Allan Stratton: Writing, Travel, And Stuff On My Mind

BLISS!

2010-10-12T09:17:00.004-04:00

I'm having a nap in the middle room with Soly, the Abby named after Chanda's little brother. He loves to snuggle and stick his nose in my ear.

Oh yes. And I nap with Penster too...

And Misha...

And P2...

The four of them all run downstairs to greet me when I come home. I have to pet a different one with each hand, rub a third with my chin, and either use a foot or rotate hands so the 4th doesn't feel left out.

Who needs a psychiatrist with so much love? :)

LIFE ABOVE ALL (CHANDA'S SECRETS) S.A.'S OFFICIAL OSCAR ENTRY

2010-09-11T10:39:00.004-04:00

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SOUTH AFRICA HAS NAMED "LIFE ABOVE ALL", THE FILM OF MY NOVEL "CHANDA'S SECRETS" AS ITS OFFICIAL ENTRY FOR THE 2011 OSCARS!!!

(Photo of me with the kids who play Iris and Soly. They're amazing!)

http://www.cbc.ca/arts/tiff/story/2010/09/10/tiff-life-above-all-oscars-toronto.html

http://www.toronto.com/tiff/article/658952--south-africa-picks-life-above-all-as-oscar-entry

VIETNAM WAR REMAINS: CHINA BEACH AND THE HILLS

2010-09-06T21:26:00.005-04:00

China Beach is where US soldiers did their R&R during the war. Across from the beach the old abandoned US airforce hangars disintegrate slowly.

Soon they'll be demolished. The old bases are being turned into waterfront condos. Oh, and tourist hotels.

In the hills overlooking the beach, en route to Hue, we came across some old fortifications. Imagine being holed up here with the enemy watching you from anywhere and everywhere. Imagine being here at night.

Now, instead of war, a quieter way of life...

LIFE ABOVE ALL (CHANDA'S SECRETS) at Toronto International Film Festival!

2010-09-02T10:25:00.005-04:00

The Toronto Film Festival is almost here! Tomorrow tickets go on sale for LIFE, ABOVE ALL, the film version of my novel CHANDA'S SECRETS. Hope to see you there. Description, times, and blah blah blah at the link:

http://tiff.net/filmsandschedules/tiff/2010/lifeaboveall

Cheers,

Allan

GOING BUGGY or SILK WORMS: YOU ARE WHAT YOU WEAR

2010-08-28T12:42:00.004-04:00

Normally I've posted scenic shots from my travels. These aren't them. They come from a silk factory in Hoi An, Vietnam, where I got to see how silk is made. First, of course, come the silk worms. A closer look:

The caterpillars spin cocoons and prepare for metamorphosis in leafy beds like this.

Since the beetles that would emerge would break/chew through the threads, the silk makers boil the cocoons. (Note some of the almost-read-for-prime-time beetles.) Kind of grisly when you think about it. Like lobsters -- only bugs.

And then the cocoons get processed, the clothes get made, and it's off to shops and onto people's backs.(Note the 'eyes' over the shop doors on this Hoi An business. They're to ward off evil spirits.

Vietnam: Hoi An Waterway

2010-07-29T09:37:00.003-04:00

Another lazy post... like the lazy waterway through Hoi An, boats slipping through water like silk. These shots are from the second floor of Cargo, a fantastic restaurant with Vietnamese fusion cuisine.

BUDDHIST INCENSE SPIRAL

2010-07-18T14:52:00.005-04:00

Yeah I know, this looks like apiece of pop art from the sixties. What it really is is the inside of an incense spiral hanging from the ceiling. They sell these at Buddhist shrines like votive candles are sold in Catholic churches. Buy it, light it, and pray for the deceased. Here's the shrine with a ceiling full of spirals, priced according to size:

This shrine is in Hoi An, Vietnam, which has the finest food in the country -- and some of the finest lantern shows too. Last post I showed you some of the lanterns by night. Here are a few by day.

I'm thinking of making shorter posts through summer. Sound good? Next post will be water shots of fishermen in Hoi An's river, from the window of a seafood restaurant.

Cheers,

Allan

VIETNAM: LANTERN CELEBRATIONS

2010-06-24T08:00:00.000-04:00

Hanoi is celebrating its millennium as a capital city this year. There are festivities all over the country. This week was Hoi An's turn which accounts for the floats among the lanterns. Enjoy the night lights, and the lanterns both festive and commercial. Next post, I'll show you the city by day. It's one of the few old cities in Vietnam that didn't get obliterated and is well worth a look. also a taste! Its restaurants have the best cuisine in the entire country!

See ya next post,

Allan

VIETNAM: THE MARBLE MOUNTAINS

2010-06-21T08:00:00.002-04:00

Like our own Niagara Falls, Vietnam has allowed a lot of crappy souvenir shops to glom onto some astonishing geological formations. The Marble Mountains are a case in point. They're known as the source for Vietnam's marble carvings, as they are literally made of marble. However, to avoid decimating a tourist mecca, the Vietnamese have halted excavations and now import all the marble that's carved here.

Walking up the mountain you pass through as ancient entrance pocked with mortar shells from the war.

Look up. Look way up...

At the peak, we descend into a cave as magestic as any cathedral. It's been a natural Buddhist shrine for centuries. The Viet Cong (National Liberation Front) used it as a fortified field hospital.

It's filled with monuments: Some garish to Western eyes, like a lot of the art here, that go back a hundred years; others carved into the walls the better part of a millennia ago. Note the shrine INSIDE the cave...

We left the mountain and drove through the rain to Hoi An.

Hoi An is an amazing Unesco World Heritage sight, and I'll show it to you in depth with photos from a sunnier day. But next post is going to be all about LANTERNS! Especially BRIGHTLY LIT LANTERNS!

Cheers,

Allan

VIETNAM: FISHING AND FROLIC

2010-06-17T08:00:00.002-04:00

Squid. They're incredibly smart creatures, like pigs, so I always feel bad whenever I eat them. (Unlike cows, which are essentially walking carrots with a gas problem.) But sadly for squid, they don't have the "Bunny Factor" and I'm a hypocrite, and we were at a fishing village at the outskirts of Nha Trang, so...

But on to sunnier matters. Today was the day we said goodbye to our first guide -- see earlier posts about the Texting King: He had more attitude than a Beverley Hills prom queen -- so needless to say it was a day of celebration. And what better way to celebrate than to walk along a gorgeous beach. Avid readers will know the photo is cribbed from two posts ago, sigh, but hey, it's from our hotel window and from this high up you don't see the garbage.

Note this closeup of the building in the panorama shot. It's designed to look like a lotus bud.

And note the palapas. Unlike those throughout the Carribean, they're designed like the traditional Vietnamese conical hats.

And of course, Edward Scissorhands has, once more, been here before us. On the second photo note the white paint at the base of the trees. It's not just for bugs. Instead it's to act as a reflector so motorbikes don't plow into them.

As always, too, there are trees decorated with night lights. Which reminds me, it's time for bed. Have to be up early tomorrow to fly to Danang and the Marble Mountains then drive to Hoi An -- a city well worth seeing!

Sweet dreams,

Me

VIETNAM: BUDDHA AND BURNINGS

2010-06-14T08:00:00.002-04:00

So... we finally made it to Nha Trang.

Nha Trang is noted for its beautiful beaches, its diving, the picturesque fishing villages surrounding it, and as the birthplace of Thich Quang Guc (English spelling inaccurate due to Vietnamese alphabet), a Buddhist monk who burned himself alivein protest of the policies of the Diem regime. A major Buddhist shrine has been erected in his memory. You call read all about the appalling Diem here -- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ngo_Dinh_Diem -- an American uber-ally whose family was so unspeakable that the U.S. government tacitly approved his assassination.

Above is the statue on top of the hill. The plaques surrounding the base are each dedicated to a monk who burned himself in copycat suicides.

Halfway up the hill is a reclining Buddha.

And here's a statue to the monk whose immolation focussed the anger of the international community against Diem, which in turn led to his assassination.

I mentioned fishing villages. Here's the entrance to one of the tackier aquariums I've ever visited. I'm surprised it's not in Dalat. :)

But the sight of the fishing villages is truly glorious, as is the sight of the boats on water. I'll be taking you to floating fishing villages in in Halong Bay and Cambodia, so let's let two photos suffice for now.

Allan

VIETNAM: THE ROAD TO NHA TRANG

2010-06-10T08:00:00.002-04:00

Well... cast your mind back a couple of weeks -- before the Cannes and Venice excitement -- and wake up in Dalat, Vietnam's Niagara Falls without the falls. We've just been to a Buddhist monastery -- where fortunately we were able to escape our idiot guide who strolled around in his preppy scarf, texting all and sundry. And now we're headed to Nha Trang and have stopped at a Buddhist cemetery on account of road construction. Driving on, I asked the snoozing guide if Vietnam had any problems with soil erosion. "No," he said. And one minute later...

The non-erosion continued for the next half-hour through miles of timber cutting and deforestation. And then we encountered the homes below. They belong to the Ethic Minority People, as the Vietnamese put it. They've lived here for centuries and are being squeezed. Note that the homes are built on stilts. The stilts are to protect against snakes and lizards, flooding, and are a place to store things.

Just when things were getting boring we drove up into the Cloudy Mountain range and found ourselves flying by turns into and out of, well, clouds.

Then down and on through rice and tea plantations.

Finally we enter Nha Trang. I remembered massive walls in Xian and other cities in China, so as we approached this smallish underpass I asked if it might be the walls of the old city. Our guide roused from his slumber in ther back seat, rolled his eyes, and said, "Of course." Then rubbed his eyes and texted somebody.

At last we got to our hotel across the road from the beach. Have to say, it was EXTREMELY nice. Although we had to keep the lights on because of the sunken living area beside the bed with no railing. (Also a sunken tub by the toilet; nearly cracked my head open on a midnight trip. :)

But what a view! What a sunset!

Ahhhhh..... :)

Me

VIETNAM: LOTUS BLOSSOMS AND OTHER FLOWERS

2010-06-07T08:00:00.004-04:00

Another lazy blog. Just photos. But hey, they're of lotus (loti?) in Vietnam, plus gorgeous red peppers and other amazingly beautiful flowers. I only have an old Cannon and haven't figured out how to work PhotoShop so try and imagine what these would look like if I actually had a camera and weren't a techno nerd. :)

Next post, I promise I'll return to our interrupted tour of Vietnam and Cambodia. You gotta see Angor Watt!

Now, must sleep, must sleep. Zzzzzzzz......

VIETNAM AND CAMBODIA: SNEAK PEEKS

2010-06-03T16:00:00.001-04:00

I've been over my head getting back to work after Cannes, Nice and Venice, so forgive today's lazy post. Here are random sneak peeks of upcoming places and people to get us back into the swing of the travelogue of Vietnam and Cambodia . (You can see Saigon and Dalat in previous posts. :))

Below, variously, are sample shots from Nha Trang, Hoi An, Halong Bay and Siem Reep -- with much much more to follow in future posts. (Hanoi, Hue, Elephant Mountain, Cloudy Mountain and Danang are absent from the mix. They'll be coming, not to worry, but not just yet.:))

Enjoy!

Hope these have tempted you to come back. :)

LIFE ABOVE ALL (CHANDA'S SECRETS): OFFICIAL PRODUCTION STILLS

2010-05-31T08:00:00.004-04:00

Well, a lazy post today. Here are official production stills from LIFE ABOVE ALL, based on my novel CHANDA'S SECRETS. If you're interested in seeing the reviews or trailer, or shots from Cannes, just scroll back a few posts! :)

Tomorrow I promise to return to our tour of Vietnam and Cambodia which got interrupted what with all the excitement of last week. After that, a tour of Nice and Venice!

PIX FROM CANNES!

2010-05-27T08:00:00.000-04:00

Well I'm back from Cannes via Nice and Venice and am still on a cloud. Here's some pix of my time there, including the red carpet, the onstage bow, the standing ovation, pandemonium outside, meeting Roger Ebert, and our young star putting everything in perspective! (For newcomers, this is about the premiere of LIFE, ABOVE ALL, the film adaptation of my nobel CHANDA'S SECRETS published by Annick Press.)

First I gotta say that Cannes is pretty chic. (Although these shots don't quite capture how frenetic it is around the Palais where Official Selections are screened.) The pix are from balconies inside the Palais that I accessed thanks to my magic badge which opened the most amazing doors.

First we were taken for official photographs. Left to right, the women: Harriet Manamela (Mrs. Tafa), our star Khomotso Manyake (Chanda) and Lerato Mvelase (Mama). the men: Greg Buckle (S.A. producer), Oliver Stoltz (German producer) me, Dennis Foon (good friend and screenwriter) and Oliver Schmitz (director)...

Then up the red carpet...

Then paraded on stage for a pre-screening bow...

After the film, pandemonium. A standing ovation...

Things got a little teary at the ten minute mark...

Outside, more pandemonium...

Meeting Roger Ebert, a major fan. Wow!...

At a chi-chi lunch with the team...

Dennis and I catch a breather by the Cannes poster...

At the team dinner dinner that night, thirteen-year-old Khomotso put everything in perspective...

LIFE, ABOVE ALL WINS THE PRESTIGIOUS PRIX FRANCOIS CHALAIS!

2010-05-24T01:55:00.008-04:00

SA movie scoops coveted Cannes award
Nadia Neophytou

"The local movie Life Above All scooped a prestigious award at the Cannes Film Festival on Saturday night.

"The film created a buzz at the event earlier this week when it received a 10 minute standing ovation following its premiere.
The buzz around the film is still growing. The film was awarded with the esteemed Prix Francois Chalais Award.

"Producer Greig Buckle said: “[The award is] about the film that reflects the world we live in at the moment. So for me that’s quite an achievement. Our film has been recognised as reflecting the real world we live in.”
Gerdard Carreyrou was part of the panel that decides who wins the award. The panel said the film showed humanity and was inspirational."

WATCH THE TRAILER FOR 'LIFE ABOVE ALL'

2010-05-20T21:00:00.005-04:00

Watch the trailer for LIFE ABOVE ALL on the Cannes Film Festival's official website HERE!

TEN MINUTE STANDING OVATION FOLLOWING 'LIFE ABOVE ALL' SCREENING AT CANNES!

2010-05-20T14:17:00.011-04:00

LIFE ABOVE ALL, the film adaptation of my novel CHANDA'S SECRETS, has received a ten minute standing ovation and a rave from Roger Ebert!

Roger Ebert's Blog: Of emotion and its absence

The Daily Maverick: Applause, emotion and Life Above All

From CBC News: Canadian filmmakers bask in the warm glow of Cannes

The Globe & Mail: 'This could have been a big Canadian film at Cannes'

Miss N-tertainment: Life Above All in Cannes

National Post: How a Canadian's book on HIV made it to the Cannes filmfest

So much more to say but will blog at length later. Gotta run or I'll miss my plane to Venice!

A bientot,

Allan

CHICAGO: MAYOR DALEY'S BOOK CLUB

2010-05-17T20:00:00.009-04:00

Sorry to take time away from the Vietnam/Cambodia tour, but hey, I've had kind of a busy weekend I thought you'd like to know about -- namely a trip to Chicago and then off to Cannes!

First off, I flew down to Chicago, Friday -- like you couldn't tell from the photo of The Bean -- where I was put up at the Marriott Hotel to be keynote speaker to 1,500 fans of my novel CHANDA'S WARS. It was on Mayor Daley's Book Club that goes all across the Chicago school board -- the third largest in America. An honour and a thrill.

I love Chicago -- especially Millennium Park. More Bean please...

...the Gehry amphitheater...

... and that totally cool glass block statue with the changing faces of locals who spit jets of water out of their mouths. (In the heat of the summer, kids run through the water jets squealing with laughter.)

But more than anything, I love public speaking. I'm great with people if either (a) they're a small group of friends, or (b) if I'm on a stage in front of a crowd. I mean what's the big deal in talking to a few hundred fans? It's fun. But put me in a cocktail party and in five seconds I want to bolt. Honestly, who invented cocktail parties? -- "Minglers" where total strangers breathe cheap wine and brie in each others faces and talk about the weather. CHEQUE PLEASE! Getting through one of those suckers sober is a total drag!

BUT ANYWAY, MAYOR DALEY'S BOOK CLUB WAS FANTASTIC!. 1,500 STUDENTS WHO HAD READ MY BOOK AND WERE DEVOTING A SATURDAY MORNING TO THE BOOK CLUB EVENT. AUTHOR HEAVEN! And meeting Mayor Daley was terrific too. what he's done to beautify Chicago is truly amazing.

I also love Chicago's architecture, the cityscapes, street life...

And the cool public art. "Me see buildings. Yum."

After the event -- Saturday --I flew back to Toronto and packed for Cannes where LIFE, ABOVE ALL, the film adaptation of my novel CHANDA'S SECRETS, is premiering on the 18th. Daniel and I flew out yesterday -- Sunday -- so today we're either arrived or en route, heading from Rome to Nice and then a shuttle to the film festival. Then after that a few days in Venice to research my next book, and then home where I'll tell you all about it!

If you want to see some cool photos before I get back, I've pre-scheduled a post for May 20 of random shots of new stuff from Vietnam and Cambodia, to give you a taste of where I'll be taking you after Cannes and Venice. I think you'll especially like a preview of Angor Watt... :)

A bientot,

Allan

VIETNAM: THE CRAZY HOUSE

2010-05-13T08:00:00.016-04:00

Welcome to a Tim Burton movie set in real life! Dalat's Crazy House may not follow socialist architectural principles, but luckily it was designed by a daughter of a local Communist head honcho so it's Wacadoo Wackadoo all the way to the land of multi-coloured birds. The architect is a Paris trained PhD, actually, and certainly one of a kind -- even in the circus that is Dalat her building stands out. and yes, people can actually stay here -- it's not just a ride.

This is a dining area a.k.a. shrine to her dad and the Party.

May I take you to your room?

Careful on the stairs.

And don't fall off a corridor.

Enjoy the skylight.

Look out from a corridor at the west wing.

And here we are. A tad cozy, but a fab mirror, don't you think?

Want something a bit bigger? O.K.

And say hello to the security guard. Mr. G. Raffe.

All in all a really fun place, and a great spot to interrupt our tour of Vietnam. Over the next few posts I'm going to try blogging from a couple of current trips. May 15th I'm addressing 1,500 students in Chicago from Mayor Daley's Book Club. CHANDA'S WARS was a selection across the board. Then on the 16th, Daniel and I head to France to the Cannes International Film Festival where CHANDA'S SECRETS is premiering as an Official Selection. We'll be there May 17, 18 and 19, then on to Nice and Venice where I'm researching my next novel. So.... if I get a chance to blog on the road that'd be fun. (Otherwise -- like if my days are just too packed, which may well be the case -- I'll show you some more of Vietnam and fill you in on Cannes when I get back.

Cheers,

Allan

VIETNAM: MONASTERY RETREAT

2010-05-10T09:30:00.001-04:00

After the hustle and bustle of Ho Chi Minh City, a trip to the Buddhist monastery/teaching complex in the hills surrounding Dalat was just what the doctor ordered. What a joy to wander/wonder the grounds, free of our "guide" who happily texted his way through our visit.

The complex was sooooooo tranquil. There were larger shrines for prayer...

And smaller. All filled with incense.

And a place for the monks to sleep.

We loved the wander down to the lake...

In the morning haze, the lake was ethereal as a silk embroidered painting.

And being Buddhist and Vietnamese, the complex gardens were filled with whimsy and joy.

Ahhhhh....

*********

Hey -- any questions you have, feel free to ask. If I don't see them immediately because of travel, I'll be sure to answer immediately on my return.

Cheers,

Allan

DALAT: VIETNAM'S NIAGARA FALLS

2010-05-06T08:00:00.002-04:00

Dalat is Vietnam's Niagara Falls. There isn't a falls but there is a beautiful lake for honeymooners to paddle around in. Apparently. When we were there it was being drained for sludge. Aside from that, the town is pretty and has a bunch of neat stuff like tacky advertising (see above), the summer palace of ex-Emperor (a.k.a. French flunky) Bao Dai, the Crazy House which is truly a fun time inside the head of a gonzo architect (female head of the local party boss with a PhD in architecture from Paris), and a beautifully tranquil Buddhist retreat in the mountains by a lake.

True fact: During the war it was one of the few places that didn't get bombed because the generals on BOTH sides liked to holiday here. They had their R&R is villas almost spitting distance from each other.

Anyway, before you wander Dalat, you have to get there. And clouds like this aren't promising...

Because you have to travel over mountains alongside cars, trucks and mopeds that maybe haven't had their last oil check.

Whoopsee!

There are also, it must be said, glorious tea plantations en route. (This shot from the car window -- our guide too wrapped up in a text message to ask the driver to stop.)

And then you arrive in Paris...

I mean Dalat. The Eiffel Tower is a bit of public art we saw outside out hotel window. The bee, teapot and cup and saucer (below) were across the street. We actually got to see these the following morning because our driver and guide were so hopelessly lost it was dark by the time we found our hotel. (BTW, check out the beautiful lake behind Daniel and you'll see why it was being drained.)

Next post some truly wonderful things -- the Buddhist retreat/school/complex, the Emperor's Palace and the (truly) Crazy House.

Cheers,

Allan

VIETNAM: FROM DICTATORS TO DALAT

2010-05-03T10:54:00.014-04:00

So last post I said we'd be in Dalat today, the Niagara Falls of Vietnam -- minus the falls. But I thought I'd be remiss if I didn't show you ANY public buildings in Saigon. (Or Ho Chi Minh City as they say in the North, or if they work for the Vietnamese government.) So okay. This is the entrance to Vietnam's answer to Disneyworld. We didn't go inside, but I thought the dragon might catch your attention.

Below is the building everyone my age remembers -- Reunification Palace, known as the Presidential Palace during the American War In Vietnam. In Vietnam, you have to specify WHICH war, because the Vietnamese were ruled by the Chinese for a full millennium, then battled the Japanese, the Khmer, several doses of the French, then Uncle Sam, and more crap from Pol Pot and China. Which explains why in Vietnam most everything old and man-made that's worth looking at got blown up, or if it was a statue got its head chopped off -- which is kind of disconcerting coming from a civilization that was flourishing at a time when most of us WASPs were still running around in kilts, living in caves on some godforsaken bog and eating haggis.

And this is the view from upstairs -- what you'd see if you were the puppet despot General Thieu finishing your morning pho and wondering what fresh disasters were in store for the day. (Like the day one of his helicopter pilots bombed the palace and split to Cambodia; apparently the guy's now the head of Vietnamese Airlines.)

I won't bore you with the official rooms which all look more or less as stiff and uncomfortable the one below.

As in Argentina, Daniel and I traveled solo or with just us, a driver and guide. It saves being stuck on a bus for weeks with a group of forty souvenir hunters who can't wait to stop at the next rug and pottery outlet. Or having to wait till EVERYONE has had their time in the Happy Room -- which is what toilets are called here.

Our guide throughout the southern part of our trip was totally unlike the fantastic Pablo Sancho Perez in Argentina. (see posts in January/February.) I mean he was so totally useless I can't even be bothered to think up a good simile to describe his incompetence. Basically, he spent his whole time texting and talking on his cell, like we were a major drag on his way to a party. So I spent my time at the palace imagining what might be going through the mind of a nineteen-sixties/seventies despot.

Hmmm, I thought. If I was stuck wearing a bunch of heavy braid and military medals, and a hat three times the size of my head, what would I want on the buffet in my office? Why, a dead animal, of course. And sure enough --

And what self-respecting dictator in the sixties would be caught dead without a conversation nook?

And a little art.

If youth is wasted on the young, power is wasted on the powerful. I mean, honestly, the taste of tyrants is almost universally banal: see Hitler, Stalin, Mao and Attila the Hun. The powerful. That's who I blame those Renaissance cherubs on -- powerful popes and cardinals. I picture Michaelangelo focused on God touching Adam's finger, and il Papa bursting into the Sistine chapel to say, "Ciao y buen giorno. You don't suppose you could put a couple of chubby-legged cherubs in the corner, do you? It would mean so much to the priests."

Anyway, to prove the point about banal, lets head to General Thieu's bedroom. Not to be a snob, but check out the books by his night table.

Yup. Airport and Topaz. Oh sure, there's two volumes of Henry James, too -- but that was just to get to sleep.

So anyway, now we're off to Dalat. Note the lotus bauble on the driver's dashboard. and the suburban sprawl that cuts the view of the countryside from the road.

At last, however, we start passing rubber plantations, which as far as I can see is about the only lasting legacy of the French colonists. Our guide had no intention of stopping -- and we were his only tourists -- so we staged a revolt and said we had to do our Happy Business and it could either be behind a tree or in the back seat, his choice.

Anyway, here's Daniel amongst the rubber trees.

And here I am by a pan where the rubber sap's being drained. It's a bit like what happens when they make maple syrup, only don't put it on your pancakes.

Okay, next post we're in Dalat, a place I really liked.

Cheers,

Me

INSIDE THE VIET CONG TUNNELS

2010-04-29T16:02:00.001-04:00

So here I am in Cu Chi one of the 163 miles of tunnels north of Saigon that let the Viet Cong appear and vanish as if by magic and led to some of the fiercest bombing and defoliation in the war. It's weird down here. So come along for the tour. I guarantee you'll see more than the inside of my nose.

First of all note the tiny opening into the tunnel. You enter arms over your head and close the trap. As you can imagine, when it's properly in place it's impossible to see where it is. Poof! you've vanished.

The tunnels are very tight. Especially for Westerners. American forces going into the tunnels were known as the rat brigade -- Australian allies mostly as they were a bit smaller. You think this looks tight? Imagine what it feels like in the pitch black. I got a light only when the Vietnamese soldier in front of me turned to take my picture.

Breathing holes were masked by nature. This one is in a termite mound where such holes are perfectly normal. The mounds are everywhere.

And here I am standing in a B 52 bomb crater forty years after the bomb. Imagine how deep it would have been then. And picture the surroundings, wiped out by napalm and Agent Orange. What hell is war.

Next post, a total change of pace. We're off to Dalat, the Niagara Falls of Vietnam.

Cheers,

Allan

SAIGON: UNCHARTED TERRITORY

2010-04-26T08:00:00.000-04:00

So here we go -- into the Big Muddy -- a.k.a. the tiny waterways of Saigon's District 2 which take us out of the urban core and into, well, a whole other world very much like the Mekong Delta.

We found this boat by accident. A guy at the dock was hawking a trip but he wasn't especially official, and Daniel was a little afraid we were going to get taken upriver, surprised by some gang, murdered and dumped. But in the words of Blanche du Bois, "I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers."

So off we go into the harbour...

And soon we're seeing the skyline -- note the Financial Building from post one -- and disappearing into major off-the-beaten-track territory, and Daniel's fears start looking maybe possible.

Well possible, but not probable, I thought as I checked for something to swim to. Actually I felt way safer in Vietnam than when I lived in Hell's Kitchen in NYC in the 80s. But okay, yeah, maybe it's not totally smart to take rides from complete strangers on the other side of the world where you don't know the culture or the language -- although I think "HELP!!!! SAVE ME!!!" is pretty universal if delivered with enough sheer terror. Still, you can't book this tour through a tour guide -- I mean it isn't even listed in Lonely Planet -- so what the hell, eh?

Every few hundred yards we see a home on the water.

And wildlife...

And guys panning for shrimp...

Or setting out to fish or visit neighbours...

Or something as simple and perfect as this.

Anyway, it was a great outing -- even if it's not the sort of thing you tell your mom about. :)

Next post, something a little more disturbing. Inside the Viet Cong tunnels of Cu Chi...

Allan

SAIGON BY NIGHT

2010-04-22T08:00:00.001-04:00

Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) at night is a wonderfully garish spectacle. Here's the big night time market. (Check out the last post for a shot of the death-defying gauntlet of mopeds you have to face to get to the market.

Here's Daniel wandering a line of stalls.

And here's the city from the bar at the top of the Sheridan.

From street level, check out one of the nicer streets.

And one you wouldn't want your mother on alone.

Even the trees get festive at night.

Yowza. tomorrow a slower pace along the river in District 2.

Cheers,

Allan

THE HEAT IS ON IN SAIGON

2010-04-19T08:40:00.004-04:00

Whee! This is the start of a series that'll take us from Ho Chi Minh City (still known as Saigon to most people who live there) up to Hanoi and over to the 11th century temples of Angor Watt, Cambodia. Watch out for the mopeds.

There's not a heckuva lot to see in Saigon in the sense of historic buildings -- yeah, yeah, the old Presidential Palace, the Opera House, blah blah blah. BUT there's a heckuva lot to feel and experience. Starting with the Wonderful World of Mopeds, pictured above. BTW, the women aren't masking their faces for religious reasons, or because of viruses, or because of pollution -- which as you can imagine is pretty bad. They're doing it to protect their faces from sun, since women here want a pale complexion.

Remember my blogs from Salta, Argentina, in January/February about drivers playing Whack-A-Mole with pedestrians? You ain't seen nothing. Hardly a light and they never stop. You have to cross six-lane roads eyeballing oncoming mopeds who swerve to avoid you without slowing down. The city sidewalks and alleys are often moped parking lots.

And for real fun, try crossing this at night! I'm serious!!!

The streets aren't all that's busy. If you think we have fun with cable and phone lines here, imagine getting a new line installed in Saigon.

Saigon is a mishmash of French colonial architecture adjusted to South Asia, Soviet-inspired cement-block hell, and dazzling modern skyscrapers. It's a city in full Blast Off, jammed with poverty and wealth. Here's a typical business section corner.

And a quieter -- and very beautiful -- shopping street. (Daniel is pictured hiding under his hat.)

There's times you think Edward Scissorhands has dropped into a slum -- (Note: I am not scratching my bum. I am holding the loose folds of my T-shirt together because when they just hang I look like an elephant. Vanity, vanity. And the effect still looks ridiculous. Sigh.)

Times you think centuries of urban and rural life have collided --

And times you think you're looking at the next century. (This building BTW, is supposed to look like a lotus from above.)

This is just the beginning. Tomorrow I'll show you the city by night. Then we'll venture across the river into District 2 that feels like the city has melted into Mekong Delta. and then we'll go up to Cu Chi north of the city and crawl around inside some of the old Viet Cong tunnels. Hope to see you there.

Cheers,

Allan

CHANDA'S SECRETS: OFFICIAL CANNES FILM FESTIVAL SELECTION

2010-04-15T08:54:00.005-04:00

I interrupt the blog posts on my trip to Vietnam/Cambodia to bring you some truly exciting news. I am, like, dancing on air. The film version of CHANDA'S SECRETS that I blogged about all December from the set a few hours north of Johannesburg is an OFFICIAL SELECTION OF THE 2010 CANNES FILM FESTIVAL!!!!!!!!! (Sorry for screaming, but hey.:)) Oh -- the lead photo is of me with the kids who play Chanda's brother and sister, Soly and Iris.

The film is running in the Un Certain Regard section at the Salle Debusy under title LIFE ABOVE ALL. We are in competition with Jean Luc-Godard -- how exciting is that? Claire Denis is the Un Certain Regard jury president.

Here is the Cannes link -- http://www.festival-cannes.com/en.html Click upper left box (Festival de Cannes), then click Press Kit and scroll down to Un Certain Regard. Look for "Life Above All", director Oliver Schmitz. BTW, it kinda goes to show how the YA genre label is kind of a marketing ploy, eh? The film is the story exactly as it is in the book and is being marketed for adults. :)

(Don't have the screening times yet. I'm currently scheduled to be in Chicago as the keynote speaker at a 1,500 seat celebration of Mayor Daley's Book Club where CHANDA'S WARS was a featured 2010 book. Hope I can do both.)

Anyway, for those who missed it, I'm reprinting my blog from December 29, 2009 about how the film came to be made. (It's as hard as salmon spawning -- and now this -- I honestly can't believe it.) If interested you can scroll backwards to see photos from throughout the shoot. the posts go back to December 6.)

*************

This is Oliver Stoltz, producer of the film version of Chanda's Secrets. Unfortunately, he had a serious stomach ailment during the first phase of the shoot when I was in South Africa, so this photo is taken from his website. (Oliver, you're way more attractive in person! Get a new photo!:))

I first met Oliver in 2005, when he was in Toronto promoting his Emmy-nominated documentary Lost Children, about child soldiers, at the documentary film festival Hot Docs. (It also won the German Oscar for Best documentary, and a host of other international awards.) I contacted Oliver as a research lead for my then-upcoming novel Chanda’s Wars. Oliver had first-hand experience with former child soldiers, having filmed in Uganda’s Gulu and Padr provinces, barely escaping attacks from the Lord’s Resistance Army. (He's WAY braver than me. Also a little crazy. 'Ask my mother,' he says.)

Despite his hectic schedule, Oliver took time to meet me twice and had me as his guest at the screening. I gave him a copy of Chanda’s Secrets and we said so long. A little later, I was in Germany doing a reading tour for my German publisher, Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, and Oliver and I reconnected in Berlin. He still had that rumpled just-rolled-out-of-bed look -- which I had first thought was because of all the press he was doing for Lost Children, but turns out to be just the way he looks.

(BTW: Here's the German cover of Chanda's Secrets. They titled it "Things We Don't Mention" in German. Apparently it's an expression used in Germany to refer to WWII; the publisher thought it would resonate with the German audience, and communicate the hush-hush nature of Chanda's struggle.)

Oliver told me how much he loved Chanda, and that he hoped to film the book in an international co-production with his German film company Dreamer Joint Venture Productions. On my next reading tour for dtv, this time for the German edition of Chanda's Wars (Chandas Krieg), Oliver introduced me to director Oliver Schmitz. Those of you follow this blog will know him already, but to newcomers, here's a shot of Oliver at work with Chanda and Mama:

And here, BTW, is the cover of the German edition of Chanda's Wars I was promoting:

Schmitz is an expatriate South African whose work has shown at Cannes and been well-received throughout Europe and Africa. (He was part of the directing collective with the Coen Brothers on Paris je t’aime.)

The commitment of both Olivers to my work, and their personal familiarity with the world and life of the novel, gave me utter confidence. I was also pleased that they took my suggestion of screenwriter -- the wonderful Dennis Foon. I gave them the contact info for the publisher, Annick Press, a deal was negotiated with Annick's film representative, and Oliver (Stoltz) went and got financing and a distributor. (He's co-producing with South Africa's Enigma Pictures; Bavarian International is the distributor.)

I have been treated so well. The Olivers and Dennis listened carefully to my notes on the adaptation -- something rare and to be treasured in the world of filmmaking. Maybe I'll chat about a few of the differences between book and film at a later date -- but all of the slight changes make sense in terms of film and completely adhere to the vision and story of the novel.

Cheers,

Allan

FUN AT THE VIETNAM BOOK FAIR!

2010-04-13T11:15:00.009-04:00

Well, if you're going to visit a foreign country, what better time to go than during its national book fair? Especially if one's book is at the fair and one's publisher is the gracious and generous Mr. Ton Quang Toan, or simply Ton as he likes to be called, of Thuong Huyen Books. This is us in the crowd outside the entrance gate in Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) -- the fair is a really fun, open-air affair.

As soon as he heard I was coming Ton did miracles, arranging for the most impressive welcome I've ever received at a foreign book fair. First of all, he got a tent for a speaking engagement and a series of print and television interviewers. Here Daniel and I pose out front of the tent by a sign with the book's cover in Vietnam.

Inside the tent are a series of twelve or more posters spaced around the side walls. Ton and I pose here, sans crowd.

Then at the front of the tent is a stage with a massive poster across its entire width, with my name in letters taller than me. And running along the bottom, a series of drawings from the richly illustrated Vietnamese text. Yikes! Talk about an ego massage. My head was floating higher than a hot air balloon.

More on the speech later, but here is Ton at his booth at the fair. You'll note the red Chanda's Secrets in the foreground. :) He publishes books from Vietnam, the U.S., Italy, Russia, England and Canada (me:)). The books include high-end Caldecott titles as well as the reader-friendly Scooby Doo series.

It was a pretty house, with lots of interesting questions -- like, what did I think of China restricting entry of persons with HIV. Here are a few photos from after the session. I hope I have the names rights, but here's Ton's foreign rights head, Trinh Hai Phuong; my presentation translator Phuong Cao; Vy Dang who was M.C.. In another shot you'll see me and the presentation translator getting ready for a T.V. interviewer. and then me outside with my book translator, Truc Quan.

AND OF COURSE ALL THE TEEN READERS WHO MOBBED ME!!!

IT WAS GREAT!!!

Ton even arranged for flowers!

All you writers out there will know how special this treatment was. I am on my knees in gratitude.

THANK YOU TON!!!!!

HOW MY PURIFICATION RITUAL WAS FICTIONALIZED IN "CHANDA'S SECRETS"

2010-04-09T08:00:00.002-04:00

Last post, I included a chapter from my comic adult novel The Phoenix Lottery that demonstrated how life interacts with imagination in the creation of fiction. (My actual experiences with a santerían purification ritual outside Guardalavaca, and at the duPont mansion in Varadero, had been posted, with pix, in the weeks prior.)

(BTW, if you'd like to buy a copy of the Phoenix Lottery, just post a comment and I'll see about getting you one. :))

I used that same real-life ritual to different effect in Chanda's Secrets, where it serves as the basis of a dramatic scene involving the spirit doctor Mrs. Gulubane -- which I post below.

FYI, there's a lot of overlap in santerían and subSaharan animist traditions, as santería (like voodoo) has its roots in Yoruban ritual magic. These religious practices originated in the ancient kingdom of Benin, now Nigeria, where many of the slaves were taken to the Americas. However, in addition to my Cuban experience with animism, I also used visits with spirit doctors in Botswana and Zimbabwe to create the Chanda scene. (Zimbabwe is said to have the most powerful spirit doctors on the continent -- I've heard that from friends in Bots as well as Malawi and Zambia. While in Bots, three spirit doctors -- a grandmother, mother, and child -- offered to take me to a ceremony in Zim if I'd drive them in the car I was in. Uh... no... I kind of wanted to be alive to write the book. Some readers of this blog have said I've lived through more than my share of nine lives, but I'm careful, really -- well, sort of -- and there are some things I just won't mess with. :) I have enormous respect for the power of spirit doctors to accomplish things -- either in the natural or spirit worlds.)

Anyway, enough chat. Here is an example of how an experience can trigger two very different imaginative retellings. It also demonstrates the complexity of answering readers who want to know how much of my novel are "true." (Skim over the last few post to the ones with pix from my ritual experience. To see Chanda's Secrets being made into a film -- a real spirit doctor was cast as MRs. gulubane -- check out my posts from South Africa in December.)

************

FROM "CHANDA'S SECRETS" (Chanda's voice, a sixteen-year-old from a fictional country in subSahara)

Our visitor is Mrs. Gulubane. The local spirit doctor. She lives in the mopane hut across from the dump with her aging mama and a grown daughter, born without eyes.
Normally Mrs. Gulubane wears a cotton print dress, a kerchief, an old cardigan and a pair of rubber sandals. But tonight is a business call. She has on her otter-skin cap, her white robe with the crescent moons and stars, her red sash, and her necklace of animal teeth.
Our kitchen table and chairs have been pushed against the side walls. Mrs. Gulubane’s reed mat has been unrolled in the center of the room. When I come in, she’s sitting on it cross-legged. To her right is a whisk broom of yerbabuena stalks and a pot of water; to her left, a wicker basket and a handful of dried bones. This is how she presents herself on weekends at the bazaar, where she tells tourists their fortunes while her daughter hunches next to her weaving grass hats.
It’s fun watching Mrs. Gulubane play with the tourists. Most traditional doctors try to keep their customers happy. Not Mrs. Gulubane. When she’s in a bad mood, she’ll tell them that their wives are cheating with the neighbors, and their children will be ripped apart by wild dogs. If they want their money back, her daughter rips the bandages off her eye sockets and threatens to attack them with her cane. It’s amazing how fast tourists can run -- even when they’re loaded down with souvenirs and videocams.
Tonight, though, I’m not expecting fun. Here in the neighborhood, Mrs. Gulubane takes her rituals seriously. So do a lot of people -- even people who know better. No matter what sounds come out of her hut, nobody ever says a word. I don’t know how many people believe in her powers, but nobody wants to be at the end of her curse.
Mrs. Gulubane stays seated. “Good evening, Chanda.” The lamp light shines off her two gold teeth.
I bow my head in respect, but what I’m thinking is: why is she here?
She reads my mind. “There is bewitchment in this place. I have come to see what I can see.”
I look uncertainly at Mama. Why did she ask her here? She doesn’t believe in spirit doctors.
“It wasn’t your mama called me,” Mrs. Gulubane smiles. “I was sent for by a friend.”
“Good evening Chanda,” comes a voice from the corner behind me. I turn. It’s Mrs. Tafa. She closes the shutters.
Mrs. Gulubane indicates the floor in front of her mat. “Now that the family is together, shall we begin?”
Mama nods. She hands me her walking stick and takes my arm. I help her down and sit beside her. Soly and Iris squeeze between us. Mrs. Tafa sits a chair; I suppose she’s afraid if she sat on the floor she wouldn’t be able to get up again.
Mrs. Gulubane lowers the lamp-flame. Shadows dart up and down the walls. She takes an old shoe polish tin from her basket. Inside is a small quantity of greenish brown powder. She chants a prayer and rubs the powder between her fingers, sprinkling it into the pot of water. Then, stirring the water with the whisk brush, she dances about the room flicking a light spray into the corners, and over and under the windows and doorways.
I’m not sure what Mama is thinking, but Soly and Iris are frightened. “It’s all right,” I whisper. “It’s just a show.” Mrs. Gulubane stops in her tracks, tilts her ear toward us and growls at the air. Soly buries his head in my waist.
Mrs. Gulubane returns to the mat. She pulls an length of red skipping rope from her basket, folds it in two, and begins to whip herself. Strange noises rattle up her throat. Spittle flies from her lips. Her eyes roll into her head. “HI-E-YA!” She throws back her arms, stiffens, and slumps forward in a heap.
A moment of silence. Then she sits up slowly and reaches for the bones. They’re flat and worn, sliced from the ribs of a large animal. Mrs. Gulubane takes three in each hand. Chanting, she claps them together three times and lets them fall. She peers at the pattern they make. Something upsets her. She puts two of the bones aside. More chanting as she claps the remaining four and lets them fall. Her forehead knots tighter. She sets a second pair of bones aside and picks up the remaining two. A final chant. She claps them together. One breaks into three pieces in her hand. The fragments fall on the mat. She studies them closely, muttering heavily and shaking her head.
She looks up. Under the lamp-light, Mrs. Gulubane’s face contorts into the face of an old man. Her voice changes too. It’s low and guttural. She swallows air and belches words. “An evil wind is blowing from the north. There is a village. I see the letter ‘B’.”
A pause. “Tiro,” Mama says. Her voice is tired, resigned.
“Yes, Tiro. It is Tiro. Someone in Tiro wishes you harm.”
“Only one?” asks Mama. I look over. Is there mockery in her voice?
Mrs. Gulubane glares. “No. More than one,” she says. “But one above all others.” She moves the bones around, cocks her head and makes a deep whupping sound. “I see a crow. It hops on one claw.”
Mrs. Tafa’s breath seizes. “Lilian’s sister has a clubfoot,” she whispers from the corner.
Mrs. Gulubane claps her hands in triumph. “The bones are never wrong. This sister of yours,” she says to Mama, “she has visited your home?”
“She came for the burial of my child,” Mama replies. “And when I buried my late husband.”
“Death. She has come for death,” Mrs. Gulubane growls. “And to steal for her spells.”
“Lizbet?” Mrs. Tafa gasps.
Mrs. Gulubane nods darkly. “When she has left, what things have been missing?”
“Nothing,” Mama says.
“Nothing you remember. But maybe an old kerchief? An old hankie?”
“I don’t know.”
“The evil one is clever!” Mrs. Gulubane exclaims. “Each time she has come, she has taken a hankie, a kerchief, something so old it hasn’t been missed. And she has snipped a braid of your hair -- oh yes, each time a single braid -- while you lay sleeping. With these she has bewitched you. She has put a spell on your womb. Even as we speak, the demon is coiled in your belly.”
Without warning, Mrs. Gulubane lunges across the mat and punches her fist into Mama’s guts. Mama howls in pain. The spirit doctor twists her fist back. Wriggling from her grip is a snake. She throws it against the wall and attacks it with Mama’s walking stick.
The air is alive with magic. From every corner, animal noises blare, trumpet and squawk. Mrs. Gulubane spins about, striking the reptile. Finally she leaps upon it, grabs it by head and tail and ties it in a knot. She lifts the lifeless body above her head. Its shadow fills the wall.
“I have killed this demon,” she says. “But there will be others. The evil one has your hankies, your kerchiefs, your braids of hair, to make more spells. She has sewn the hankies into dollies, stitched on eyes and mouths, and filled them with cayenne. Therein the pain to your body. At night, she has singed your braids of hair. Therein the pain to your mind. Beware. You must retrieve what she’ has stolen or you and your children will surely die.”
We stare in dumb silence, as Mrs. Gulubane drops the snake into her pot, returns the pot, whisk brush and tin to her basket, and rolls up her mat. She tucks the mat under her arm, takes the basket, and makes her way out the door.
Mrs. Tafa rushes after her. “For your troubles.” She presses a few coins in Mrs. Gulubane’s free hand. “Tomorrow, I’ll have the family bring you two chickens for a sacrifice.”
Mrs. Gulubane nods and vanishes into the night.

MY SANTERÍAN RITUAL IN FICTION

2010-04-06T08:00:00.002-04:00

Hi there,

Over the last couple of weeks, I've written and showed pix from Cuba: of Varadero, the duPont estate, and my experience with santería. These have been mixed in with two excerpts from my first novel, The Phoenix Lottery. In those you read about our hero Junior (a literary version of me) as a troubled child in prerevolution Cuba. In this chapter, he's an adult returned to Varadero, now, after the revolution. I thought you might like to see how all the interests and experiences I talked about earlier, got turned into fiction.

The rituals mentioned at the end of the chapter, are taken from actual santerían practice.

**********
FROM "THE PHOENIX LOTTERY"

Junior checks into the Melia Las Americas, one of a dozen tourist hotels on what used to be the duPont estate. Without bothering to unpack, he wanders the few hundred yards to the mansion where his father had abandoned him these many years ago. It’s a museum and restaurant now.

He pays two dollars to the attendant and enters, his stomach alive with butterflies. He feels like Alice in Wonderland: everything is and is not as he thought he remembered it. The major pieces of furniture and the decor remain as Irenée duPont had left them, but they seem to have shrunk. The little four-year-old in his mind who remembers scooting under tables and hiding under chairs can’t imagine how he used to fit. And what are tourists doing here? They seem to be operating in a different dimension than himself. When they rub their hands across the carved mahogany sideboard and green ceramic tiles, they are touching ‘a piece of history’; he is re-experiencing his past, a version of it anyway.

“That’s the spot where we put up the Christmas tree and I saw the angel for the first time,” Junior marvels, looking to the north-east corner of the Grand Room, past the pipe organ and the archway to the library. He goes upstairs and into the master bedroom. “This is where Mrs. duPont used to sleep,” a guide says. “Mr. duPont enjoyed his whiskey. She made him sleep in the adjoining room over there so his snoring wouldn’t bother her.” How does the guide know that? Junior can’t remember anything of the sort, though he barely had met the old man. To him, Mr. duPont was this big person you didn’t bother and he’d give you a candy.

He makes his way to the winding staircase and up to the semi-enclosed rooftop bar. How had he managed to race up the steps in this cramped passageway without bouncing off the walls covered in bruises? What could he have been thinking getting underfoot of Sara and the other servants as they tried to carry trays of glasses up and down those tight circular stairs? No wonder they’d been upset.

And now he is in the bar.

Like the downstairs library, the bar is full of small tables. Downstairs the tables are covered in white linen, and Cubans waiters serve tourists gourmet meals prepared with fresh cream and other ingredients unavailable to their own families. Upstairs the tables are for casual use, crowds of tourists coming for the 2-for-1 Happy Hour and the same exquisite sunsets he had once enjoyed in private with his father.

Junior looks at the bar counter in the corner. That’s where The Pillow Lady terrified him nigh unto death. He goes to the small walkout on the south side and looks over the golf course where he’d seen his father race off in the cart. In Junior’s dreams, the child sees the golf course stretching into an infinite nightmare of sandtraps and jungle. To the adult seeing it under the midday sun, it is hard to imagine how it might ever have seemed fearful.

If it’s true that the world shapes us through the experiences it provides, Junior thinks, it’s equally true that we shape those experiences by the way in which we see them. What a terrifying thought. Whether because of age, position, time or background, what we see of events is necessarily limited; and yet we act on the basis of our impaired vision, bringing consequences upon ourselves that can never be erased.

Junior leaves unsettled and wanders back to the hotel for a nap, wondering what he will see when he visits Sara.

At seven-thirty, Junior takes a cab to Sara’s home at the corner of calle 42 and avenida 1. His visit is a surprise: she has no phone and there wasn’t time to write, the decision to come having been made the previous night. All the same, the letter he’d recently received indicated her door was always open.

The cab pulls up to a simple home of cement blocks with a corrugated tin roof. Wood shutters and door are open to let in the evening breeze. Next to the door, Sara and her daughter Elena sit on an improvised couch of orange crates and old car seats.

Sara hasn’t changed much. Her hair is almost as black, her skin almost as supple and her eyes absolutely as bright as in the days she managed the household staff at Xanadu. To Junior, however, she is another person altogether. This Sara is rather short. The four-year-old remembers a giant. On the other hand, she is now almost as old as the child once imagined.

What a life those years have seen. After the revolution, she continued at the estate, helping the government take inventory of the duPont belongings, then cleaning it once it became a restaurant. Retired for ten years, she remains active thanks to Santeriá. She is santera mayore, called upon by neighbours to recommend love potions, spells to ward off spirits and herbal remedies to alleviate the sick. As she likes to say, “If you have friends, you don’t need a sugar plantation.”

Nevertheless, life has been difficult, particularly in the wake of the Soviet Union’s collapse, and her husband’s death of cancer. Of her remaining family, one son died in a fishing accident and the second, jailed for offences relating to the black market, left the country when Castro opened the prisons for the 1980 ‘freedom flotilla’. Today he lives off Calle Ocho in Miami’s Little Havana, where he works as a short-order cook at ‘Versailles’. He sends her letters, but the money inside usually disappears in transit. Her two daughters remain in Cuba. The eldest lives with her husband in nearby Coliseo where she is an economist at the local sugar factory. Meantime, the baby of the family, Elena, works as a housekeeper at the Hotel Paradiso, earning far more in tips than she ever did as a teacher.

It was Elena who helped re-establish contact between her mother and Junior.

Calle 42 y Avenida 1
Varadero, Matanzas
Cuba
My dear little Edgar,
It is your old friend from Xanadu, Sara Pérez. My daughter Elena is giving this letter to a guest at the hotel where she works. I hope this guest will mail it to you when she returns to Canada and that it finds you well.
This week I read about your lottery in Granma. It had a very nice picture of you. You haven’t changed. The boy is in the man.
Do you still have Señora Resguardo? She used to keep you so safe from the Espíritu Intranquilo who gave you many problems here. I do not mean to trouble you, but the night I see your picture in the newspaper, I have a dream. You are lost and crying for help. I cast the shells. I fear you may need a more strong resguardo than when you were a boy for now I see three Espíritu Intranquilos surrounding you. And more troubles beside from those living.
Forgive me if I interfere, but your father was so kind for me and you were such a sunshine. I do not forget. If you ever find that you have need of me, my door is always open.
Sincerely,
Sara Maria Pérez Pérez

“So you have come, my little Edgar.” Sara introduces him to Elena. At Xanadu, he never knew that Sara had children. In fact, he never knew that Sara had a life.

He offers the women a bag filled with aspirins, cough syrup, chocolate, jam and other locally hard-to-come-by goods he’d picked up at the Duty Free shop at the airport. Sara takes the bag and, in return, offers him a plate of Moors and Christians. Junior accepts, though having stuffed himself at the hotel buffet the thought of black beans and rice makes him queasy. With a smile and a nod, Elena offers him her seat and goes inside to fix his plate. The moment she has gone, Sara says, “My little Edgar, my dream was correct? Yes? Or have you come to Varadero for a tan?”

“Please help me.”

Sara nods and holds his hands in her own. She rubs them; they are so cold. They sit in silence for a time, as the sun drops quickly and the night air fills with fireflies and the sounds of waves and neighbours. Then Sara says, “Your father -- he is still living?”

A discreet pause. “In a manner of speaking.”

Sara understands. “He was always a restless spirit.”

Junior begins to cry.

“He loved you very much.” Junior laughs, but Sara holds her ground. “It was in his eyes when he asked for your resguardo.” A pause. “And your mother? She is alive?”

Junior laughs again. “Oh yes.”

“Come.” She leads him inside where Elena has made his place at the table. As Junior eats by the light of seven candles, Sara tells him how frightened she had been when she cast his shells. Her fear carries weight, as Sara is blessed as an italera. For this gift she gives the glory to the orisha gods Changó, Oyá, her birth orisha Obatalá, and on this occasion Elegguá to whom she has called for guidance in divining future action.

Once Junior has wiped his plate with his last crust of bread, Sara claps her hands. “To work.” She takes one of three beaded necklaces hanging from a nail in the door frame. “You must wear this in Elegguá’s honour,” she says, putting the string of red and black beads around his neck.“Now take off your clothes.”

Junior strips to his underwear and stands in the centre of a circle Sara describes on the floor with a dozen rusty spikes, the rays of Chango. The old woman stands before him, eyes closed, concentrating on the sound of unheard drums. Her head begins to roll and her body sway as she chants prayers to Babalú-Ayé, orisha god of sickness, while whipping herself rhythmically with a red cord tied to a kitchen knife.

The candles on the table flicker. The outside six extinguish, while the centre glows more brightly than before, a curious orange surrounded by a rim of blue. And now Sara begins to moan, the moans transforming to animal howls, as her body is inhabited by something other. In a trance, she takes his right hand, sniffing it like a wild beast, gumming it til it drips saliva. In like manner, she snuffles up his arm, across his chest, and down to the tips of his left fingers.

A throaty laugh and suddenly she begins to speak in tongues, a rich mix of medieval Spanish, French and Yoruban. Elena translates. “The ability of the three Espíritu Intranquilos to cause you pain is increased by the actions of an evil man. He is a snake in the grass who holds sway over your mother.”

Junior gasps. “How could she know about Rudyard Gardenia?”

“She has sacrificed to Elegguá,” Elena whispers. “He is a trickster who punishes those who do wrong, and is eager to take up your case.”

Whoever, or whatever, is inside Sara has overheard. Excited grunts and gestures from the creature. Elena lights a cheap cigar and puts it in her mother’s hand. Sara puffs it with the lit end glowing in her mouth. More grunts. Smoke billows through the room, licking Junior’s pores. The cigar is replaced with a glass of rum. Sara downs half in a gulp. The other half she rolls thickly round her mouth, then sprays across Junior’s face and chest. Given all that’s happened in the last few months, he takes it in his stride.

More tongues, and more translation. “Elegguá will guide your hand as you rid yourself of this ‘Gardenia’. And rid yourself you must if you wish to deal with the spirits who haunt you.”

“But how can I touch him?”

Elena listens very hard, then says, “You must write his name with snake venom on a piece of paper. Glue the paper to snakeskin and cut to fit the inside of your shoes. Then walk, hard, on his name. As you do, the snake will be ground into the dirt.”

“Ground into the dirt,” Junior repeats, relishing each syllable.

The creature inside Sara leaps with glee, then crouches, spitting its dictation hard and fast.

“Next, you must rid your mother of the snake’s influence,” Elena rattles, barely keeping pace. “To do this, take two seven-hour black candles. Carve in the shape of a man and a woman. At midnight, set one inch apart and burn for an hour. On the second midnight, two inches apart and burn for an hour. On the third midnight, three, and so forth til the week is over, and the candles spent as that devil’s spell.”

The creature shrieks, collapsing on the floor. Instantly, the six dead candles burst back to life and all is as it was before.

Sara shakes herself back into her body and gets up. She smiles at Junior. “Elegguá will help?” she asks, wiping the dried spittle and rum from his body with a handful of fragrant leaves plucked from a basin of cool water drawn by Elena. Junior nods.

“Good.” Sara goes to a low box in the corner on which a black doll dressed in white sits behind a bowl filled with burnt coconut and cotton. The front of the box is open; within it are an arrangement of seashells filled with a variety of herbs. Junior realizes the box must be some sort of shrine. He watches as Sara takes a small neatly folded plastic bag from a stack at the right of the box, all retrieved by Elena from departed guests at The Paradiso, and mixes pinches of herbs within it.

“Seven herbs for seven despojos,” she says handing him the bag. “Bitter and sweet: escoba amarga, guairo, altamiso, canutillo blanco, cimmarrona, abrajo and yerbabueno -- your old favourite. One thimble in each bath will keep you safe from spirits. And keep a flavour of this in your clothes,” she winks at him, pressing a loose quantity of dried espartillo in his palm.

Elena interrupts to excuse herself. She’s expected to work at six in the morning and must get to sleep. Junior thanks her for the food and translation. Then he and Sara move to the front porch and talk about old times into the middle of the night.

When they say farewell, Sara gives him a hug. “It’s been too long since I have seen my little Edgar. You will come again?”

“Yes.”

Sara pauses, uncertain. “I may speak freely?” Junior nods. “They had their problems, your mother and father, I think.” Junior nods again. “There is something you should know. You will not believe me, but it is true. Your father was not perfect, but he was a good man. He loved your mother very much. He asked the babalawo for a spell to bring back her love.”

“I guess spells don’t always work.”

“No,” Sara says with a sad heart. “Sometimes the orishas are displeased.”

CUBA: MY PURIFICATION RITUAL

2010-04-02T08:00:00.001-04:00

So anyway... the santerían purification ritual. The photo was taken by the cab driver who then left us.

I was in the shed with Isabel and her sister-in-law. It was night. Pretty quiet except for the occasional dog bark. Isabel channels an early slave by the name Jose who speaks a mixture of old French, old Spanish and Yoruban. (I had to take Isabel's word for it.) Neither Isabel nor her sister-in-law speak those languages either, BTW, but the sister-in-law translates. It's a bit like Pentacostals who speak in tongues and have someone beside them with the gift of prophecy to translate.

Anyway, I'd arrived with a cigar and a bottle of rum-- spirits like both -- and we were off to the races.

The ritual began with me stripping to my underwear and Isabel whipping herself with a red cord attached to a kitchen knife and chanting in front of the state to Santa Barbara, a female orisha who represents Jesus in the synchretization of Yoruban ritual magic and Catholicism -- see earlier post.

Then Isabel took the knife and began stabbing the ground between a series of spike spokes radiating like sunlight -- and representing Chango, god of storms. As she went into a trance she began making animal sounds and sniffing around me. She smoked the cigar with the lit end inside her mouth and drank the bottle of rum within the next half hour.

I had some rum spat over my chest, and was whipped with some yerbabuena leaves that were in a bucket of fresh water. Then I was hoisted backwards onto Isabel's back (like when you crack someone's back) and she walked around the room with me before setting me down.

"Jose" -- Isabel in tongues -- said I was a writer who had some problems preventing me from sleeping. He said there was a woman who loved my and like to dance and she was married and not married. This made Jose confused. I had never mentioned anything about myself to Isabel -- I wasn't part of any group or tour -- and this was all accurate. My female friend had been married, then divorced, and was back to living with her ex. No wonder Jose was confused. Lots more was said that turned out to be true, and then Isabel came out of the trance. There was no sense she was drunk or had even touched a drop.

More next post: How this scene was represented in fiction in my novel The Phoenix Lottery, and also in Chanda's Secrets. Then after that -- a santerían gathering...

BTW -- this is a tree with its roots in Africa. It came to Cuba with the slaves. And it has a great story --

Chango, god of storms, first asked the mighty palm tree if he could stay under its branches for protection. The palm tree said no, it was too beautiful. Chango took protection from the tree pictured above. That's why, to this day, he leaves this tree alone during electrical storm, but sends his lightning bolts to the palm trees instead, to wreck their leaves on account of their vanity.

CUBA: SANTERÍA

2010-03-30T08:00:00.000-04:00

Hi there,
Today begins a couple of posts about santería and the purification ritual I had with a santera in the countryside outside Guardalavaca in north-eastern Cuba. This is a statue to Babablú-Ayé, otherwise known as Santo Lazaro or Saint Lazarus. I took it inside the shed where Isabel performs her rituals -- with permission. I was alone and it was night, on my second of many visits to Isabel's. She's really quite remarkable, my window on the character of Sara in my first novel, The Phoenix Lottery.

To give you an idea of how fact and fiction work in the novel, here's an excerpt that follows after another Phoenix Lottery excerpt that I posted about a week ago. It has a fairly concise description of the religion and its origins. (Voodoo in French-speaking Haiti and Louisiana.) Next post, I'll have more pix and describe the ritual I underwent.

Cheers,
Allan.

********************

SANTERÍA

Sara has been at Xanadu for ten years, employed by duPont on the recommendation of the local schoolmaster. She lives in the village with her mother, husband and four children in a three-room house built of wood and tin. Every morning before dawn she bicycles out to the mansion. Here, with other servants, she tends to the kitchen, does light housekeeping, and makes the beds of late-sleeping guests.

A striking, literate woman with a wry smile, Sara is a descendent of Yoruban slaves. Rulers of the once-powerful kingdom of Benin, these Africans, from what is now southwest Nigeria, were brought to Central and South America by Spanish, Portuguese and French slave traders in the first half of the sixteenth century.

The Yoruba followed an animistic religion presided over by the one true God, Olofi. At the moment of creation, Olofi grew until He became so big it was impossible for Him to deal with the tiny problems of mere mortals. As a result, He created the orishas, a group of over four hundred sub-gods, each with a specific area of expertise. It is to these orishas that believers pray to this day, rather than to a preoccupied Almighty.

In this respect, the orishas function like Catholic saints, mediating between humankind and an all-powerful God. But unlike Catholic saints, the orishas were never living, breathing mortals. In a delicious irony, once-human Catholic saints embody notions of spiritual perfection, whereas the wholly ethereal orishas, like the gods of ancient Greece, are given to all manner of human foibles.

One of their appetites is for blood, particularly that of chickens and goats. Animal sacrifice was, and is, one of the primary payments to the orisha for the casting of a successful spell, and naturally compensation is important as sorcery is ultimately a business transaction between a willing god and a needy supplicant. Sacrifice is an easy sell, however, given the track record of the Yoruban gods in turning dreams to reality.

In any event, sixteenth century slave traders carrying their Yoruban captives to the Caribbean were understandably unnerved to discover that their human cargo was practising witchcraft below deck. They sought to stamp out the heathen practices. But the Yoruba camouflaged their faith by the simple expedient of adopting the religious forms of their Catholic masters. This was easily accomplished, given certain surface parallels between the two faiths. For instance, the Yoruba would hide dolls representing their orishas inside hollowed-out statues to Christian saints; and they would pray to their orishas using the names of these saints. The warrior god Changó was called forth by the name Santa Barbara; Babalú-Ayé, god of sickness and epidemic, was raised, appropriately enough, by calling upon Santa Lazarus; while the great god Oshún responded to prayers to Our Lady of Charity.

In time, African witchcraft and Christianity syncretized into Santería in Spanish speaking colonies such as Cuba and Puerto Rico. In the Portuguese colony of Brazil, the amalgam became recognized as Candomblé. Most famously, in the French colony of Haiti, it developed into Voodoo.

Santería is now so integrated in Latin culture that it numbers over one hundred million adherents throughout Latin America, with millions of other devotees belonging to its cousins Voodoo and Candomblé. Nor are these religions the preserve of the illiterate or outcast. Initiates include devout pillars of the community who attend Eucharist by day and animal sacrifice by night, a juxtaposition of rituals which should be readily understood by Catholic suburbanites; after all, the doctrine of transubstantiation, which claims communion bread and wine transform to the literal body and blood of Christ, turns orthodox believers into cannibals.

At least that is Sara’s view.

Determined to become a santera, a member of the Santerían priesthood, Sara has already gone through the initiation of Los Guerreros and is now an aleya in the eighth rank of her religion. She has seen much that Western eyes would scarcely credit. To her, it is beyond question that Junior has seen the Pillow Lady hiding in the chandelier. Let Western materialists think what they may, she knows the household is in need of a spell. She forgoes lunch, pedalling to the home of her spiritual leader, the babalawo at the corner of Avenida Tercera and Calle 48. She confers with him briefly, promising a chicken and a bottle of rum by week’s end, and returns to Xanadu in time to serve pre-dinner cocktails.

Emily is upstairs with Junior, distracting the boy with rousing Baptist hymns; a triumphant progression of big fat chords belted out in no-nonsense four-four time. Kitty considers Emily’s sing-alongs unspeakably déclassé, but there can be no denying their power to entertain the very young. What Baptists lack in subtlety, they make up in exuberance.

Meantime, Althea is holding forth in the library with a dry martini. “Our Joseph, may his soul rest in peace, was a war hero. He didn’t want to grow up to be a Christmas angel. He wanted to grow up to be a soldier!” With that, Althea sets her glass down firmly, serving notice that cocktail hour is over. She and Henry navigate their way upstairs to dress for dinner, leaving Edgar and Kitty to knock back a pitcher of Mojitos.

Sara seizes the initiative. “Forgive me, but I hear the little one cry. I see his eyes. He is in some danger, yes, for he is haunted by an Espíritu Intranquilo. You call that in English, I think, a Restless Spirit. Please, do not worry. I have seen the babalawo. All will be well. You make for your son a resguardo -- a talisman, yes? To do this, you sew a small, white bag. In it put garlic, yerbabuena and perejil . Camphor also -- evil spirits love their camphor. Sew this bag shut tight and dip it in the holy water of seven churches. The Espíritu Intranquilo who frightens your boy will go away.”

There is a pause. Kitty smiles graciously and says, “Thanks ever so much, Sara. I’m sure you’re trying to help, but that’s not how we do things in Ontario.”

Sara considers this. “You are right. I do not know the ways of Ontario.” She clears the sideboard and exits. Edgar leaves Kitty with the Mojitos and follows Sara to the kitchen, picking up a pencil and notepad en route.

“Sara, I’d like to have a word with you.”

“I am sorry if I interfere.”

“Not at all. About that talisman... Where can I find some perejil ?

CUBA: OUTSIDE VARADERO

2010-03-26T08:04:00.000-04:00

My first novel, the Phoenix Lottery, uses lots of other references to Varadero, besides the duPont mansion featured in the last two posts. Above is the lobby of the Melia Varadero. (Go back two posts to see the duPont mansion in the distance with a bunch of beach in the foreground. That shot was taken twenty years ago from the spot where this hotel would be built.)

Above is Playa Corales, where I snorkelled for the first time -- a bare-bones beach about a twenty minute taxi or moped outside the town. Corals come right up to the shore and then out about a hundred yards and extend for two miles. A round trip is about $20 by cab, or as I mentioned, you can moped. (Roads a little dicey.) There's a guy who'll look after your stuff for a dollar, like a hat check only for belongings, and you can absolutely trust him to make sure your stuff stays safe. If you go by cab, tell the driver how many hours you'll be there and he'll come back to pick you up on time. You can get roast chicken or lobster at a little outdoor grill. Heaven.

And these are twenty-year-old shots with a very old film camera inside the Caves of Bellamar, outside Matanzas, the capital of Matanzas province.

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The story is that the caves were discovered by a Chinese worker in the 1800s when they were building a railroad here. Apparently, he dropped an implement that accidentally fell through a hole in the rocks.

The caves are vast and go all the way out the to the ocean. Some places can make you claustrophobic, but the entrance is vast, deep and majestic. Imagine this as where the Phantom of the Opera would like to hide out.

So... next time, off to the eastern end of the island and my introduction to santería.

CUBA: IMAGINING VARADERO

2010-03-23T10:42:00.004-04:00

As mentioned in my last post, Varadero features heavily in my first novel The Phoenix Lottery -- especially the duPont mansion. As an experiment, I'm posting the first chapter here. For photos of the setting you're reading about, check my last post. (Next post, some things to see off the beach. :)

*********

THE REUNION (From THE PHOENIX LOTTERY)

Varadero. December 15, 1958. Two weeks before the revolution triumphs.

Edgar and Kitty, along with four-year-old Junior and private secretary Emily Pristable, have arrived from Havana to celebrate Christmas and welcome in the New Year. But the main purpose of their visit is not relaxation. The couple hopes to use the holiday cheer to mend fences with Kitty’s parents, Henry and Althea Danderville.

Edgar had once been the Dandervilles’ darling. He’d met them at their Caledon estate, claiming himself a comrade of their late lamented son. They brought him to the drawing room where his three-hankie recollection of Joseph’s heroic death in battle earned him both a sherry and a job.

Bright and enterprising, Edgar rose quickly through the ranks. Then, betrayal! Elopment with their daughter Kitty! Imagine! And her a Havergill debutante!

The Dandervilles sought to have the marriage annulled, but Kitty proudly announced herself pregnant. Swallowing hard, Althea contacted her second-cousin, Irénée duPont, the French-born American industrialist. Within the week, he had the young couple out-of-sight-out-of-mind in Cuba, where Edgar was put to work on family interests in Havana. Oh the howls and recrimation, when Kitty’s pregnancy evaporated in the hot Cuban sun. Even the birth of grandson Junior, some years later, failed to melt the northern cold front.

This visit may change all that. Winter is increasingly hard on the Danderville bones, and for once the invitation to Christmas in Cuba has been accepted. Edgar is determined the breach be healed -- no Havana apartment for his in-laws. Rather, leaving nothing to chance, he has arranged for the family to stay at Xanadu, the private retreat of Irénée duPont.

The redoubtable duPont, now a fierce eighty-four, is vacationing in the south of France and is only too happy to give Edgar the keys to his estate. Edgar, after all, has served with distinction for the past eight years: he’s a young man with a future, a ‘comer’ and drinking companion to boot. As for Althea, she and that Danderville fellow of hers raise damn fine horses on their Caledon estate. Definitely our sort.

***

When Irénée duPont arrived at Varadero in 1928, the little fishing village was an outlying section of Cárdenas, a city once renowned as “The Holland of the Americas”. Created out of swamp by French, American and British interests, Cárdenas was the first Cuban city to have electric lights and the second to be serviced by a railroad. While these amenities spoke to its power as a centre for sugar and coffee, its attractions were more than economic. The endless, unspoiled beauty of its Varadero beaches brought tourists by steamer and sailboat as early as 1872. In fact, Varadero was the first beach to see Europeans dressed in lightweight bathing attire. Unfortunately, Cárdenas had unravelled when nationalists razed its plantations and destroyed its rail links at the close of the nineteenth century. From that point it had been in progressive decline, its people mired in poverty, its magnificent architecture ravaged by neglect, and its tourism reduced to a faint sea-breeze.

A French-born American industrialist, duPont was a visionary who saw an opportunity to recapture the lost glory of the area, or at least of its beaches. A philanthropist of the old school, he financed a purification plant which delivered potable water to the area, underwrote the village school which provided free education to the peninsula’s children, and paid to rebuild the local church, the Iglesia Católica de Santa Elvira, when it was decimated by a cyclone in 1933. He also invested over $1.5 million to create his spectacular Xanadu retreat.

Set on 512 hectares of land on the east end of the Varadero peninsula, Xanada features an airstrip, a yacht harbour, a nine-hole golf course and a stunning three-story Spanish colonial-style mansion. The mansion, perched atop the San Bernadino butte, boasts impossibly high ceilings, green tile roof set against white stucco walls and a parade of elegant mahogany-framed windows and balconies. Surpassing these in magnificence is its piece de resistance, an expansive semi-enclosed rooftop bar which commands a breathtaking view of the powdery white sand beach along the peninsula’s north coast, as well as a suggestion of the distant village.

DuPont’s extravagance caught the attention of the world’s politicians, entertainers and mobsters. Varadero began to change. While duPont maintained his Xanadu mansion at a discreet remove from other habitation, he sold off snippets of land at its west border to members of America’s social elite. Soon luxurious pied-a-terres of white stucco and terra cotta tile dotted the shoreline. Film stars like Cary Grant could be seen jogging along the brilliant sand, while gangsters like Al Capone grilled lobster on their marble beach front patios. Offshore, Hemingway indulged his passion for deep-sea fishing, while regattas and a dizzying spin of lavish private parties provided endless recreation for the socially inclined.

Varadero has never looked back. By 1958, it is in full Renaissance. Its name alone conjures Latin rhythms, romance and intrigue. It is Heaven with a twist; Paradise straight up. Small wonder, then, that Edgar and Kitty have chosen it as the fairy tale backdrop for their planned reconciliation with the Dandervilles. But life, in the form of witchcraft and revolution, is about to provide the couple with something quite other than a fairy tale ending.

***

The Dandervilles arrive fresh from a Miami stopover on a private plane arranged by Edgar. This is only the second time they’ve been to Cuba. It’s also the first time they’ve seen grandson Junior since Kitty flew him up to Toronto’s Sick Children’s Hospital for neurological tests when he was still an infant. The atmosphere is electric. Fortunately, the Dandervilles have had a good flight.

“Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. My own, dear Kitty,” says Althea, emerging from a formal embrace on the tarmac. “You ought to have told me the good news immediately, my dear.”

“What good news?” Kitty enquires.

“That you’re in the family way, my precious. That your Junior will soon be having himself a little playmate.”

“ I’m not!” Kitty splutters.

“Oh but you can’t fool me, with those pudgy cheeks and thick waist.”

Kitty bursts into tears. “Mama, you know what the doctors said!”

“Oh my angel, forgive me. However could I be so cruel? Why, then, it must be the happy marriage that has you so nicely fleshed out. As for the problem ‘down there’, please don’t cry. I’m sure with a little prayer the good Lord will see fit to bless you with another wee one. What do doctors know anyway? In the meantime, if I may be permitted a word of advice, mind the sweets. A mother worries.”

With that, Althea sails off to the waiting convertible, her perfect hourglass form encased in a tasteful linen ensemble, her pale skin shaded from the sun by white gloves, an enormous soft-brimmed picture hat and a large floral-print umbrella carried by her doting husband, Henry.

Junior is waiting for them on the front steps of the mansion. Emily has dressed him in a blue blazer, grey wool shorts, knee-high socks and a polka dot bow tie. He is four, but confronted by Granny D. he quickly regresses.

“Aren’t we the proper little man?” Althea enthuses with what she presumes to be grandmotherly affection. She turns to Kitty. “Why he’s cute as a button.” Extending her hand to Junior she says, “Would you like to shake Granny’s hand?”

Junior shakes his head, thumb stuck firmly in mouth.

“But it’s your Granny Danderville,” Kitty encourages. “You remember your Granny Danderville, don’t you?”

Junior shakes his head and hides behind Emily’s skirts. His pants itch. He scratches his bum.

“He’s just making a bit strange,” says Emily, placing a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Some things never change,” Althea replies darkly. She remembers well the five-minute encounter with Junior she and Henry had endured at Sick Kids’. The boy had not only refused to look at them, he’d kept his hands clamped over his eyes. They’d tried coaxing a peek. No luck. Not to be denied by a tadpole, Althea had pried the screaming boy’s hands from his face finger by finger. But the stubborn beast, undaunted, had kept his eyes squinched tight shut. Not even a bribe of chocolate could tempt the creature to open them.

“Not to worry,” Althea brightens, “lots of peculiar children grow up to be normal.”

“Would you like to play horsy, Junior?” Henry asks, dropping to all fours.

“Henry, please! That’s what servants are for.”

The company passes through the foyer and enters the main reception area. Tension is instantly relieved with a chorus of appreciative ‘ooo’s and ‘ahhh’s; servants have decorated a sixteen-foot pine tree flown in from New England for the occasion. The boughs bend beneath the weight of crystal icicles, colourful balls of eggshell porcelain, seasonal figurines, and large cones gilded with gold leaf. Atop the tree is a large Christmas angel with a glittering halo and a flowing robe of real ermine studded with jewels.

Junior has been in awe of the angel since he first laid eyes on her. He’s so proud to show her off that he forgets he’s shy. “Look at the angel! Her hat is as wide as Granny’s.”

“It’s called a halo, dear,” Kitty intervenes with a nervous smile.

“I want a halo!”

The adults smile indulgently, but Junior is not to be patronized. He has found his vocation. “When I grow up,” he announces proudly, “I’m going to be a Christmas angel. And I’m going to wear a beautiful dress and have a big halo and long, golden hair, and fly around giving presents to poor people. Everybody will want to kiss me.” He begins to dance around as he imagines the Christmas angel would dance, with his hands high in the air and his long, imaginary hair flowing in the breeze.

“Yes, well,” says Edgar brusquely, “Anyone for rum punch?”

It is at this point that Junior lets out a hair-raising scream, drops to the floor and skitters backwards into a corner like a crab. Terrified, he scrunches into a ball and points at the ceiling. “The Pillow Lady’s in the chandelier!” he screams. Emily runs to comfort him. “Pillow Lady! Pillow Lady!”

“He’s still going on about the Pillow Lady?” Althea demands, her right eyebrow arching off her forehead. “I understood those Toronto head doctors had put an end to that.” Her gaze swoops to the unfortunate Kitty who collapses sobbing at Edgar’s feet. Edgar, in turn, implores Henry with the helpless look of a man who knows he ought to be doing something, but can’t figure out exactly what.

No such indecision affects Sara Pérez, the head maid. She knows she must visit the high priest, the babalawo, immediately. There is witchcraft afoot.

CUBA: THE DUPONT MANSION

2010-03-19T09:03:00.002-04:00

When I first went to Varadero, Cuba, in 1990, I was blown away by its twenty kilometres (1.2 miles) of almost unbroken white coral sand beach. At that time the last hotel, the International, was at about the halfway point. Then one took a moped out a dirt path which ended up at a golf course which is part of the old duPont estate. After that, the mansion and more sand. Now hotels extend the full length of the peninsula. However, unlike most major beach destinations, with the exception of the small downtown, only one row of hotels line the ocean. It's the busiest of Cuba's resort towns, but extremely quiet by most standards.

Dupont arrived in 1930 and built his million-and-a-half dollar estate in the middle of the Great Depression. Its elaborately carved railings and supports are all mahogany, and it includes a pipe organ and one of the first private working elevators. He also bought up lots of beach to keep his privacy. This is the view from his balcony looking over his golf course. When he was here, the resort in the distance didn't exist. (There was also a private airport runway.)

Dupont introduced potable water to the area -- unlike some other Caribbean destinations, its tap water is safe to drink. And he provided schools for the area's children. When the local church was destroyed, he rebuilt it:

He was an acquisitive/philanthropist of the old school. When he left at the revolution he asked the authorities not to destroy it: "Let history know I was here." The beaches are now all public and the mansion is a restaurant, although many of the rooms are exactly as he left them. Here's the dining room with organ:

Oh, and here's his bedroom. Actually, his wife's. He slept just off it as he drank a lot and snored:

A lot of my first (adult) novel, The Phoenix Lottery, is set in this mansion. Next post, will be the chapter that introduces Vardero and then some posts on my experiences with santería.

Till then,

Allan

CUBA: ONCE UPON A TIME...

2010-03-15T21:23:00.007-04:00

Once upon a time... I wasn't so old. The picture above is of me and Daniel twenty years ago, back when we had hair -- and glasses were kinda big. It's taken at dusk in Varadero outside the restaurant of what was a then-3-Star hotel (HAHAHAHAHA) the Kawama. Before the revolution it was a casino. It's just down the beach from Al Capone's old pad, on a strip where Cary Grant, half of Hollywood, and REAL gangsters -- like The Godfather gangsters -- used to jog, gamble and barbecue. Anyway, the Kawama has subsequently been renovated. (Collapsed in a hurricane and was rebuilt.) I believe it's now a 4 Star. (HAHAHAHAHA)

This (above) was our room on the beach. It was actually a shed at the side of a large house divided into rooms. The wood supports were crawling with termites which you could see if you looked behind where the concrete had broken away. Which might explain why it and the other buildings like it collapsed. Hurricanes aside.

Anyway, Daniel and I are off on Friday for three weeks in Vietnam and Cambodia, so I'm trying to do a series of prescheduled posts... because I don't think I'll have much time for the Internet while sailing on Halong Bay or crawling over the vines and banyan trees at the jungle temples of Angor Wat. To keep this blog alive while I'm gone, I thought I might do a series of posts about Cuba. I've been there over forty times. It's inspired large parts of my first novel (The Phoenix Lottery -- now out of print but which you can buy from me). It's also where I go to unwind and snorkel. And where I had my santerìan purification ritual -- Spanish voodoo, very common in Florida -- which fairie_writer at Livejournal asked me to talk about.

Cuba has changed SO much over the years. Things are far from perfect, but the vitriol you hear on FOX "News" is mainly recycled stuff from the Cold War days. What hasn't changed is the warmth and generosity of the people.

Also, the beauty of its waters.

I'll be talking about the changes, and also including chunks from Phoenix Lottery in sections where the book touches on my real-life experience or describes things I've seen. I'm picturing a kind of writer's-eye view where the real and the imagined come together. Not sure if it'll work, but we'll see.

Oh, here, by the way, is one of the old American cars that were still running in 1990. (I saw them as late as 2000, now hardly ever.) Still, imagine cars lasting fifty years today!

And here is a view of the beach -- and of the duPont mansion, now the Las Americas Restaurante -- where we'll pick up next post.

Cheers,

Allan

BOOK GIVEAWAY: AND A SHOUT OUT TO MAD KING LUDWIG

2010-03-12T07:54:00.010-05:00

I've been very bad about posting these past two weeks. BORDERLINE has just come out and I'm racing against a first draft deadline for my new novel. (Title initials G.R.A.) I know, excuses, excuses. And okay, my official deadline is really May 1, but I'm going to be away in Vietnam and Cambodia as of next Friday, so I made this unofficial deadline to kick my ass in gear. I have never been late for a deadline in my life, and as an Obsessive/Compulsive that fact exerts ever growing pressure on me as I age. I have this idea that if I was ever late my life would completely fall apart and I'd never get anything completed again, ever. Okay, I know that's irrational, but there you are. :)

Anyway here are some shots of what's inspiring my latest -- a Middle School-and-up fantasy set in the Middle Ages. You'll recognize the top photo either as the Disneyland or the castle of King Ludwig of Bavaria. Actually it's the real deal -- Disneyland used it as its inspiration for the Magic Kingdom. Here's another shot:

The following shot of 'the far mountains' -- the Bavarian Alps in real life -- came from a castle parapet leading to a simulated grotto under a castle theatre. Upstairs they'd be playing Wagner, while Ludwig would listen from his grotto and brood.

Ludwig was reputed to be crazy, but I personally think he was just very much in the closet. Think Michael Jackson, without the music or the sex charges, or... well, okay there are a lot of differences, and maybe he was a little crazy too. But still. He built these amazing piles in Bavaria, and even if he ruined Bavaria's finances, the people loved him because building all those castles meant they had full employment. Call it "Stimulus Spending" in the nineteenth century. He drowned in a very shallow lake, despite being a fine swimmer. At least that's what the doctor who was with him said. Calling Nancy Grace. Well, not her -- AAA! -- but Bavaria Vice, say.

More impressive than the Disneyland castle, at least on the inside, is this castle, where Ludwig actually lived. Every room is mirrored on all sides, with a jungle of gilt swans and lilies rising up from all the corners and over the roof. He lived here totally alone in the middle of nowhere with his male servants. They'd sleep all day, then drink and go on all-night sleigh rides. I asked my tour guide about my theory that Ludwig was maybe a little bit gay. She said she'd never heard that before. I pointed at the gilt swans and the lilies and the mirrors and said, "Uh, have you taken a look around?"

Here is his parents castle. Ludwig's Disneyland place is on the mountain above. Freud would have a field day.

And here's part of a medieval fence in Oberammergau where they do the Passion Play every ten years because apparently god spared the village from the plague. Everyone in town paints murals of fairy tales all over their houses. It's quite a sight.

Oh, and here's the town square of Bremen, which in how I imagine market square in my fantasy capital of Nebelstad. (Did I mention I took these on a reading tour of Germany for my German publisher dtv? DTV is great. And so is Bremen! I heartily recommend a visit, as well as the Ludwig tour you can get out of Munich.)

And here are two shots of the great forest Finsterholz (my name) -- which you'll recall from my trip to Argentina. (Love that rubber tree in Recoleta.)

This mountain cliff below, though, is a view from one of Ludwig's turrets. Check out the (still used) rope bridge on the middle right,

And now I better race back to my draft.

BOOK GIVEAWAY ALERT: Holly Cupala has a book giveaway for my new novel, BORDERLINE, at her site: www.hollycupala.com The post is dated March 11, and the contest runs till Monday.

Allan

BOOK LOVERS BALL

2010-03-08T17:13:00.005-05:00

Okay, so this post is way late. But anyway, every year the Toronto Public Library has a swanky do to raise money. People and companies spend a fair chunk of change to go to a ballroom in the Royal York Hotel, see a fashion show based on popular novels, and eat fabulous food with a writer at their table. The writers are basically court jesters, there to amuse the guests.

This year I was asked to be one of the writers. It's a great honor and I had a fab time, although I must say cocktail parties aren't really my thing since I stopped drinking. I'm great in small groups or addressing a crowd, but put me in a cocktail party and I get lockjaw. I mean I grin like the Joker -- and not the Heath Ledger kind, more like the one on TV -- and my temples get so tight I swear I'm going to have a stroke.

For this event, I also had to wear a tux, which for me was a life first. I like to slouch around in jeans or a ratty bathrobe. But -- whoah -- here I am in a tux!

This is how I feel in a tux:

As I mentioned, the event was great and came with a silent auction and everything. Here's my place setting.

And here's the runway for the fashion show.

There were eight novels showcased. The best fashions were in a Bollywood number for Slumdog Millionaire. Great dancing. Also great dancing for the Outlander piece, although the dancers moved so fast I couldn't really get pix.

There were two other standout numbers:

Fashions for Breakfast at Tiffany's:

Fashions for Spartacus:

Quess which one got the most applause. :)

(Out of curiosity, how many of you who grew up in the 50s and 60s loved gladiator movies ? I'll never forget Rory Calhoun in The Colossus of Rhodes -- Rory's best friend gets a huge bell lowered over his head, and it gets gonged and blood comes out of his ears. Jason and the Argonauts with those sword-fighting skeletons was also pretty cool. )

Oh, BTW, only two people worked for the company that bought my table. But they had terrific family and friends -- originally from Peru, Pakistan, Switzerland, and Winnipeg. The kind of fun mix that makes Toronto such a fantastic city to live in!) A really fun time for a great cause.

BORDERLINE: RAVES AND MEOWS!

2010-03-05T08:00:00.000-05:00

Okay, I've been very good about writing about fun travel adventures. But my new book BORDERLINE comes out March 9, so please forgive the forthcoming writer's ego. (Hey, it's my birthday today, too, so gimme a break, eh? I am too damn old for complaints, okay? :))

Anyway, BORDERLINE HAS HAD FANTASTIC REVIEWS AND BLURBS. I've posted them below -- BUT -- between each one is a picture of my kitty-kids. So have a good scroll. And please know that Daniel and I have bought our tickets to Vietnam/Cambodia for a trip the end of this month -- and I'll be posting on writing in Cuba before then -- so please bear with me cuz there'll be lots of travel soon. :)

INTERNATIONAL PRAISE FOR BORDERLINE

“A powerful story and excellent resource for teaching tolerance, with a message that extends well beyond the timely subject matter.”
-PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW

“A tautly paced thriller with well-crafted characters and realistic dialogue. It is the plausibility of the plotline that makes it, ultimately, so disturbing... A great fast-paced read... also notable for its characterization of a strong male Muslim who is true to his faith and struggles to do the right thing throughout.”
-SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL, STARRED REVIEW

“Tense and compelling... Stratton’s grasp of daily Muslim life breaths life into this story... A fast, exciting read with weighty underpinnings.”
-BOOKLIST

“Explodes with political relevance... The curtailing of civil rights, the explicit targeting of young Muslim men and the manic, dangerously unchecked power of U.S. and Canadian anti-terrorism forces are deathly realistic dangers in this vitally educational page-turner.
-KIRKUS REVIEWS

"Intelligent... Entertaining... The novel examines with genuine care what it must feel like to be a teenage boy living in an environment in which people of Middle Eastern heritage are suspect by virtue of their looks and religion... Family loyalty, justice, and the shifting nature of truth are all examined in Borderline, and Stratton leads us through Sami's tribulations with a graceful hand that makes this thought-provoking novel a pleasure to read." -QUILL AND QUIRE, FEATURED REVIEW

"Absorbing. An eye-opening mystery and adventure story."
-RICHIE'S PICKS

"A compelling coming-of age-novel about acceptance, The Other, and fear, wrapped in a fascinating adventure/thriller/mystery. All these elements are shaken mightily in Allan's Stratton's latest -- as are we."
-GARY SCHMIDT, New York Times bestselling and Printz and Newbery Honor Author

"Allan Stratton spins these otherwise ordinary lives on a dime and a secret. Borderline is as astonishing as it is all quite possible."
-RITA WILLIAMS-GARCIA, National Book Award finalist for Jumped

"Smart, meticulously plotted, and thrilling. The scariest thing about Borderline is how utterly believable it is."
TIM WYNNE-JONES, author of The Uninvited

"I'm Pooped!"

MY NEW BOOK: BORDERLINE

2010-03-02T11:43:00.005-05:00

Well... Last post I asked what people would like to read about -- and I got emails and comments at livejournal and elsewhere that a number of you want to hear about my new book -- BORDERLINE. So okay. For the next week that's what you'll get, because, hey BORDERLINE is coming out March 9, so if I don't talk it up a little now what's the point of having a blog, eh? :)

(Above: Me talking stuff up.)

First though -- and very connected to BORDERLINE: Holly Cupala, one of the readergirlz divas is posting an interview with me -- and also doing a BORDERLINE book giveaway -- on March 11 at her site www.hollycupala.com . You should visit her site anyway, because, like the readergirlz site, it's really good. Anyway, today I'll be giving a sneak preview of the interview, by letting you know what I told Holly when asked what the book's about and why I wrote it. I'll also be tossing in a few pictures of me working because, hey, just hearing writers puff their books is a bit, well... pushy? One kind of wants a writer's ego to be broken up with, uh, their ego, eh?

STRATTON, HEY -- I hear you say -- GET ON WITH IT! WHAT'S BORDERLINE ABOUT?

Okay. BORDERLINE is a coming-of-age mystery/suspense/thriller. The hero is Sami 'Sammy' Sabiri, a funny, gutsy, Muslim American. Sami has problems with a bully at the private boy’s school where he’s been stuck by his over-controlling father. But these problems are nothing compared to what happens when the FBI and Homeland Security swoop in and arrest his dad, claiming he’s part of an international terrorist plot. Aided by his best friends Andy and Marty, Sami risks everything in his struggle to discover the truth about his dad and save his family. It’s a roller coaster ride in which nothing is ever what it seems.

AND WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO WRITE IT?

Three things, probably.
My mom left my dad when I was a baby. Growing up, I was soon aware that the father I knew was very different from the father my half-brother knew, and even more different than the father my half-sister knew. As a teenager I thought, “If I can’t really know my dad, how can I know anyone? How can anyone know anyone?”
Also, one day when I was eight I was hiding under the picnic table and eavesdropping on a conversation Dad was having with my grandparents about capital punishment. I remember breaking into a cold sweat, overcome with the certainty that one day I’d be executed for a crime I didn't commit. The idea that life isn’t fair has stuck with me ever since -- and that horrible sense of how helpless we are in the face of rumor, gossip and fear.
Finally, I was a gay kid in the 1950s and 60s. Unable to be open even to the parents and friends who loved me, I instinctively learned to hide who I was in order to survive. I learned about the borders that keep us from each other, about the lines that separate and shape us. And I learned that ‘The Truth’ and ‘The Whole Truth’ are very different things.
In fact, come to think of it, these three experiences connect to the thematic core in all my work: my obsession with secrets, loyalty, betrayal, justice, and the absolute importance of living with truth.

Next post, if you can bear it -- some GREAT REVIEWS!!! Broken up with very cute pictures of my kitties. :)

15 THINGS I'LL NEVER FORGET

2010-02-26T11:26:00.005-05:00

That's my foot hanging out the open door of an old Russian helicopter sputtering its way above my resort in north-east Cuba en route to a trip over the Sierra Maestre mountains to Santiago. I was strapped by a simple waist-only-seatbelt into what seemed to be a car seat bolted to the wall. Thought I'd start with this to grab some attention. Cheesy, I know, but hey.

Anyway, I'm back from Argentina and my new novel BORDERLINE is coming out March 9. It's had great pre-publication reviews including stars in Publishers Weekly and School Library Journal, and a full cover profile in the current Quill and Quire. I'm told I should share some quotes, and maybe I will, but being Canadian makes that part of a blog seem, well, you know, eh?

So for now, here's a post about fifteen things I'll never forget. If any of them strike your fancy let me know and I'll write a bit more about it. Okay?

FIFTEEN THINGS I’LL NEVER FORGET

Encountering a shark while snorkeling off Cayo Largo

Wandering alone through the Red Pyramid, in the desert south of Saqqara, Egypt

White-water rafting in the Canadian Rockies

Taking a balloon ride with my eighty-year-old mom over Cappadocia, Turkey

Waking up to find an elephant beside my tent in the bush in Botswana

Volunteering at a Baptist soup kitchen while living in Manhattan

Undergoing a santerían purification ritual in rural Cuba

Staying overnight in a one-room mud home in the village of Ulongwe, Malawi

Sleeping between train cars while traveling by rail through the former Yugoslavia during the Cold War

Shaking hands with Pope Paul VI, age eighteen, at an audience in Vatican City

Meditating in Buddhist temples around Bangkok, Thailand

With the imam’s permission, climbing the minaret of the Mosque of Qaitbey in Cairo’s City of the Dead

Skiing opposite the Matterhorn

Hiking along the Great Wall of China

Eating a mopani worm in Zimbabwe

********

So... anything you'd like to hear more about? Or shall I bore you with BORDERLINE stuff? :)

Cheers,

Me

ARGENTINA: A FEW FOR THE ROAD

2010-02-22T08:00:00.005-05:00

Next post we're back home and on to something new. But let's close Argentina/Buenos Aires with shots from three gardens and the zoo. The Botanical Gardens is set between major multi-lane downtown streets. But one step inside and your shoulders drop:

Another peaceful spot? The Japanese Garden in the park along the waterfront:

And the small garden enclosed by our hotel, the Melia Recoleta:

I have very mixed feelings about zoos, but this is very open air and spacious. they also let you feed the animals a special mixture prepared by the zoos vets.

Last but not not least, a little sparrow that had a crumb from one of my many MANY Freddo's Dolce de Leche ice creams.

Next time -- something completely different. Hope to see you here,

Allan

BUENOS AIRES REDUX

2010-02-19T08:00:00.003-05:00

Well, we're back in Buenos Aires to close our trip. Today, a few images I didn't get into the earlier posts: a couple of cool buildings, and a few tourist cliches such as the obelisk above. I don't get why every city thinks it has to have one, and why every city says theirs is the biggest. Hmm... don't think I'll go there.

One thing do like to see, though, are national art galleries. The one in Buenos Aires is fantastic. While the first floor is second-rate paintings by major world artists, the second floor devoted to Argentinian art is amazing. A lot of social comment in the realistic works. I remember especially a terrific piece from the 19th century: a man, woman and nursing child sit at their empty table and watch workers going off to the mine. I think its English title would read "No Job, No Food". Anyway, here's the gallery -- and just five minutes from our hotel.

Politics is ever-present. the grandmothers, mothers and wives of the disappeared continue to press for justice outside the presidential palace, as do soldiers from the Maldives/Faulklands war.

The economy ravages once grand buildings:

But there are still plenty of stunners:

Here, by the way, is The Haunted Tower. It's in the La Boca area. I've searched everywhere to find out why it's haunted. In my fractured Spanish I think I heard a local hairdresser tell me there was an actress who killed herself (or her aunt) there in the twenties. Anybody out there know the true story?

And, of course, ghosts brings me back to Recoleta cemetery and a cool tomb that missed my first entry:

Last shot today is from the land of the living, specifically Tigre, a suburb on accessible only by water. Indeed most of the homes are on individual islands too.

Tomorrow, I'm going to end the Argentina series with shots of the Botanical Gardens and national zoo. Then It's back to Canada and a few posts on writing as I get ready for the launch of my new novel, BORDERLINE!

Till then,

Allan

HUMAHUACA GORGE

2010-02-16T08:00:00.000-05:00

Well a picture says a thousand words. So maybe I should just shut up and let you see some pictures. You'll immediately recognize the Seven-Coloured Mountain. I wasn't exaggerating, was I? It all happened when the earth's plates smashed up, with mineral deposits being hoisted in vast swaths of rock. And being so dry, there's no vegetation to cover over the colours.

Note the cross on top of the hill. It's the town cemetery. Like the Incas, people still choose the highest place in the area to bury their dead.

The Three Amigos

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A confession: Our second last night in Tilcara we did the stupidest thing tourists can do. It was a lovely restaurant -- but we ate the shrimp in the salad. Uh, it's a long way from the sea to the mountains, and even if the frig is good at the restaurant, who knows about the transportation. Suffice to say, we spent a day painting the wall from both ends. Pablo was a great nurse -- filled us up on Gatorade and got us to the hospital. In Argentina they treat tourists for free! Gotta say the hospital gave me the most painful shot of my life, though. Almost as painful as my first colonoscopy which I had WITHOUT Demurral. AAA!!!

Anyway, next trip, we'll take Pablo's advice and pack lots of socks. :) For the joke, see last post.:)

And hey, if you're going to be sick for a day, what better B&B to be sick in that the Poseda de Luz. Luz gave us this goregous suite with its own "rock garden". Also, on the bright side, what better way to lose weight after weeks of piggery?

Next post we'll be waddling onto a plane in Jujuy for a last three fun-filled days in other parts of Buenos Aires -- B.A. -- Big Apple, South American style.

Yrs.,

Allan

ARGENTINA: A LITTLE SALT WITH YOUR FRIES?

2010-02-13T11:51:00.000-05:00

Yup, you're looking at a heckuva lot of salt. This salt plain is en route to the Humahuaca gorge and the famous Seven-Colored mountain. It goes as far in all directions and is twelve feet deep. The miners who carve the blocks straight down are on a day off. So, aside from salt shakers, where does all this stuff go?

Into bricks. That's right. Salt bricks. Up close, they look like this:

"What would you use salt bricks for?" I hear you say. "I mean, you can't built anything out of salt." Think again. Except for the roof, an entirely salt-brick building:

As you might guess, it's a little lonely in these parts. This is the diner in the biggest town around.

And these are the local llamas. The farmers put ribbons in their coats to tell which herds they belong to.

And this is a dog chasing the 4 x 4 after 30 seconds. We were clocking 60 mph!

Say, did I mention it might get lonely around here? Take a look at the home down there. Maybe this is why ghosts and visions feature so heavily in Argentinian fiction.

I must say, this would make a nice writer's retreat, though.

BTW, as mentioned in an earlier post, Daniel and I absolutely loved our driver/guide Pablo. On ten-hour drives it´s nice to have a guide who -- in addition to having encyclopedic knowledge -- can carry on conversations about pop culture, the relative merits of various bidets, and what to do when you´re caught on a tour in the desert without toilet paper. ("I have gone through so many socks!")

Tomorrow, he takes us to the most colourful mountains you have ever seen!

Till then,

Allan

CACHI -- PLUS A PRE-INCAN CIVILIZATION

2010-02-10T08:00:00.001-05:00

Cachi is a very small and very beautiful colonial town about a five hour drive from anywhere, aka Salta. It's in the pocket between two sets of mountains, so that despite how arid everything is around it, it's actually quite lush from the underground water that pools from the surrounding mountains. This shot is taken from the town cemetery, the highest point in the area. The custom of burying the dead on mountain peaks comes from both Incan and pre-Incan civiliations.

The main building in Cachi is the town square. Simple and stark, and quite beautiful for that.

Inside the white building is a museum with an open-air courtyard containing a series of rocks with pre-Incan carvings.

We had lunch away from the tour buses at an EXCELLENT restaurant up the street from the town square. It's called Platos y Diseño and I highly recommend it. After that, Pablo got us back to Salta for an evening walk, then picked us up early the next morning for a drive to the Humahuaca Gorge -- one of the most stunning days of our trip. From rock carving we got to see the layout of a pre-Incan town of several thousand people. When the Inca arrived, the earlier people simply left. The foundations are all made of granite boulders; as you can imagine, they've stayed exactly where the first people put them.

BTW, in Salta there's a museum containing the mummified bodies of three children sacrificed by the Inca. They weren't selected from the poor and thrown in wells to drown, as the Aztec priests did in their sacrifices. (Nor were their still-beating hearts removed.) Instead, they came from royal families throughout the region and were "wedded" symbolically at a regional ceremony before being brought back to their villages where they were frozen at the tops of mountains. (Boys as well as girls, in an early and rare example of gender equity.) The priests gave the children corn booze and, when they were passed out, put them in stone holes and let them freeze to death. Apparently the bodies were found with their muscles relaxed, so the deaths were painless. (I´ll bet they found that such a relief.) The point was to bond various clans together. It's believed there are hundreds and hundreds bodies in these stone graves, preserved by the freezing mountaintop air. May they rest in peace.

I leave you with a shot of the rugged landscape.

Tomorrow, the amazing salt plains, llamas, and farms who really want to get away from the crowd.

Cheers,

Allan

PAGING DR. FREUD!

2010-02-07T08:00:00.000-05:00

Mixed in with the mountains in the Cachi gorge are stretches of cactus plains.

Careful where you sit!

Pablo also took us on walks through the rugged countryside.

And into cattle canyons.

But the real point of this post is to show you the fun we had driving. Remember how I told you that drivers here are crazy? I mean outside Buenos Aires, even cities like Salta with oiver 600,000 people have almost no stop lights or stop signs. Cars race up to an intersection. If there's a hole in the traffic flow they floor it. Otherwise -- AAA!!! As a pedestrian, it feels like being in a carnival game of Whack-A-Mole where you're the mole!

Same craziness here in the mountains. A single dotted line means, feel free to drive on the wrong side of the road -- in fact, we insist! A double solid line when approaching a hairpin turn where you can't see what's ahead means, "Hey, it's up to you, bro." On the few occasions Argentinians are serious, they actually paint huge exclamation marks in the lanes, and then it's kinda like, "Don't say we didn't warn you!"

Here Pablo shows us the happy-go-lucky driving spirit that makes traveling here so much fun.

1) Talk to passengers in the backseat to make sure they're happy. Use your hands to make your points.

2) At curves, take your eyes off the road and flash a smile out the window at pretty girls hitchhiking. Or just check yourself out in the side mirror.

3) As you sail through the air over the cliff, reassure the screaming passengers in the back seat.

4) Leap before the crash and have lunch ready for when your passengers climb back to the road. (If they're kinda dead, make them a nice stone marker. Flowers optional.)

Next stop Cachi, salt flats, and pre-Incan settlements!

Till then,

Allan

ARGENTINA: INTO THE CACHI GORGE!

2010-02-04T08:00:00.000-05:00

So far we'd been traveling on our own. But our excellent travel agent, Pablo Kesselman of Carlson-Wagonlit/Clarke-Way Travel -- who's originally from Buenos Aires and whose life story would make a great novel -- hooked us up with a company called Argentina Activa for our mountain trek. And they in turn hooked us up with Pablo Sancho Perez, who in addition to being funny and insightful was actually able to drive the treacherous hairpins without getting us killed. We went in a 4 x 4 -- just us, so no tour stops in junky souvenir places!

The mountains are the Eastern rage, just east of the Andes and reach almost as high -- 4,600 meters above sea level: we started at 2,000 meters.

After every other hairpin turn there is a stone memorial with a cross for each car that´s plunged over.

Pablo says some (like a bus with 40 passengers) have had bad brakes. Here he shows Daniel the memorial to the tragedy --

Others have run-ins with stray bulls -- note the missing guard rail.

But most accidents happen when locals simply fall asleep at the wheel. One blink and it´s yippee-ai-o-kay-ay!

We passed a small chapel used by locals. A lot of cigarettes lit and left to burn down as burnt offerings. (Here as in Afro-Latina religions like voodoo and santeria, gifts of tobacco to Mother Earth are common, and the clever Jesuits allowed the local Incas to synchretize their religions with Catholicism. Those traditions still strong.

(FYI: The theory is that Incas and previous waves of indigenous peoples came across the Bering Sea and moved south -- i.e., that they are directly related to our Inuit. Indeed the resemblance to the facial bone structures of the people here are striking.)

Oh, above is another example of local tradition. The cross behind me isn't for a dead person. It marks a cache. Travelers on the mountain trails leave things they don't need and take things other travelers have left behind. The Incan and pre-Incan peoples created the piles. the Spaniards added the crosses.

And Pablo told us of another old tradition to do with funerals. It still goes on in rural areas where they have wakes like the Irish. (No embalming but they wait a day before burial to make sure you´re really dead. Kinda thoughtful.) Anyway, the cool thing is ¨the weepers¨-- old women in the community who make sure things don´t get too glum or out of control. So when the drinking leads to boisterous behaviour they start beat their chests and wailing, then if things are too serious they crack jokes and pass out the booze.

We interrupt this text to bring you a few photos:

We pass giant sculptures of garishly painted 14 foot crucified Christs at the entrance to various villages. The limbs are extended like an El Greco preying mantis; the paint makeup looks like the Joker. Truly nightmarish. But time to sign off. Next post I'll show you Pablo "Look Ma No Hans" Sancho Perez and his fun approach to hairpin turns.

Hasta luego,

Allan

SALTA, ARGENTINA!

2010-02-01T08:00:00.000-05:00

Iguazu Falls was exciting, but not as exciting as the evening taxi ride from the Salta airport to our B&B. There are three speeds in Argentina: "AAA!", "AAAAAAA!", and "HOLY F***ING AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" Argentinians drive like Parisiens with blindfolds. Especially fun is passing three cars and a bus while going up a hill. Naturally I'm delighted. Since getting home, Daniel has found my driving positively rational.

Salta is an astonishingly beautiful colonial city, the capital of Salta province in the north west. The province is a plateau between two mountain ranges, one being the Eastern range before the Andes. There are 600,000 people but all the buildings are low. There is a gorgeous central square dominated by the cathedral which is painted pink-lavendar. At night all the colonial buildings are lit up which makes the whole place look like a bunch of fancy wedding cakes. Exhibit A at the top of this post. Exhibit B here:

Here, by the way, are those cathedrals by day:

(I'd love to see Pope Benedict do mass in a pink cathedral, wouldn't you?)

BTW, the central statue in the park is of General Guemes, the northern hero of the War of Independence against Spain in the 19th century.

Salta was founded by a guy called Lerma who was about to be thrown in jail in Spain, but his well-to-do family managed to get him exiled here instead. Eventually the locals kicked him back home for being a totally major jerk -- but he still rates a statue by the town hall. Both statue and town hall are seen behind Daniel.

If memory serves, the town hall was on Avenido Belgrano, named for another war hero. In any event it was on route to a terrific artsy area by the old train station. Unlike the flea market in San Telmo in Buenos Aires, the craft booths here had really high quality workmanship. And the restaurants! OMG!

Speaking of restaurants, it is so hard to eat healthy in Argentina. For breakfasts, our B&B, Bloomers -- a place the guide books might call 'quirky' and 'charming' -- served dolce de leche (caramel) pancakes, and croissants with candied squash jam. Lunch at a neighborhood restaurant was an empanada and a provelta. The provelta was billed as an appetizer. What it was was a half pound of grilled, spiced provolone which they offered to drench in olive oil. Yesterday for dessert we had that squash jam under a slab of goat cheese. And then of course there are all the local ice creams which are, well.. necessary in order to experience the region.

One other fun thing we did was go up a cable car to the top of the main mountain in town. Here's the shadow of our car against the mountain.

And here's a long-distance view of a suburb of Salta.

And here's a shot I took it from behind a man-made waterfall in the summit gardens looking out through the water.

I promised I'd introduce Pablo today, the hilarious driver/guide who took us through some hair-raising experiences in the most gorgeous mountains you've ever seen. (All different colours, and some almost 5,000 metres above sea level!) You'll also see salt flats, miles of giant cactus, llamas, farms in the middle of nowhere, herds of cows in canyons. But, hey, I'm tired. Tune in to the next few posts and we'll be out in a 4 x 4! I promise, you won't be disappointed!

Till then,

Allan

ARGENTINA: "THIS PIZZA TASTES LIKE CARDBOARD!"

2010-01-29T08:00:00.000-05:00

Okay. There are miles of protected semi-tropical bush in all directions around Iguazu Falls. But there's one very clean little restaurant area. This critter is the Argentinian version of a raccoon. He waltzed right out of the bush. On that trail to the swimming hole I showed you last post Daniel and I passed a family of ten. In the wild, masses of these things can be a bit unnerving, but they're very safe.

Here are a few other marvels you'll see in the bush, including a swath of the kind of yellow butterflies that absolutely SWARM across the road to town, figs, and a flowering tree out of Avatar.

Let's leave Iguazu Falls with a few spectacular views that never made it into my first post here. Let's start with a view looking down from above on that swimming hole I took you to last time:

Next post it's off to the colonial capital of Salta in Argentina's north-west, and a trip through pre-Incan ruins, salt flats, cactus deserts, multi-coloured mountains and much, much more with our hilarious, young driver and guide Pablo "Look Ma, No Hands!" Perez Sancho (just kidding) who joined us for four days of mountain touring.

Yrs.,

Allan

SKINNY DIPPING AT IGUAZU FALLS!

2010-01-25T08:00:00.006-05:00

It's one thing to SEE Iguazu Falls. It's another thing to be in it.

Well... there's a trail that leads several miles into the semi-tropical bush at the end of which is are a pair of falls that land in a natural pool. It's the one place in the whole area where swimming is allowed. Just make sure you bring lots of mosquito repellent!

Owing to the hike and the bugs, very few make this side trip, so you have the falls to yourself. But first, here are a few of the things you'll see in the jungle along the way.

Just kidding. Our friend, above, was at a nature reserve next to the Falls Park, along with this amazing owl who was roosting inside a rotten tree branch.

But you will see --

And then you're there at the falls! It's just like Blue Lagoon, minus Brooke Shields and Christopher Atkins.

The water's so cold, as my grampa would say, "it'd freeze the balls off a brass monkey!" But hey, Daniel and I are Canadian, so in we went. I mean how many chances do you get to swim at a wonder of the world?

Owing to the privacy -- there was no one else around (see hike through jungle and bugs above) -- I decided to put my grampa's expression to the test and do a little skinny dipping. (SHHH!!!) Daniel was horrified. As he pointed out, there was a mirador (lookout point) up above. However, as I pointed out, what tourist, confronted with a panoramic wonder of nature, is going to notice a middle-aged bum? As for the rest -- in ice water, seen from 25 meters (80 feet) above, voyeurs would need the Hubble. :)

Ah... the best part of the trip so far!

Next post other woodland creatures and a return to Devil's Throat -- then more wonders in the north-west province of Salta with colonial towns like up like wedding cakes, hairpin turns at 4,500 meters, and mountains the color of the rainbow! See you there.

Yrs.,

Allan

IGUAZU FALLS: SEEING IS BELIEVING!

2010-01-22T08:00:00.005-05:00

I was gobsmacked by the Falls when I saw The Mission and Indiana Jones. But seeing them in person is like nothing else in the world. Let's get me and Daniel out of the way so you can get a better look.

Iguazu Falls is Niagara Falls on steroids. In fact, Niagara Falls is actually a bit a joke after Iguazu. For one thing, the area for miles around Iguazu is protected semi-tropical bush, so you don't have to deal with fast food joints, Madame Tussauds and casinos. And unlike the other great falls Victoria Falls -- which is also amazing -- it's more than one long sheet of water. In fact, the Falls are made of of hundreds of different falls along the river which makes for an endless succession of astonishing panoramas. Like this one.

And this one.

The town of Iguazu is about a twenty minute drive away and is pretty unappetizing. There's a funky, damp smell coming out of the grates by some of the restaurants -- more like a septic tank smell, actually. Which may explain little friends like this one I found on the sidewalk.

Big as a cat, I tell you. Well, maybe not. But certainly a kitten. Anyway, that's why I suggest you stay at a B&B. Ours was La Boutique Hotel de la Fonte. We loved it. Despite appearances, it's EXTREMELY reasonable. Just a small step up from backpacking. Here's the entrance:

It's owned by an Italian couple who also have an on site restaurant with a friendly Swiss waitress you half expect to burst out yodeling. And each "cabin" looks like ours:

Those things that have leaves like trees are actually bamboo --

But back to the Falls. There's lots of ways to see them. You can take a little toy train out to see the BIG falls (Devil's Throat). After walking a mile along a bridge you get to see it up close. (Note that the previous bridge washed away; you can see the cement moorings.) Hope you aren't afraid of heights -- or bridges.

Or check out the little boat going into the mist, below. Daniel and I were on the one just before it. For thrills and chills, it sure beats the Maid of the Mist. :)

Along the river, there's an upper falls and a lower falls path. The lower falls path lets you walk out of a bridge to catch some spray.

The upper falls path takes you over little bridges with views like this.

But the best way to experience the Falls is to swim in one of them. Yes, there's actually a falls deep in the bush where you can swim (or skinny dip, shhh) in a natural pool under a waterfall. For that trip, tune in to the next post!

Yrs.,

Allan

GRAVE ROBBING AT RECOLETA CEMETERY -- PLUS EVITA'S TOMB

2010-01-19T08:00:00.001-05:00

Apart from the fantastic ice cream chains (Freddo's, Volares, etcetera), the rubber trees, La Boca, and the amazing art galleries -- the second floor of the National Museum of Art featuring Argentinian art is awe-inspiring -- Recoleta Cemetery, aka the Buenos Aires Boneyard is one of the most interesting places in the city. It's minutes away from our hotel. Above is the church by the entrance.

And here is a street scene from the City of the Dead. As you can see, everyone here is in a family mausoleum.

The cemetery is filled with rich people and dignitaries: a plot here is literally the most expensive real estate in the world. But the main reason tourists flock here is to see the mausoleum of Evita. (Peron is buried in a military cemetery, not here.) The flowers you see below are real. They change every day. She is truly beloved by the poor to this day, despite her taste in shoes and accessories.

Aside from the dead, the cemetery is home to cats. Here is the mayor, and an assistant on siesta:

But there's a darker side to the cemetery. Many of the mausoleums are collapsed or broken into -- great for grave robbers, necrophiles and the homeless who live in the tombs after dark. The thing is, it's up to families to pay for upkeep and pay a tax of 30 pesos for each dead person in the family tomb going back several hundred years -- so some people just say forget it. After 40 years the city takes back the plot and the bodies are dumped somewhere else.

Meanwhile you can see coffins -- and touch them where the doors are broken in or the glass smashed -- and also see violated mausoleums with stairs leading down to where the coffins from a century ago are stored. (Mausoleums can hold nine coffins, plus a great many more reliquaries. I gather when the tombs are full, it's the in-laws who are first to get the old heave-ho.

Anyway, it's all quite spooky and fun -- if you´re not the corpse.

We'll be coming back to Buenos Aires. But when I post next, I'll be taking you to the fabulous IGUAZU FALLS!!! Get your wetsuits on!

Yours,

Allan

DON'T CRY FOR ME ARGENTINA!

2010-01-16T08:00:00.007-05:00

Yup, this is me outside the Casa Rosada -- aka the Presidential Palace in Argentina -- the place where Madonna sang that big song in the movie. Er, I mean where Eva "Evita" Peron gave her big speech. Argentina is the first country I've visited in South America, and to get there Daniel and I flew via Chile, i.e. over the Andes. Here's the view from the plane window.

Whenever I think of the Andes I think of that soccer team in the sixties or seventies whose plane crashed and the survivors had to eat their dead teammates to survive. Surveying the plane, I remember thinking I'd throw up if it happened to us. Tourists are very unappetizing. On the other hand, most are well-marinated.

This is our hotel in Buenos Aires. It's in the Recoleta area, which is pretty trendy with lots of artists and ice cream shops, not to mention the Recoleta Cemetery which has the most expensive real estate in the world. (True.) People are literally DYING to get in. Our hotel is a Melia boutique hotel. I love the Melia chain -- and owing to the downturn prices here are at 30% regular! It's tacky to mention, but honestly there's no other way we could afford a hotel that comes with a Pillow Menu. That's right. A Pillow Menu. It's like a food menu only for pillows. We chose a Lavender for soothing dreams. There's also a "Jasmine Pillow" and a "Roll Pillow" -- which the menu says is popular with honeymooners. Oh, and there's an "Orthopedic Pillow" too -- presumably for recovery from the "Roll Pillow".

Truly cool fact: Our hotel is where Peron 'kept' Eva before they were married.

Above is the cutlery chandelier at a terrific restaurant called Fervor, just a few doors down from the hotel. People eat like pigs here. A pound of steak for $15 at a 5*. I ordered the steak, and Daniel the vegetables -- everything's à la carte -- and we shared. But most people eat EVERYTHING!!! Maybe because restaurants only open at 8 p.m. and people are starving when they enter.

Also near our hotel is a little parkette with the most AMAZING rubber trees. If you look closely you'll see me among the roots of one of them.

I don't want to bore you with standard guide book pictures -- as you may have guessed -- so here are a couple of shots from a poor area known as La Boca. It's in the old port district where the houses are made of wood and painted hugely garish colours. It's been like this for centuries. A poor area, people painted their houses using the leftover paint from the old ship building places. The area used to be flooded a few times a year, so anyone who could afford to got the hell out. It's great by day but knife robberies by night. I loved it.

And here's a street puppeteer from the weekly Sunday flea market on San Telmo.

Mainly the flea market is lined with tourist-trap "crafts". See Daniel below at beginning of the gauntlet:

But there are also great antique stores, street shows like the one that puppeteer put on, and also people who just turn on a boom box and start to tango; or who walk around trying to sell odd stuff like feather dusters:

Well, I'm tuckered out. Next time out I'll take you to the cemetery. Oooooooooh! Scary stuff! :)

Yours,

Allan.

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG MAN

2010-01-13T08:00:00.006-05:00

"Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...”

Mom left Dad when I was a baby and we went to live on my grandparents' farm. But aside from a spell there, and visiting my Uncle Reg's farm, I haven't had much to do with moocows. And even less with James Joyce.

I always did like to read though, and the picture above is the one Mom likes of me more than any other. Here's another intellectual pose:

In this case, I am reading to my lifelong friend Vickie (Milne) Stewart. And on the other side of Vickie is Topsy Turvy, a cockapoo so named because she was always all over the place. She lived to be twenty-two. Whenever her hair was clipped she'd hide under the table for weeks as if she was ashamed of being naked. Vickie's Mom and my Mom met when my grandparents moved from the farm to Kincardine. Mom taught school there. Vickie's dad was our doctor, and her mother my
Mom's best friend. (Later Dr. and Mrs. Milne lived in the Queen Charlotte Islands, Saudi Arabia -- everywhere -- and now are retired back in Kincardine.)

In this photo Topsy Turvy and I are joined by Buttercup, an orange tabby I got when I was two. I've always loved orange tabbies. (See our new one, P2, in the January 1 post.) Without exception they are thick as bricks, but absolute, total purr machines.

Here I am spreading my germs at a birthday party, about age 6. The kid behind the cake is another lifelong friend, Graham Mahood. And to his right, Vickie's brother Michael. All my life I've been blessed with friends I've managed to keep in touch with.

Anyway, Mom always made me fancy birthday cakes. In addition to the clown, there was a cake that looked like a pumpkin with a stalk made out of a banana and covered in green icing. And I also remember a carousel cake with the rides being made of Arrowroot cookies shaped like animals. (There were pennies and nickels wrapped in wax paper backed in the cakes as surprises.)

Mom has always been unconditional love. I could be an ax murderer and she'd forgive me. She raised me at a time when being a single parents simply wasn't done. And she held a job, becoming an inspector of schools, and an assistant to the deputy minister of education in the province -- the first female educational ADM outside girls phys ed! And she was the government rep on Laura Sabia's Council for the Status of Women in the 1970s. She is amazing.

This "Mutual Admiration Society" photo was taken when I was in grade 9. Note the "down" brush cut. It was the sixties. I sure didn't look like a hippie. Then. Made up for it a few years later. The "down" brush cut, BTW, is a brush cut where the hair that stands up at the front gets cut off too. I had that because my hair was "fine" and it was either that or have it caked with crap to make the front stand up. I looked like a peanut.

The New Year makes some people look forward. Me, I like to look back. If the Internet isn't working on my island writing retreat (Cayo Largo), my next posts will be from Argentina! Truly an amazing experience!

Cheers,

Allan

THE MISSIONARIES AND THE HYENAS (TRUE TALE FROM THE BUSH)

2010-01-10T08:00:00.003-05:00

OKAY! One of the devoted followers of this blog -- Char -- has been dying to hear about the connection between missionaries and hyenas. I promised this story ages ago, so before leaving Africa, here it is. (Those who are at all squeamish should ignore this story and just stick with the pictures.)

Okay. So. Hyenas eat what's left of an animal after the meat's been consumed by lions and leopards and etcetera. In short, they eat the bones. As a result, their stools are hard and white from all the calcium. Hold that thought! Rhino ahead!

Right, so where were we? Oh yes, hyenas and missionaries. So, anyway,in the 19th century, British missionaries communicated with the locals through pictures: they drew the stories of Jesus on little blackboards that they took with them through the jungle. Well soon their chalk ran out and they couldn't very well head back to England for more. And it wasn't like there were any stores upriver. So what do you suppose they used instead? Yup.

It is all just too beautiful!

Sigh.

But all is well. I'm off on a snorkeling/writing trip to Cayo Largo. If the Internet is working, I'll post from the Caribbean. If not, I've scheduled a post with photos of me as a little kid with my pets, and also a series of "on the road" posts of an incredible trip my partner and I took to Argentina. It's got Buenos Aires, Evita's mausoleum, Iguazu Falls where they shot Indiana Jones, treacherous mountain excursions, and the Andes! And if I run out of fun stuff there, there'll be a post on some of exciting things that have happened me that I most remember -- like being alone in a mummy's tomb.

A rividerci,

Allan

FINAL CHANDA'S SECRETS FILM POST -- THEN ON TO ARGENTINA!

2010-01-07T08:00:00.005-05:00

A few last memories before heading home, then off again to blog about Argentina and Cuba!

The shot above is of some of the extras getting ready for the last scene outside Chanda's front door. Extras are always a problem for continuity and editing. Generally speaking they're amateurs and have little sense that a short scene can take a day toi film. Or that it MATTERS that they be in exactly the same position for each take. See the woman in the blue hat? At various times, she decided it was too hot to keep her hat on! Fortunately, the ace continuity editor had an eagle eye and digital shots of every take. Before "Cameras Rolling And Action" she'd sweep in to ensure that the hat was back in place.

More memories. Of the outdoor market, a farm, and a flowers that grew out of an unturned tree:

And here's me getting an interview from a TV crew in from Berlin. I was on set during press week and there were TV, radio and print reporters flying in each day from Germany and up from Johannesburg. Some actually wanted to talk to the author of the book. I also got to do a really fun interview for the DVD Extras section. So even if I'm not up on the screen, you can hear me blabbing on on the rental. :)

I'm including this shot just because :)

Finally, here's a shot from down the road, and also of a couple of kids' toys I saw hanging from a clothesline.

But wait! I still haven't told the true story of the missionaries and the hyenas! So next post, back to the bush for a quickie before we head home! AND OFF RIGHT AWAY AGAIN TO CUBA AND ARGENTINA!!!

Till then,

Allan

UPDATE: The film adaptation of CHANDA'S SECRETS is called LIFE, ABOVE ALL and will premiere as an Official Selection at the 2010 Cannes International Film Festival.

CHANDA'S SECRETS FILM: BEFORE LEAVING...

2010-01-04T08:00:00.004-05:00

Soly with his real mom.

Iris with her real Mom.

I'm now back in Canada. The film is on hiatus until February when everyone returns to shoot the opening scenes. Mama has been instructed to pack on the pounds. When the film runs in sequence, we'll see her heavier and healthy at the beginning, and losing weight as she becomes sicker.

It's been such a great time and I have hundreds of photos more than what I've shown. Over this post and next I'll show you a few of my favourite shots that you haven't seen. I'll also fill you in on a couple of fun stories, both from the set and off. Such as: In real life, Iris is descended from local royalty. You can see it in her bearing. It's part of why she's able to hold herself so well and naturally against Chanda and her elders.

Speaking of Chanda (Khomotso Manyake), she's a real find. Like all the kids, she's sooooo natural, and a true delight. The lead adult roles are all played by professional actors out of Johannesburg and Cape Town; that's also where the lead tech and camera people come from, aside from a few from Germany. But a few of the cameo roles, and all of the kids, are from the area. In fact, in real life, Chanda lives at the end of the road, which is part of what makes the interactions of the child actors and the extras so utterly human and believable. And it's a main reason why Chanda, Iris, Soly and Esther are so perfect: They never 'Act'. They simply are -- always real and in the moment.

BTW, the cameo role of Mrs. Gulubane, the spirit doctor, is played by a real spirit doctor! How's that for authentic!

Speaking of authentic, let's close this post with a couple of neighbours from behind Chanda's house:

Till next time,

Allan

UPDATE: The film adaptation of CHANDA'S SECRETS is called LIFE, ABOVE ALL and will premiere as an Official Selection at the 2010 Cannes International Film Festival.

HAPPY NEW YEAR'S!

2010-01-01T00:01:00.002-05:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR'S FROM MY NEW LITTLE GUYS, P2 AND PENSTER!

I hope your year will be as full of new and exciting things to do and discover as it will be for P2 and Penster!

Here's to chasing tails, paper balls, and anything else that moves. And may your litter box stay fresh as a daisy! :)

Yrs.,
Allan

HOW CHANDA'S SECRETS GOT TURNED INTO A MOVIE

2009-12-29T20:00:00.018-05:00

This is Oliver Stoltz, producer of the film version of Chanda's Secrets. Unfortunately, he had a serious stomach ailment during the first phase of the shoot when I was in South Africa, so this photo is taken from his website. (Oliver, you're way more attractive in person! Get a new photo!:))

I first met Oliver in 2005, when he was in Toronto promoting his Emmy-nominated documentary Lost Children, about child soldiers, at the documentary film festival Hot Docs. (It also won the German Oscar for Best documentary, and a host of other international awards.) I contacted Oliver as a research lead for my then-upcoming novel Chanda’s Wars. Oliver had first-hand experience with former child soldiers, having filmed in Uganda’s Gulu and Padr provinces, barely escaping attacks from the Lord’s Resistance Army. (He's WAY braver than me. Also a little crazy. 'Ask my mother,' he says.)

Despite his hectic schedule, Oliver took time to meet me twice and had me as his guest at the screening. I gave him a copy of Chanda’s Secrets and we said so long. A little later, I was in Germany doing a reading tour for my German publisher, Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, and Oliver and I reconnected in Berlin. He still had that rumpled just-rolled-out-of-bed look -- which I had first thought was because of all the press he was doing for Lost Children, but turns out to be just the way he looks.

(BTW: Here's the German cover of Chanda's Secrets. They titled it "Things We Don't Mention" in German. Apparently it's an expression used in Germany to refer to WWII; the publisher thought it would resonate with the German audience, and communicate the hush-hush nature of Chanda's struggle.)

Oliver told me how much he loved Chanda, and that he hoped to film the book in an international co-production with his German film company Dreamer Joint Venture Productions. On my next reading tour for dtv, this time for the German edition of Chanda's Wars (Chandas Krieg), Oliver introduced me to director Oliver Schmitz. Those of you follow this blog will know him already, but to newcomers, here's a shot of Oliver at work with Chanda and Mama:

And here, BTW, is the cover of the German edition of Chanda's Wars I was promoting:

Schmitz is an expatriate South African whose work has shown at Cannes and been well-received throughout Europe and Africa. (He was part of the directing collective with the Coen Brothers on Paris je t’aime.)

The commitment of both Olivers to my work, and their personal familiarity with the world and life of the novel, gave me utter confidence. I was also pleased that they took my suggestion of screenwriter -- the wonderful Dennis Foon. I gave them the contact info for the publisher, Annick Press, a deal was negotiated with Annick's film representative, and Oliver (Stoltz) went and got financing and a distributor. (He's co-producing with South Africa's Enigma Pictures; Bavarian International is the distributor.)

I have been treated so well. The Olivers and Dennis listened carefully to my notes on the adaptation -- something rare and to be treasured in the world of filmmaking. Maybe I'll chat about a few of the differences between book and film at a later date -- but all of the slight changes make sense in terms of film and completely adhere to the vision and story of the novel.

Next time, some candid shots around Elandsdoorn. Then home!

Cheers,

Allan

UPDATE: The film adaptation of CHANDA'S SECRETS is called LIFE, ABOVE ALL and will premiere as an Official Selection at the 2010 Cannes International Film Festival.

SAFER SEX IN SOUTH AFRICA: LIKE THE SIGN SAYS...

2009-12-26T22:18:00.001-05:00

In an earlier post, I mentioned that a staggering 40% of the population in the area where Chanda's Secrets is being filmed tests positive for HIV/AIDS. Indeed, you hardly see anyone over fifty. As a result, the local HIV/AIDS committee has posted the following safer sex billboards along the highway. They're the only billboards you see, and star a male condom called "Dickie" and a female condom called "Fanny". Not exactly Disney, but they get the point across.

Pope Benedict, as you know, forbade the use of condoms in his recent trip to Africa. He maintains that the only approach to combatting the spread of HIV/ AIDS is sexual abstinence ("loving celibacy") or fidelity within marriage. Well, decades of global sex scandals have shown that abstinence doesn’t even work for the priesthood. And given a 20 - 40% infection rate in areas of SubSahara, you can be faithful in marriage and, depending on whom you marry, still have a 20 - 40% chance getting the virus. (Incidentally, Benedict has even forbidden the use of condoms in marriages where one of the couple has HIV/AIDS. )

"Why doesn't everyone in Africa just get tested?" people ask me. I tell them to picture a married couple in the West sitting down at the breakfast table. One says, 'Uh, honey, why don't we get tested for AIDS?" Can you imagine the rest of the conversation? As for individual testing, I lived in New York in the early eighties when the virus was rampant. I was terrified I might be infected, but I didn't get tested. Why? Because there were no drugs or treatments available. Far better, it seemed, to live in hope, however false it might be. It's the same reason people didn't get lumps checked in the days when cancer was a death sentence. And that's why it's so important to get cheap, generic anti-retroviral drugs available immediately. Including the combination drugs that make compliance easier.

Two questions, and I promise to get off my political hobby horse, and back to the more fun Chanda film posts:

1) If 20% - 40% of Canadian, American and other Western populations were infected with HIV/AIDS, how long before our governments would demand that multi-national drug companies provide generic medications? One second? Two?

2) So why don't we make the same demand when the affected continent is Africa?

I leave you with a photograph of some of the 3,500 AIDS orphans who live in this small rural area. They've come to the Elandsdoorn stadium for a concert and Christmas party. Fear and stigma is still so bad that few will acknowledge the real reason their family and friends are dying. May they live in our thoughts and prayers. Till next time --

Yours,

Allan