Afternoon: SANKIRTAN CONCERT AT SKWAR’S WEDDING

Skwar is getting married. He came with the invitations himself, cute dimples and all. I haven’t seen him since he was like 3. I miss his dad. I’m sure he does too.

The wedding is in Heirangoithong. The women had to change into more festive wear after the white and pink funereal wear for Sanatomba’s memorial lunch.

We all walk in on the Nupa Pala. Give money to the mother, take our seats and then I start making my rounds of excuses as I have to leave early to set up Yoshiko’s performance tonight.

I run into Tamo Akhoy. He tells me Tamo Loken cannot meet Erin – again. First, his deep involvement with the Armed Forces Act talks with the Prime Minister. And now, a death in the family. Oy vey. More schedule change.

I take Yoshiko and Bonnie in to see the bride get dressed. The others can wait to see the real thing but we have to leave.

TURKEY DISASTER!

The birds aren’t coming today. Priti called to say they did not make it on, as the aircraft had no more consignment room.

Do I flip out?

Morning: A VISIT WITH A SHAMAN

Mike is tired and opts out. And a bit under the weather - there is a cold / flu thing going around which I luckily got over with before my guests arrived. Plus sticking together in a group with an ever-changing schedule known only to a control-freak like me can be tiring. But of all the Manipurs that exist out there, I want them to see my Manipur. When I was planning this, I kept thinking of Go Takamine’s remark, at a Flaherty, about his native Okinawa in his films: “No, Okinawa is not like that all. This is my Okinawa. I made it up.” Kick-ass.

Oja Kumar Maibi was waiting. He thought he might go to the ASEAN Motor Car Rally. Wonder if the people there would know a shaman had come to see them off?

We all kowtow. Oja Kumar’s daughter-in-law brings out tea. We drink a lot of tea on this trip.

Yoshiko is respectful and goes into full Japanese mode. Wonderful.

We ask about the Weavers Dance. Oja gets up, almost tottering, and he sings and dances. He dances the tilling of soil, the planting and harvesting of cotton, the making of thread, the setting up of the loom, the warp and weft, the putting on the leather back support, the threading the spindle…. We begin to guess the meaning of the actions. All the steps till the final wash, drying, folding and, finally, the offering to the gods.

He speaks of the gods in a language I can barely follow.

We look at his old pictures high up on the wall of his front porch. One shows him in full drag as a shaman priestess.

As we leave, I ask my friends if they want to visit some weavers.

Morning: SILK WEAVERS

We drive to Khurai Kongpan, to the house I had scouted out a couple of weeks ago. The pretty girl wasn’t there but her sister was. I ask her to show us how she wove on the loin-loom.

The shaman’s performance comes to life. The girl does exactly as described in the Phisarol Dance, and the phanek in pink silk begins to grow.

Yoshiko and Les buy a silk phanek each. Les' in purple and black, Yoshiko’s a delicate sky blue. Of a quality, you could not find on the market.

Night: DINNER AT GOPE’S

This was fantastic. The best presentation by far too. With banana lakoi plates and banana dona boats. A red phida for my mother too so I was sorry my mother didn’t come. Gope’s sister Ima Thambal Ngoubi was waiting, as lovely as ever.

It was fun to see what Gope had done with our discussion of what and how to serve during this trip. I had told him not to have too many dishes and asked him to bags some dishes so that we have minimal repeats. I want to do a Manipuri-American cookbook: Manipuri dishes presented American style. Tra-la-la.

For the record, here is what I circulated or discussed with hosts before my folks arrived:


MENU AND PRESENTATION SUGGESTIONS

All Traditional Manipuri Dishes.

I am trying to see if we can present a wide variety over the 10 days; please see if there is anything that is not already listed here that you might want to feature on your menu.

Easy on Indian style dishes – they will have eaten lots of curries etc. in India. So more on the distinctive in Manipuri cuisine.

Preference for simple, spice-free, chamthong-champhut-kangsoi style.

Protein centerplate; rice as a side dish.

Fish dishes without or minimal bones preferably.

Few dishes – one-two protein, two-three vegetables, one relish, one fruit.

No uncooked vegetables like singju.

No or VERY little chili; except in chili dishes like iromba.

Low salt – Meitei thum on the side.

No dessert necessary.

Coffee and or tea – any style, but milk and sugar on the side.

Bottled water only.

Buffet style suggested: lakoi on dinner-plates, dona for finger bowls as Manipuri touch maybe?

They will eat with fingers; some knives, forks and spoons may be made available if you like.

Preferably sit on chairs or couches; some folk may have difficulty sitting on the ground.


Gope went much further. The guy is amazing. He even had a young botanist help with the traditional serving so she could answer some of the questions we had about what we were eating. At least the botanical names in Latin. Stroke of genius.

We looked at the near-full moon through his skylight after dinner. Perfect ending.


GOPE’S DINNER MENU

Porong Fish Curry
Porong Thongba

Mung Beans
Hawai Muk

Gathered Greens Rice with Bitter Herbs, seasoned with Vegetable Ash
Nomankha Uti Asangba

Mixed Small Fish, steamed in Turmeric Leaves
Nganam

Stew of Red Spinach and Manipuri Yelang
Yelang Kengoi Kangsoi

Cauliflower and Peas Stew
Kobi Hawaitharak Kangsoi

Fresh Bamboo Shoots with River Shrimp and Lentils
Usoi Kangsu

Mushrooms with Grilled Fish and Chives
Kanglayen Nganam

Stir-Fried Arrowhead and Water Rice
Koukha Kambong Kangou

Lotus Root Fritters
Thambou Bora

Steamed Tapioca
U Mangra Ang’nganba

Cubed Pumpkin with Sweetened Broth
Mairen Cham’phut

Stir-Fried Bitter Herbs
Nomankha Kangou

Fragrant White Rice Pudding
Chahou Angouba Sangomkher

Evening: COURTYARD THEATER: WORLD TRADE CENTRE

Tamo Nara is very pleased. He had organized this sumaang lila play about 9/11 for us specially. Rather, he had it added as a special feature to the Sumaang Lila Mini-Festival that started yesterday. He tells me it is shorter, as we had discussed. Maybe a tad too short? I missed some comedy routines. And the additional dialogue in English was not as helpful as they might have imagined. Better to translate.

Erin was in stitches. She and Bonnie in particular had been looking forward to it. Tamo Nara had talked about Bonnie in his introduction. How she helped get an invitation from Lincoln Center Out of Doors, only to have it rescinded. True, and yes, because they were afraid, but not quite because our Osama actor was so lifelike that the presenters feared he might be shot on stage. I wonder who started that story. Certainly not me, but a dramatic story nonetheless. It will live on I fear, but no harm done.

Bhabesh does not come. I am a little disappointed that he didn’t because I was looking forward to having a Manipuri journalist question us, especially Downtown New Yorkers, about how we felt seeing a play about 9/11. About seeing a performance in “white-face.” Oh well.

Afternoon: ZETTE AND BONNIE’S PRESENTATION

Zette and Bonnie go to the State Museum. The Chief Curator Iche Sobita has organized a visit. Too bad I couldn’t set up a work tete-a-tete as we had planned.

There was a tour of the museum I hear. They did not screen Bonnie’s film, Moon Pulse. “It was the wrong crowd anyway,” Zette says. Does that refer to the nudity in it? Anyway Chongtham Somo was a lively discussant I hear.

Afternoon: YOSHIKO’S INTERACTION WITH DANCERS 2

I am ecstatic. I have glimpsed the Idea I had when I was creating this project in my mind come to life. I crossed over from Idea to Reality today.

Partly because I was concerned over Yoshiko’s state of mind yesterday, partly to hold her hand and, yes, partly because I was curious, I decided to go with her as her interpreter to her dance interaction at Rase’s.

I am sure glad I did.

Four lovely young girls stood before her as Yoshiko talked to them. “I am sorry if I forget your names. Forgive me if I point to you.” “Tomorrow at the Temple, you will do your dance, then mine, then yours again, then I will finish.” “What do you want to wear? Do you always wear a phanek? What about the top? Is a plain T shirt OK or do you feel more comfortable with a wrap as well?” “Do you all have a dark striped phanek? No, it doesn’t have to be all the same color but all dark perhaps? With a long-sleeve black top?” “Can you please turn around? I love your hair. Can everyone put up your hair in a high ponytail like she does?” “What about the boys? Is all black OK? Will it break too much tradition to dance in trousers and T-shirt?”

I am moved by the importance and individual respect she gave to each and every one of them. I don’t know if anyone else had ever consulted them before. Had they always been vessels, vehicles of another’s vision, of another’s creation?

Yoshiko decides on the Weavers Dance of the shaman priestesses. Then the Kabui Naga Kit Lam Dance of the Crickets. “Can you dance without music? To silence? What is the minimum you need?” Rase feels the dancers need percussion at the minimum for them to synchronize. “OK, drums then. But let me just say this. You are so amazingly synchronized I feel you can dance to silence. But drums are fine.”

Rase’s husband Akabi jumps in. He is amazingly quick. And knowledgeable. “How about the Mao Naga dance? It has no music or percussion, just a ‘Hou!” shouted at the beginning of each transition?”

Yoshiko wants to see it. The dancers start. Yoshiko glows. She nudges me over and over again. Eyes shining, she whispers, “Lucinda Child! Lucinda Child!”. Then I begin to see it. I see Lucinda Child. I see a new modern dance where, on so many previous occasions, I had merely seen a beautiful Mao dance.

I now begin to see Manipur through Yoshiko’s eyes. It was just as I had hoped: that during this trip Manipuris would see themselves through the eyes of strangers from afar.

We move on to the drummers for Yoshiko’s sections. “Can you give me a basic beat? A four-four, six maybe?”

The handsome young drummer complies on his large langden drum, his hairlock flying behind him.

“Do you have counterpoint?” She turns to me, "Can you explain counterpoint to the drummers?”

I try, clumsily. The drummer gives me three.

“There are three kinds of counterpoints; maybe more if you ask a pung Oja,” I tell Yoshiko.

“Give me the basic one,” Yoshiko says. A second drummer takes over the langdel and the young man moves onto a smaller pung.

“This one can give more detail while the langdel sticks to its pattern. We will change roles as we go along.” he explains. It was quite sublime.

“Can you give me a rhythm cycle about seven to ten minutes long? I can’t dance much longer than that.” Yoshiko says.

“I can give you exactly ten minutes. It will take some thinking.” The boy replies.

“Exactly?”

“Exactly. I will compose it later after you leave. But listen to this for now.”

The boys play their drums. We listen.

Afternoon: ERIN MEETS SANAKHWA EBOTOMBI

The gods are pissed. Gope gets a flat tire on the way to Kanhailal with Erin. They are late; he has left. Bummer.

But ever resourceful, Gope takes Erin to see Sanakhwa Ebotombi. She comes back, bouncing with enthusiasm over their meeting. Erin’s a real trooper and never wastes a crisis.

Things are settling down. The first few days are always difficult as I learnt during the week-long Flaherty Seminars. Now everyone seems to have gravitated towards some friendships. I love it.

Of course it make my schedule even more difficult but I am winging it. One day at a time.

Dave calls late at night to check in. I have stopped trying to update the schedule and emailing it to him late at night. He stops me when I go over and beyond the next day. He knows its gonna change. What a wonderful guy. If he weren’t a filmmaker he would have taken off by now and left me standing. Or all curled up as the case might well have been.

Afternoon: MIKE AT MANIPUR UNIVERSITY

Lunch was simple. The faculty guys were great. Mike said she had a good discussion after the screening of her Listening to Volcanoes. Too bad there were so few. All because of the prime Minister’s visit, for he had a convocation here, and also the date-change to accommodate my aunt’s lunar preferences for her feast.

Morning: MIKE AT CATWALK BEAUTY PARLOR

Ragini takes Mike to do her hair. She deserves it, plus she has her presentation this afternoon. I want to tape it for I see it as a cultural event. What isn’t for me, you may well ask. But I know some things are sacrosanct and will have to remain conceptual. Too bad. Boo hoo.

Morning: OUR FIELD OF DREAMS

Oh, Mike complained bitterly. Not to me but to Ragini, for saying we had to go to Tabungkhok at 7 in the morning to see our Field of Dreams. But she was a good sport about it and we set off with Pakpa. I told Mike his name means Flat.

Tabungkhok is a bit outside Imphal so we skirted our regulations somewhat I think. But after I had looked at this field some weeks ago with Ragini and Pakpa, I did check with fellow-Little Flower Chittaranjan and he seems to think it might be OK.

Too bad we didn’t get to Sagolband United sooner or we would have gotten the parking lot as well. That would have given us more than the 600 feet by 400 feet we have access to right now. Mike didn’t think the parking lot, and the field’s proximity to the national Highway, were a liability like I did. Pakpa also pointed out it was good for transportation. OK. I am sold.

The field is lovely. Mike loves it. I am happy. The little hillock that overlooks it could well be one of the stands and offices. It could well be a distinguishing feature of the field. I tell Pakpa the CRP camp in the distance will have to go. A gentle rain begins to fall.

We drive to the other field. Not so hot for Mike. OK by me.

Night : DINNER HOSTED BY DR. NARA

I had checked out Gopal Pizza (pronounced locally as in the Leaning Tower of) after Tamo Nara and Tamo Chourjit suggested it. Not bad in a funky sort of way. Including that mural of Krishna doing a Monica on that cow. Ooh, I am bad. Thank God I am an atheist, as I said to Mike the other day.

Now I am back. I talk to Tamo Nara and suggest the Manipuri team wear traditonal garb, or some version thereof, at all international appearances.

We wait for Yoshiko and Bonnie. They are an hour late. They are pissed with me, I am pissed with them. Totally cool.

What’s not so cool is that Yoshiko is upset. Something is bothering her. Something is not quite right, not quite falling in place with her dancers. She tells me she is not interested in a product. Bonnie wisely lets her have her space. She knows Yoshiko well. I don’t know what to do.

The meal is blah. Lots of veggie dishes. Mikie likee koukha. She thinks we should have it at Thanksgiving. I make a mental note.

The server is unctuous but I like his hairstyle. Maybe I will also keep a little lock on my shaved head. I think they missed out on a Hare Krishna in that panel of aliens in Men in Black. You know the one with Dennis Rodman and Newt Gingrich as prominent aliens among us. They (the Hare Krishnas, not the aliens) are doing a lot of things I have been planning with my food presentations. I guess it just takes a Western eye.

Afternoon: BONNIE AND YOSHIKO’S INTERACTION WITH RASE’S DANCERS 1

Eigya Gope takes Bonnie and Yoshiko to Rase’s dance studio. He has been an amazing new friend I can connect with on so many different levels.

Afternoon: SHALLOW RIVER MUSIC ALBUM LAUNCH

Dave takes Les off to his studio. The press has already left. I am contrite that his schedule was screwed up.

Afternoon: TOUR OF KANGLA FORT

We drive to the western gate of Kangla Fort. Dave is a little upset we are taking Les with us before sending him to the launch of their album. My schedule is screwed up.

But a walk through Kangla with Pabung Khelchandra right after the handover seems too historic to miss out on. Maybe it’s just me.

It is getting dark. We walk towards the Citadel. Pabung brings out his folder and shows us the drawing the Brits made of the original Western Gate. I am surprised the present one is an almost exact replica. I had always thought it was just another goofy attempt at a Manipuri architectural style. I don’t like it much now; I would not have liked it much then.

Pabung shows where the original walls stood. The King resided behind five walls, the Imphal River to his back. The entire Fort is a mile square. Good for a Mile Run I am thinking.

We walk past the original Royal Polo Grounds. It is littered from the handover ceremony the day before. Ranjana and I remark on the emptiness of it all. A few soldiers looked on curiously devoid now of their usual proprietary aggression.

We step on up to the Citadel. I take out one of the funny red balls Tamo Nara had brought for the baseball players. Teja, Les, Bonnie and I throw it around. The reality of the handover sinks in. It’s been a long time since 1891. To be able to throw a ball around the Kangla without fear of the British or the Indian Army stopping us. Now that's what I call ownership.

Afternoon: INTERVIEW BY EFFECTIVE TELEVISION CHANNEL

Did the TV crew follow us here too? I see them interviewing the group, one by one. They want to interview. I hope they did not think me churlish that I declined. For one thing, I don’t want to say anything until it is all over. Then also, what my guests say is more important. Lastly, I do have this tendency to lecture and pontificate.My speaking my mind about this project will surely come across too heavy. It is better that they see the project as it happens and not hear from me, no expert on Manipur am I.

I have so many things I want to achieve with this project.

So what might I have said?

That the Field Trip brings two halves of my life together.

That it is searching for my roots perhaps, a rite of passage in becoming American, a Manipuri-American. Oh, banal!

That I needed to have my friends to know Manipur with a crash course of my own design, if I am to convince them to work with me on Manipur-related projects. Then again, it still is up to them.

That it is lonely without a community, a cultural Manipuri community, in NYC. So I hope my friends will become part of an extended Manipur support group there if the trip is good.

That I happen to think Manipuris need to once again tell their own stories, peopled with their own notions of who they think they are, for this new globalized age.

That culture is the best, perhaps the only available conduit, where all other avenues seem deadlocked in conflict.

That independence is in the mind, not in a flag. And imagination and creativity can be a way to fulfilling some dreams. Whatever.

So, you see, too much for a sound bite.

Afternoon
EXHIBITION PANA POLO

We were in fairly good time – my time ! – for the exhibition match. Polo at Kangjeibung, the world oldest polo grounds! Oh my.

The International Style was on. Then they removed the goal posts and played Pana Kangjei, the traditional style. The players wore white turbans with cloth chinstraps. They wore Khudei instead of trousers, with leather shin guards. The Manipuri ponies, which stand about 11 hands as compared to 14 in most mounts, wore little pom-poms about their faces, guarding, as Dr. Chourjit pointed out, vulnerable pressure points. The saddles were old Manipuri. When we went down to the field to say hello before we started, I saw the players had chandon marks on their faces.

Dr. Nara showed up just in time, wreathed in smiles. He was carrying 6 baseballs. Apparently he got my message about Mike already bringing baseballs a bit too late. Darn sweet of him. The balls were large and red though, like none I had seen before. They did have baseball written on them, so who knows?

Pabung Khelchandra was there, confirming we were on for the tour of Kangla Fort. I asked him how players were to wrest the ball away from a player since they were allowed to carry the ball by hand and gallop away. “Oh, you are allowed to beat each up”, he said casually. “King Chourjit died in a polo match”, he added, ever the historian. A dangerous game.

He tells me my grandfather instituted two fouls – riding your mount across the path of another and raising the polo stick in a threatening manner or something like that. Seeing Mt. Nongmaijing loom in the distance over the polo field reminded me of the picture of him and Mr. Blackie the Telegraph officer. Apparently the goalposts were an addition that the proper rule-abiding British made up. Britannia does not always waive the rules it seems.

Afternoon: LUNCH WITH BIKI AND USHA

Reuben sang some vintage Dylan I hear. I missed it while chatting with Farmer Jugindro. The other folk I saw turned out to be from Effective Television, sent by Sunzu. But I did hear Reuben perform a Tangkhul song on his ----. He said he was the last and only person to play this old instrument. He had to make it himself.

Where did the TV crew come from?

We tried some sekmai. I presented it as somewhat like sake but the consensus was it was more like vodka. What do I know.


BIKI AND USHA”S LUNCH MENU

Tangkhul Naga Chicken Stew
Haogi Yen Chamthong

Kabui Naga Pork Blood Sausage
Hao Ok Marin

Fried Rou Fish
Rou Ataoba

Pureed Rou Fish Curry
Rou Atoiba

Steamed Whole Potsangbam Mustard Greens
Potsangbam Yela Ang’nganba

River Shrimp Fritters with Winged Prickly Keaf and False Coriander
Khajing Mukthrubi Bora

Banana Tree with Fermented Fish
Laphu Iromba

Cooked Heibung fruit
Heibung Thongba

KD Rice

Taothabi Lake Red Rice
Taothabi Chak

Fragrant Sticky White Rice
Chahou Angouba

Morning: SHOW AND TELL WITH FARMERS’ KIDS

We drive to Luwangsangbam Village. The Border Security Force camp looms over the little farmhouse.

My cousin Usha receives us. We put down our things. I say hello to Pabungmacha and his farmer friend, the amazing Jugindro.

I am worried. Erin is running a temperature. But at least we have a doctor on hand. Dr. Usha, the farmer’s wife, gives her some pills and we put her to bed.

Then we walk over to Biki and Usha’s Reliance School. Zette, Bonnie, Yoshiko and I peek into the classes. They are full of bright young faces, all clean and happy-like. It seems unlikely they are like this merely for us. Biki is really a most capable fellow. I love the guy.

The kinds are as wide-eyed as Asian children can possible get. Tee hee. Their first white people I am sure. Wonder how they will tell their parents and friends. There aren’t really any words for white man.

They sing for us, clap their hands. Usha proudly points out the kids from the different tribes, the kids of Nepali ancestry. Multicultural. I am impressed. We hand out coloring pens, crayons, candy. Yoshiko videotapes from outside the window. She comes in and sings a Japanese nursery rhyme, patting the children’s little hands gently. Bonnie plays Head-Shoulders-Toes with the littlest ones. Ah the universal language of kids-games…

Morning: OJA KHELCHANDRA'S MANUSCRIPTS COLLECTION

I love the approach to Pabung’s house. The lane lined with bamboo. The flowering shrubs. The little houses you can see fleetingly behind them as you drive. The river snaking by his house.

Pabung is all dressed up to receive his guests. Such a gentleman. His sons Deben and Tombiraj by his side. We take off our shoes and enter his study.

I see he has taken some manuscripts out and laid them out carefully for his guests to look at. They are large handmade paper about 6 inches high and about 15 inches long. All are in Meitei Mayek, save for one, which Pabung gleefully points out is in Burmese. “They used the paper they captured from us in the War of 1819", he said, grinning, looking like Yoda. Another manuscript has a large fanciful drawing in black and red ink of a man – a physiological chart, Pabung tells us.

Pabung alternates between English and Manipuri. I try to translate. He speaks of the Four Gods, Koubru in the Northwest, Marjing in the Northeast, Wangbren in the Southeast and Thangjing in the Southwest. Why those orientations and not NSEW like all normal people? Mike wants to know. There must be an interesting answer but we are stumped. Pabung included. I wonder if that has something to do with magnetic north? Les wonders if there is a star in one of these directions Manipuris have taken their orientations from?

Pabung tells of Marjing and the story of his winged steed. And how his wings were clipped, so domesticating the horse and bringing the game of Polo to the Manipuris. Maybe we can go visit Marjing’s shrine at Hei’Ngang if that local politician ever returns my call. (Who am I kidding? No one returns calls in Manipur. They merely say days later, Oh, I heard you called. Thank you very much.)

I speak heartbrokenly of my failure to bring John. It will always remain for me the biggest failure of this trip. Maybe another group with him and Gene at the Rubin? After all Tamo Ratan and I seemed to have gotten some place with Gene in New York when we talked to him about setting up a manuscripts digitizing center in Manipur.

Despite my self-imposed rule of merely giving an immersive experience and not imposing any obligations on my friends, I take the opportunity to ask if we could all work together on a manuscripts project when we get back to New York. For one of my strategic objectives is to build a Manipur support circle with my friends. It is lonely without a community and, hey, the gals refuse any more help with their phanek sarongs already.

We leave, Bonnie taking pictures of the mothballs Pabung uses to preserve his 1000s of manuscripts.

Pabung see us to our cars and offers to walk us through Kangla Fort this afternoon. Boy, how can one refuse? But I have a chock-full schedule that keeps changing. But I say yes, and decide to worry about the scheduling later. Pabung will not hear of calling the Archaeological people; he will go and personally get permission. I say OK.

There is a way to do things here. Some will and must change. Some must not. Who decides what and how?

Night : EVENING WITH MANIPURI FILMMAKERS

I had enjoyed the lunch I was invited to by the Mamikon filmmakers last summer. So I asked them to do another one. Cook by themselves and just hang and eat.

So there we are at Pabung Deben’s. The video and film projection are all set up. I am peeved that Iche Roma and Ta-Tomba have called in sick. After all, I got the projector to screen “Paokhum Ama” just so they could discuss it with the group. I say I think I may cancel it. I think I pissed off Eigya Sarat as he had taken a lot of trouble getting the print from his office on a holiday weekend. I can be such a drama queen.

We screen Eigya Syam’s “Orchids of Manipur.” Les thinks it is a pity is was not in its original 35mm. I remark that the soundtrack features Langathel Thoinu, who had regaled us with her coy flirtatious folk song our first evening.

I decide to screen one of Ken Burns films on baseball. Mike introduces. But the film goes on and on. Turns out “Our Game”, the first episode was two hours not one. I should’ve known better, Duh.

People drift off. Ken Burns can be such a snore even in the best of circs. People gather in the open air kitchen, one by one, Yoshiko takes over the stirring of the large wok of chicken from Sunzu. We start tasting, as we are getting ravenous. Zette even refuses me a taste from her plate. I’ll get back at her in New York.

Whew. Decide to stop dear old Ken. Have dinner instead. Some people have been sneaking drinks in desperation. What PBS will do to innocent folk the world over.

Afternoon: LES’ WALKING TOUR OF YAISKUL

Teja takes Les on another walk. This time around the neighborhood. They cross the bridge at Keisamthong and drop in at his house. They had Tamenglong tea there I learn.

Noon: YOSHIKO ARRIVES

I wonder how tired she is. I remember her asking how she might fly from Shannon to Imphal. Now, had anyone posed that question ever before?

Yoshiko looks the same. In black and white elegance. The Secret Service people check her in.

In the car Yoshiko tells me there were three mosquitoes that hitched a ride in the plane. I laugh but I think, Oh no! Will that mean malaria from Kolkata?

Yoshio starts taking pictures. She thinks Imphal looks like Havana. All tired, peeling and left behind – that really must be like Havana. I concur. The Uplands is under an embargo of sports, come to think of it.

Noon: SANA KEITHEL

I later heard they didn’t stay long at Chingmeirong. Some went shopping at the women’s market. Too bad I could not go with them and show them my favorite nooks and crannies where they sell dolls, wire baskets, clay pots, and bugs.

Morning: TINKAO RAGWANG WORSHIP

The service had already begun when we got to the Kabui Naga village in Chingmeirong. It is a lovely morning. There are loads of shoes outside on the steps. Must be a lot of people here today.

It is a spanking new community hall. It is large, airy and filled with light. The windows are of stained glass, plain green and blue panes. About a hundred worshippers are sitting in the congregation, women on the left, men on the right. The men wear white scarves. The women are in black and white striped phanek sarongs. They have plain black borders, not embroidered, I point out to Zette. She wants one. She wants everything she sees. I should talk, for I want a white scarf myself.

Tamo Gangmumei comes up to me and we seat the women with the rest. Les and I sit with the men. A young man is at the pulpit. A man behind me whispers that he is announcing the successful end to a religious course some young men and women have taken. Tamo Gangmumei leans across Les and asks me to go up and introduce the group. I do so, taking Les with me to speak on behalf of the group. I worry I might appear sexist to the rest.

After my intro, Les speaks. But they want more, so I call the rest up one by one and they speak to the crowd. The choir then sings, a lilting song, a Capella, accompanied only by a large brass gong. Tinkao Ragwang looks on from the altar above, wreathed in scarves and flowers, and swirled with incense. I cannot make out what the deity looks like but there is an abstract brass tic-tac-toe design with a sun and a moon in the top and bottom segments. We go up to the shrine and offer flowers. Everyone kowtows gamely to Tinkao Ragwang, bad knee or not. Lovely. I become a devout atheist.

We have tea afterwards on the lawn. Putting all good manners aside, I ask if I can buy some scarves. I am delighted we can buy them for 50 rupees each. One dollar. But they refuse to take money so I give an additional offering on behalf of the group. But can we get some of the traditional ones with the borders I ask? Mike wants some as gifts. A handsome woman who knew my mother and brother promises to round up a few. You can’t really buy these, I gather.

Dave and I rush off to pick up Yoshiko. The others stay on for a walk through the village. The Rongmei elders want to meet them, Tamo Gangmumei tells me.

Morning: ERIN’S MARTIAL ARTS INTRODUCTORY LESSON

Thang-Ta girl is off! Motcha came to pick her up. She was in her black tracksuit and the yellow khudei sash I had bought in the market for just this. She looks great. I will get the scoop on her first one-on-one session later.

Apparently Hula is at the home of my school busy Sunderlal. Haven’t seen him in donkey’s years.

Afternoon: LES PRESENTS HIS FILMS

Naocha has the garlic heads ready. Dave had brought them by earlier. Why? He asks. Just wait, I say, Sphinx-like.

There are about 15 men and women in our living room. The stairs is their balcony, they say. The mats ion the front is Gandhi-class, I say.

Amrik Singh calls. He is 5 minutes away. I tell him I will wait for him and promptly forget. I start the film without him. But he misses only the credits.

Les burns the garlic over the charcoal brazier. He has it brushed with oil and lightly salted. I hear hungry groans during the roast pork sequence. Manipuris are such carnivores, despite their puritan Vaishnavite exterior. They love the sausage making part too. The phallic or excretory symbolism plays a part too no doubt.

Why the garlic? one asks. I want to go beyond the two dimensions of cinema, Les replies. Also it is fun, he adds.

How would you make a film on fermented fish? Another asks. Much laughter. The ingredient is a good-natured national embarrassment food. Les replies, all earnest, serious filmmaker. Nice.

We run off with Devadutta to Michelle’s for dinner. The filmmakers stay on to watch Les’ film on Lightnin’ Hopkins. He had given a copy to Dave, who was thrilled at the gift.

Afternoon: MIKE PRESENTS BASEBALLS

In a sun-dappled corner of the garden, by the grove of khujai-wa bamboo, we sit and talk baseball. Jitan is here, all grins. So is Ratan, his quiet face lighting up with anticipation. The demure baseball girls, Bhanu and Rinasori, hide a restrained energy I think.

We are late. The second cameraman is late.

Teja crouches, baseball cap turned around on his head. Mike asks the second camera to film him shooting the crowd.

I bring out the baseballs I had hidden away. We have Teja shoot Mike as she joins us and gives the baseballs to the players. I bring out the Ken Burns tapes. Happy happy.

Pabung Khelchandra calls and says he is going to Mandalay on Tuesday. Could we meet Monday? Now he tells me. But it is a chance in a lifetime to meet him. I will change my schedule again.

Dave is getting nervous at my schedule. And the rest too. Maybe I should not have shown anyone the tentative schedule, Flaherty Seminar style. But I know my friends will yell at me. But, Lordy, why are we so literal and time-bound? Maybe Tamo Somo has a point when he quotes Lin Yutang and calls punctuality an American vice.

Afternoon: ERIN’S OJA BORIBA

Motcha came on his bicycle. Erin hopped on, shopping bag in hand. In it were a bunch of bananas, incense, a crisp hundred-rupee note, and a scarf she brought from New York. She went off for her initiation ceremony with Oja Debabrata, her martial-arts teacher. Pabung Khelchandra will be waiting there. These martial-arts folks are disciplined and well on time, unlike the rest of the country. Pabung has only 15 minutes as he will be a chief guest at the handover of Kangla Fort at 3.

I send Teja to cover.

Morning: DANCE CLASS WITH RASE

We go to see Rase teach her dance class at her home studio in Soram Leirak. She had promised Saturday would be a class for Homos as she cheerfully call her gay students. That’s what gay boys here call themselves too. Homos. With some rancor at the homophobia I am sure, but also empowering without being ironic. I love that.

Maybe some of the boys were gay but there were mostly girls. We sit on the floor on reed mats, except for Les and Mike who sit on stools on account of their bad knees. Rase puts them through the routine. She seems to be perfomance-bent so I keep insisting that she continue teaching: correcting, stopping, repeating, whatever. The dancers are good.

They perform portions of Basanta Ras. A shaman dance for weavers. The Cricket Dance of the Kabuis. I give short commentaries. A public education piece on HIV/AIDS.

Mike leans over and says she finds them looking so Indonesian. I look. She is right. Funny I didn’t really see this before. I have always talked about the affinity with Southeast Asia but without any images in my mind really, just abstractions.

My friends ask question and take notes diligently in their little Flower School notebooks. Rase replies to me. I ask her to face them answer them directly. Long sentences, not mere a Yes, a No, an Uh-huh. She is not used to this. But then getting Manipuris to speak directly to strangers about themselves, their work, their concerns and aspirations is Objective One for the Manipuri side of the project. I am pleased.

INDIAN PRIME MINISTER ARRIVES

Imphal is shut down till 12 midnight. I do not know what this means. I have kept a fairly light program this weekend. Tried not to set up anything that would require prep on the part of hosts, as they might have to be canceled.

Of course having government cars from Pabung Deben will mean we can get around. But flying a flag in front of our vehicles might be obnoxious. I want no incidents.

Night : DINNER AT MICHELLE’S

Michelle’s dinner spread is fab. But people take some time to enjoy a drink. They are parched and I can’t have alcohol served in our house when Ima is around.

Tamo and I sneak a cigarette on the rooftop. We discuss the ASEAN Motor Car Rally that is passing through en route to Burma on Wednesday. I really want them to see the rally. After all, a big part of my approah to Ralph was that this region is opening up, especially to Southeast Asia, with which Manipur has always had historical and trade ties. What better demonstration of my point than the car rally?

MICHELLE’S DINNER MENU

Kangsoi Soup
Mana Masing Kangsoi

Rou Steamed in Turmeric Leaves
Yaing’ngang Manaa Rou

Stewed Tomatoes Sauce
Khaamen Asinba Thongba

Mustard Greens with Fermented Soy Beans
Hang’gaam Hawaijaar

Black Beans
Chak’hwai

Lentils Cake with Sweetened Milk
Madhurjhan

Gathered Wild greens with Rice
Uti Asangba

Steamed Mixed Seasonal Vegetables
Mana Masing Ang’nganba

Garlic Chives and Lentil Cake
Maroi Paknam

Lilypod Seeds with Chili Fish
Thangjing Ametpa

Black Rice Pudding
Chahou Amuba Sangomkher

Lemon Compote
Champra Thongba

Steamed Mixed Seasonal Vegetables
Mana Masing Ang’nganba

Rice
Chak

Rock Salt on the side
Meitei Thum

Late Afternoon: LES VISITS MONKEY TEMPLE

We wait for our cars. Les and I poke around the toy-vendors. I pick up a photograph of a Khero painting mounted in a plexiglass box. It is of Emoinu, the Old Hearth Goddess on the back of Charamba as he carries her home to his mother. I must look for the originals. I think he is cool. A real Outsider Artist.

He wants to go for a walk. It must bug him to have to check in with me for all he does. But I can have no unpleasant episode here or I am dead meat in New York and Manipur projects will take a long breather.

I sent Les on with Teja. I heard they walked through the Monkey temple and had tea at Kalimai Hotel. That sounds like a cultural moment to me.

Afternoon: SANJENBA AT THE PALACE TEMPLE

Drove on to Gobindaji. Forgot to write a note to the Executive Board as Chongtham Manihar had said. No problem. I think they were just giving each other work to do.

The kids were all in Krishna gear. Gold silk, peacock feathers. My aunt Inebema Mangi played Krishna’s mother. She was in Indian garb, a delicate gold wrap over a patterned blue dress. The kind of startling color and design combination that only India can pull off. I think she has remained beautiful at every age. Like Lillian Gish. It’s her last turn in this role, she says, making it sound like a rather practiced line.

The story went like this. Krishna in gold costume, his brother Balaram (in emerald) go with their pals (all dressed like Krishna to make a neat theological point) to tend their family cows. There was unregulated child labor back then it seems. Anyway, their wicked uncle Kangsa, the neighboring King, sends his demons to kill the children. After all, it had been prophesied to the mustachioed blackguard that Krishna would grow up to kill him.

Were there like 80-100 of the children? Some barely danced as they looked but 3. But in the older ones, oh up to like 11 or so, one could see the hand of the great masters. Their movements took the dance of the elders and modified it to suit children’s coordination skills and natures. They made it fun for the kids. The dance included cartwheels and eating and puppets and monsters and lots of chasing around. Why else would they put up with all this dress-up nonsense and Dad trying out his new digital camera?

Up to this, all the action took place in the temple mantop. That included my aunt breaking character to lean back to tell me she can’t do Cousin Sanatomba’s memorial lunch on Tuesday. There was some lunar enumeration that made it inauspicious. Would Wednesday work? Well, I guess I’d have to check with the University and unravel all that too, wouldn’t I? Thanks a lot Inebema. Of course I didn’t say any of that, just mumbled a kind of a Yes-Ma’am.

And oh yes, Teja let on that he was a pitcher! He points out a pretty young girl with long black hair. “She plays baseball too,” he said. Mike and I called her over. Her name is Rinasori. I leave Mike with her and go about my busybody business. Mike called me over and said she might have a good story in Rinasori for our film. Whoo-whoo!


QUICK BOX LUNCH MENU
Temple Board Office

Manipuri Kedgeree
Meitei Khechri

Lentils seasoned with Vegetable Ash
Mangal Uti

Cauliflower and Potatoes
Kobi Thamchetmanbi

Banana
Laphoi


Anyway, back to the story and the fun. Then, taking a leaf from the Lai Haraoba festival as Ima pointed out, everybody went out into the open. Krishna and Balaram scrambled onto a little temple doggycart. The idols of Krishna and Balaram had been moved out of their usual inner sanctum to the left, out onto the temple porch for the occasion. It was their day after all. The idols looked down, looking a little frazzled I thought, on all the other children and the noisy throng of parents and devotees as they went around the Temple and out the back onto the temple green.

Temple marshals in white turbans and dressed in flowing white pheijom lined up the squirming golden mass of kids to form a semblance of a circle. Then the first of the hapless demons, Mahisasur the Buffalo arrived. Balaram – the older boy in emerald – dance-hopped around him and struck the papier-mâché animal head with his little silver plough. All the children then rained blows on the Buffalo as he roared his way back to the temple, scaring some of the smaller kids in his path into the arms of their parents.

USOP AT BIJOY GOBINDA

Dang. No Udukhon at Bijoy Gobinda Temple. I was really looking forward to it. I guess I will have to see it some other day.

Instead we looked at the Temple as we walked around it, clockwise, as per tradition. we watched the folks set up a vast lunch on banana leaves. Les wanted to try the singju with lotus roots. I don’t know if it is a good idea. It is uncooked after all, and next to security, it is their health I worry about the most.

VISIT WITH RATAN THIYAM
Tour of Chorus Repertory Theater, Samusang

Les looks good in pumyat and pheijom. I heard someone say he looks like Jesus.

The women wore the phaneks by mother gave them yesterday. And the wraps they bought with Ranjana. There was some consternation that they had to keep their sarongs on all day. I lent Zette and Erin belts to keep them up. Leather, but I decided the god will understand.

Ratan’s staff was waiting. There were fishing-nets in the river. We walked through their open-air gallery, and looked at stills from their past productions. Erin is excited to see pictures from Longshanei, his production of Antigone. She says Manipur has had the largest number of productions of Antigone. Go figure. But with the armed rebellion in Manipur, is it any surprise that a story that posits the rightful rebellion to the established State authority should strike the imagination of its theater directors?

We had tea with Ratan and his Board Members. We go to his auditorium. Like any in New York. Better than most really. Mike and I sat and talked baseball. I noticed Les took to heart my remark and touched the stage and then his forehead before walking on it.

It is a wonderful place. Flowers bloomed everywhere in the perfect Fall weather.

Night: WELCOME DINNER AND SCREENINGS

Dinner went well. Delicious. Les, Zette, Erin, Bonnie – all troop in and get the fish dish with the spiked chilies that the cook made for the locals. They seem to prefer it. He he.

We screen films after dinner. Manipuri and American films, natch. We huddle around little charcoal braziers in their hidden open-air sangoi in the garden.

I don’t remember who exactly, but some cry during REAL, Dave’s 10-minute film about people telling of their experiences with HIV. Zette tells him she remembers “We Shall Overcome” from her student days: “It is amazing how many different causes in so many different countries seem to have used this song. I am sure the problem of HIV will be overcome.” I am moved.

Les’ “Gap-Toothed Women” is a welcome freshener. Judith Helfand was right. There are gap-toothed women everywhere. They loved it.

Dave: Will you make a film on gap-toothed men?

Evening
ORIENTATION DINNER

Dave, Gope, Biki, Usha, Ranjana, Lancha, and Daoji stay on for dinner. It is a mess but the food is good. I realize the folks who work around here have no idea what a buffet is. I count spoons, plates, serving bowls. Iche Roma jumps in and gets more bowls and side plates. Nice but a mess nonetheless.

MENU

Fish Cakes
Ngaa Bora

Arrowhead fritters
Koukha Bora

Wild Sour Apple Sauce
Heitop Ambon

Gathered Wild Greens Rice
Uti Asangba

Fragrant White Rice baked in Bamboo
Utong-Chaak Chaahou Ang’ngouba

Fragrant Deep Purple Rice baked in Bamboo
Utong-Chaak Poireiton Chaahou Amuba

Yellow Lentils
Muk

Steamed Pumpkin
Mairen ang’ngaanba

Chili Mashed Potatoes with Fermented Fish
Iromba

Evening
TRADITIONAL MUSIC CONCERT

MOIRANG KANGLEIROL BALLAD AND PENA PERFORMANCE
Mangangsana And Company

KHULLANG ISEI AND KHUNUNG ISEI
Folksong by Langathel Thoinu and Khangembam Mangi

Priti had told me about Mangangsana’s Pena Orchestra. Sounds good to me, I said.

So Manganagsana plays in our sangoi, but with only one other young man. Wonderful to see this kind of youthful study and innovation of traditional music. They were a tad nervous when the great pena player Oja Mangi showed up – uninvited. To check up on them, I joked, not realizing how close to the mark my remark was.

Met Langathel Thoinu for the first time. I had been entranced by her singing in Eigya Syam’s films, one of which I hope to show during the week. She said she wouldn’t be singing but had brought two lovely students of hers.

We gathered around little charcoal stoves. Mangangsana and his pena partner presented the section on the Thoibi’s Exile to Burma from the Moirang Kangleirol Ballads. Had no idea such drama could be presented sitting down. Bonnie and Erin both whispered to me parts of the plot simply from the singing. Corrected me actually. I shouldn’t give my day job, had I but one, to be an interpreter.

Ta-Tomba looked at me. Then got up to give some money to the singers. Such a gentleman. Mike wants to see his and Iche Roma’s films together once I had mentioned, in a flight of hyperbole, that they were Manipur’s Tracy and Hepburn. We shall see. Paokhum Ama might be nice. It is short and Iche Roma is at the height of her beauty then. But I can’t remember if the print I saw has subtitles.

Great concert but, wait! Like a Ginsu Knife infomercial, there’s more!

Out on the moonlit lawn, with a mera-lamp hanging on a bamboo pole above them, we talked about what we had just heard, as the singers got into their cars.

What is Khullang Isei? Improvisatory love songs sung by boy and girl to one another, likening the objects of their desires to flowers, music, bees.

Khunung Isei? The same but without the nature allusions and imagery.

From the dark of the rear seat of his car, Oja Mangi begins to sing to Mike, asking Langathel Thoinu to reply on her behalf.

Oh no! The old coot is at it again! Langathel Thoinu feigns distress.

Oja Mangi sang of his besotment.

Langathel Thoinu: I can’t believe he is doing this to me.

Oja Mangi sings of his old man’s teenage crush on Mike.

Langathel Thoinu is finally driven to sing back, On Mike’s behalf, she calls him a shameless old codger.

It is magic. Mike turned to me and said: It is wonderful. Can our trip get any better? She asks.

Ranjana takes them shopping at Rani’s I hear Rani wasn’t in. Too bad, as they would have enjoyed meeting her. I told them to buy at least one white wrap that they can use for all Manipuri ritual events. They went hog-wild I hear.

Ima gives her presents to my friends. One formal striped phanek each for the women and a woolen shawl for Les. I give Little Flower School notebooks from my grade school – hee hee - since they have taken to calling me Little Flower. Is that La Fiorella as in Da Mayor, I wonder?

Aside: When I went to buy these books it went something like this:

Hottie Salesman: What subject notebooks do you want?

Me: Huh?

Hottie Salesman: Arithmetic? Handwriting? What class?

Me: Any.

Hottie Salesman: What class?

Me: Any class.

Hottie Salesman: I mean, how old is the kid?

Me: It’s for me.

Much laughter. Should I have been embarrassed?

So. They are here! I see Zette, Mike, Bonnie, Erin and Les walk into the airport foyer. It took a bit to adjust to seeing them here. It’s been almost 20 years since some of them have said they wanted to visit Manipur.

I remember Tim saying to me as I was leaving for Manipur that he thought this project was a gamble but one that was long overdue. And without my explaining what it was I was trying to do.

Took Bonnie, Mike and Les to Pabung Deben’s. Love those mosquito curtains! I was really quite touched that Pabung took such a personal interest in their comfort. And impressed too.

What a hoot. Got teased mercilessly by the market women when I went to get new curtains for Erin and Zette’s rooms upstairs. That was after Nishi drives me to that pathetically hilarious state-run handloom store – the one where that tried to drive us away to another store when Ima and I dropped in the other day. It was closed of course.

Talked to Zette, Bonnie and Les this morning at the Fairlawn today. Les got in the day before but sounded as groggy as Z and B, who had just got in, did. So happy happy they are here. It seems a bit more real now, this Field trip.

Pandeyji, the driver, was a hoot, according to Priti. He witheringly thanked Priti for finally telling him the two people he was picking up at Dum Dum today were women. As for Les, Priti asked Pandeyji what he looked like. He apparently said: Just like me, just taller. Heehee.

Z lost a suitcase. Seems that BA has a track record for this. Told her to call Milan and get him on the case. I worry my dried cranberries for Thanksgiving Dinner was in it. My mother wonders if her sweater was in it. Zette is happy to go shopping for new clothes and/or wear a sarong all the time here. Funny people we are.

Daughters Day today. Never realized how huge it is. Just like Christmas. Went shopping for gifts for Idomcha, Khambi and Naobi. Fish for lunch of course. I was supposed to cook but ducked out, painting Erin’s room upstairs. Hehe.

The girls came, all decked up, with the children in tow. I introduced Khambi’s boys to Frisbee. Sweet day.

ZETTE: This is perfect - and your mother got her way (getting me to stay there) without making the others jealous, ha ha!  I'm very flattered.  My sister was thrilled that her living room is in your website - it took her a minute to recognize it.

Much has happened since on this score.  In addition to my anxiety about keeping you in the Assam Rifles guest house in light of the rape and murder case against the Army that exploded last August, it looks like the Prime Minister is coming on the 21st. To talk about this case.  So there will be scores of army and other G-men coming in for this.  It also jeopardizes my alternate bookings at the Imphal Hotel which, being state-owned, has a nasty practice of bumping reservations when pooh-bahs show up unannounced. I don't think any of you would take too kindly to being asked to move out for a night or two because of the PM's visit.

So, since the hotels here are really not very good, I have decided to take up on the offer of the Deputy Chief Minister's offer to host you in his official quarters.  I am very pleased with this as this is much better than anything I had expected.  Security is excellent of course and you all get your own rooms. Les, you get your own bathroom and Mike, Bonnie and Yoshiko has two bathrooms between the three of you. You also have email there and Manipuri cable which you must watch. Your immediate contact there is Dave the Minister's younger son, whose short film will be shown at MoMA's Documentary Fortnight next February. So he is very excited at meeting all of you since you are all filmwallahs. He is 27 and claims to have whiskers.

Although Mr. Thoudam Deben, the Minister, has offered to host all of you, I have also decided to put up Zette and Erin at my mother's house. This is primarily because Erin's martial arts teacher is nearby and she has to be out of the house very early. And Zette is an early riser and we have temple bells in the wee hours because of Mangrati - some ritual this month I will tell you about later.  It will not be as comfortable as at the Minister's house but, on the other hand,  Z and E will meet our charming milkmaid in the mornings. I hope this is OK with the two of you, Z and E!

Can’t do an usop for Idhou Sanakhya. Now that would been 108 dishes and something to see when Inema Mangi is gone with it. So we will go with a memorial for cousin Sanatomba. Too bad I never got to see him grown up. Quite a stud in his leather jacket.

My aunt almost broke down talking about him. The idealist of the family gunned down by none other than my other cousin’s army. Not sure which separatist group Sanatomba belonged to; obviously not the UNLF. Must find out. Interesting where the lines fall with the old guard families when it comes to the secessionist forces.

I am happy I am doing this for Sanatomba. I had wanted that in the first place anyway.

Now, the tricky part – do we invite the drag queen from whose bed he was dragged out and killed?

Two other queens will come though. And two princesses. That’s enough. I love to see them together.

Pabung Deben will put them up in his bungalow. Of course Zette and Erin here with us. I am thrilled – couldn’t ask for more.

ZETTE TO MICHELLE: Dear Michelle, I am looking at some recipes to make there.  Today I bought some silver paper cups for little cakes and some candy decorations.  I am also bringing you an oven thermometer.  

I am thinking about what we can make using the ingredients there.  Do you have a mixie (like a food processor).  Somi's favorite cake is made with eggs, sugar, whole oranges cooked and then ground up, and ground almonds, but it is hard to do by hand.  I will bring some cooking chocolate, even though I know that is not a taste that people there might like or be used to.  We will have fun, and experiment with ingredients to make something nice.  I also bought some small disposable cake loaf pans so that everyone in our "class " can have a cake to take home to their family.  

Please let me know if there is anything else you would like.  I will be shopping again on Thursday 11 Nov., before I leave.  
I am looking forward to meeting you!  Zette

Two kittens left with Naobi for Khangabok Village. Mother Imocha is distraught. I told Ima, I got an email reply from Zette and that she agreed taking the kitten to the US would make the local newspapers like the box turtle she found in her garage did. Z thought Zeyba wants a Birman kitten too (are they that? I suspect so.) But how? How how?

Ima wants me to tell Z the other two cuties know how to eat bread and can live in the US. Heehee.

The Minister is not picking up his cellphone. Looks like the status quo will persist – some guys have been bought. This is bad news. And Tamo Nara won’t be back till the 7th. He did get my message to bring me some baseballs. But, yknow, I just want them get over their politicking and pay attention to my accommodation woes, dammit.

For some reason, maybe to unify the country, India has only one time zone despite its spread. Manipuris get up at 4, ring all sorts of temple bells, receive visitors by 6, do all their work by 9 and spend the rest of the day chewing kwa and gossiping. Bedtime is early which is just as well since there's nothing to do at night. Our videographer Teja says he can't ever make it to the 9 o'clock news. And I thought Zette was bad.

Erin, your thang-ta starts at 6. So bring an alarm clock, y'all.

ZETTE: Yay, a country of morning people!!   I am getting an official speaker's bureau slide presentation on the Newark Museum, with a script which of course I will improvise on and tweak for the audience.  It's about the whole museum collection so it should be interesting even to me.  It is supposed to last for about an hour, which should suit.  
It's grim here, I hope the first election you vote in goes better than this one.  

MICHELLE TO ZETTE: dear zette: how are u? do forgive me 4 taking my time in writing-i have just about gotten net savvy.

i,m michelle somy,s neice d eagerly looking forward to your baking delights.since the informal class is going ti take place at my house i,d like 2 give u some details-i thought a late afternoon session would be nice so that we could end with tea, it will be a class of about 10 or so, i have 2 ovens -1 is 18 in and the other is 21 in so u can decide the dishes accordingly,

also it would be nice if at least 1 of  the dishes be something that can be made with ingredients available here.

i'd like to know what dishes you have decided.from my side it would be great if u get me a mixture of candies etc to decorate my cakes the money 4 which i could reimburse here. 

hoping to hear from u

Three martial arts students from Hula showed up. They are relentlessly efficient, unlike all the other losers here. They think Erin should start on Saturday (= Thangja, the Day of the Sword). She will need a ritual then to ask Oja Debabrata to accept her as a student. I will need to get a bunch of bananas, a coconut, incense and a scarf. But the actual lessons will now start on Sunday with a one-on-one basics with mocha, one the guys who came. Group lessons from Monday. She will need a tracksuit, no shoes, a sash and a towel. I must remember to email her about this.

I bought her a nice yellow khudei for a sash from the women’s market. And we got 5 phaneks Ima wants to give the women as a present.

4 Nov

Michelle wants to do her dinner on Saturday, not Sunday. So I will have to move up the baking class as well. It drives me nuts that she has not emailed Zette what she wants or needs.

It will be fun to have Tamo Somo there. He says he knows all the theory but none of the practice of baking. He has a book he "forgot" to return to the Central Library, or so he says.

Worked on Michelle’s dinner menu:

Rou fish wrapped in turmeric leaves
Another fish dish – what??
Mustard greens with fermented soybeans
Steamed mixed vegetables
Ametpa or some standard chili-fish relish
Cooked lemons
Pastry from their cooking class

W won last night. I got up at 3, awakened by the sound of drums. I am in Manipur, on the Myanmar border. The power had come back on at last, sometime after I had gone to bed. I had been waiting all evening for news of the elections. CNN carried the news in their coverage of international reaction to the news. I hear from Schroeter, Chirac, and the Alliance of the Willing. I turn off the TV.

I was saddened by the news, as I had found Kerry to be a more honorable man. He could not, no, I felt no one could have done more long-term damage at the Presidency than W. Yet I felt a little relieved for Kerry. After all, what could he have done if he had been elected? No Clinton he, I thought bitterly, what would Bush-Lite have done with the jihadistic Republicans controlling the Senate? Would the effluvia of the preceding four disastrous years sure to ripely flow into the next four years be blamed on the Democrats and set the stage for another faux-statesman in 2008 and beyond? Perhaps a Bush win might be not such a bad thing after all for the Democratic Party if it wants to offer a real choice to the American people. Still, as a firm believer in small measures and a first-do-no-harm approach for critical patients, I had rooted for Kerry. And who knows what may lie around the bend?

No one likes to hear an I-told-you-so. But may I go on record with my harangue over the last few months? Many of my friends supported Howard Dean’s candidacy but gradually warmed to the intonations of Democratic pundits from on high that he was unelectable. Hearing this, I had been driven more and more to a conclusion in the other direction. And that was, that Howard Dean was not only electable, but was the most electable, and even perhaps the only electable of the eight in the Democratic primaries.

“So what is the record of your political prognostications?” I remember a Kerry-supporting friend asking, mildly annoyed at one of my usual Deaniac ramblings. I don’t quite recall if I fell silent, or reminded my Baby-Boomer friend that in 2000 I had said, “A vote for Nader is a vote for Nader”. Though I had lived in New York for over half my life, longer here than in any other part of the world, I am not a US citizen. So my political adjudications /admonitions come free of the final responsibility as well as its attendant denials.

In all the 20 plus years I had lived in America, only the Dean campaign had struck me as the truly radical and deeply political movement I had witnessed. It seemed refreshingly free of ideology and ideologues, as other radical movements had been. Young people throwing sleeping bags into their cars and driving to Vermont; a friend of a friend who gave up his job to work for Dean; bleary eyed logorrheaic bloggers: all captured my imagination.

Truly, at last, I felt, I was seeing a real democratic movement. The people were, for once, creating their own candidate, their own agenda, dollar by dollar, blog by blog, volunteer by volunteer. Here was a swarm of citizens, composed of individuals all acting independently to take on a collective form of ever-changing shape and size. Here was a movement, I thought, that truly grew out of the Internet generation.

When the Bush Camp publicly licked their chops at the prospect of a Dean candidacy, I smelt an underlying fear, a ploy to steer the Democrats away from the man they feared the most. After all, how many of the television commercials produced by the millions in the Republican coffers will be watched by an internet generation busy making their own websites and transmitting their own thoughts? How many self-justifying advisements of specious professionals and self-appointed consultants would they listen to? How would a Goliath do battle with of millions of dispersed Davids?

When Dean lost Iowa, I grieved as an older Baby Boomer might have at the news of the passing of Robert Kennedy. Most of my older Boomer friends were relieved, having concurred with the pronouncement of the unelectability of Dean. But I also I grieved how easily we were persuaded by questionable punditry to go for the “safer” more conventional Kerry.

Perhaps the Baby-Boomer generation that had led me all life had finally become staid, invested, “old”. We all grow old, if we are lucky. But the aging of the world’s first Youth generation, the one who been at the forefront of rock, psychedelia, sexual revolution, feminism, gay pride, environmentalism, yoga, and meditation, the generation that had so far continually redefined the very idea and boundaries of youth, brought with it its special poignancy.

Unable to go back to sleep, I headed, awash in brilliant moonlight, towards the music coming from the temple. Mangrati, the ritual of dawn in the month of Mera, was in full-throated swing. In the temple hall, I saw about twenty devotees in the candlelight. They sat on long rush mats. Two drummers, one a virtuosic eight-year old, accompanied the singers. I looked at the sarong-clad women sitting across from me and watched them sway gently to their own singing. Thoughts of the American Presidential elections disappeared with Sajik-Thaba, the Morning Star, in the temple dawn.

The Manipuris are a small people, a small culture always picked on by larger adversaries from the Burmese to the British to the Indians. Their folk tales are full of diminutive but wily heroes like Kong the Frog, who once declared war on the King. Of course, it was Frog’s own doing. He had sent his poor mother, a long-suffering widow who had grown to love her strange animal offspring, to ask for the Princess’ hand in marriage. After the King and his courtiers had recovered from laughing at hearing this preposterous proposal, the King had a good scheme of merriment. “If Kong the Frog defeats me in battle, he can have my daughter”, he declared, Then his soldiers took the widow by the nape and frog-marched her out of the palace so fast, traditional storytellers say, that her feet scarce touched the ground.

Frog, with his characteristic hubris, had accepted the King’s challenge, and then went to recruit his friends, the bees. The day came when Frog met the King and his army on the battlefield. “You may go first”, Frog grandly told the King. The King’s soldiers let fly their arrows, their fearsome arsenal darkening the sky. But Frog and his bees hid safely in the cracks in the earth. Then Frog unleashed his bees who swarmed all over the King and his soldiers. They stung them so hard till they ran away, swatting and flailing at their tiny and all-but-invisible adversaries. Then the triumphant Frog married the princess and ruled tha land for four years, surrounded by lobbyists.

Too early to watch the elections. And CNN is tiresome.

Biki came over. Together we knocked together a rough menu for his dinner menu. Maybe for the 22nd or 23rd? I told him he has to give a dinner as I expect him to have a working relationship with some of my friends in the future.

Blood sausage
One other red meat
Steamed Potsangbam Yela mustard greens
River shrimp kang’ngou with mukthrubi (wazzat? must ask D or KD)
One more herb; more if I’d let him
Hei ambon – not sure which.

Sekmai for cocktails.

Damn. Looks like the Prime Minister is coming. I went over to Imphal Guest house in case we get bumped at Assam Rifles. They too say that as a government outfit they are forced to cancel and not honor reservations and there are only 21 functional rooms out of 60! But it was heartening to meet Diana. I really like her – with her there we can do things beyond the norm.

Scooted over to Nirmala Hotel. The place of choice here apparently, and, oh, how dismal it was! Reasonably clean though, but the bazaar environs are shockingly bad. They say it is safe but how could one enjoy that peace of mind when it is a by-product of armed soldiers swaggering around, drunk on petty power?

Made a second back-up reservation nonetheless. Gonna cost me.

Watched "The Hours" with Ima. Lovely film. She remembered the time she could not bring her play Asangba Nongjaabi to a satisfying conclusion. She got up in the middle of the night and put on some music. As she paced the room, she said, my father got up. He was angry with her. He misunderstood me, she said.

She wants to read Virginia Woolf. Maybe I will ask Zette to bring a copy of A Room of One’s Own.

Ragini and I went to Tabungkhok Village in Patsoi to look for Mike and my Field of Dreams. I was still wearing a pheijom for Pabung Deben’s son’s wedding. The dusk brought with it an almost full moon. It was lovely. The villagers may donate some land, our guide, a sports fanatic she knows, told us. Mike will like it I think.

I had her drop me off at the Gour Lila near Daoji’s. I don’t think I've ever seen one before. It was a hoot. The kids all in Krishna costume playing out anecdotes from the life of Nimai. The mothers, dressed in saris fake Brajabasi accents. "Bandar jao!" one admonished the monkeys.

Came back to a dinner I had organized to taste some of Imo’s cooking. We tried Chicken Chamthong, plain, simple, steamed chicken, tribal style. The food was not a success but the "sekmai" experiment went well. At least if one can call it that, for my considered conclusion was that adding fresh lime or lime and sugar like cachaca does not work. The hot sekmai will work, but chilled and straight up is best. Like sake. Dhiren, Biki, Joy agreed. I have to figure out the menu soon. Not sure how though.

But I have decided that I will make a modern Manipuri menu. I want all traditional dishes, taken a notch down for chili and fish-bones, but presented Western style. This means putting the meat or fish entrée in the center, rice relegated to a side starch dish, a few veggies, a traditional hot sambal type, and a cooked fruit as a native special touch.

Ima is in a rage. They tore down the old Telegraph Building where Idhou Sanakhya was coronated. They were clearing the squatters to make way for the new Arts Center, we heard from the delegation of evicted women who showed up this morning. She got on the horn with the Director of Arts and the Deputy Chief Minister who apparently is calling the new Minister of Arts over. Some Commie boor apparently.

I am now taking this opportunity to urge her to call for the formation of a Landmarks Commission. Ima likes the info byte that Jackie O started the American one when Grand Central was in danger of being torn down. Was it when she was in the White House?, she asked. I said I didn’t think so; that it was after JFK had died. This insight into Jackie seemed to please her immensely.

Now she will call a press conference. Better to intro with this than Imasi Tombiyaima’s Ward in the Civil Hospital.

On a more savory note, Imo came by and we talked meals for my friends. All traditional dishes presented Western style: protein center stage, on center plate, if you will, and rice as a starch dish. We figured there are 5 basic techniques: phutpa, boiling; nganba, steaming; yaiba, grilling; ngouba, sautéing or stir frying; louba, roasting and taoba, frying. We will offer three of these per meal, with a soup thrown in. Oh and I think cooked fruit is a Meitei specialty. I told Imo we should publish the recipes as a book, or online at the very least.

Too bad Madhur was so rude, not returning my call after all I set up for her retrospective. At her request too. She would have enjoyed the food. But it is just as well or it might become just another regional variety of “Indian” food.

I can’t have Indians with their usual outlook towards Manipur in the group. I know it sounds racist but it would run counter to what I am trying to do with this Field trip: start to get the Meitei to say who they are to the world, with the minimum of some other culture’s interpretation. I am having a helluva time steering the Indiawallahs in the group away from what they already know about India. But how do I get to present the Manipur I want to? Maybe it exists more in my head than in reality. Like what Go Takamine said to Mani and me about his Okinawa: No, it’s not at all like that; my films show the Okinawa of my imagination.

It is so crucial to prep for globalization now – do we have like perhaps 20-30 years for this? I said to Ragini we could do some fun things during our lifetimes. She’s the best.

Met up with Jeannie off the Skytrain stop. She hadn’t called because she had to check her brother into this AIDS hospice. It’s nice when people explain why they dropped the ball. No need to apologize, just an acknowledgment is sufficient.

Maybe well work on Malcolm’s films together. Maybe extend Alan’s project into a multiseries. Whatever. I think I will show my 9/11 tape at the Press Club in December. Wonder if they can handle NTSC.

Manuel and she got on great. She thinks she might rent a house from him in Chiangmai for R&R writing. I am getting more and more serious about living part of the year in Chiangmai. Though my preference would be Chiangrai. That I have not been to either matters not a whit. Home is New York and somewhere else, as that article in the NY Times last week said.

But this should become a locus of activity in the region that is more arts friendly than Bangkok. Right next to Yunnan, Manipur, Laos, the Golden Triangle, with flights in from Chittagong - well, what more could one ask for. Plus I do like the Thais. Manuel says their smiles are meant to keep you at bay and their anger is intimate. Bay or no bay, I like their smiles.

Nice dinner with Manuel at this place off Soi Cowboy. Wonder what the effect being America’s R&R for 30 years has had on Thailand?

21h 00 EST. On the way to Seoul. What that time is in Korea I am not sure; my recent adoption of the Euro way of writing times does not help.

I am writing my first PowerPoint presentation for the folks in Manipur. Too bad they won’t have the Internet connections for me to tweak my website I prepared for the American side. Just additional work, says the lazy side of me. But PP is fun to use.

So how do I feel about this whole venture I am flying into? T was perceptive and touching. I talk junk with him most of the time: dating, annoying friends etc. Went by to pick up that convoluted anti-Bush T-shirt he had made; as convoluted as his speech... hehe.

Anyway he things it is a job long overdue, bringing as it does two halves of me, two parts of my history, two cultures. And this from a guy I rarely talk work with so I was grateful he saw what it was I was trying to do. He thinks it is a good investment.

Don't quite know what to make of M. This was our recent exchange - maybe the last if he gets too pissed off at my being so pissy.

From M: "I found the discussion too dull to sit out. What did you think of the movie? I'd love to see the performances in a theater but they didn't do much for me on screen despite some very nice camera work. Unusually, I think the film would really have benefited from some narration. To me the film got terribly repetitive and didn't seem to have any forward movement -- an object lesson in bad directing. Too harsh?"

From me: "I was disappointed and a little surprised that you left. I didn't even get a chance to give you the film.

I don't know about your comments being harsh but I think they are a bit beside the point. My intention in inviting you was to offer you a bit more exposure to M to add to your three days, introduce you to some more M'is and to some people, like you, who are interested in some aspect of M. At the risk of becoming repetitive myself, my involvement with your project will have to put the people of M as the first audience of the film, for reasons we have discussed that range from the aesthetic to the political to the personal. As you will have gathered from since our initial conversation in Central Park and subsequently from my Field trip website, the artists going with me are not do-gooders; they are not the usual development/religious missionaries coming to look at the all-too-evident ills of M'i society; nor are they coming to do the usual culture-shopping. I have asked them to give as equals to their peers. In the same vein, I would like to be involved in a project that strives to go beyond reportage on a compartmentalized problem. This is merely my POV; I am sure there are M'is you will meet who think differently."

Yeah the film on R was just OK and the discussion was dull and incomprehensible. R is so much better as a director. Where he is struggling with, I realized, is that no one else is trying to define his culture for the world-stage that he has to be on. I think I can help him. Amazingly he went along with the whole Natya Shastra thing. Is it that I simply don't know enough or is my mission of re-defining a cultural identity (ta-da!) going to be harder than I ever imagined?

M's film on HIV/Heroin/AIDS is not the first subject of choice for me. But how many people are interested in M to make a film? I would like to work with him if possible. Yoshiko thinks he is a little weird and that M is too interested in war. That was what we talked about sitting in that god-awful Whole Foods in that new AOL/Time Warner building. We could have been in Hong Kong.

Vic helped me pick out a book on genes for Pabung Macha. I would have preferred "Plants of the Gods" but it's hard to get.

My project with A is developing nicely. He wrote up my draft to send on to cultural Pooh-Bah. A is the quintessential Nice Jewish Boy.

"We met in July at Barbes for the Roy Smeck tribute featuring Elliott Sharp and a screening of my documentary film, "The Wizard of the Strings." You may recall that we spoke briefly on the phone about a week or so ago about a project SR and have recently begun work on.

The film is a timely one, as it addresses issues about ethnic identity and religious belief that, especially in the post-9/11 world, are truly urgent. To be specific, we are shaping our work around the following questions: Who are the Mz of the eastern Himalayas and why are they converting to Judaism? Are these tribes, found on both sides of the Indian-Myanmar border, really the Menashe, the long-presumed lost Twelfth Tribe of Israel? Are the oral ballads of Mz memory, which tell of migrations across Central Asia proof enough or are DNA analyses necessary? Surely the similarities of crossing the Sabbath River could just as well be another archetypal story, a constructed memory.

Or it could be the familiar conflation of religious and ethnic identities when a people convert, and the need for new stories to tell about oneself.

But why are highly intelligent people, both among the Israelis and the Mz, so passionate about the conversion to Judaism among a people who had but only recently converted to Christianity. Does the Biblical injunction to gather together all the tribes for the reconstruction of the Temple of Jerusalem serve the desire of impoverished tribal people to migrate to a more prosperous Westernized country? If so, why leave the battle-scarred armed conflicts of India and Burma only to be settled in the middle of yet another war in the occupied West Bank? Ultimately, what are both sides in search of?

A collaboration between an American Jew and a native of the Indian state of
M has the potential to add another layer to an already rich topic. SR is a filmmaker and a film and media curator specializing in exhibitions in
Asian, Asian American and nonfiction films. He is currently developing
international media projects with Appalshop, the Appalachian arts collective in Kentucky. The projects are on regional filmmaking and local cultures in the age of globalization and new technologies...."

And then he goes on an on with more blather about me and him. But you get the picture. But I was truly impressed by his polishing up my draft and adding more.

This is the latest from B. I am enjying this immensely:

"I find it fascinating that both our peoples are (more often than not)
wrongly referred to as "Indians". There is something to that, it's not
a coincidence. Yes, a media conference would be wonderful. I'm very
interested in generating our own dialogue, there's been so much written
and said by others about my people especially (Northern Cheyennes are
the favorite of historians the world over). The connections between
indigenous peoples must be kept alive and nurtured by Indigenous
people, in a uniquely Indigenous way. But we have to discover what
that is by interactions that we control, we need others to help
facilitate our interactions, but folks who can place ego aside and
allow interactions to take place as they should. Anyway, yes, lets
move forward on this as a global interaction, I'm all ears. I'm fed
xing you 3 dvds today, you will get them tomorrow. Also, a paper I
published a few years ago that still rings true for me. Sorry, been
having some health problems lately (diagnosed as a hernia) and it has
slowed me down, but I'm taking care of it right away so I'll be good as
new in no time. Take care and have a great trip."

My response to B. I call this "Becoming Indian" or "Faking It":

"It's the different modes of invisibilities once these identities are enforced or adopted. It is not as if the day-to-day does not exist any more. They are submerged identities. When I think of Scotland demanding and getting their Parliament after 300 years, I know that national feelings run deep and have little to do with economic development or democracy. Yes, there are forces that wish to obliterate these nationhoods. And yes, nationalism has produced a lot of wars.

"When my people, the M, were converted to Hinduism by Indian missionaries 300 years ago, our texts were burned. Our tribal roots run deep and need to be rediscovered after all these years. Neighboring people such as the N and M are closer to their indigenous identities but the Baptist Church has been successfully launching a conversion program o them for the last 50 years. So much is being lost today and at an alarming rate.

"The definition of indigenous needs to be defined by ourselves. My friend B was at the indigenous peoples conference at the UN and there were conflicts instead of linkages. Which is what I am interested in having with you.

I have been talking my Saami project and lately about our conversation with the Natural History Museum and the Ford Foundation. Maybe a media conference - triangulating between Native America, the Saami and the Uplands of NEI. Maybe look at state policy, non-state responses, strategies of survival, conflict. With culture being the field and convergent media being the tool. I think that by looking at very diverse histories, and geographical regions, we may see some common elements. Would these then be core or fundamental?

We are planning to meet after I get back - which may put us into the New Year. Do you have any plans to be in NYC any time in the next few months?

I leave for M on the 15th to prep for my Field Trip. I have one DVD from you earlier which I will take with me.

I burden you with much reading material to wade through. May I send you another? This is a brief I wrote year ago on the M:Saami project which may dovetail into the larger meet.


PS Derek B D and I tried our utmost to meet up. I did see his mother's show but not him."

Whoo. This guy writes LONG:

"As for the issues, I am also very interested in the notion of erasing lines between indigenous groups. In my travels I have always been amazed at the similarities I find in other indigenous peoples to my own people. Sometimes physical attributes are similar, however most often it's attitude. I feel as though I'm in the presence of my aunts and uncles and usually there is a level of warmth, humor, acceptance and understanding almost automatically. And a huge amount of respect for each other's ways of doing things and (sic) colonialistic experiences. The fact that your people are situated within the boundaries of a nation that my people are wrongly named after (Indian) is very ironic. I suppose that moniker is somewhat resisted by your peoples as well, correct? Are the recent conflicts a struggle between your tribe and the powers that be to not be consumed by that, I'm assuming, 'nationalistic identity'? I'm always interested in a dialogue around deconstructing words and labels like 'Indian' that have been decided upon and used in a 'blanket' way by the unnamed 'they' (keepers of the power whom we shouldn't question). Especially that label.

"Talking with people that are Indians from India I always want to ask what they think of that term being used to describe an entirely different group of cultures from another continent. We call ourselves Indian or slang-wise, 'Enden', the same way a black person uses the 'n' word. We know it's inaccurate and wrong but it's still an in-community way of calling each other. It's these types of basic issues that I confront, and see Native people on the North American continent confronting, each time we work to express ourselves. I also see that the immediacy of threats to our existence in the states as Native peoples is much more covert, it has gone underground to an extent and is couched in the bureaucratic quagmire of he Department of the Interior, our legal 'guardians' in our ward-of-the-court status as almost-sovereign nations.

"My point is, the genocide and conflict is still with us her in the states, but is couched in policy rather than outright confrontation as it sounds like it is in your case and it seems to be in many places around the world for Indigenous groups. At any rate, I do think there are some powerful issues to discuss here and Indigenous groups need to work with each other internationally, realizing these nationalistic boundaries are not drawn on the earth but oftentimes rejected by the earth itself. I have met and learned from many groups around the world and been reminded what is at the heart of our connections to the earth, each other and our collective ways of striving for a balance and protecting the identity of our relatives and extended families that form the cultures we are a part of. There is a revitalization, a remarkable sense of deja vu and a profound joy in the coming together of land-based peoples each from opposite sides of the world. I see it as a mending of the original world wide web, a critical re-connection and acknowledgment of the physical and spiritual ties that have been there in the past and continue to operate as undercurrents and movements of spiritual power. I don't call myself a medicine person, but I am aware of these connections. And, just as we watch the systematic eradication of cultures in the latest conflicts in the Middle east, we can ironically see what it takes to survive culturally and physically from that attack on culture. Culture, like culture (artists, etc.), is feared by power. That, I find fascinating too, the word culture. There are at least three meanings and depending on what community you grew up in, one of the three meanings will emerge first.

"I obviously think of my family of the Northern Cheyenne and our homeland first, and probably the petri dish last. I did a small mixed media piece a few years ago called Culture/Culture/Culture, that tried to examine the convergence of those three definitions. Sorry about my long-winded-ness, these are issues dear to me and that need to be discussed.

"As for the dvd's, I can get you several before you leave, no problem.
I will also send you copies of the children's books I published a few
years ago. So, peace to you and let's keep talking."

So I decided to e-open my correspondence with B. I find him interesting and would like to work with him.

Me" "I was thinking of you as ME, Ann and some of us are getting together as we all shared 9/11 - lots better than I make it sound not really since we were all up at Martha's Vineyard to get away from the dust. We were actually plotting DigiFlaherty back then....

Anyway I am leaving again for M on October 15 so I would like to pick up our e-conversation and see if we can get any conceptual ducks in a row incase I can follow up on anything there. I will be gone till Dec 15 but will occupy cyberspace. Hit me back and let's talk!"

And I got this from B in reply:

"Sorry I've been out of the loop, crunch time for some projects this month. I was there during September 11 too, had a show in the Bronx at Wave Hill so it's interesting I was in your thoughts. As for our dialogue, here's a tidbit. One thing I've always been interested in exploring is the implications of the camera (video or still) in the experience of my people. The camera has been turned on Northern
Cheyennes ever since photography became portable. I just worked through some issues around others (non-Natives) videotaping my people (the Youth RAP summer project) and me being the intermediary in the community. It's hard for me to turn the camera on my own people, much less allow others to (I'm very protective of my people based on past experiences). The history of exploitation is enormous with my people, especially around photographic and video images. Always being defined, that's us. So, my youth media project seeks to reverse that, however it raises questions as well around us turning the camera on ourselves or each other. Interesting dilemma. Anyway, food for thought. Has there been similar issues in your community?"

I am glad to hear from him.

Went with Z to the Marisa Tomei reading at the Bruno Walter. Sophocles' Elektra was given a very contemporary anti-W twist during the discussion; perhaps too much. But hey it was for the Imagine04-RNC thing so. For the same reason didn't really say anything about the otherwise tiresome and banal East-West thing set up by the director. Of course B played it up - did he say dhammacracy?? Hahaha.

Anyway to say nonviolence as a social organizing principle in India, Tibet and Mongolia is understandable given his background as a monk. Yet as I was thinking re Ross Terrill's remarks about China and empire: no, not only is empire not only as Western concept, but also China is not the only Asian power with a taste of empire. My recent experiences in M lead me to think India (sorry B!) too has violent empire tendencies. Something there between size and entitlement - after all what good is it to have weight if you can't throw it around? Soldiers in I can shoot to kill citizens upon suspicion and the highest court upholds this. And look at Goa, Sikkim, Kashmir. No, the view from the other side is different. Didn't say anything to B - just told him he looked great in his leather jacket. Maybe I should get some leather things. I'm the right age now. LOL.

Yet, the discussion was about 04. I loathe W but I despise Kerry and the Dems. I asked Z if she thought Israel, US were rogue nations but didn't get any scintillation. Someone like Kerry, likes apart, can't lead a rogue nation: a hustler, street preacher, a movie star, an angry man... now there we have something. How I miss Dean. And Clinton. I think he and his ilk will be back in 08. After all a bland Kerry in the White House with a Republican majority in the Senate trying to deal with Iraq, deficit, unemployment, environment, Medicare.... He's just gotta want to be Pres so he cat tell his father and his grandchildren. No Dem in his right mind, with the usual party powerbase, could possible want this job. He will be tarred with the failures of Bush and lead to the right wing coming back in 09. Of course Dean would have been different, with his swarm powerbase. But I hope he will not be the Great Road Not Taken in my lifetime. Hopefully, he will an idea whose rime will come in the next few years.

Had lunch with J o h n E . Couldn't bring myself to ask him for money though we had siscussed it before I left. I have a hard time with funders. But of course I was more keen on having him know who I was and what it was Itrying to do. And not to come across too hungry. Plus the ecent distasteful experience with J o s h.

Still I think what he does with Laos and Cambodia is good but runof the mill Birkenstockism. And he was alarmed by what i tols him - attracted to the ideas but perhaps lacking a little personal courage? I hae to call him. Perhaps his bro will like the little baseball film I made since he is doing his dissert on baseball in Cuba.

What I am trying to do is soooo difficult.