

Vijay became more and more unbearable at home. He was more sullen, ate outside of family dinner time, was more brash with his porn escapades and stayed in his room listening to loud brash hip-hop as much as he could. He fell in with other friends, the geeks in his class, and other boys from other classes in the year who had known him for years. He avoided Cam and Roy as much as he could. Roy always found him though. Plus they always had classes together all day. He willed himself out of the school. He willed himself to find more cool friends. He willed himself an AK-47, like Ice Cube had… that would be a good day. He willed himself dead sometimes. He would run baths so he could read for an hour or two in silence without parental interferences. He would fantasise about drowning himself, or getting a razor blade out… just entertain the thought, without any reality in the situation. It was just a thought.

At school, the tide was turning against him. All the cool kids in the class despised him. All because of Roy’s influence. Cam was apathetic towards him, more content with acting out with some of the other kids. Vijay couldn’t take it. He would feign illnesses in the days when it was most unbearable.

“It won’t last forever”, he kept telling himself.

* * * * *

Four years later, Cam went to the same university as Vijay’s oldest childhood friend. They remembered each other from those difficult times at school. Cam was introduced to him by a mutual friend. He took one look at him and said, “Oh yeah, I know you. You’re Vijay’s friend. Whatever man, he’s a prick. I ain’t talking to you.”

Cam walked off…

* * * *

Eight years later, Vijay was a musician, he was living the dream. He was in a club performing. He had rocked the crowd. He was sat by the side of the stage, satisfied, when someone came up to him and congratulated him on the show.

“Do you remember me from school, bro? It’s Roy… remember?”

Vijay was amazed. It was Roy. He couldn’t believe it. Roy couldn’t believe he’d seen little sweet Vijay onstage.

They caught up for an hour, laughing about different people they had been to school with and the fates they had been given since leaving school. As Roy left, he touched Vijay’s fist and said, “Vijay, man, I’m sorry I was a prick to you in school. I was young, we were new, I wanted to make an impression. I’m sorry you picked up the brunt of it.”

“Safe,” replied Vijay and smiled.

Honey, I'm Home!

2006-09-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

So we're back from India in one piece. We played the Tate Modern on Saturday.

I haven't had a chance to document our amazing India adventure. I will do shortly.

In the meantime, previously-blogged short story, "Tribes at War" is now on Pulp magazine!

http://www.pulp.net/fiction/stories/42/tribes-at-war.html

Enjoy!

Love,
Keshnan the Barbariyam

India this Thursday and other things...

2006-09-04T03:09:00.000-07:00

So we're off to India this week to take the D'Archetypes tragi-comic hip-hopera to the desi masses.

First I was nervous but playing with such consummate professionals and talented bunnies like Sam and Amy, my only nerves are about remembering my lines. We shall, we shall ROCK IT...

Other things I have been listening to, doing and playing with this week:

- Missing Katie one hundred thousand million billiont trillion percent...
- Listening to some uk hip-hop... I thought I'd gone off it but Kashmere's insane album, Stig's drunken rantings have both pulled me back a little. I was a little yawned off by Doc Brown's mixtape. I can see how people will love it, but it wasn't my thing really.
- Staring in wonder at Cabein's new prints: www.cabein.com/shop. I love the woman. Her eyes bother me in a wholesome way.
-Watching Serenity (boring), Hidden (not as good as expected... cop-out ending), and crap on mum and dad's Sky plus. I've developed the inability to stay on one channel. Why see what's on when you can see what else is on?
- Travelling all over London... Pinner to Lewisham to Forest Hill to New Cross to Colindale to Pinner... I've been travelling all over this town and you know what? It's hot and it's smelly but you can properly fall asleep on the underground. It's like when dad used to drive you around till you fell asleep.
- Carrying around wet wipes cos my faces is a constant smatterage of dried tears.
- Pressing refresh on my email account! Come on!! Speak to me!!!

That's about it... we've been rehearsing mostly and I seem to recall there was a Bank Holiday last week but I don't think I've achieved much in the last 7 days except learn lines!!:

Bobby Friction <3 Yam Boy and Mr Lingo

2006-08-31T05:59:00.000-07:00

Bobby Friction dropped our entire set from the Indian Electronica Festival on his Friction show on Tuesday just gone. They even kept in the unprofessional bits and the swearing... god I was shouting...

Go to www.bbc.co.uk/asiannetwork/friction and hit LISTEN AGAIN for Tuesday's show. We are 1 hour and 3 minutes in...

Off to India next week! YAY!!!! SO EXCITED!!!

I am full of news today!

Katie, Katie, Katie...

2006-08-31T05:54:00.000-07:00

I miss you babes.

I'll see you soon though.

I promise.

Till then, my whole body aches for you.

Goodbye South London

2006-08-31T05:09:00.000-07:00

Thank you for an impressively dense three years filled with discovery, stereotype-bashing and challenges. I knew nothing about South London before I went there. I went to Brixton for a few gigs, I had visited Clapham once or twice but generally, I avoided it if I could. I was all about Brick Lane... keeping it cosmetic in the East.

Here some short vignettes that will always remind me of South London, and of where I made my nest with Katie, Herne Hill... ahhh Deronda Road. [smile]

-Gujarati Yam Boy:

I got my moniker from South London. A gift from Brixton that sung to me of grittiness, paradoxes and exotic fruit and vegetables. Our Saturday ritual was to hit the Coldharbour Lane market for some fresh fruit, vegetable and interesting BIG frilly knickers. On the corner of Electric Lane and Atlantic Road was the most vibrant of all the grocers, a Bollywood-blaring audio/visual assault of a shop called Kashmiri Yam Boys. It was our favourite. One night walking home drunk with Katie, we were discussing my stage name and what it should be. I was quite taken with Councilman Kesh. But she wasn't sold. She thought it was [rightfully] stupid. As we walked past our favourite grocer, she said that I should be the Kashmiri Yam Boy! She added, "Except, you're Gujarati. Maybe you should be the Gujarati Yam Boy." I laughed. I was sold. "Yes, I exclaimed. That's what I shall call my EP." I texted friends with the suggestion, Katie was amazed she was being taken seriously. I was serious and a half. Especially when the first few texts rolled in from Rob and Neel: YES!! WE LOVE IT. I was thus Nikesh Shukla, Gujarati Yam Boy... soon shortened to the sweeter veggier Yam Boy.

The shop may no longer exist... but it will live forever in my recorded works!

Reggae Bread:

The first year we lived in Brixton, we lived off Atlantic Road, where all the bakers and butchers reside and pump their wares to the heaving masses. We were right in the centre of the action. The street below us was a veritable animation of bustling people shopping in the carnival spirit, laughing, shouting, crying and dancing to the rhythms of the day. Every Saturday morning, without fail, the baker opposite us would open up at 7am, stick on some PUMPING lover's rock or melodic gospel and starting cooking up the bread. We would rock out to the music, and boy, it felt like summer every day as the gentle tones of Gregory Isaacs filled our flat. Only in Brixton.

-Way of the One-Legged Man:

This happened to my friend Rob. I take no credit for seeing this. It still harks to the genius of South London. Rob and a friend were walked up past the Bug Bar in Brixton when a one-legged beggar came and asked them for change. Before they began their protestations of no change, he suddenly looked across the road and shouted "OI!!" to someone. He told them to hold on and peg (legg)ed across the road to face someone. He hit this person with one of his crutches and baited the guy into a fight. He dropped his crutches, placed the stump of his leg in a rubbish bin to steady himself and put up his dukes. COME ON THEN!!!! The guy punched him and he fell into the bin, with all his change falling out. He was unable to get up.

He eventually returned laughing at his bad luck.

Okay, so there's a sad side to that story but still, sounds hilarious!

-I Even Like the Guy Who Tried Jukk Me For A £1:

One day a guy tried to jukk a pound off me. I said I had no change. He told me to take my wallet out and check. I said no and walked off. He followed me for a bit then walked off. A week later, I did a gig at the Dogstar and I was walked down the road and he emerged out of an off-licence with a bottle of champagne (unopened) in his hand. He asked me for a pound, then told me to give him a pound, then told me to get out my wallet. I was thoroughly intimidated. I pointed my guitar at him so there was distance. He kept going to lift up the champagne bottle. I kept saying I wasn't taking my wallet out to check (goodbye wallet) so could he just leave me alone. He was getting more and more agitated with my refusals that he was getting more and more physically aggressive. He cornered me against the shutters of a closed shop and ordered me to give him a pound. I said no and tried to walk off. He stopped me. An old man suddenly appeared and placed himself firmly between us... "Leave the bwoy alone," he drawled. "He said he got nothing." To me, he urged, "walk away son." I did, thankful that the old man had interjected... for all its aggression and moodiness, Brixton still has a heart and a sense of community.

-The Snowman:

The most perfect day I spent at Brockwell Park, one of many perfect days in Brockwell Park, was the day it last snowed in London. The entire park was white and pristine. No one had entered the park as it was a work day. I was on my 'writing day' and Rob was 'ill' (for ill, read hungover). We walked through the park, trying to spoil the perfect untouched blanket of white as best we could. The park was so still and so quiet. We rowdied it up with a snowball fight that spanned the entire width of the park.

-Neighbours Who Like to 'Chill Out':

We saw so many people we knew at the Big Chill 05. But none surprised us as much as when Katie and I were sat at a doughnut stand at 1am, munching away and a couple approached us, asking if we lived on Deronda Road. "Yes", I replied. "Are you my stalker?" Turned out that they lived two doors down from us. We had a brief chat before awkwardness set in and we got back to festivaling it up. Katie and I wondered that they seemed lovely and we should make friends.

We didn't. We were lazy. They ended up getting pregnant. And we lived the rest of the year two doors down from each other. Then, 2 weeks before we left Deronda Road, I ran into one of the couple in our local newsagents and we had a 30-40 minute chat about everything under the sun. They were amazing. And we'd missed out on the chance to be friends. London teaches you to keep people at arm's length. And we did, to our detriment. Over the last 2 weeks, we would chat constantly. We gave them herbs on leaving. We squandered an opportunity to build our own local community. At least, we know it's possible in London... well, South London.

-----------

I love SOuth London. I want to go back. I want to go deeper, to Dulwich or to Herne Hill. It's a truly wonderful part of London. So untouched by the hype and posture of East London, the toffy opulence of West London and the non-descriptness of North London. It is overflowing with community, character and verve. There are so many cool places to go, but you got to find them. They won't get billboard coverage like clubs in Soreditch might. But you'll have better nights at them.

Plus, you're near countryside and trees and families and the ability to have a coffee if you'd prefer. Organic local produce is in abundance, and everyone smiles. Plus, James Nesbitt lives round the corner.

Dad picked me up on the final day and we loaded up the final bits of Katie and my lives into his car. I held back the tears. Katie wasn't there to see the flat off. I was on my own and feeling maudlin. I packed up the car, did a final clean of the flat, said goodbye to each room, remembering 3 good things that happened in each, locked the door, kissed and walked outside into the warming sun...

I walked around to the passenger side of dad's car and I was confronted by the old Jamaican lady who lived opposite us. I had never spoken to her before.

"My dear," she quivered, for she was old. "Please could you open this tin of soup for me?" She held out with her shaky arthritic hands a tin of mushroom soup. I smiled and obliged her. I opened the lid for her and handed it back to her. She placed an unsteady hand on my cheek and smiled with the force of a thousand children... "You are a true gentleman and a sweetheart." She winked, turned round and disappeared into her house opposite. I smiled back, took one last look at 25 Deronda Road, got in the car and was driven off.

One chapter closes, another begins...

Indian Electronica Fest

2006-08-28T01:07:00.000-07:00

Saturday saw the first ever Indian Electronica Festival take place over two floors and 8 hours at 333 in Old Street. I put aside my fears and doubts about 333 (I hate that place: dingy, oppressive, dirty, death incarnate) and went along to perform alongside such luminaries as Abdul Smooth, Bobby Friction, Shiva Soundsystem, Bandish Projekt and Visionary Underground. I was Shane-less, the first time in about a year I was to perform myself outside the magical universe of the D'Archetypes, and without that well-oiled machine to have as my crutch, I was nervous as hell about performing Yam and Goonda material live again. Plus I was on first.

The club filled up quickly and we dropped two D'Archetypes tracks live to set the mood. They had everyone bouncing and nodding. Mr Lingo was joining me on decks, scratching and vibing the crowd. We hadn't rehearsed.

I took to the stage in make-up (sadhu style... errr... no homo... honest!), a long white dhoti and my discontented terrorist t-shirt, launching into the ethereal abstract love musings of Nuclear Sonnets. It endeared me to people, especially U'Mau's playful Nigerian chant. I kept falling off the stage as it was tiny, and the whole thing looked ramshackle. I was giving it maximum energy. The acoustic numbers didn't work so I stuck to the beats... people rocked out to 5 Year Plan, and bounced to A Tale of Two Call Centres... Mr Lingo kept the mixing strong and I kept the vibe going, dancing, falling over, dropping to my knees and giving it some welly. We even swore on Asian Network. got everyone to shout some swearing and sent out spiritual thoughts to Marc Lee Brown, Goonda and Shane for their absence over the evening. I certainly missed Shane the mostest... it was strange and not entirely right not performing alongside him. Lingo held it down though and rocked it. He even got big ups for being heavy... so much for rehearsals!

Then it was about the silliness. Lingo and I caught the silly bug and ran downstairs to throw shapes at Fusing Naked Beats who was rocking it big-time with some DNB. We did silly dancing jerked our bodies about majestically and made spectacles of ourselves. Then it was back upstairs to MC for Abdul Smooth and then downstairs to rock out to Bandish Projekt, who were amazing. This festival was amazing. We were loving it. In our silliness (read :drunkenness:) we decided to do a rogues gallery of all the performers... in headloacks. So we spent the rest of the evening stealing beer from behind one of the stages and taking photos of Dr Dar, Mayur from bandish, Bobby Friction et al in headlocks with us. They were all surprisingly compliant. Suddenly it was back upstairs to rock out to JamRock and loads of other bangers from Janaka Selecta before the fatigue crept in. It was time to leave. We walked from Old Street to London Bridge and got a bus home to zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Wicked night... big up Abdul Smooth and the Videowallah for putting up with our brand of ultra-silliness, and to the Sikh guy who bought us both drinks for doing a good set and to the moody girl with a matching tatoo with one of my mates who wasn't impressed with they compared them, Qasim for the amazing festival, Deepal for coming down and everyone for laughing with bemusement. Normal service resumed next week when the D'Archetypes head to India.

YAY!!!

respect,
Yam

p.s. Mrs Yam: I miss you [sad face]

White Van Klan

2006-08-21T02:12:00.000-07:00

Imagine my surprise when our removals van turned up yesterday morning and it was one of those white transit vans. Out of the van strode Maneesh and Paddy, two desis with a serious love of Rishi Rich. Two moustachioed muskateers of the London road. Two stereotypical white van drivers.

My initial reaction to seeing the white van was fear. I am after all a London cyclist. And who do I fear more than those bendy buses that suddenly lurch out at you with their middles free of spinal integrity: maverick white vans who rule my streets and seem to have multiple blind spots and a total disregard for speed limits.

*An aside: these guys completely replied on their sat.nav. systems that seem determined to take everyone down the long routes... despite knowledge of other short-cuts. Why?*

So we piled everything into the white van, and despite my protestations that certain things were precious, it was all just shoved in. Driving in the white van, I got to experience what they're like from inside the belly of the beast. I watched as they jumped lanes, pushed in and sped along. These guys had a little device on their dashboard that would sense speed cameras and beep at them to slow down as they neared the speed cameras. There's no point rushing through the roads and then slowing down just for a camera. Surely that's more dangerous. They were even making comedy racist comments that I couldn't ignore. They would then suffice them with something a bit more respectful... as their conscience kicked in. They talked about mistresses and nudist beaches and swore at other drivers, all to a bhangra/Rishi Rich soundtrack.

I don't feel any more love for white vans after my experience. If anything, I hate them more because they aren't faceless and they are deserving of my contempt as a cyclist, as a human and as an observer of the frailty of human life.

Slow down.

Why I don't drive...

2006-08-20T10:10:00.000-07:00

I hate the idea of playing god.

Also, I have this innate fear that one day, in the car, I'll go suddenly crazy and lose control of my facilities. I will then open the door of the car and fall out. Or I'll be sat there leaning against the window and the door will suddenly open and I'll fall out. Or I'll suddenly give into some subconscious urge to kill myself and open the door and through myself out.

The first thing I always do when I get into a car is lock the door... sealing me into the car, assuming that if I do suddenly go crazy, I'll have the lock to get through which will afford me enough time to get ahold of my facilities and decide that maybe I do not want to throw myself out of the car.

The things that go on in people's heads eh?

Sneezing at the London Mela

2006-08-17T03:02:00.000-07:00

Ah Ah-Chooooo Ah Ah Ah CHOOOOOOOOOo

For the last two weeks I have been working with a Portugese artist called Alexandre Piedro, a physical theatre impressario and comedian/musician from Lisbon on a project for the London Mela, called Espirro.

We were brought in to spend 6-7 days together writing a 15 minute piece encorporating visuals (provided by the lovely Setla group) called Espirro (or sneeze in Portugese). The piece, wonderfully managed and directed by Lis and Ajay from the Mela, had to be about the journey of peppercorns from Kerala via Portugal to London, and to our dinner tables/pub lunches/picnics al fresco. Quite a feat to manage in such a short space of time but we managed it.

It was quite the experience for me as I have never done any physical theatre or comedy ever before in my life. So to see me standing up in my lurid orange boxer shorts miming and do silly things was quite amazing. The final piece we came up with ventured from mime and sneezing as the main conceit to a quick history lesson on peppercorn trade routes (involving Alex as an impressively camp and paralysed Vasco de Gama)resulting in two annoyed and claustrophobic peppercorns in a jar jostling with each other for personal space and the correct escape route. We ended up with a spoken word piece, with Alex on darbuka and myself doing a peppery poem about the violent act of sneezing. I even sang in Portugese. I ended in a confetti canon burst (which I used to try decapitate annoying teenage girls trying to distract us at the front - don't mess, don't test)... which ended the show perfectly.

I think the crowd was amused and bemused by the whole thing. Between us, we were happy with the piece and the ground we covered and the journey we travelled given the short space of time we had to work on the entire piece. I learnt a lot, I can talk about sneezing in Portugese and I can act out being trapped in a box- ahhhh, the infinite power of the mime.

It was great working with Alex. He's a humble man and a consummate professional. He was extremely accepting of my lack of acting experience and willing to teach, which made the process sweeter. It would have been nice to have had more time for the piece as we could have churned out something completely surreal and abstract. But we left the crowd with something special and truly strange.

This is for the weird and the wonderful...

As for the D'Archetypes performance... we rocked it with maximum energy. The crowd (including a full Yamily crew - or YamFam) was bemused to say the least. I think the characters we portray were a little too dark, too edgy, too close to home for the Asian festival-going crowd. Lessons learnt in any case.

We're off to India in two weeks time, to give the Hindustanis a full D'Archetypal experience. I'm looking forward to it. It'll be interesting to see how our sound and lyrical references translate over there. Well, I should think.

This week I have mostly been:

- packing up the flat for our big African move.
- marvelling at the amount of crap I collect/hoard
- recording vocals for two new Goonda-Raj-produced beats and one Abdul Smooth-produced beat.
- listening to Bobby Friction's show on the Asian Network (Friction - www.bbc.co.uk/asiannetwork/friction) as he has playlisted a Yam Boy and Goonda-Raj track, 'A Tale of Two Centres' for the past two weeks, calling it the funniest and most relevant political track he's heard in recent years/months (*hyperbole alert*).
- listening to podcasts from 6Music's Russell Brand show (absolutely filthy and hilarious) and Xfm's Adam and Joe show (pop culture dissections at their best).
- Eating tuna steaks. I know tuna is on the endangered species list but I don't usually like fish and it's been delicious. From Shane's onion-fried tuna to my own garlic and jerk tuna concoction, it's been a fishy week.
- Lamenting Mrs Yam's impending trip away from me [sad face].
- Seeing the old dear Mama Yam in hospital and trying to be upbeat.
- Reading and putting down a book called "Too Weird For Ziggy" - a collection of interlinked short stories about the depraved and downright paranoid world of rockstars and the lives they lead that make our tabloid column inches all the more colourful.
- Crying, laughing and having wild mood swings.
- Worrying about the state of the world.
- Reading appalling articles in the Daily Star (honest, I found it on the train) about how it's okay to racially profile terrorists as being Asian (what with Islam being a colourless religion spanning Asia, South East Asia, Africa, the Middle East and Eastern Europe) because hey... all terrorists look Asian.

That's about it...

Laters,
Yams

xxx

TICK TOCK...

2006-08-15T11:56:00.000-07:00

The Big Chill and other things...

2006-08-14T02:26:00.000-07:00

I hate it when my lack of organisation/willingness to try and help everybody out results in my upsetting/pissing off those close to me. Patterns: how we wish we could break them and consecrate them into the ground? Instead, I'm destined to live out the rest of my life as a spoilt child.

So it looks like I am going to America after all for a gig. I'd given it up as a pipe dream, seeing as there was no communication between myself and the festival people for nie on 6 months. Apparently it's still all game on. Weirdly, they're doing this on the cheap, so it's only me they can afford to bring out, rather than the entire D'Archetypes crew. Annoying. Not only can I not remember what it's like to perform solo, the more I do as the D'Archetypes I have no inclination to.

The Big Chill:

My last big blow-out with Mrs Yam before she disappears over to the soft waves of the Indian Ocean to begin a new temporary nomad life teaching in Mombasa. I join her in November.

We arrived to the sound of the sun rushing over the fields and into the valley of Eastnor Castle (hardly a castle, more a bungalow with ramparts). Tent pitched and beer-armed, we went to see Jose Gonzalez, opting for him instead of the amazingly named Vashti Bunyan. Jose is a superb guitar player who lacks any real presence onstage. The songs were nice but a little muted on such a huge stage. Everyone politely clapped till a song of his on some advert somewhere for tampax or something came on and the whole place went wild. It was a nice little sight.

Later, we performed before Ursula Rucker. Meeting her backstage was weird as I couldn't really relate to her as I was so racked with pre-gig nerves. Gig-done, job-done, we got to the business of partying with Mr Lingo and friends, dancing to lover's rock and reggae, rocking out to coldcut and pogoing to deep dub. The walk home allowed some cross-legged contemplation of the whole site and then it was zzzz...

Morning brought out the spandex. Chris, the guy remixing our set with incredible visuals, had these scarily all-in-one spandex suits in neon pink, royal blue, scarlet red and black. I got in quick and chose black as it matched my black and silver cape I had pre-prepared. Shane dressed as masi, Mrs Yam as a pirate, and three nuttahs in spandex all set off for Arrested Development. We caused chaos, absolute chaos. Especially the pink man. Hundreds of photos of us were taken, in our traditional tick-tock pose. One woman even made Chris hold her baby for a photo... you can see the divorce court situation now:

Former baby: I wish to divorce my parents on the grounds of negligence.
Officious judge: What evidence do you have?
Former baby: Evidence 1.0: Photo from Big Chill Festival 2006. My parents left me as a baby with three strangers in spandex, a cross-dresser and an evil pirate.

Set two of the Big Chill was on Saturday and was a lot less nerve-racking. Instead it was high-energy, riotous, chaotic fun. We did our set, in loose attire, called up our crew to breakdance and b-boy in full attire and generally be silly. We managed to accumulate a crowd in its 100s by the end, a stark contrast to the 3 people who had been there at the beginning, such was the sheer energy and electricity we created onstage. We got the audience tick-tocking with us (for what reason, they will never know) and we caused a minor riot in a spoken word tent (!) when we offered up free CD's.

Fun fun fun... and then off came the spandex... enough crime-solving for the day. Back to the tent for a snooze before Bugz in the Attic and partying with ND the Sophisticated Party Robot. With him, we danced to DJ Derek, did crap breakdancing to Quantic, jeered and scoffed at Orbital's new band (sounding bizarrely like... well... Orbital) and made people do the limbo in order to get to the main stage. More riots ensued. Then it was the band of the weekend: Sparks. Their brand of morose stagemanship, crap 80's pop rock and amazing visuals was hilarious and hypnotic.

Sunday: rest day... the day was building up to Lily Allen. Before then, some Norman Jay, some wandering about and some other unmemorable stuff... before Lily... ahhhhh... Lily... she was amazing and gorgeous and even when she fluffed her lines, my heart skippped a beat.

HOME = Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

I just spent a week working on a special Visiting Arts commission for the Mela. More on that later though.

"Jerusalem" nears release!!

Yamtastico to the rescue...

2006-08-09T02:24:00.000-07:00

Out of the ashes of poor dead Velulah, a new hero is born... he was once a student of yams, a boy...

now he is ready to conquer...

ARISE YAMTASTICO!!!

Velulah... justice shall be dispensed in your name...

Read about Big Chill exploits shortly... I shall endeavour to write them this week.

Velulah 1996-2006

2006-07-31T08:20:00.000-07:00

Velulah 1996-2006

I saved up �200 when i was 16 ( a mean feat when girls and underage drinking are such necessities) so I could buy a guitar and learn to wail on it, Jimi-style.

In the shop, for it was the legendary Harrow music shop (owned by Sikhs with long Jimi style hair) where I picked up a lovely black sale guitar for �99. It was black, beautiful and electro-acoustic.

She fit. She was perfect. As soon I played that first strum, she was the one. She called out to me and I responded with my bank card. I bought her. She felt so right in my hand. I wanted a guitar that I could have some sort of symbiotic relationship with and this black guitar was the one. It felt so right, so normal, so magical and so musical. I bought her on the spot. I spent the remaining �100 on underage drinking and girls.

So, to her name: Velulah. It was a trip to New Orleans and playing the guitar in the street, busking and rocking out where I decided that she needed a New Orleans type name. I settled on the kindness of a waitress who gave me a free refill of coke with a burger in a diner. Her name was Velulah. So was my guitar's...

The best gig I ever played with Velulah was in brixton at the Ritzy Cinema. It was HKB FiNN's night, Organix and he asked me to prepare an all-acoustic set. I relished the challenge, as did Velulah. We tried some electronic beats underneath. We strummed and we rocked out. She enjoyed the gig, as did I. She was the focus, the bow to the musical note arrow. She was the provider of the rhythm and the melody. My voice fit snugly between the thighs of her twang. It was beautiful.

The worst gig I ever played with Velulah was Christmas 04. I was horribly drunk and debuting my acousto-rap thing (eat yer heart out Plan B). Horribly drunk I was and I was horribly drunk. I slurred my words, shouted, forgot what chords to play and then started shouting at the audience for talking over me. I shouted NO RESPECT. I strummed wildly and I ranted maniacally about how no one was listening because they had no respect for the artist. Vee and Lingo walked away in disgust. My girlfriend shook her head in horror. Everyone else was bemused/laughing/shocked. Velulah did NOT rock this night.

But that was my fault.

My best memory with you Velulah, involved our synergy, our musical understanding, our love and respect for each other. My worst memory of you involves me having too much to drink and not listening to my girlfriend and mates who begged me to sit that gig out.

I love you Velulah. I intend to give you a rock send-off... set you alight and smash you to bits, Hendrix-style... whilst Led Zepplin plays. It's what you would have wanted.

Goodnight sweet princess. I loved you... I miss your sound, your comfort, your understanding.

Jasmine will be a good replacement for you... but it'll never be the same.

Let's hope Hendrix picks you up in rock heaven and takes you to Valhallah and back...

Love,
Yam Boy [distraught]

a FICTIONAL short story

2006-07-30T11:22:00.000-07:00

Tribes At War

By Nikesh Shukla

Warring tribes, that’s what my family is. Two camps, two warring tribes marinated in pride and fried in self-righteousness. I have always managed to remain an impartial observer. Obviously, it’s always been clear where my loyalties would lie if I was forced to pick a side, but I’ve managed to stay in the middle, getting on with everyone and not having any unnecessary melodrama.

The pride and the stubbornness that permeates our family is a war of attrition. Everyone is looking to wear each other down into submission. They don’t want the other person to admit that they’re wrong. They just want to wear that person down so much that they are saddened and destroyed. It all started so innocuously and now, because pride doesn’t allow you to nip things in the bud, the cause of the problem has gone stale and is now being used as a projectile weapon. Looking at the actual physical cause of this war and what it has now become just does not correlate. It started so small, so tiny, so wee, and now it has become full-on warfare, full fighting, destruction, terror and attack.

Would it surprise you if I told you it all started with the premature finishing of a loaf of bread? I’m sure it wouldn’t. Families argue about all kinds of stupid shit. A loaf of bread was finished when it needed to be kept for some other use or something, an argument ensued, other issues surfaced, some huffing, some puffing, some pride and no interest in reconciliation resulted in meltdown, war and all-out aggression towards each other.

How did I then- the impartial observer, the go-between for the camps, the Mahatma Gandhi of this piece (and of peace)- become public enemy number 2 for warring tribe number 1? I’ve gone from being able to spend time equally between the two camps at family functions to suddenly having to go to defcon 2 (which is state of emergency, where previously I was at defcon 4 – peaceful). I’m on the defensive, I’m quick to show people I’m right, I’m forming counter-arguments in my head as soon as anyone opens their mouths. Sometimes I even go straight for the jugular.

So, how did we get to this?

Well, the simple truth is I left a party early. That’s all it was. It was a Sunday night, there was a huge family party going on- a particularly opulent and high falootin’ party- and the party was on the opposite side of London to me (deep within enemy territory), where all of my family except I reside. I was worried about getting home late and being late for work, so I took my leave of this amazing party (Cinderella must leave at the stroke of midnight). I took my leave of my hosts, they were gracious but narked (I understood why) and bide me a fare thee well. I took my leave of my aunt and uncle, the parents of the hosts of the party and they immediately took it upon themselves to ignore me, swear at me, call me a traitor to my family, moan to their friends about my rubbishness and walk away from me waving their hands in disgust. I didn’t understand why they were being the way they were so I forced a hug and a kiss out of them and took my leave, running to the tube stop to make the last train across London.

An hour and a half later, I was home, lying in bed and annoyed at the way my aunt and uncle treated me. I had been sucked into this military conditioning of high impact response time. I was in the warring frame of mind. The way they had treated me was like throwing down the gauntlet and defying me to defy them back. How dare they swear at me and try and guilt-trip me into staying and having fun.

Sample comment made when I was leaving: “You want to leave when there is all this fun to be made. Stay, goddamnit bullshit to hell, stay and dance. Dance! Dance, come on, dance!”

Made me want to stay and trip the light fantastic.

I soon got my war-face on. I was pissed off. I was ready to die for the cause. How dare they defy me and make me feel shit when it wasn’t my fucking fault? This was fucking war. I phoned my mummy the next day, cos mum’s kinda like the UN in this situation. I couldn’t proceed with a military attack without her accord. I phoned mummy up and explained the situation to her. I gave her a status report of the events leading up to my call to arms, I explained the emotions I felt, I explained how my aunt and uncle broke elements of our peaceful treaty and how they had drawn me into the family conflict, making me no longer an impartial observer. I told me mum that I expected sanctions. Mummy was considering placing a social embargo on my aunt and uncle anyway. She authorised me to proceed with military strikes. Thank god for mummy, the peace-keeping force of my family.

I considered my options. I could do a direct attack on her house and turn up and berate her. I could phone her up and give her some sort of bilous chemical attack over the phone.

I settled for something more subtle, to ease us into the conflict. I didn’t see the point of a full-scale assault just yet. I emailed her, I sat down and wrote her a lengthy e-mail about my feelings, about my perspective of things, about how she made me feel, about how she was in the wrong, and about how I wanted to avoid further conflict, so was addressing the situation with her so that it did not escalate into man-to-man combat. It was a civil e-mail, scientifically breaking down to her the issues involved. I made my position clear. I made clear to her the repercussions of ignoring my e-mail and I made clear that this was a sanctioned e-mail from mummy. I wrote it, proofed it, spat in the bin and pressed send, the e-mail disappeared off into the ether.

I spent the next two days waiting for a reply, preparing for war. I quickly allied myself with cousins on the other side of the family divide. I told them all my story, what had happened and what a bunch of twats my aunt and uncle had acted towards me. They all allied themselves with me. My addition to their strike-team was a welcome bulk-up of resources.

The reply came: it noted disappointment that I had broken ranks from being impartial to allying myself with their enemies. It noted my disrespect for adults. It noted my disrespect for their child, whose special day I had ruined by leaving early. It noted that I was their closest cousin and they depended on my being there.

My blood boiled. It was war.

The next family gathering was a week after the initial event. I went down there with my war face on. I wore an olive green suit with a khaki shirt. I scrunched up my eyes and grinned insanely. I hung exclusively with my cousins from warring faction number one. My aunt and uncle were there, as was my cousin and her man. They all ignored me. They all gave me evils. They were all clipped when I spoke to them.

I was then roped into serving food at this function. I made sure I got the driest foods going, bhajis and poppadoms. Sorted, no drips, no stray chutney splotches on my beautiful khaki shirt. As my aunt and uncle and cousin and her man (let’s call them PE no. 1) came up to receive their food, aunt, uncle and cousin went past. As her man went past I held out a handful of bhajis and a handful of poppadoms to place on his plate. He looked at me, placed his plate down on the table and took his own portions from the serving bowls. A telling manoeuvre. Interesting. It was a panzer attack on me. I felt like they were undermining my serving attempts.

I blew my top, I ranted to anyone who would listen. This spineless man had ruined any attempts at peace. I called a parlay with my sister, who was still impartial and friendly with my cousin. She spoke to her and yes, lo and behold, my cousin now had an issue with me. Most interesting tactics my aunt was using. Not only was she staying stoic, she was also venting bile through her child, who was my generation, thus was able to cause more emotional damage to me.

I phoned my cousin. She told me that her issue was that she thought I was showing a complete lack of respect to the adults in our family. We were younger than the adults. If we had problems with them, we had to ignore them, as these were our elders. I told her that was bullshit and we agreed to disagree. She admitted that her mother had acted out of turn but that was her issue with me and my issue with her. My cousin and I agreed to disagree about the whole respect thing.

We hung up the phone. I sat down wondering if this would continue and continue and continue till we died. I also thought about the fact that I was right and I need to stand up for what I think is right. The moment I don’t, I’m just like those apathetic kids that you always read about. No, I choose to stand and fight. Lives may be lost and treaties may be broken and it’ll never be the same again, but you know what? I was right and I knew I was right and I deserved to give my righteousness a chance to win over its oppressor. My aunt was defying me to back down, choose her way over the right way. I refused. I needed to show her that I knew I was right and I was going to stand up for myself.

I picked up the phone again to call my aunt and call the game back on…

Wow, war sure is hell.

I Routh the Day They Hired Brandon

2006-07-25T01:25:00.000-07:00

So Lingo and I saw Superman Returns yesterday.

It was an evening of discoveries. The main one is that our local cinema allows you to take beer in from the cinema bar in plastic cups. So we headed to the off-licence. Suddenly the cinema experience lacked only pizza and stadium seating.

But to Superman...

It was pants. Sorry... I could try come up with something more flowery and descriptive than that. But call a duck a duck, especially when it's a lame duck. This was an appalling film. This is beyond such good things like my distant cousin playing a silent henchman and the original score/title sequence being kept intact. The film itself reflected everything I always hated about the Man Of Steel. His lack of duality and layers, his monotonous quest for good, Lois Lane being annoying enough to always find herself at the centre of the trouble. Superheroes should be disturbed, haunted by some ulterior mission, like avenging your uncle's death or fighting the demons inside you. Not Superman, who's just the son of some ponce who thinks that Earth needs his morally superior offspring's guidance. There's something too black and white about Superman (with the added irony of him having the most colourful suit.) There's something quite nationalistic about Superman too, something they painstakingly avoided in this film. His srive to protect 'truth justice and the American Way' would surely nark leftie liberal Guardian readers who would out him as a facist. There is just the air of blandness about the whole Superman franchise. it makes me wonder why I was so excited about seeing the film. I'm more akin to Wolverine's rage, Batman's darkness and Spidey's teenage tribulations. Supes has the most fantastical powers, like flying and x-ray vision and all that stuff, but it adds to his boringness, rather than making him exciting. His sense of justice has no grey area. He's just boring alright?

SO, to the film: the film reflected this boringness in its choice of cast (my cousin's silent henchman aside)... Lois Land looked like she was MIA from the OC (as in Missing In Action, not the Sri Lankan rapper, who to my knowledge, has no affiliation with The OC). She looked young, and for such a spunky character lacked any spunk whatsoever. Perry White, traditionally the snarling goliath editor, was beyond apathetic. I doubted he voted in the last election. Jimmy Olsen needed a punch in the mouth. There's no need for pancake face-line annoyingness in any film. Kevin Spacey was hideously miscast as Lex Luthor. He certainly hammed it up like he was in the spandex 70's day-glo Batman series, but his hamminess took away any danger Lex Luthor had, and made him so comic book that you know ol' Supes would triumph over him. He was a little too silly. So, to Superman... woe woe woe... first mistake: trying to replicate Christopher Reeve, both physically and mannerisms-wise. He seemed to be doing an impression all the way through. Also, he looked so young. Usually in American dramas, it's a bunch of 30 year olds playing 16 year olds..> This time it seemed like the other way around. So Brandon, you were rubbish... sorry but you were... it's alright though... it's not entirely your fault, it's the fault of the creators of Superman for forgetting to add a personality. Only Parker Posey (as usual) and CGI (as usual) emerged with their reputations intact and the general warm feeling of having done a decent job, so good on them.

So, to the writing, or lack of it... why was the major action sequence (involving the plane, i.e. the one in all the trailers) dispensed with in the first half hour, why is the big pay-off such an anti-climactic lack of showdown, why is th writing so not there? Also, I think I'm quite good at following films, but I think I severely missed the point of Lex Luthor's fiendish (non) masterplan. What exactly was he trying to do? I won't go too much into the end in case you haven't seen it, but oh my... it's anticlimactic to the max.

I routh the day they hired Brandon.

Great CGI though. SHame it was wasted. Singer if you'd stuck to X-Men you would have replicated the perfect franchise. By jumping ship to Superman, you ruined TWO franchises. Kevin Smith would have done a better job. At least he reads and writes comics.

That's enough bile for one day.

The Lone Rangers

2006-07-24T02:56:00.000-07:00

When dad was 15 years old, he was painfully shy. His heart palpitated at the prospect of speaking in class. He couldn't speak to strangers. He wasn't particularly good at studying. He had no direction. He was steeped in apathy. He was a sweet, mild child, but had no flavouring about him. He was sullen and beset by a lack of self-esteem. He had no real regard for himself. When his class in school was streamed for 'O' level he was accidently put in the top stream. He went from being bottom of the class to being in the top stream of the class to being bottom of the top stream. Then he suddenly burst out of his shell and started working, making friends, rising and rising, studying hard... milking the administrative error that led to opportunity.

That's similar to me. I may be a performer now. But I was always painfully shy. I couldn't speak in class due to similar palpitations. I couldn't relate to anyone. And now I know that I'm just like my dad.

Dad, like me, doesn't do too well in company, especially in the company of strangers. He likes to be on his own, lost in his own thoughts - I had to push him for all these answers - he doesn't mind whether he's with friends, or with himself and a drink and his thoughs. I'm the same. I'm nearly at my happiest with an iPod of tunes and a good book to read in a cafe by myself. I hate relating to people on a day to day basis. I hate talking about myself. I especially hate expressing my opinions (of which I have many) because, well, they're my opinions, not yours. I refuse to let you into my world.

And I thought I was just a weirdo, an outsider, completely and utterly different to my parental units. Nope, I am more akin to my dad than I ever realised. I guess we would never have really realised or come to that realisation seeing as we're both the strong silent types, and finding these things out involves talking to one another. We're both more comfortable in our own heads. I want to relate to my dad and so I always push him for answers. He only ever really half-answers me when he's sober. He's quite thoughtful and serious and half-arsed and absent. When he's had a few drinks (every evening then), he becomes lucid and jovial. The type of man who needs a drink to relate to people. All because all his hard work has destroyed many facets of his day-to-day personality.

Am I destined to end up this way? In an earlier blog on Myspace (www.myspace.com/yamboyandgoondaraj), I discussed familial cycles... my friend had discovered that her father wasn't her father... and the same thing had actually happened to her mother. Family cycles... repeated mistakes. This led to me looking for circles and patterns and gene defects in my own life. I'm not blaming dad for all my doubts and insecurities and for being who I am. The opposite: I feel like I understand myself a whole lot better. I feel like I belong to the family chosen for me. I feel a lot more akin to my father than ever. Obviously there's still a way to go in terms of relating to each other... but I find a curious comfort in knowing that we possess extremely similar emotional make-ups.

It does make me less unique (and all the less likely to become a superhero for it) but belonging... mmm, it's a lovely smell.

Next time you see me, I shall have:

- given a speech at my oldest friend's wedding
- written Velulah's retrospective
- finished a new tune called "If Only All Policemen Were Cuddly"
- finished editing and writing my book
- booked my trip to Kenya.
- watched Superman Returns
- drunk loads of beer
- worked out how to post loads of photographs on this here blog.

Anyways, take care of yourselves... and each other.

love,
Yamnesty International

www.darchetypes.com
www.yamboy.net

Mostly I have been...

2006-07-20T06:49:00.000-07:00

- Mourning Velulah's parting... Ours was a private affair. She's dead now. I'm not ready to post up the retrospective of her greatest moments just yet.

- Listening to Thom Yorke's solo album and Plan B's debut album and feeling like I want to fuse the two and wondering if I'm able to do so. I think I have the vision. I'll give it a go. Both are insanely amazing albums. Go buy, support... put down that Sandi Thom album.

- Reading salacious stories about the girl I swoon over :Lily Allen: in various tabloid newspapers. Imagine my surprise and flusterations when I found a Sun on the train, read it and found her exposes left breast. I was gobsmacked.

- Rehearsing with Shane for some new D'Archetypes stuff. We're doing a scratch run-through of this theatre piece Shane's writing called 'Jerusalem' this Sunday. It's all looking good. We're also putting together our Big Chill set. He's sourced some amazing musicians. One guy is beatboxing, playing kora and guitar, doing percussion, using a loopstation and doing some Tuvan throat-singing all in the same set (but not at the same time. Quite the musical chap then.

- Enjoying the hot weather. I turned into one of the posh people who eats dinner on his balcony with candles and watches the world go by. I have also been going to the Lido... to swim, not ogle the topless Brixton-ites.

- Wearing sunglasses. It's hot, and I can fall asleep in public easier.

- Watching my sister graduate. I remember when my parents were just happy she was managing to go. But she graduated with a kick-ass degree and a new-found maturity that made me oh so proud.

- Preparing for a life of Kenya in Kenya. I've been prepping which books I'm taking, what music set-up I'll have and whether I'll be internet sufficient to keep you up-to-date with a blog. (This is under the assumption someone, anyone reads this crap.)

- Embarrassing myself in front of my boss' boss. I thought she was attending a barbeque at the house next door last night. I asked her about it. She now thinks I was flirting with her... the things we do to get ahead.

That's about it.

In fact, stop reading this and go outside and take a deep breath and hum the bassline from "There's Nothing Like This" by Omar.

Laters,
Keshles

Goodness Gracious Me

2006-07-16T12:14:00.000-07:00

Dear friendlies,

I spent most of today nursing a monster hangover and a bit of a broken heart. First things first: the hangover belongs to my brother really. I fell for his "quiet drinks yeah?" catchphrase. It was all but quiet when, at 3am, we were dancing to dub and doing turbo shandies. The broken heart? Well, Velulah, the trusty black guitar I have owned since I was 17 years old is dead [sad face]. She suffered at the hands of London Underground. Yes, when the bus lurched forward, she banged into the front of the bus (I was standing at the time) and the top of the neck snapped off. [sad face]. My stomach hurts. Velulah is no more. Next blog entry will be a Velulah retrospective.

So, my hangover meant sitting in bed and watching DVD's. I chose today to watch Goodness Gracious Me - the Complete Series, a presnet I had asked for, and received for my birthday last week. It was great. I watched it partly within the context of wanting to develop a D'Archetypes comedy radio thing with Shane. I wanted to see what had been done before. And you know what I learnt? They covered all the bases, and they covered them fucking well. Their knack of picking very particular and very universal stereotypes of Asian behaviour and giving them enough accessibility to a wider audience was bar none. Their creation of archetypal characters was phenomenal. My only criticism is that by the end of the third and final series, they had descended into the death knell of all sketch-based comedy shows: a reliance on widely repeated catchphrases ("Kiss my chuddies", "Bullshit damn it to hell.") My fiance reckons that if comedy catchphrases have reached the playground (she's a teacher) it usually means the show is tired and dying.

I reckon when Goodness Gracious Me was first on. And it was completely a case of "Mum, come quick, quickly, there's Indians on telly". The first night it was on, I was watching television and all my family was out. And it came on, and I scrambled to record it for them, to prove that... well, Asians were funny, and on the television! My family loved it too. Watching Goodness Gracious Me, laughing uncomfortably and comfortably at the wry and cutting humour, and repeating the catchphrases to each other really brought my family together for the duration of the first series. We finally had a family activity that my dad could drink at, my mum could relax to, and my sister and I would not bicker. We were there. And the next day at school, all the Asian kids were tied together, we had something to link us, somewhere where our opinions of our background had been showcased. We felt like it was justifying our feelings about our families. It also showed the white and black kids our culture, in a nice bite-size way. The archetypal horny aunt, mothers bickering about their sons, the dad who thinks everything is Indian, the ridiculous bhangra-muffin rudeboys, the Asian babes and the spoilt Mumbai-ites... even the sketch where they "go for an English". Everyone found it funny, everyone watched it, and everyone got to have an insight into Asian culture... and also see Asians being not very serious about themselves. It was lovely.

Watching it now I am scared about comparison. About repeating their ideas. I mean, it really is a 90's programme so it needs updating. But that first series was comedy genius. It made the culturally specific universal, it gave us all (Asian artists) a platform, it, along with Anokha and Cornershop and Asian Dub Foundation (bands I was listening to at the time of the first series) made us cool. And that is why it has a truly special place in my heart.

My sister and cousins still repeat catchphrases from Goodness Gracious Me to this day. My uncle constantly caricatures the uncle who can get it for you much cheaper and Dinesh Cooper who thinks he is British (the irony being, he's still exactly like them when he's not acting). My brother and I still exchange Chunky Lafunga's 'look' and my sister still says 'bullshit godamnit to hell'. It's be there for us for infinity. It was enlightening and enriching at the time, and it still is.

Now it's my turn to have a go.

I could make it at home for nothing.

All I need is a small aubergine.

www.darchetypes.com
www.yamboy.net

RISE my kittens, rise

2006-07-12T07:26:00.000-07:00

The D'Archetypes played RISE festival last weekend, and on my birthday too. It was mighty grandiose fun, I tell thee.

Waking up on your birthday to find your partner still asleep is never fun though. I lay there willing Mrs Yam to get up and go make me breakfast and give me presents for at least 30 minutes, before getting the arse with her snores (not literally) and getting up to watch television... for I was not to waste my birthday in bed. Television was my game.

Mail-check... no post yet... damn you postie... I know you deliver through rain and snow and all but beJESUS, it's fucking sunny outside... where's me presents?

[spoilt birthday brat mode was in FULL effect all weekend... all irritations and inappropriate comments were met with "But it's my birthday...weekend".]

The partner awoke and furnished me with presents. Thank god, I spotted three things I had included in my meant-to-appear-funny-but-actually-deathly-serious birthday list. Am I being spoilt? I was grateful. Especially for the Goodness Gracious Me DVD's and the fuck-off cool Spider-Man t-shirt.

The post arrived... as did some lovely surprise presents and cards from well-wishers, fans and family. I thanked them and graced our mantlepiece with my spoils.

For I was spoilt.

All this lasted till the end of breakfast, when I decided I was being 10 again... and trying to open as many presents as I possible could. I regained some composure, aknowledged the downward spiral to an impending 30th and got on with my day.

[spoilt birthday brat mode falters for minutes of reflection]

Wash up, calm myself, wash meself, pack up and then it was off to norf London (why is norf London always written 'norf? What a pointless waste of punctuation? Is it short for something - fahckinorf Laaahdaaahn? I'll ask my cockney mate Di next week... remind me... )

Finsbury Park was the setting for RISE 2006 - London's biggest and most diverse anti-racism festival. There was quite a good line-up. Shame we missed most of it for it was packed, we were busy and phones were being moody thus most of the time was spent rushing around trying to find everyone. The area was packed, more concise and crammed this year. When we performed on the Mela Stage last year, we were a speck of dust on an after-thought at the bottom of a dip on the main road behind all the portaloos... i.e. empty all day long, unless you planned to go watch some Asian rnb-type stuff. Here we were in the thick of things, to the back of the main stage, near a bar (selling Carlsberg and Magners... the ugly sisters of beer) and a thick line of aromatic food stalls (by aromatic, I mean - less jasmine, more jerk!!)... the crowd was heaving with smells and people... and not just Indians here to see Indians... real-life white and black audience members too... a certain novelty for the D'Archetypes.

Pre-onstage showtime, we got dressed up... Shane in saree, Kesh in BNP and we looked hot, and we were sweatingly hot too. Hanging out at the back of the stage, we found ourselves roped into a Bollywood steps demonstration, copying the steps of a bleach blonde leather trousered man with a radio mic taped to his face.

I was appalling. See below photographic evidence... Shane was in time. I was in time... with another track. A friend filmed it and threatened to YouTube it for the world to witness my lack of funk.

To the set itself: we weren't exactly in tune, but we found a rhythm, a vibe and a strong rapport onstage, we matched and raised our sloppy harmonies with pure vibrant energy and the reaction was immense. People really loved it... I mean, we even got love from Mud Fam, who plan to tell SkinnyMan about us. It was a strong performance in terms of confidence and energy.

We were asked on the Friday how long we would need to have festivals to celebrate multiculturalism and diversity before it was no longer needed. I replied that it is important to celebrate diversity, regardless of using it to oppose racism. It's nice to have cultural days out, as celebrations of different tribes and different countries and different languages and the richness of it all... especially when India is on the cusp of communal riots, and Israel has invaded Lebanon and a World Cup winning footballer claims to be too ignorant to not know what terrorists are.

But also, we do need to stand up and have a wide-ranging bunch of artists from the Wailers to Sway to Graham Coxon (to the D'Archetypes) to help to stand up for anti-racism, because we're still a few generations away from full integration and full acceptance from both sides. RISE is a great event, and I'm glad it exists. It made me feel more British than the World Cup, for Britain is a place of multiculturalism and different influences... England is a perennially underachieving football team with all the hopes and dreams of a sycophantic tabloid culture ready to knock em down pinned on their tiny white shorts.

After RISE, we left for Old Street, where we ate gourmet haloumi kebabs, and then we danced to funk music all night at Mr Lingo's Funk From The Trunk thing.

We also discovered that my brother Neel is, well, wo-oh-oh, he's the greatest dancer.

Apologies to Sister Yam, who bore the brunt of pirate enthusiasm on a hungover aftermath Sunday. After seeing and enjoying Pirates of the Caribbean 2, we prank-called her repeatedly to ARRRRRRRRRRRRRR and YO HO HO at her down the phone.

It was funny... I take that back, I don't apologise.

And I'll make you walk the plank if ye disagree.

Thanks to everyone for a spectacular birthday.
See you all soon.
Check www.myspace.com/thedarchetypes if you haven't already.
We got a single coming out in a few months.

Love,
Jean Claude Van Yam