Maa ngi tudd Gaberoo

A cool new search application just appeared in Google Labs. It’s called Google News Timeline and it shows you news stories realted to your query nicely displayed on a timeline. Fueld by my well known curiosity I couldn’t resist the tempation to try and find the first mentioning of the old “fam” in earth history. As it turns out, we made our debutant appearance in the late 1800s (try it yourself and set the “Show” value to “Decade”):
* WPG2 Plugin Not Validated *
The first ever news article in which we appear (note the good grammar as compared to the Obama campaign) puts us in Jonesville, AZ (now called Mesa, AZ) on June 7th, 1881. I’m not quite sure what we’re doing there and I didn’t have the endurance to read through the whole Deseret News article to find us. But I do wonder if this is in any way connected to my Dad’s inherent love for the desert. Yee-haa… I’m part cowboy!

Back to reality, the second entry is a bit more informative. Apparently, on November 18, 1883, a poor little 14-year old named Minnie Jacobs ran away after getting into frequent fights with her fellow employees at our store (Leventhal & Mandelbaum). Caring much less about poor little Minnie than about the fate of our store, I ran a new search, this time for Leventhal & Mandelbaum. As it turns out, we owned a millinery goods store on the corner of Grand and Eldridge, allbeit not a very good one. It failed in the summer of 1884. I wonder if little Millie had something to do with that…

The adventures continue, and so do the tales. Almost a week has passed since I first set foot on the desert soil of Sub-Saharan Africa. Is it much different than I expected? Most likely I’d answer that with “yes”, but then again, I’ve only been here a week.

Apart from the fact that I was almost not let into the country, (Note to self: It pays off to actually know more about the place where you are going to be staying than just ‘with some friends’. You’d think I’ve already run into this problem, especially while CouchSurfing, but this is the first time the border guard actually seized my passport and threatened to send me back onto the plane that was going to … I don’t even want to know. Double-Note to self: long parentheses really break the flow of a story), my arrival went quite smoothly. My suitcases arrived without delay, and somebody had even gone through the trouble of attaching green bow-ties to both of them. I’m still not quite sure what that meant, and I have to admit that at the moment I did fear it was some kind of African tribal sign, indicating to everyone that I was fresh meat, juicy and tender, of course.

Much to my disappointment, nobody else seemed quite as impressed with my African tribal bow-ties as I first did, and I managed to escape the confounds of Dakar-Yoff-Léopold Sédar Senghor International Airport (I know! right!?!). And there, in the blazing sun of Senegal stood my welcoming party. I had hoped that someone would be standing there with my name written in gold on a marble plaque. But after realizing that spotting one particular person surrounded by many is not quite as difficult when you are a caucasian in Africa, I humbly accepted the absence of the golden plaque.

Now, Vince from Satellite had told me that the taxis in Dakar only seldomly had doors. I can’t believe he lied to me! They all have doors. They don’t always work and they do swing open at unfortunate times (for example on the way home from the airport), but none the less, they have doors. Pffff…

The not-doorless taxi came to a halt in front of a new three storey building that was to become my new home over the next few months. Our sweet pad occupies the top of said storeys (with the middle one destined to become habitat of my boss) and all this comes equipped with a complemenary ocean view and a relaxing roof-top terrace. So much for living in tents, eh?

All was going fair to well – I personnally think Murphy just hadn’t arrived yet. I guess he doesn’t do airtravel so long distances take him more time than me. Ultimately, he did arrive and so just as I was about to retire into my custom-made (!!) bed, the faucet in my bathroom exploded!

Well, it didn’t actually explode per-se, but it did refuse to stop the flow of H2O extruding from it’s spout when it was instructed to do so. Initially unable to find the main water supply switch, I had to rely on my certified engineering skills (dipl. ing. phys. EPF!) and modifiy the pressure equilibrium in order to stop the flow of water. The result looked somewhat like this:
* WPG2 Plugin Not Validated *
We did eventually find the main water supply to the bathroom. It was convieniently hidden in a corner of the other bathroom. The plumber didn’t seem to find this the least bit odd, so I just stopped wondering.

Since I will only really start work the coming week, I spent my time this week getting used to living on this continent: Hot days, breezy nights, glass of wine in the flickering shadows of candles lit because of the frequent power outages (~1x day), sunsets on the roof, crazy markets and so forth and so forth. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so here are some impressions of what it looks like here:

* WPG2 Plugin Not Validated *
Lonesome chair (on the roof) to sit and watch…

* WPG2 Plugin Not Validated *
… the view (from the roof).

P.S.: I managed to get sand in my camera the first day in, so I guess I’ll need to make up by writing thousands of words…

I’m really getting into The Economist’s Daily Chart. I guess it’s a way to put the world into numbers, so that us geeks can better understand it. On the other hand, it might also be us geeks putting real world things into numbers so that we can prove to the rest of the world that our point of view has the most statistical support.

In any case, I stumbled upon the UNHCR yearly report on asylum seeker uptake. The news in it self is disturbing, of course. The 12% rise in asylum seekers from 2007 to 2008 is only one of the indicators that the world we are in today is hurting.

As with all news I read, I try and put things into perspective. Since I can only interpret international issues from afar, it’s always enlightening to see how things fare in my end of the park:

Switzerland moved back up two ranks from 11th to 9th, making it one of the top-ten accepters of asylumn seekers (out of the 44 industrialized countries surveyed). Good for us. That puts us at position 11 for the period 2004-2008.

Then again, what does that really mean? More interstingly, when looking at the number of applications per 1000 inhabitants, we move up to 5th place at 8.6 applications per 1000 (behind Malta, Cyprus, Sweden and Austria). Wow, I guess that’s where our dear Toni B. get’s his ammunition.

However, I’m still not completely satified, so let’s look again. When ranked according to number of applications per 1 USD GDP, we fall way back behind all the other countries surrounding us (France, Germany, Austria, Italy, UK, only to name a few). So, if I understood this correctly, while we’re taking in more asylum-seekers than everybody else around us, everybody else is spending a much greater part on their wealth on them.

I guess it’s back to the same old discussion. Who’s the more noble, the millionnaire who let’s you borrow his Ferrari for the week-end, or the poor man on the street who’ll share his one meal per day with you?

Man, I guess those Danes know how to party! From what I remember: girls on bikes in mini-skirts

Source: Economist.com

Notice that Switzerland’s not on the chart… Well, a deeper inspection of the ESPAD results shows that Switzerland is just about around the mean. How disappointing.

However, we do stand out on one issue: 33% (!!) of 16 years old are getting or have gotten high! Not like I would know anything about that…

And so once again I am left to travel the seas on my own. The second day of the India-England cricket test match marked the end of a two week reunion between old friends. Even after three years it’s great to see that we can still manage to get together and have an amazing time, just as if we had seen eachother last only a few days ago. Much time has passed, however, since I let the rest of the world know of my adventures. Let us rewind a bit…

The first day of the wedding finally came. All of us awoke and got dressed in our newly bought India attire. Equipped and ready, we carted over to the Datta residence to take part in The Mehndi (the henna ceremony), where the bride and all the other women get decorated with amazing designs so that they’ll look pretty for the rest of the wedding. Actually, I have been told that the main idea of the henna tattoos in not to beautify the woman, but is more intended to show her patience and commitment, as you have to sit extremely still during the whole time you are being painted. Naturally the bride is expected to show the most commitment of all and so Rhea spend the afternoon sitting on a pillow with both arms and legs outstreched looking somewhat like a turtle that landed on it’s back. (Whoops, I didn’t mean to imply that Rhea looked anything like a turtle. It was meant purely metaphorical.) What were the men doing during this whole extravaganza? We, of course, did what we do best and what is expected of us: Sit around in the sun, sipping on a glass of Scotch on the Rocks watching and watching the women do their things. Ahh…. what can I say, Incredible India.

Number two ceremony on the following day was the … party!!! Held outside the city on a farm, glittering lights and flashing colors greeted us as we entered the gates into the Tyler and Rhea bonding ceremony, a.k.a. The Sangeet. Servers tourned the fancy party tent, forcing us to eat all kinds of amazing Indian appetizers fresh from the tandoor, and insisting we wash them down with alcoholic drinks. And don’t you dare try to refuse a “gift” offered to you… Whilst we were indulging ourselves in this culinary feast, all members of the Datta-Wood family were called upon to present themselves to the guests in a festive dancing matter. This, of course, included tiny old grand-ma, who no doubt stole the show with her wiggling Bollywood moves. After the formalities concluded, the dance stage was lit and (here we leave out the description of an embarrassing dance performance by the young white crowd) the party ignited. Another funny thing about Indian weddings (which could prove to be useful at jewish ones as well), is that the food is served as late as possible, in order to minimize the eat-and-run crowd. So after spending all our energy dancing away with a cage on stage (I kid you not), the feast continued. And as for the rest of the night… what can I say, memories and weddings, they tend to mesh and blend a bit.

I awoke the following day early and ready to start the wedding mantra. I packed up my bags, locked up the house and passed on the keys to the neighbors. Goodbye couch, welcome expensive hotel.

Looking back on that day, I’m having slight trouble remembering what when on, but if I do recall correctly, the whole crew was shipped off to Fabindia, where we were equipped with bright flowing silk kultas (for the guys) and dazzeling long saris (for the gals). We might look slightly funky in our pyjama outfits – but definitely sexy-funky.

Looking sharp and full of glam, the party continued to the food-and-crafts market Delhihat. All I can say is this: MOMOs!!! and lots of them!!! mmm, so good. The wedding outfit also got completed with footwear, which is harder to come by than you think if you take size considerations into account. The grand finale of Delhihat was none the less the amature puppet show with a 9 year old boy banging on drums whilst his older companion puppeteered a insightful act of intimacy to a monotonous buzzing sound.

The whole gang then returned to the Datta residence for another edition of The Dinner. Mutton, Paneer (Indian cheese), potato, yes yes yes. With our bellies filled and our spirits up, Rhea’s high school friends led us to one of Delhi’s super in clubs in the Citywalk mall – a culture contrast that rivals that in Hong Kong.

Left on our own on Tuesday, we set out to explore the inner workings of Old Delhi. We visited Red Fort, which is a red fort, not very much more, but still quite impressive. You manage to get a taste of the exsessiveness of past-day rulers. After being blinded long enough by the intense red color, we ventured on towards the most infamous restaurant in Delhi. One has even gone as far as to call it a right of passage. I speak of course of Karim’s. Karim’s family had cooked for the Emperors of the past millenia and the real descendents still run an eatery in the midst of an Old Delhi market. Hoping that the food did not predate the establishment, we stepped through the tiny alley and were served some of the best north Indian food I’ve had. Go for the Tandoori Raan – a big ass chicken’s legged tandoored to your liking. Sorry Claire for doubting the tip.

What better to do on a smoggy day with your bellies full than tour the town on Rickshaw? That’s what we, thought, and go was the word. It did make me feel slightly unconfortable. I’m not sure you’ll understand if you haven’t been in Delhi traffic. Especially not on the back of the Rickshaw with the driver constantly talking to you (which is nice) and thus not paying attention to the road (not so nice). Eventually we decided that it had been enough after we ran over some poor dude’s foot in the midst of a market. Not to forget the Jain Temple hidden in some dodgy back-alley. You had to remove shoes, leather, money and camera before entering. On the inside a 140 year old Guru gave the tour and showed you all the old Gold, which proved the authenticity of the place, … apparently. On the inside a 140 year old Guru gave the tour and showed you all the old Gold, which proved the authenticity of the place, … apparently. (Did I mention he repeated everything twice?)

No Datta dinner that night – but I think we fed ourselves anyway.

The big Agra trip was next on the list, and we had to wake up at 5am to participate. Pff…. Oh, Agra is where The Taj Mahal is. On the bus and back to sleep, a breakfast in the middle of nowhere and poof, Agra hello. We stopped somewhere on the way and saw some monkeys and a guy’s tomb, but I don’t remember much else. Now The Taj is pretty and all – I took some cool pictures, but definitely the most coolest part was the realization that the four pillars sourrounding The Taj are actually not constructed at a 90 degree angle to the ground, bu t are nugged slightly to the outside. In case of a strutural instability, this way the pillars fall towards the outside and don’t crush and kill the dead guy that’s lying in the middle.

That’s my entry for the Taj. It’s really more a picture thing. But I don’t have my camera cable with me, so I can’t put the pictures up, so there’s not much to say about the Taj. Thus the Wednesday report is concluded and the following adventures no longer qualify as pre-Wedding and I’m getting hungry, so that’s gotta wait. But check back soon. Over and out.