Honeymoon Travelogue: From Serendipity to Paradise

Part 1 - Sri Lanka

The 11-hour flight with Sri Lankan Airlines from Heathrow to Colombo was anything but smooth - the usual stress of long haul compounded by broken meal trays, malfunctioning TV's and staff who were rude to say the least - but it was wonderful to finally be on our honeymoon. After having marvelled at the duty free shops in Bandaranaike Airport, which sold household appliances like washing machines and refrigerator alongside the more usual booze, perfumes and sweets, we were met by a very rainy Land of Serendipity and our cheerful guide Lal.  And so we were off. 


Every travel agent we'd spoken with before booking the honeymoon had assured us that February in Sri Lanka would be glorious sunshine all day long. This year was different, however, for it was the year of La Niña with a vengeance (as I've noted here before).


We knew about the recent floods in Sri Lanka, and when we checked the five day weather forecast the night before leaving, the whole island was covered by what looked like a washing machine stuck on the soak cycle - so we were prepared. 


For all its efforts, however, the weather never managed to dampen our spirits as we were too busy enjoying ourselves.


So, in this post, dear reader, I'll try to share with you some of the things we did, saw, heard and learnt on what was to be the best holiday I or my amazing wife have ever had.


Kandy and the sacred sacred tooth


The first stop for our motley crew - driver, Tom, his assistant, Jerry (I kid you not), the aforementioned Lal, and six English couples a good bit older than us - was the city of Kandy, the cultural capital of this Jewel of the Indian Ocean. It's the second city of Sri Lanka, situated in the centre of the country, and we would begin our tour with a visit to the Temple of the Tooth.

Temple of the Tooth

The temple is a place of pilgrimage for Buddhists from Sri Lanka and abroad. It was built in the 17th century to house what's believed to be the left upper canine tooth of Siddharta Gautama, the Lord Buddha himself. Most of what one sees today, however, has been added on since, and the moat is pretty much the only remaining original structure. 


According to legend, the tooth was taken from the Buddha as he lay on his funeral pyre and then smuggled into Sri Lanka by Princess Hemamali who hid it in her hair. (Even Lady Gaga would have difficulty topping this particular fashion accessory!) The relic became the foremost symbol by which Sri Lanka's kings asserted their legitimacy and this temple is one of many that have been built to house it.

We didn't actually get to see the tooth itself - a privilege reserved for high llamas and other dignitaries - but the two-storey shrine which holds the relic is impressive. The structure is resplendent with gems and huge elephant tusks, and intricate paintings depicting the life of the Buddha. 


Sri Lankas buddhists believe that they are required to make the pilgrimage to the temple at least once over their lifetime. And we saw a constant flow of people going to worship before the shrine, most having brought beautiful flowers with them to leave as offerings. This, they believe, improves their karma.

The bustling streets of the Kandy's city centre were filled with tuk-tuks and other traffic - and judging by how they, we and even the lorries were constantly overtaking each other, drivers here  fancied themselves as rally aces. Each small shop on the street seemed to sell everything from fruit and veg to high end electronics, and there were reams of confetti hanging across streets and around houses - something you see everywhere in Sri Lanka - with blue denoting affiliation with the ruling political party (UPFA) while green belongs to the opposition party (NDF).


It was difficult to make out much else of Kandy due to its distinct topography and lush vegetation. This city of over 3 million inhabitants lies at the northern tip of the Hathana mountain range. As a result, the residential areas outside of the of the commercial  centre had literally been built into dense forests and hillsides of the mountain range. These communities were in effect camouflaged by astonishing amounts of greenery:  palm trees, cycads and a myriad of heliconias wherever you looked.



After Lal almost got us arrested for using a short cut out of the temple, we were brought to see traditional Kandyan dancing at Kandy's cultural centre. The building itself was dilapidated and a health and safety nightmare to boot - it took over half an hour for people to file out of the auditorium through the only exit, and this was after a show with plenty of real fire and sparks - but the dancing itself was fantastic. 


The dances were stories, the protagonists of which were animals like peacocks, birds and, this one, cobras:

After an evening filled with delicious curries, devilled pork and fluorescent green rice washed down with diluted red wine, we looked forward to the next day's trip to the Pinnawela Elephant Orphanage. 


Big Friendly Giants


Pinnawela Petting Zoo would describe the place better as the focus seemed to be more on tourism rather than conservation, but the orphanage is still an invaluable place for elephants who have trouble living in the wild. 


The residents included orphaned little Dumbos, while some had been mistreated by their owners, and we met one old fellow who's leg had been blown off by a mine during the civil war.


According to Lal, the conflict began after the "Sinhala Only Act" of 1956 declared that Sinhalese was to replace English as the infant state's official language. The policy understandably alienated the minority population of Tamils, mostly Hindus, who were effectively disenfranchised as every official document and activity had to be conducted in a language they did not speak. 

After initial demonstrations and rioting, the Tamil's began moving to the north of the island, and their efforts to achieve equal rights gradually hardened into a call for total independence. The Tamil Tigers were formed to pursue this goal by any means necessary, leading to a bloody and drawn out civil war.  


Their choice of name and symbol, incidentally, resulted from how Sri Lanka's flag depicted a lion, the king of the jungle. The Tamils, then, adopted the tiger, or prince of the jungle, if you will - even though the island has none of either.


The conflict ended in May 2009 after over three decades of fighting and atrocities by both sides. These days both languages are officially recognized - and Lal said it was remarkable how fast the population have chosen to move on and nowadays no-one really talked about it anymore. 


But I digress. It was the first time either of us had met these majestic creatures at such close proximity - and they certainly didn't disappoint. Although not as large as their African cousins, the Asian Elephant (elephas maximus) is still huge to say the least. But they were also docile, friendly and gentle - until, that is, when a few began running around the place in frenzied anticipation of feeding time. 


It was impressive to see how fast the elephants downed a litre of milk - which comes as little surprise, of course, given how these giants eat some 75-kilos of green matter each and every day.


We then had the pleasure of watching elephants being bathed in the river while we indulged in a delicious buffet at a restaurant a little upstream - something I certainly don't remember happening in my home town. 


It was truly wonderful meeting some of these gentle giants and I recommend it to everyone, and not just because tourism is the orphanage's main source of income. Indeed, Sri Lanka's elephant population has fallen dramatically over the last century, from almost 15,000 to some 3000 surviving today - so hopefully places like this will help to ensure that the trajectory of their numbers would henceforth move upwards.

As we left the orphanage to visit a tea plantation, we stopped off at the Royal Botanic Gardens in Kandy, which was fitting for us as we'd been married two months prior at London's Kew Gardens. The flora was pretty, and the orchid house was stunning, but, for me, the most interesting part was the fauna: giant bats, each the size of a cat, and just like the ones that had so freaked me out when I first saw Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom as a young'un. 

I was also impressed by the Scorpion Man - as we named him - a park employee with a lucrative side operation of his own. He walked up to us offering a chance to touch a poisonous scorpion which he dangled on a leaf, but just looking at it was enough for me and I instead handed him a few hundred rupees to take the deadly insect away.

Time for a cuppa


Tea was introduced to Sri Lanka in 1852 by a British planter called James Taylor. Since then, it's become Sri Lanka's main export, far outstripping its closest competitors: cinnamon, gems and textiles. 


The tea plantation we visited was like going back in time to the age of steam. All except one of the machines in use was over a hundred years old, while the time tables and rotas were kept on a chalk boards. 


Although fortunate to have a job, the tea pickers are only paid a 150 rupees per day, which,  in London, is equivalent to about a can of Coke. And the pickers, all of whom were women, would only be paid for their day's work if they managed to pick more than the minimum amount of, I think, two kilos of fresh tea leaves. What an incredibly tough job.


We also learnt that pretty much every type of tea is made from the same plant. The several distinct varieties are the result of differences in the oxidization process, i.e. the length of time the leaves are dried for. Before leaving, we were told that our PG Tips and Liptons are made from the left-overs of the good stuff, which is mainly consumed in Russia, Asia and the Middle East.


Afterwards, we also learnt about Sri Lankan attitudes to building. Local houses and shops, and other small construction projects were in most cases paid by loans from banks which would usually only lend enough for one floor at a time. As a result, the majority of houses had been left in a state whereby another level could easily be added at a later date. 


In front of most building sites, which were small affairs, you could also see a scarecrow. This was a local defence against the envious eyes of neighbours and passers by - the green eyed monster being capable of jinxing an otherwise sound project. Some sites also had a pumpkin dangling from a rope, a natural clock that dictated the builder's deadline: get it done before the pumpkin rots, or risk having your pay docked.


The magic mountain



After a few hours of little rain and plenty of overcast, the heavens opened again on our way to the cave temples of Dambulla. Although the caves on this mountain, situated some 72 kilmotres from Kandy, were inhabited by humans over 2700 years ago, the current look and feel of the place - think Indiana Jones - dates back to the 1st century BC. 


So far, over 80 caves have been found, which together hold 153 statues depicting the Buddha sleeping, meditating and reclining; and several kings and various gods and goddesses. The buildings that lead into the caves are more recent (1938), but they still add to the mystique of this mountain, especially when the rain is falling with monsoon-like force.

I had never seen anything like it: cave after cave of Buddha statues and stupas (the Buddhist equivalent to the Christian cross, which often contain valuable relics), many of which are over two thousand years old, and carved from the mountain itself. 


The walls are covered with gloriously coloured paintings of geometrical patterns and cosmological visions. One showed the Buddha being tempted by demon-like manifestations of his human desires, while another, quite fittingly for our visit, pictured the meditating Buddha being shielded from the rain by the hood of a helpful cobra that had entwined itself around him.

The mysterious leak

Desires tempting the Buddha

The caves are also home to a centuries old unsolved mystery: one of the chambers has a leak in its ceilings, from which water has been dripping since the caves were first decorated by the monks inhabiting them - back in the days when, in far off Europe, Rome was still a republic. The drip has never ceased, not even during the worst droughts - and, still, to this day no one knows where the water comes from. UNESCO has spent the last seven years methodically searching for the source - with no success.


A pot has been placed to hold the mysterious water, and it is overlooked by several meditating Buddhas, who, I felt, know more about the mystery than they would have us believe.

While we were entranced by this magical place, dusk had arrived and the rain had begun to fall even harder. The path leading down from the mountain is made of cobbled stones and steps of varying width and height, but by the time we began our descent it was overwhelmed by water rushing down to sea level, and the little light we had to navigate this treacherous path was giving way to the darkness of night - a tad too swiftly for our liking because there were few artificial lights there to guide us.


This, of course, was not a recipe for a safe or leisurely walk, but it certainly added to the mystique of the dark mountain, home to god-like beings, hallucinatory visions and age-old mysteries. By now, even the tourists with colourful umbrellas and soaked trainers seemed to have transformed into pilgrims, nervously helping each other down the path, step by slippery step.


We finally made it to base camp, relieved but also exhilarated. Each of us was drenched, but the feeling we shared was one of having just experienced something magical and dangerous - an addictive combination, for sure.


The drive from Dambulla to our next hotel in Habarana, where warm showers and clean clothes awaited us, continued was equally, if not more, dark, damp and dangerous. The torrential rain continued and stretches of the road, having been tested so severely over the last few weeks, had simply disintegrated into ponds interspersed with potholes. Our driver, Tom, was forced to navigate the road at a pace even snails would snigger at - something he wasn't happy about because, as already mentioned, Sri Lankans like their driving fast and furious. Even still, at times the wheels of the van were literally gliding on the water, which was an interesting sensation, for sure, but one I would rather not experience again.


Polonnaruwa The Great


The next morning the sun came out and we were off to Polonnaruwa, the medieval capital of Sri Lanka. The Hindu invaders of the Chola dynasty had captured the city in 993, but the Sinhalese king, Vijayabahu I, defeated the occupiers in 1070 by taking advantage of how the Chola were distracted by unrest in Southern India.


Trade, agriculture and art began to flourish during the reign of Vijayabahu's grandson, Parakramabahu I (1153-1186), and he is revered in Sri Lanka as an almost mythical ruler. Indeed, the ruins provide ample evidence of some of his great achievements. 


The area is vast and littered with homes, temples, shrines, parliamentary chambers and swimming pools, along with lots of monkeys running around the place. 


The people that had inhabited this city were obviously much smaller than today's Sri Lankans, for the rooms and corridors are tiny even in the king's palace. But wandering around this sprawling city, or what's left of it, it takes little time to see how incredibly skilled they were. 


Some temples still stand several stories high, even after the jungle had claimed this area for centuries. The people of Polonnaruwa also modified the surrounding countryside by building vast artificial lakes that were used as reservoirs for irrigation systems, many of which still work today. The Parakrama Samudrayama water tank is so large that it's been known as the Sea of Parakrama - and the name still rings true.


The artistry and skill of Polonnaruwa's bricklayers and sculptors was also plain to see in countless temples and administrative buildings, and many of their outer walls were adorned with inspired reliefs that still manage to look delicate yet imposing.


The area is full of temples for the Buddha, but there are also Hindu temples, like the Shiva Devale temples for fertility. In one of them, women still leave offerings of milk and, if I remember correctly, cinnamon in front of a phallic shrine so as to placate the gods and ensure offspring.

Some of the structures were made of large asymmetrically shaped stone slabs that slotted together so neatly that one would think their joints must have drawn afterwards to create such an illusion. The walls were often filled with ancient sinhalese writing - like European cathedrals were often built to tell biblical and classical stories on their facades.

A short drive away, which felt slower than the moss growing on the ruins as a result of some seriously large pot holes, was the most impressive part of this ancient town.


The Buddha statues at Gal Vihara are a stunning testament to endeavour, skill and tenacity, not to mention the human will to mould the world to his liking, whatever the effort involved. 


These four gigantic Buddhas have been carved from a huge wall of granite. What must have gone through the minds of the artisans charged with this monumental task when they first looked at the mountainous stone and realised the amount of work they had in store? Or can you imagine the cheek of whoever gave them the job: "right so, here's a stone the size of several double decker buses. Now get your chisel out, good chap, and carve it into some perfect representations of the Buddha." 


The stunning results, however, make one shut up and just marvel at how malleable stone is when faced with such hardy material as we humans are made of.

The largest statue depicts the reclining Buddha and is over 14 metres. It is distinguished from a sleeping Buddha by how the toes on his feet are not in a straight line. The fact that one leg seems shorter than the other symbolises that this is the moment of his death, the last spasm of his worldly body. For Buddhists, this is the moment when Gautama achieved parinirvana, of awakening and being released from the cycle of reincarnation.

A bit of advice: it is deemed disrespectful to pose by a Buddha with your back facing the statue

Back in the real world, tragedy


Our journey back from Polonnaruwa was a sombre affair, however. Although we were some distance from the worst affected areas in the east of the country, the human impact of the recent and continuing flooding had become depressingly obvious on the roads we travelled that day.


For us, the near constant rain was a slightly disappointing turn of events given how any other year we would've been piling on the sun block in an attempt to only burn our skin up to a healthy looking tan. For the people who lived on and off this beautiful land, however, the consequences from the freak weather were disastrous.

We drove past rice fields that had been completely submerged under what looked like the lakes built by Parakramabahu The Great. Each destroyed field heralded hunger and meant a year of hard toil laid to waste - and that's before considering the effort involved in making the fields productive again.


Countless roads, as well, had been rendered impassable, thus marooning whole communities with only scant access to food, fresh water and medicines. 


We saw families shielding their - what for us would be - meagre possessions from the flood waters. Some were laying down sand bags while others were busy digging ditches so as to divert the deluge. Despite all their efforts, however, several homes had already been swamped by the ever rising waters.


On passing one of these, I saw a woman standing in front of what I presume was her home, which had been swallowed up by the muddy brown water. She was holding a baby against her bosom - a sight I will never forget because of the look on her face. I won't try to describe it here - I'm not paid for writing journalistic drama.


The very same evening, in our comfortable hotel room in Habarana, I saw Polonnaruwa again. It had made the headlines on CNN and there were pictures of flooded fields and dozens of abandoned vehicles lining the roads between them. We also learnt that we were now in what was officially the wettest place on the planet.


At least, I thought, we were bringing some money into the country. Even if this was of little or no consolation for those affected by this natural disaster, it was still probably better than nothing.


Herbs and spices


The next day we were due to visit the Sigirya Rock Fortress. But first, we were treated to a tutorial on dozens of well and lesser known plants, herbs and spices, and the various ways they can be used for our benefit.

I must apologize, though, dear reader, as the only details I can remember from the lesson were that red bananas are good for a man's virility, limes are beneficial in pretty much every way and if pepper is only dried, it becomes black, but if it's first soaked, it becomes white. Otherwise, the only thing that stayed with me was how much fun it was being guided through a jungle and being taught about this remedy for that symptom.


This amnesia was, I think, brought about by the spice massage we received in a hut at the end of the walk, which effectively wiped my mind clean of any thoughts, along, it would seem, with the lessons we had just learnt. Perhaps this was a side-effect of the red banana extract they used, or the oil of ulay, who knows, but even if I was none the wiser, I certainly felt a lot better as a result!


Into the lion's lair


And so, refreshed and relaxed, we made our way to the 'Lion's Rock'. Our first sight of the fortress was of a rocky protrusion towering over the surrounding jungle that was partially obstructed by clouds. By the time we got closer, however, the clouds were beginning to lift and we were in for one hell of a treat.

The site had been inhabited by Buddhist monks since the 5th century BC, and the Sigirya defensive complex that we see there today, along with its surrounding gardens, was built in the 5th century AD by King Kashayapa. This happened after he had first killed his father to ensure he, a bastard, would reign instead of the rightful heir, his half brother, Moggallana. Having forcefully made himself king, Kashaypa then swiftly moved court to this location in order to safeguard himself from any reprisals. Once you go there, it's easy to see why.


The gardens themselves were similar to those in Polonnaruwa, with the exception that everything here had been planned and built in one sweep. This was evident from how purposefully and geometrically everything was laid out to fulfil a clear vision - an undertaking somewhat similar, I suppose, to how Baron Hausmann would centuries later raze and then reorder 19th century Paris to suit his and his master's (Napoleen III) fancy. As it was, both the city and fortress of Sigirya were built in just 7 years. Amazing, isn't it, the things you can achieve with slave labour.


The feeling one gets when walking up toward the Lion's Rock was that these paths were meant to impress and even scare visitors, so imposing is the colossal rock - the size of a mountain - to which they lead to. To underscore the importance of the place, the paths and structures form straight lines which converge at a vanishing point that just happens to be where the king would hold audiences to those he saw as deserving of his time and attention.


These buildings were built to withstand pretty much anything that his unseated half-brother Mogallana, or anyone else for that matter, could muster. You can still see the how they were built on top of massive stones, with the structures slotting in neatly into carved holes which acted as natural foundation stones.

The aforementioned paths that lead to the entrance of the fortress are also lined with artificial streams, swimming pools and fountains that still work today, a mere 1500 years after they were first built. Quite some plumbers, they must have been.


After Kashayapa fell, the jungle claimed it for centuries and Sigirya was only rediscovered in 1831 by a Major Jonathan Forbes, who first described it as the "bush covered summit of Sigirya." This, as we will see, couldn't be further from the truth, but the first systematic archaeological excavations for the city only began recently, in 1982 to be exact - around the time of Duran Duran (the fortress can be seen in one of their well known music videos, along with Polonnaruwa). No one knows how much of the city still lays hidden underneath that jungle that surrounds it and UNESCO's archaeologists are continuously uncovering new buildings and areas of the city.

The climb to the top of the Lion's Rock consists of a meagre 1200 steps, and, like at Dambulla, many of them were overflowing with water due to the freakish weather. Upon rising above the jungle canopy - what amazing views opened in front of us - we were met by the Mirror Wall, which does exactly what it says on the tin. 


The wall used to extend all around the mountain, but only a section of it remains. Its name comes from how it was treated with bees wax and egg white, giving it an unmistakeable mirror-like shine. Perhaps not clear enough to help today's ladies to apply their make up, but you could still make out broad reflections, a feat in itself considering how old it was.


The wall might also be one of the oldest graffiti sites in existence as the strict warnings of fines and imprisonment hadn't stopped people from scribbling on it in various languages, from English to ancient Sinhalese.


From the Mirror Wall, we ascended up a cramped and rusty stairwell - an unnerving experience, it must be said, for those, like myself, who have issues with heights - to gape at the captivating Cloud Maidens.


These are frescoes (paintings made with plaster, thus requiring great skill as the artist has but one chance to get it right before their "canvas" solidifies, literally cementing the picture into the wall) of beautiful women of many types, from Sri Lanka and far beyond.


Some of the luscious ladies might have been members of Kashayapas court, while some are thought to be depictions of goddesses, as is suggested by the way they hover on clouds. The former, lighter ones are called Lightning Princesses while the latter, darker ones are the Cloud Maidens.

There used to be hundreds of these beautiful frescoes, looking down on the city from all sides of the mountain. Unfortunately all but 22 have been destroyed: some by time - tempus edax rerum - but some on purpose by the monks who reclaimed the site after Kashayapa's rule.


Perhaps the ladies simply proved too much of a distraction for the more impressionable of the monks, which would be understandable given their enigmatic smiles and curvaceous bodies. Nevertheless, to knowingly destroy  such masterpieces as these, whatever the reason, is surely unforgivable.


In any case, before I get myself into trouble - I am a newly married man, after all - I feel it wise to leave the last word on these enchanting women to a previous visitor who, in 800 AD, scribbled on the Mirror Wall:


     The lovely girl with golden skin entices the mind and eyes
     Her lovely breasts cause me to recall swans drunk with nectar


 
While the Lion's Rock was a formidable natural fort in itself, the summit of which must have been as safe as any other contemporary fortress, Kashayapa had also built weapons into it. We saw boulders the size of houses that had been placed precipitously on top of stone stilts so that they could be dislodged in an instant. If push came to shove, these gigantic weapons of mass destruction would have thundered down uncontrollably and no doubt inflicted horrendous damage on anything and everything unfortunate enough to be in their path.  

Next we found ourselves in front of two giant lion's paws. These mark the entrance to the top of the mountain, and what a sight it must have been when a whole king of the jungle towered in front of you, at least some four stories high. Today, however, only the paws remain and the rickety stairs that lead to the summit don't quite have the same effect.

On the summit itself was Kashayapa's palace: a large complex of buildings many of which used to be several stories high. There were lodgings and dining rooms for banquets; there was even a swimming pool, the water for which was pumped from springs at the base of the mountain or, during the monsoon, collected from rainwater. 


Except for the pool, the whole summit would have been covered in terraced buildings that were staggered, each row higher than the preceding one, so as to break the wind coming from the plains.


The panoramic views are spectacular to say the least. We were also lucky that the clouds that previously covered the top had evaporated and, now, the the jungle canopy spread out below us, as far as the naked eye could see. 


To the south we could see the Habana mountains,  along with the mystic mountain of Dambulla. In the east, we could see Polonnaruwa, and the artificial lakes of Parakamabahu the Great. The plains beneath us seemed so distant - in fact, it was difficult to believe that we had only climbed 1200 steps to get here, surely whoever counted them must've missed a few!

In its heyday, this must really have felt like a city in the sky - and it's all the more remarkable considering the speed at which it was erected. But just as fast as it was sprung up from the jungle, Kashayapa's crimes would come back to haunt him, ending his short spell as king and causing his magnificent city to crumble and be lost for centuries.


For Mogallana returned to lay claim to his birth right. He came with help from Indian armies, and Kashaypa's hubris caused him to make a fatal blunder. Although it would have been virtually impossible for the opposing armies to reach the summit, it was so well protected, Kashayapa chose to meet his brother's forces head on. The fog of war was to separate the king from his bodyguards and, isolated and effectively surrounded, he chose to slit his throat rather than surrender to his half-brother's forces.


Thus, after Kashayapa's 18 reign, Mogallana became King of Sri Lanka in 495 and he moved his court to Anuradapura, converting Sigirya into a monestary. The monks who inhabited it thereafter did their best to erase this patricidal egomaniac from history, allowing most of the gardens and the palace itself to be reclaimed by the jungle.

On the way back to the hotel, Lal pointed out some tree houses beside the rice fields. He told us of how, each night, the farmers here would take turns to sit in them in order to prevent pigs from coming to feast on their crops. They would  sing to themselves what, to us, would sound like lullabies so as to stay awake and, perhaps, keep themselves company as well.


What a beautiful image, I thought: a quiet countryside where the darkness of night is broken by regularly interspersed torches in tree houses, where men sing lullabies that echo gently over the rice fields, while awaiting for the returning light of morning.


And, so, this story of our journeys on this beautiful island in the Indian Ocean came to a close.

NEXT STOP: PARADISE...

What a coincidence!

The psychologist Carl G. Jung is well known for several influential ideas, like synchronicity, archetypes and the collective consciousness, each of which I find fascinating and quite plausible. The validity of synchronicity in particular has, in my life at least, had a strange tendency to reinforce itself the more I've learnt about it - although some would argue that this is in fact its major flaw, in that we find what we want to perceive.

In any case, there's an interesting and fun blog about synchronistic events called 67 Not Out, to which I recently contributed an unlikely happening of my own:

Unlikely Coincidence Meeting
 
The blog is full of amazing coincidences that would seem to indicate that Jung was on to something with his idea of synchronicity, that meaning is in fact a dimension like space: the former links events in our lives while the latter connects places in our world.

Enjoy - and see you again when I return from our much awaited honeymoon in Sri Lanka and the Maldives!

Colchester's Hamsterdam

In season 3 of The Wire, Major "Bunny" Colvin adopts an unconventional approach to ridding his precinct of junkies and drug dealers. He corrals them into a derelict part of town, where they are left to indulge in their vices to their hearts content. This "free zone" within Baltimore becomes known as Hamsterdam.


Unsurprisingly, life in Hamsterdam becomes about as pleasant as what you'd find in a cockroach infested Victorian brothel, but Bunny did succeed in cleaning up the other neighbourhoods. As crime rates fell in the areas he was looking after, his idea seemed to have produced a win-win situation for all involved: the junkies had vacant houses where they could make the most of their self-inflicted slavery; the dealers became ever richer as a result of this new policy of deregulation; and the normal folk were no longer forced to live in the midst of gun toting gangsters and diseased dope fiends.

Now, the question, dear reader, is this: what would you think if such a policy were to be adopted in your own town? The reason I ask is that the gents, ladies and unmentionables of Colchester are having to consider just this as their historic town is about to get its very own "booze zone", like the never sensational and always impartial Fox News referred to it. Admittedly, the plan isn't as radical as Bunny's Hamsterdam - Colchester's free zone will only apply to alcohol - but I wouldn't be surprised if the councillor spearheading this initiative to ingratiate imbibers was a fan of The Wire, so alike is his logic to that of Major Colvin.


The councillor in question, Labour's Tim Young, explains: "We're trying to get an area of Colchester where people who are problem drinkers can go in a safe and controlled environment where they would be monitored but not be a nuisance to visitors and residents." His view is that there will always be drunks and alcoholics no matter what programs or avenues for help we provide, so why not at least confine the problem to a certain area, away from the average citizen?


The drunks, of course, thought it was a great idea: "It'll be fantastic because we can let our dogs off [their leads] and drink and nobody will disturb us." Well, good on you. The rest of Colchester, meanwhile, held a more critical view of the council's plan, along the lines of what on earth are you councillors thinking? As if alcohol doesn't already cause enough problems, why make it even easier for people to go down that all too slippery road to perdition?


Whether one sides with the councillors and drunks or that of the other inhabitants, the issue seems to be one of balancing the liberty of a hobo to be a hobo vis-à-vis the liberty of Joe Average to not have to put up with roaming alcoholics, who more than often give off an aggressive vibe, which understandably makes some people uncomfortable.


If we accept the councillors philosophy of damage limitation, that some people do and will drink too much, why shouldn't we designate a part of town for all of those who just want to booze up and let the dogs out? History, after all, sides quite forcibly with Mr Young. As long as no-one is forced to go or live there, what reason would there be to not let the bums go about their business without bothering the rest of the town's residents?


Should we insist, for example, that the long arm of the law be applied uniformly on every inch of this island? Such a notion is, however, a relatively recent one - and this should be taken into consideration. For most of history, certain parts of the countryside were considered to have laws that would be applied where necessary, but the spaces in between these communities were no-man's land, where people ventured on their own responsibility. Gradually, this frontier land came under the jurisdiction of one power or another, but that took a long, long time of persuasion by brute force.

William Hogarth - Southwark Fair (1734)

I live in the London borough of Southwark. Many will have no doubt heard about what it was like in the days of William Shakespeare,  perhaps its most famous regular. Back then, Southwark was the home of disorder, licentiousness and the low arts in general. The strict laws and regulations of the City didn't extend to its neighbour on the southern bank of the Thames. Likewise, the aristocracy of Westminster, bounded by the tight corset of knowing your place, were about as far removed from the ruffians on the Southbank as if we, today, were to compare life in Knightsbridge to the God forgotten favelas of Rio.


Naturally, this lack of laws and regulations meant that what happened in Southwark, stayed in Southwark. Whatever you did, no law would come after you; but there was also no justice to help you, should you land yourself in trouble. Thrasymachus would surely have felt at home. One would hope that the only people to venture into Southwark in these olden days were those who liked to get well drunk before catching a show of bear-baiting on the way to bash the living daylights out of some poor, unsuspecting git - who, as it happens, was probably out with a plan of equally depraved genius. Seldom is reality so neat, however, and countless good souls were destined to live out their short lives in what must have been utterly miserable conditions - moving house just wasn't as simple for them as it might be for us. Life in those days was so infinitely more nasty, brutish and short, not to mention, unfair, then we can imagine from our cushy 21st century arm chairs.


In any case, the Great Bard was so fond of the lawless Southbank that even joined a playing company that was based there, the Lord Chamberlaines Men. This group of artists, playwrights and actors had set up their flagship theatre right in the heart of this 16th century Hamsterdam. (Incidentally, the theatre is said to have been modelled on a pub just around the corner from our home. The courtyard of The George - serving since at least 1534 - does bear a striking resemblance to the balconies of the Globe.) 

The George Inn

The Globe Theatre

Perhaps, then, it can be said that something good also came from having a part of town sans legal interference: it would seem to have inspired one of the greatest playwright of all time!

It's strikingly obvious, of course, that the rule of law is a good thing in itself. On the opposite bank of the river, the City, with its centuries old laws and regulations was probably one of the best places to live in back then because there are few things we humans like better than predictability. Just like there are few environments more conducive to human endeavour and progress than one where we can look forward being paid an honest wage for our work and not to be mugged on the way home.

The  City as seen from Southwark, c 1630.

These days, however, as a result of how the sovereign states that make up our international system have been sure to impose their authority of every square inch of their domains, a thin legal film extends pretty much over every nook and cranny of our world. This hasn't left much room for individual choice over one's lifestyle or habits. But, as it need not be so, couldn't we designate an area of Albion where people could do what they want and live how they like, warts and all?


One of America's Founding Fathers, Thomas Jefferson, said of religion: if someone believes in twenty Gods or none, it neither breaks my bones nor picks my pockets. The same should go for being a drunk in a park that no-one else goes to. Granted, it does kind of get into yours and mine pockets via using up our health care and social services, but, by this yardstick, we should also deny others their right to eat junk food, to pollute the air with car exhaust, to increase global methane levels by eating cows which assuredly have farted quite a bit over their lives, and so on.


If we accept that most everyday activities have some negative effects on society, then, how can we avoid hypocrisy while denying a few people the right to get lary on the outskirts of town, where they'll probably only bother a few squirrels?


Do we base this prescription on morality? Like religion, morality doesn't really mix well with legislation. The reason for this is simple: the rule of law should be blind to individual tastes but guarantee that every person in society is entitled to equal concern and respect. And this only works when we have an unequivocal measure for showing us what is right and what is wrong, which is something ethics and religion alike are unable to provide, as evidenced by their myriad different schools. So, what kind of standard could we use instead?


The wise John Stuart Mill pretty much hit the nail on the head with his Harm Principle: "The only purpose for which power can rightfully be exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others... In the part that merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute."


It will probably be impossible to ever legislate away each and every action that has or may have a harmful effect on others, but maybe that's not actually such a bad thing after all: no junk foor, no boozy nights, no air travel - doesn't sound much like a Utopia to me.


Maybe the next best thing is to ensure that we can all indulge a bit, but that the more harmful extremes are taxed higher (as they already are) and they get their own areas, so that we don't have to witness the debauchery.


As long as they don't act like the eejit travellers, who, a few years ago, ravaged Finland by intimidating and defrauding her people, killing park animals, and leaving an almighty wake of destruction in their paths - shame on them - then why wouldn't the drunks in Colchester be allowed to hang out with their mates and engage in collective suicide, drop, by drop?

I wonder what the inhabitants of Copenhagen would have to say about all this (any of you out there?) for they have their own Hamsterdam called Christiania, right in the middle of their nation's capital. Even though it's a free zone for some drugs and other shady dealings, it hasn't to my knowledge had any negative impact on Copenhagen or Danish society in general.


And, come to think of it, the whole of Holland is also a Hamsterdam, only on an international level. These sub-jurisdictions, therefore, already exist. And, metaphorically speaking, the fact that they cater for those who prefer their eggs scrambled rather than boiled, they don't seem to have brought much harm to their broader societies.


Quite the contrary. The Danes were recently told that they live in the second most prosperous country in the world! (Finland, since you ask, came in 3rd.) So as not to be outdone, the Dutch, with their famously relaxed attitudes to drugs, sex and variety of vices came in at a respectable 8th Newsweek's study, "The World's Best Countries." (This time, Denmark got to 10th, while Finland, thank you for asking, was ranked a well deserved 1st.) Now, I don't mean to imply that that either ranked so high as a result of their Hamsterdams, but having a free zone or even being one, on this evidence at least, doesn't necessarily open the gates beyond which the barbarian hordes await to ruin everything our parents and grandparents worked so very hard to build.


At the end of the day, I would guess that those interested in sex, drugs and rock 'n roll don't tend to hang out in Christiania or Amsterdam, or not that much at least - and why would they? Likewise, the green activist seldom frequents their local McDonald's - the industrial scale of red meat offends their sensibilities. On average, the Supersize Me variety would just as much stay clear of any vegan restaurants, which is fair enough. And the atheist might not visit their local church that much; I haven't heard of any priests who paint ball either. Well, fair play to all and each to their own. If I want to go to a rave, I would expect to be able to do so without having to ask for anybody's permission, save for that of my beautiful wife, of course.


There are, alas, very few of us who are not laden by some habit or vice that may prove to be a burden on others. Most things we like and do land people into hospitals, which we, the others, must pay for with tax and worry - that's the price we, society, pay for  civilization.


Sir Kenneth Clark put it well, that civilization is best defined as courtesy. In other words, being civil and giving others enough space to be themselves enables each individual to work in concert. (Like a professional orchestra, if we choose a good song and follow the notation, we can produce something magical.) The offshoot of this ever so small act, courtesy, is everything we understand as progress. 


It would, therefore, be courteous for us to allow people to drink as much as they like, just as others shouldn't complain when we dine at fast food joints, while, to the drunks, I hope you get your booze zone, but just remember, you're there on your own: what happens in Freechester, stays in Freechester.

Choral Fantasies

Probably the most excited I've ever been without my beautiful wife was singing Beethoven's Choral Fantasy with the UCL Chorus and Symphony Orchestra at St Pancras Church in London. I was therefore intrigued to read about a new study into the way choral music affects us. 

Professor David Howard from York University has been trying to find a scientific explanation for how choral singers achieve that special "sparkle" or "shine" which, according to Edmund Aldhouse, assistant director of music at Ripon Cathedral, distinguishes the best singers from the talented ones.

Professor Howard's hypothesis was that "if we can hear a difference, we should be able to see something that will show us what the acoustic attribute is that means the brain hears it that way." The research was carried out in an anechoic chamber, enabling Howard's team to record only the purest tones without interference from ambient or reflected sound. It revealed that, when the best choral singers flexed their larynxess to achieve that sparkle, certain frequencies of their voices peaked repeatedly, while the other, less talented singers were unable to produce the same effect.


"In our experiments", he explains, "it looks as if that particular 'ring' is happening above the normal speech area, in the region of around 8,000hz." The effect is "something that makes you sit up, it's something that communicates with the soul." According to the BBC, a similar resonance has been found in older opera singers as well, albeit at a lower frequency.


Interesting stuff, I thought, and it made me wonder: why should a frequency above the range of speech make us sit up and take note? What evolutionary purpose could it serve; or did it reflect something else in us, something more ethereal? Beauty, the saying goes, is in the eye of the beholder - but could this ring Howard speaks of and the effect it has on us be an objective, quantifiable example of aural beauty?


History is of course peppered with explanations as to what makes something beautiful and what separates art from the mundane. Seldom, however, have they been put forward by scientists - for aesthetics tends to be the domain of philosophers, poets and artists alone.


Immannuel Kant, for example, thought that beauty is something exhibited by things with distinct and tangible forms that please our senses: things such as flowers or a sculptures.


Choral singing, however, would belong to a different category alltogether, namely that of the Sublime, which is what this big brain from Koningsberg called those larger than life experiences that are so wondrous that they inspire awe and are simply beyond our grasp. A good example of attempts to capture this kind of fleeting profundity would be the famous works of J.M. Turner.


I would agree with Kant on this one, and even though many people today see little virtue in classical music, dare I say, they are just plain wrong: there is no aural equivalent to the visceral power of a full choir backed up by a symphony orchestra, no matter how much bass one might peddle.

J.M. Turner - Dutch Boats in a Gale (1801)

But I digress. We've all no doubt had a sensory experience which overpowered us in such a way that we find it difficult to convey with words. As Kant put it succinctly, the Sublime is something that we "cannot get our heads around." Likewise, the voice that Edmund Aldhouse seeks also defies explanation:  it's "just something you know, maybe not something you can define" - which, incidentally, is more than reminiscent of St Augustine's explanation for time.


G.W.F. Hegel, on the other hand, came to the opinion that beauty in art is an expression of our human ideal. Although a work of art expresses the individual who created it, along with the culture that brought him or her up, what makes it art per se as opposed to any other thing is that which makes it timeless; that which relates it to the progress of humanity. 

In this way, Hegel thought that through sculpture, music and painting we are able to transcend our temporal and geographical circumstances and get a glimpse of our Spirit, which was his term for the evolution of human consciousness.


Could, then, the peculiar resonance discovered by Professor Howard be a scientific explanation for what messieurs Kant and Hegel tried to pin down with their respective ideas of the Sublime and the Ideal?


It would, of course, be fascinating to see follow up studies in later centuries so that we could find out whether or not the frequencies change with time, but, leaving that aside, what reason could there be for such a musical threshold that separates mere melody from something more meaningful? Professor Howard is able to provide no real explanation for this, nor can he tell us what his discovery is: "It's way beyond words, it's way beyond the music, it's something about the content going straight from the brain of a singer to the brain of a listener."


Perhaps a poet could help were the scientist fails. In Bards of Passion and of Mirth, John Keats describes the song of a nightingale as "divine melodius truth" - in other words, truth untainted by the blunt instrument of language. Words can easily mislead, while Keats was of the view that melody provides "philosophic numbers smooth" because it does away with words and works therefore at a more immediate level.


Could it be, then, that melody and song are useful in ways we no longer appreciate? Perhaps we are simply too enamoured by our linguistic prowess to recognize the true value of other, more subtle ways of communicating.


It would seem so - at least if the next example is anything to go by. When flying in formation, the FA 18 Hornets of the Blue Angels are often separated by less than a metre. As they perform their death defying manoeuvres - led by the team leader rather than being fully choreographed in advance - at speeds of 500 knots and counting, the team can only be successful if they know what the lead pilot is thinking, when he's thinking it. There is simply not enought time for the team leader to use words for each bit of information, so his team mates need some other connection into his mind in order to act as an undivided, single unit. And melody provides them just that.

The lead pilot communicates with his colleagues by singing out his commands: a low drawn out voice denotes delicate changes to their movement, while a high pitched voice instructs the others of tighter twists and turns. Admittedly, this is just a system they've devised rather than some Vulcan mind meld, but the song of sorts does add a non-linguistic dimension to the team's communication. 

Anecdotally at least, this goes to show that instructions laced with melody are superior to words alone. In this particular case, the result is a supersonic harmony without which the jet-powered ballerinas would crash into each other before you could say oops.


In a similar vein to Keats, Paul Johnson opined that song is the high road into the mind of a bird - but the Blue Angels would suggest that this can also apply to us featherless bipedals. Indeed, whatever the reason, a melody sung well can often connect us intimately with its singer, without need for intermediary tools such as words, facial expressions or gestures.


This is because language uses concepts, ideas and relationships to signify and depart meaning, and we have to learn and know its rules, and then collate the whole lot into a message. Singing, on the other hand, is more immediate in how melody can bypass the alphabetical middleman and access our feelings more directly - which is what makes music a truly universal language. 

The listener might be wholly ignorant of the rules within music; they can have the musical skills of a cricket, and be as theory-wise as a bat, but they can still hear it, understand it and be affected by it in a most profound and meaningful way. While still the single most useful skill when it comes to survival, language is unable to replicate this feat because it demands too much inside knowledge.


Leonardo wrote that, "in art we are said grandsons unto God." Perhaps he was pointing to the same thing as Hegel, that in art we partake in our shared Spirit. And maybe it could explain what Professor Howard's special resonance is: a key that connects us to each other, and to all humans, from the first to the last.


Whatever the reason behind our fascination with music, one thing is certain, singing, listening and dancing, they make us feel good. I would argue that music doesn't just unlock the dopamines in our brain like chocolate does; that there is a deeper thing going on, of which dopamines are the effect rather than the cause.


Just look at people in a club or at a concert, individuals enjoying life inside the same musical bubble; or how, in action, a symphony orchestra becomes so much more than the sum of its parts; or how an angel choir can order the hairs on our neck to stand up and listen; or how we can understand the singer without having a clue as to what they're saying. On top of all this, music is also able to unify individuals and cultures in ways like no single language can, of which the Eurovision spectacle of 2010 is only one cheesy yet profound example.


In any case, maybe someone like Simon Cowell will one day pind down the je ne sais quoi that gives music its magic, but, until then, I'm content enjoying its fruits. Actually, now that I think of it, I should've just played you That Same Song by The Beach Boys:

This post is dedicated to Paul Johnson - thank you for And Another Thing.

Buon Natale da Milano

A very 21st century take on the Nativity... Enjoy and a merry Christmas to one and all!

Thanks to Granito973

Quote of the Week

"Institutions will try to preserve the problem to which they are the solution." (the Shirky Principle)

- Clay Shirky