Lac Rose

They were all young men, their dark bodies glistening with beurre de karité (or shea butter) intended to protect them against the salty water. They were immersed up to their necks in the lake excavating salt from the bottom. This was hard work, spending hours at the time digging with their spades underwater and lifting the heavy load of crystallized salt to the boats. Standing neck-deep in the water meant that every spade full of the white crystals had to be lifted to the height or above their heads. Their shining muscles strained with the movement as they heaved the load to the wooden pirogues some of which were already so overloaded that one more addition would risk sinking the morning's work.

It was still before noon and I was observing this tedious extraction work sitting in one of the flat-bottom pirogues that we had rented on the shore. The man who had leased out the boat was sitting behind me giving a non-stop commentary in monotonous French about the operation. Another man was standing in the rear steering the boat with a long pole. We were at Lac Rose in Senegal.

The lake gets its name from the vaguely red hue of its water, which is caused by an algae that blooms in this favoured ecosystem of theirs. With 380 grams of salt per one litre of water, the lake's salinity is second to only that of the Dead Sea. The salt enters the lake through periodic floods and inundation from the Atlantic Ocean, only a few hundred metres away behind prominent sand dunes. At the opposite end, the lake is fed by a freshwater aquifer. It is this combination that creates the unique conditions in which the algae thrive.

Most of the extractors in the water come from Mali, Senegal's landlocked neighbour to the east. Altogether, there are some 1,000 of them -- 600 men and 400 women -- who work in two-day shifts. Today is the men's turn. In one day, a good worker can fill about 20 sacks of salt each weighing 50 kg. These he or she can then sell to middlemen for 2,000 CFA (Central African francs) (approximately US$ 4) a piece. The money makes the toil worthwhile, although the hard work and the constant exposure to salt water has its health risks that are not insignificant. None of the men appeared to be over 30 years of age.

The shore was lined with huge piles of salt, each attributed by a sign to one of the boats. Both the salt and the beach itself glared white in the tropical midday sun. After a while, it was hard on the eyes.

Senegal has plans to develop this area into a touristic attraction. As we were standing on the shore, a couple of car loads of foreigners, mostly French, were driven in to admire the rare colour of the lake and the exotic industry it supports. A half a dozen local women had spread a long cloth on the bare ground and were hawking handicrafts and other souvenirs to us visitors. Next to them, a local artist sold small art pieces painted on wood in red, brown green and black, depicting scenes from the lake. The salt heaps in the art pieces were made from the real thing. Inevitably entering into a haggle, the vendors eventually won and I felt obliged to purchase various trinkets and a painting from a couple of them. Supporting the local economy, I rationalized. I could always give them as presents to friends...

The tourism enterprise doesn't appear particularly lucrative. A few hotels have emerged close to the lake and observing the salt extraction is certainly interesting. However, despite the scene with the colourfully painted pirogues and the dark profiles of the men toiling away in the lake, the piles of salt on the shore and the small lorries taking it away give the landscape of vaguely industrial look. This is not a place where you would like to spend days or even an entire weekend relaxing and pouring money into the incipient establishments.

Furthermore, although the place is a mere 40 km from Dakar, the capital, the road trip takes at least 1.5 hours on a good day, if the traffic cooperates. Soon after leaving the city, the fabulous four-lane highway turns into a potholed road where hundreds of vendors selling anything between telephone cards and sunglasses, water and pirated Michael Jackson CDs, wander between the cars and trucks stalled in the traffic jam. Dakar being located on a narrow peninsula jutting into the Atlantic, this is the only way out of town. Then at some point -- unmarked by any visible road sign -- one has to turn left, north, entering an unpaved road that in places is in such shape that it's safer to drive on the shoulder. This region, Rufisque, is the centre of Senegal's poultry industry and thus by no means impoverished. Heading towards the lake, we passed through a number of bustling small towns, each one of which seemed to be under construction. The driver, Romain, pointed out a huge tract of land walled off on the left side of the road. It had been acquired by the president, Abdoulaye Wade. On the right side of the road, there was a more reasonably sized area reserved for the first lady.

Having observed the salt production and bought the souvenirs, we headed towards the freshwater end of the lake, source d'eau douce, entering a small village determined to capitalize on the visitors. There was a comfortable looking fruit stand run by a group of women in the shade of a large flowering tree. It was loaded with delicious looking mangoes that were in season. There were also about a dozen or more small stands, all operated by men, selling wood carvings, small paintings, African style costume jewellery, crudely made but charming toy cars and aeroplanes, etc. Again, it turned out to be impossible to pass through the alley without stopping and ending up providing more support to the local economy.

Down by the lakeside there was a lovely shady grove lined with palms, banana trees and the full richness of the tropical landscape. A small hotel complex consisting of low bungalows, a restaurant and more souvenir shops had sprung up in this peaceful place. There was also a small crescent shaped beach here where the sweet water flows into the lake. There were small groups of people relaxing on the beach and actually frolicking in the lake, which at this end was not red. I overheard two couples speaking Spanish, while a family with mixed race daughters communicated in French. A group of Chinese (these days they are everywhere in Africa) sat at a table drinking beer, ready for lunch. On a closer look, the white beach was made entirely of beautiful small shells.

Sitting in the shade under an awning, we ordered lunch from the friendly if somewhat languorous staff. The wait was very long and when the fish finally came -- in my case a sole, which they must have gone to catch from the nearby ocean when I ordered it -- it was extremely dry and almost impossible to separate the meagre meat from the myriad bones. The fleur de sel, which must have been produced locally, however, was of high quality. Despite the toughness of the fish, it was quite pleasant to sit and relax. We were also entertained by an elderly man dressed in a pale blue kaftan and a white Muslim cap playing softly on the kora, a traditional West African instrument with numerous strings attached to a long neck and a calabash for amplification. The music was very soothing. A few days here and there'd be not a single tense muscle in your body, I thought. In fact, you might be brain dead from sheer lack of stimulation.

In the end, the two main uses for the lake -- salt extraction and tourism -- may not be fully compatible. At the very least, the salt mining brings to the lakeshore a rare kind of economic activity that visitors may find fascinating, although it is not particularly pleasing aesthetically. The salt extraction itself may not be sustainable in the long run. Meanwhile, land transformation and draining of the wetlands around the capital for to accommodate for the constantly growing settlements is altering the sensitive ecological balance. There is also evidence that the rains in the past years -- like this current rainy season -- have been erratic, possibly due to changes in the climate. Put together, these forces may result in Lac Rose turning less pink in the years to come.

Air @ Montreux Jazz Festival, 2 July 2010

I caught Air on the first night of the legendary Montreux Jazz Festival in Switzerland. Like most jazz festivals today, Montreux interprets 'jazz' rather liberally. Consequently, these slim former academics, both born in France in 1969, whose act can hardly be classified as jazz fit in perfectly. The Miles Davis Hall was packed and the audience revved up when the two unshaven co-leaders dressed in white entered the stage.

The music started with songs from their latest album, Love 2, with fantastic soundscapes created by the duo backed by the black-clad drummer. The first tune was 'Do the Joy' from the new album. The bass and drums laid out the heavy beat against which the Moog synthesizer played the superficially simple but memorable melody. It's hard to describe how good the beat was, but it immediately sucked into the mood everyone in the audience. For the diehard fans of Air (a category I readily include myself in) it hit us in all the right places. The bass vamp melded with the drums in a seamless groove, while the keyboards set the tone for things to come.

Air's music is often classified as electronica, but this is a gross simplification. Electronic instruments obviously do play a central role in the duo's music, but that is not necessarily the point. The point is that theirs is music that crosses boundaries, using elements from rock, pop, electronica and others. Their sound is uniquely their own. I've seen it compared to Pink Floyd and Tangerine Dream and others equally wide apart. There is no doubt that the two musicians have had their influences (like everyone else), but they have been quite varied (including the Carpenters, according to the musicians themselves). The music of Air was brought to a wider attention in Sophia Coppola's movie Lost in Translation and the duo gained popularity amongst hipsters. It's equally clear that their music is highly original, unlike anything else that I've come across.

Air (apart from the obvious, the letters are supposed to stand for amour, imagination, rêve) has been around for a decade and a half, since the time the two friends formed the duo in 1995. Nicolas Godin was a student of architecture in Paris, while Jean-Benoît Dunckel studied mathematics. Both had played in the band Orange before. In Air, they were able to create their own sound and vision, which is both intellectual and emotionally compelling. The music is imaginative and the sounds are amazingly strong. The melodies, sung primarily by Dunckel almost effeminately softly , are simple but invariably beautiful and memorable, like in the sweet pop song 'Heaven's Light' they performed in the set tonight.

Some tunes clearly reveal the origin of the duo. Like the experimental instrumental 'Be a Bee,' which despite its steady rock beat and 4/4 bass, somehow sounds so quintessentially French.

What boggles my mind is that still today, in 2010 when everything seems to be about hype and commercialism, a band that plays intellectual music, much of which is instrumental, can command such a following of people from different genders, countries and ages. It does give hope for the future.

'Tropical Disease,' with its complex structure and tempo changes, many layers of keyboards (that Dunckel mastered superbly in a live situation) and the deceivingly facile snippets of melody, is an example of the most unlikely hit song. Yet it completely enticed the audience in the Miles Davis Hall.

The stage setting was highly psychedelic. The groovy light show was reminiscent of Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey with swirling colours and black-and-white kinetic visions. The spaced out impression was further enhanced by Godin using the Vocoder, sounding like Hal, in his vocals (and occasionally thanking the audience, "Merci beaucoup," in between the tunes).

Throughout the concert, Dunckel in his white trousers, shirt and tie stood between his banks of keyboards, consisting of a white Wurlitzer electric piano, a string machine and several analogue synthesizers by legendary makers such as Moog and ARP. He swayed slightly while his hands were playing the keyboards ambidextrously on both sides simultaneously. The set was designed so that the slight man in white playing the keyboards would not be obscured by the instruments. He seemed completely content at filling the centre stage.

On the right side of the stage, the bearded Godin had his own set of period synthesizers (just two of them in a 70s style wobbly stand), which he'd use sparingly. But he focused on his bass and acoustic guitars. Especially as a bass player, Godin is fabulous. With no gimmicks, he would lay the foundation solid on his white Fender Mustang. He is also a highly musical player, who plays the bass guitar melodically and expressively, while never sacrificing the groove.

Both of the Frenchmen acted cool as cornichons during the entire concert. Once in a while, Dunckel allowed himself a small smile that someone might have interpreted as arrogant, but which most likely was just an expression of satisfaction of how well the concert was going and how it was received by the mixed audience. Between the songs, one of the five little American girls, barely 20, I guessed, standing next to me screamed to the gentlemen: "We love you, sexy boys!!!"

In a recent interview with Electronic Musician, Godin and Dunckel talked about their new own studio and their music. They observed how Love 2 is more natural, using more acoustic instruments (and of course analogue synthesizers) than their earlier efforts. This was obvious also in Montreux. The electronics played a key role, but the music never sounded pretentious or cold. On the contrary, the beat was real and the sounds naturally appealing.

One of the key strengths of Air is that they have an impeccable melodic sense. So often in today's pop, the musicians are skilful at their instruments, the sound is excellent and the production flawless. But the songs just don't cut it (perhaps it's understandable: after all, there are only twelve tones in the Western scale). That is not the case with Air. Some of the songs are rather simplistic ('Sing Sang Sung'), but still somehow smart; others are just simple, but masterly so. All are carefully crafted, melodically natural, and pleasing without exception.

Towards the end of the concert the mood intensified. When after 1.5 hours of non-stop ecstasy the show was over, there was no way the audience would allow the musicians to leave the stage. They didn't and we were treated to an ample serving of more of the good stuff.

When I finally exited the hall into the balmy night, it was close to midnight. It was impossible even to think about sleep right now, so I joined the thousands of others who had crowded into the lakeside park. The night by now was dark, the Alps looming gloomily in the background as the lights from the numerous stalls selling anything from Thai noodles to tattoos, from Tarot cards to wine from neighbouring vineyards, reflected on the lake's calm surface. I felt like walking on water or, rather, air.

In defence of decency

At midnight I walked back to my hotel through the darkened city park. On this July night, not even the lights here and there could lighten up the quiet and verdant place by the lake, mostly because the lindens and other trees were covered in thick foliage through which the lamplight hardly could penetrate. It was lonesome although I was not alone. There were shapes lurking in the shadows. Mostly lovers embracing each other, but also small groups taking advantage of the balmy summer night. I could see the shapes of wine bottles as they were lifted to thirsty lips. It never crossed my mind that I should be worried that someone might try to rob me (or worse). I was in Geneva, Switzerland, a place known for its safety and decency.

When you talk with people who 'have been around', Geneva, and entire Switzerland for that matter, often come up in discussions as a 'boring' place. Yes, it's beautiful, but so dull and regulated. Pedestrians wait for the light to turn green before they cross the street, even if there's no traffic. And when there is, cars stop politely when you're about to step onto the zebra crossing. It's so neat and clean; a real traveller would need some more grit. The trains leave exactly on time, so if you're even 20 seconds late you've missed it.

Horrible, isn't it? How can a creative and free human being live under such constraints? In New York where I live, every self-respecting person takes pride in not hesitating to exercise their rights enshrined in the Constitution. Pedestrians hover halfway through the street when there's heavy and unruly traffic from all directions, thus making everyone a little less safe and a little less efficient. But waiting would show your meekness and respect for rules that someone else created. Completely unacceptable. It would cramp your style, even if it benefitted the society as a whole. Maybe it's a reaction to the fact that your risk of being run over by a rogue driver is highest when the walk/don't walk sign is green at the same time as that of turning traffic from behind. If one runs through red lights, like half of the people who drive in the city, then everyone is alert and avoids accidents.

And isn't it a sign of fascism that trains run on time? That's what Mussolini made them do in the Italy of the 1930s. It doesn't take into account that individualistic and relaxed people have to have some leeway. Never mind that they make others wait. It's their individual right.

The cleanliness must also be some form of fascism. At least it is very bourgeois and thus reprehensible. A society that is so efficient and organized must surely be repressive to the wild individualism that we're all entitled to. My freedom is sacred, even if it tramples on yours. It is my right to mess up the environment in my pursuit of my happiness.

Friends of mine once moved to Zurich. In their apartment building there was a written house rule that, after 10 pm, men also had to sit down to pee. This was so that they wouldn't disturb the neighbours with the sound of the stream hitting the water. They didn't last long and moved back to Tokyo. But hey, wait a minute, isn't Japan also supposed to be a conformist society of uniformed robots? Well, in fact, no. It's another society that allows for the pursuit of individual interests, however nutty or eccentric they may be (think about obsession with cafés where the waitresses are dolled up as manga characters), as long as they do not infringe on other people's freedoms to pursue their own happiness. Freedom with responsibility, such a new and foreign idea, especially to Americans.

Another such repressive place, of course, is Singapore. A place everyone with any sophistication loves to hate. Chewing gum is frowned upon, not because it's an ugly habit, but because the chewers have a tendency to stick their chewed globs mixed with saliva in places where other people step or, worse, try to hold onto for balance on public transportation. Anyway, public transportation is for losers, of course. Just look at the lowlife who take the 'loser cruiser,' as buses are called in the States. If you have your own car or SUV you don't have to deal with such petty inconveniences. Unless someone messes with your car.

Several years ago, Singapore had the audacity of caning an American youth, Michael Fay, for running amok in the city and spray-painting cars that had the misfortune of having been parked by their owners along his route. This was barbaric (the caning, that is). Even the then-president Bill Clinton interfered and successfully convinced the government of the independent country that an American should not be so inhumanely punished for just innocently expressing his stupidity. Singapore agreed to reduce the number of the lashes from six to just four, but still the poor lad did get spanked for his offence and could not sit for a lengthy while. It must have been so humiliating and painful. A gross violation of human rights! And for what? Just for some youthful indiscretion and fun destroying innocent people's property on which they had spent hard-earned pay. Everyone does that, right? (Somewhat ironically, just this June a Swiss business consultant, Oliver Fricker (32), confessed to spray-painting a Singapore metro-car and may thus be subject to the same fate.)

Singapore, like Switzerland, is such an oppressive place. The only thing one can do is to go drown one's sorrows on Clarke Quay or one of the other clean and lively entertainment areas by the seaside and join the thousands of other merrymakers for a Singapore Sling and some fabulous fried noodles (guaranteed not to make you sick, because the fascist state has set up draconian health controls on the restaurants that restrict the God-given right of the entrepreneur to maximize his profit). Or go to one of the many clubs for some music and dancing with the scantily clad locals (poor things are not even obese).

It seems indisputable from the evidence of places like Switzerland, Japan, Singapore and, yes, my country of origin, Finland, that wealth and its relatively even distribution, high levels of education throughout the population, and a strong government are good for the environment and well-being of the people.

Back to Geneva. It's a small town, that's for sure. But for its size it's not dead. Just this past Tuesday night I was sitting with my friend Azusa in a waterfront bar by Lac Léman. The place was crowded, but not unruly. Plenty of people were having drinks and mingling with others from different national and ethnic backgrounds in the cosmopolitan town. The noise level was such that one could actually have a discussion. All were dressed well. Not fancily or expensively, but in style. Most women looked quite sexy in their summer dresses. Midnight came and the keepers of the establishment rapidly and effectively expelled us. The closing hour specified in their licence had arrived and everyone had to leave, which we all did in an orderly fashion and without protest. Had we wanted to continue, we could easily have gone to any one of the many bars that have a licence to stay open until 2 am or stay in a nightclub until 5 am. We did not feel the urge, nor did we feel particularly deprived by the fact that we were thrown out onto the beautiful lakeside walk at this early hour.

As I wrote this, the weekend was coming and the lakeside was even more crowded than on that particular Tuesday. Some hours ago the sun had set over France. The recognizable silhouette of Mont Blanc behind the gorgeous lake had faded into darkness. The restaurants in the city centre were still teeming with people and there was excitement in the air: after all, this weekend would bring important matches of the football World Cup in South Africa and the Wimbledon finals. When I headed towards the leafy darkness of the park, the sidewalk bars were still selling drinks and hundreds of people were perusing them. Those who couldn't fit into the seating areas were lounging leisurely on the lawn. The establishments served the beers in real glasses, as opposed to plastic. It was a risk, of course, as common sense would dictate that the glasses would be broken on the grass or on the next guy's head. But these domesticated people didn't do that. They just lay there enjoying the balmy evening in harmony with friends and actually returning the empty glasses to the bars.

They must have felt so deprived. After all, they didn't even have concealed handguns on them to protect their freedom and liberty from each other and the government.

Nine Lives @ Asia Society, 19 June 2010

Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern South Asia is the new book of British author William Dalrymple who has lived in and written several books about the subcontinent. On Saturday night, Yoko and I attended an unusual event at the Asia Society in New York to launch the book.

The event was built around the theme of the book, which searches the expression of the sacred in the rapidly changing and increasingly materialistic region. On both sides of the stage, square platform covered with oriental carpets had been placed. William Dalrymple sat himself down on the one to the left and introduced the evening’s program. It was organized around four different performances all bringing out dimensions of the sacred and spiritual from the subcontinent. These would be interspersed with readings by the author from his book.

The first performer was Paban Das Baul. The Bauls are a group of mystics from the Bengal region of India who perform a specific type of folk song. Their beliefs draw from Vaishnavite Hindu and Sufi Muslim traditions. Paban Das Paul was dressed in a colourful outfit that contrasted with his long curly grey hair that surrounded his bearded face. His powerful voice carried the soulful melodies to the accompaniment of an equally colourfully robed lady, Mimlu Sen, who sat calmly next to the singer providing a serene rhythm by a pair of tiny finger cymbals. She is said to be a storyteller, musician, dancer and writer in her own right, who tours and performs with Paban Das Baul.

The order of the performances had to be slightly changed, as the Shah Jo Raag Fakirs were stuck in the immigration at the JFK airport (“Could you kindly step to the side, sir?”). Apparently the three traditionally dressed and bearded men from Pakistan had raised the suspicions of the homeland security types at the border. Ironically, these gentlemen were Sufi who, as Dalrymple explained, are at the frontlines of intra-Islamic fight with the Taliban hardliners who accuse them of adulterating the pure faith. Never mind that Sufism has been around much longer than the intolerant Wahhabism that has been imported from Saudi Arabia to the volatile region mostly by the Jihadists fighting in Afghanistan. The Sufis’ celebration of the mysticism of Islam through song and dance is too much for the narrow-minded soldiers for Islam. If only there was more intelligence in the homeland security crowd to understand this, sighed Dalrymple.

While we were waiting for the Fakirs, next came the Theyyam Dance Group from North Kerala in India, who performed an ancient dance that has a tradition of more than 1,000 years. The main dancer, Hari Das, is one of the characters featured in Dalrymple’s book. He wore a spectacular red costume not very much like anything that I had seen before. In fact, the costume was a huge square from the top of which the dancer’s masked face protruded.

After the intermission, the author informed the audience that the Sufis had been allowed entrance and were in a taxi approaching Asia Society. To fill in the time, Dalrymple read another passage from Nine Lives, a moving story of a young Jain nun who witnessed the death of another nun and her friend.

Then joy: Shah Jo Raag Fakirs entered the stage and sat down on the carpeted square to the right. The three Fakirs performed two numbers with high-pitched vocals and stringed instruments, the dhamboor, created by Shah Jo Raag himself. The intensity of the music was amazing and rose constantly towards a wailing climax.

The final performer of the evening—and at this time William Dalrymple exited the stage after having introduced the act—was by far the best known in the West: the famous Tamil performer from London, Susheela Raman. She is a composer, arranger and singer who over the past decade has performed and recorded music that crosses the divisions of genre and ethnicity, incorporating ample South Asian elements from her own cultural heritage. This time, she would perform Thevaram hymns from the temples of Tamil Nadu state of India. She had studied these spiritual songs, which she had arranged to her own style.

Susheela Raman was accompanied by her long-term musical partners Sam Mills on guitar and Aref Durvesh on tabla. This trio produced sounds that were hard to believe came from such sparse instrumentation. Mills modified the sounds of his acoustic guitar electronically adding a stronger bass and full effects. Durvesh’ tabla playing was superb. He created amazing rhythms and tones from the three small drums sitting on a table in front of him, playing complex patterns on the fingers of his right hand, while providing a fluid bass beat on the left. At the centre of attention was Susheela Rahman, dressed in black with her big curly dark hair flowing. Her voice is so powerful that it is an instrument in itself, which she used skilfully to deliver new meaning to these ancient songs.

The highlight of the evening was when at the end all of the musicians gathered on the stage for several additional numbers. The first was a duet sung by Susheela Rahman with Shah Jo Raag. The second, to me perhaps the high point of the entire evening, again brought to the forefront Paban Das Paul (with Mimlu Sen again sitting quietly alone on the carpet while the mood on stage was getting riotous). He sang and danced in a highly spirited manner his colourful robes flowing as he whirled around ecstatically. The final soloist was again Shah Jo Raag whose forceful falsetto captured the audience and the other performers alike. The concert was a true treat that demonstrated the variety and the beauty of South Asian traditional music.

A further treat was to continue to a reception in Asia Society’s beautiful café where we could mingle with the artists while sampling Indian fare and fine wines. A delightful evening altogether.

Caucasus Contradictions

It sounds like a cliché to say that something lies between East and West, but for Caucasus its geographical position between the Black and Caspian Seas guarantees that this literally is the case. Georgia has straddled this balance for centuries but, at least for now, its heart is in the West. The small country has been occupied numerous times by its neighbours and conquerors from further away: the Byzantine Empire, the Arabs from the south, Turkey, Persia, even the Mongols. In 1801, Georgia was annexed to the Russian Empire. Just for a few years after the 1917 Bolshevik revolution in Russia, Georgia enjoyed independence but in 1921 the Red Army marched into Tbilisi, the capital, and again brought the country under Moscow rule where it remained until the breakup of the Soviet Union in the early 1990s. The Soviet dictator Josef Stalin was born in the town of Gori in central Georgia, which guaranteed a special place for the country in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Privileged Communist Party bosses would come for rest and recreation on the Black Sea coast.

Less than two years ago Georgia emerged from a short but traumatic war with Russia. The conflict flared up when the little country provoked its much larger northern neighbour regarding two separatist regions, Southern Ossetia and Abhkazia. These separatist enclaves are supported by Russia, partly to irk Georgia, which had aligned itself clearly with the West. There's indication that the Georgian president Mikheil Saakashvili rather naively assumed that NATO would come to the little ally's rescue. This did not happen. As might appear likely to any observer, NATO and the United States would not risk a war with the Russian Federation on behalf of a tiny country in a remote region that until rather recently was part of the Soviet Union. Not even if the little country had whole-heartedly embraced the market liberalization and 'freedom' agenda of George W. Bush. Georgia got a bloody nose and Russia recognized the rebel regions. South Ossetia declared independence. The war triggered a huge flow of refugees adding to the numerous internally displaced persons (IDPs) that already existed as a result of earlier conflicts. August 2008 was not a happy month for Georgia.

Now in the spring of 2010 things looked up again. The issues with the secessionist regions were not solved, IDPs were still a problem (there were close to a quarter million of them) and internal travel remained difficult, but the May sun shone brightly and the country was excitedly awaiting municipal elections. Kura River flowed freely through Tbilisi, its muddy water whirling turbulently on its way down from the mountains surrounding the capital.

When Georgia achieved independence from Russia in the aftermath of the disintegration of the Soviet empire, the first president, Zviad Gamsakhurdia, proved to be short-live: he was deposed off in a coup already in January 1992. He was replaced by Eduard Shevardnadze, who had served as the last foreign minister of the Soviet Union. During his reign, Georgia’s economy largely collapsed and the state was unable to provide basic services, such as electricity, to the citizens. His time in power also solidified the corruption, black marketing and smuggling that continue to thrive to this day. Shevardnadze was thrown out in the popular 'Rose Revolution' of 2003. The new crowd that took over was not apologetic for its distaste for anything that smacked of socialism. The young guns considered any government control or planning as communist legacy. The majority of the new guard that now ruled the republic was in their 30s and 40s, many of them educated in the United States in the heady days of the NeoCons.

The government of this underdeveloped land did not initially even recognize that there was a poverty problem. In their libertarian mindset, the new rulers put priority on overall economic growth, believing that it would be enough for the benefits eventually to trickle down to all people. In fact, they were remarkably successful in instigating economic growth by removing red tape and bureaucracy hindering the private sector and by cutting taxes. Georgia achieved an annual growth rate of some 10 percent over several years. Today in Tbilisi, new construction and renovation of old buildings is ubiquitous. And so are the numerous German luxury cars—MBs, BMWs and Audis—cruising the poorly maintained streets alongside the old Volgas and Ladas. Business thrives, especially in the capital, but not all of it is legitimate by any stretch of imagination.

And the economic juggernaut has not been able to eradicate poverty. Although the government stopped even tracking poverty levels in its firm belief that the wave of liberalization would lift all boats equally, it is obvious that inequality remains and has even increased. A 2007 World Bank study estimated that 24 percent of Georgians were living in poverty. Out of these, 40 percent (translating to almost one in ten of all people in the country) were living in extreme poverty. The 2008 double whammy of the war with Russia, which destroyed much of Georgia’s infrastructure and natural resources and increased the IDP problem, and the onset of the world economic crisis, further exacerbated poverty. The economic development has a geographical dimension and much of the abject poverty is found in the rural areas.

Like everywhere, the Soviet rule resulted in environmental degradation as polluting industries sprouted and natural resources were exploited for the benefit of the new Soviet citizen. These effects were somewhat eased up following the collapse of the Soviet Union, largely because industrial production fell dramatically in most of the former satellites. The downside of this was of course social and economic deprivation in communities that had depended on these industries for their livelihoods. The lack of regulations in today’s Georgia has exerted new pressures on the country’s environment and natural resources. For instance, the government removed any controls with regard to emissions from cars, arguing convincingly that the existence of control and licensing processes only provided opportunities for corruption. But a consequence of this has been that the air pollution from traffic in parts of Tbilisi is quite obvious for anyone taking a stroll.

Also, during the war of 2008, the Russian air force systematically bombed forest reserve areas in the central Georgian mountains causing significant environmental damage.

On the first evening just hours after I had arrived in Tbilisi, my colleague Masa who has spent more time in Georgia undertaking an evaluation of UN programs in the country, met me in the lobby of our small hotel in a residential neighbourhood. He led us out and walked determinedly down the steep street on which we were staying. I tried to keep up with him, skipping between the potholes and trying to avoid tripping in the cracks in the pavement. This was one of the best neighbourhoods in the city, I was informed. A few blocks on, Masa opened an unmarked door on the corner of an old solid looking building and continued down the stairs that led to the cellar. Here we found a large space with solid wooden block tables without tablecloths and a well stocked bar against one wall. The ceiling was held up by thick rock pillars.

In the adjacent room, a middle-aged man was singing the George Harrison tune ‘Something’ against a taped background karaoke style. He looked like an unlikely pop star with his thinning white hair and rather bulky body. He was dressed like a waiter in a white shirt and black vest.

Only a couple of the tables were occupied as we sat down at one. Soon a young woman in blue jeans appeared to take our order. I left it to Masa who ordered an excellent selection of natural cheeses, olives, the freshest vegetables imaginable, and kebabs of juicy minced meat wrapped in thin bread. We washed it all down with a couple of bottles of excellent Georgian red wine. Wine making was one of the few successful industries in the country since the Soviet times.

As the corpulent man continued to sing, it dawned on me that this was the job he had been hired to do; to entertain the guests at this establishment. In fact, he was a very good singer, indeed, and had a seemingly endless repertoire of Western pop songs which he interpreted with understated elegance. At the end of the evening, when I went to tell him how much I had appreciated his performance, it turned out that his spoken English was quite limited, although he had just sung several dozen songs in that language.

The municipal elections were to be the week after my visit and the country was full of excitement. My friend Natya stated the obvious: "The elections are very political." I asked another friend, George (there is no need to protect the innocent: half of the women in Georgia are called Natya and half of the men George) about the likely outcomes. He said he didn't expect any changes because the government controls the media and the political apparatus. George's point was that since the government came in power in 2003, the electoral system has not been open and transparent. This has been clearly confirmed by many outside observers. In fact, following the Rose Revolution, President Saakashvili closed down several independent newspapers and TV stations that opposed his policies. A similar fate befell several NGOs that criticized the laissez-faire policies that did not improve the social and economic situation quickly enough.

On a sunny but windy morning I went for a long walk in the old part of town. The old town is a living city with people residing there, not a museum. Many of the buildings, however, are desperately in need of repair. The walls appear to be crumbling and many houses are heavily tilted this way or that as they rest on the steep streets climbing the hillsides. A peek to the backyards reveals poor living conditions. Skinny cats stared suspiciously at the intruder.

Here and there, however, some of the houses had been recently renovated. A few of them looked truly impressive, with fancy roof terraces and modernized penthouses that were visible as one climbed higher on the slopes. There is a lot of money amongst the poverty. I climbed the Betlemi street-stairs, built in 1850. The climb to the top was very steep and the irregular old stone steps didn't help (nor did my being more out of shape than I had imagined). I passed several old churches along the way, their sharp conical steeples sprouting with green weeds. Georgian Orthodox crosses topped the spires.

About halfway up there was a beautiful rose garden. Then still the final squeeze towards the top of the ridge, which was getting ever steeper. Gnarly pines hung on to the hillside from which grey rocks protruded. The austere slope was lightened up by small yellow flowers and an occasional red poppy that would grow in between the stones. Finally, out of breath and panting, I reached the foot of the huge white statue of the city's guardian saint. She stood tall overlooking the city with her prominent breasts jutting above the valley.

From the top of the hill there was a stunning view over the old city and its red and brown rooftops. The Kura was flowing brown through the centre down in the valley. From this vantage point I could also observe that there was indeed a lot of renovation and new construction going on. In my dehydrated state, I could imagine the pleasure of relaxing on one of the renovated rooftop terraces with a cold drink in hand. These buildings were in a stark contrast to the dire Soviet era suburban blocks that could be seen against the horizon. Thankfully, they had been built rather far on the outskirts of the city to leave the old town in place. At least this way there is still a chance that Tbilisi will achieve its old glorious charm.

On the other side of the ridge away from the city, the landscape opened to green hills. Rows of poplars stood guard protecting the ruins of an old fort. I realized that this was a popular spot for young lovers. Even on this Thursday morning, couples were strolling arms around each other, kissing on secluded benches partly hidden by bushes.

Georgia does play an important role in the great game between the West and the East, especially when it comes to energy. The Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline inaugurated in 2005 carries almost a tenth of the world’s oil from the Caspian Sea to the Mediterranean through Turkey while avoiding Russian territory. Although the BTC only passes through Georgia carrying Azeri oil to the West, it still places the transit country into a strategic position, a fact that Georgia intends to capitalize upon to the full extent. Parag Khanna in his recent book The Second World: How Emerging Powers are Redefining Global Competition in the Twenty-first Century quotes a Georgian government adviser as saying: “Now that the West’s energy security depends on our strategic position, it will have to help us get control of the country.” The West's inaction in the 2008 war must have been a disappointment from this point of view.

Energy security is of course very important and competition over the world’s oil resources has been increasing with the emergence of new actors in the game. Especially China is very active in trying to secure fuel for its overheated economy. It has expanded its operations notably into Africa where its companies work to bring home oil and other minerals in exchange of infrastructure development. Russia, which has huge oil and gas reserves of its own, wants to use them to control Europe, especially its old satellites. Americans for their part are in search of oil that would come from more acceptable sources than the less than democratic Gulf Arab countries—not to mention Iran and Venezuela—that hold so much of the black stuff. America’s plans to expand its own oil production through offshore drilling just hit a major hindrance with the explosion of BP’s Deepwater Horizon in the Gulf of Mexico. The unmitigated disaster graphically showed the risks of drilling to the environment and local economy, energizing the opponents of the oil economy. The Caspian Sea falls smack in the middle of these rivalries. Although Georgia is not itself oil producing, its position as a transit country does give it a bargaining chip.

The walk down from the hilltop with the huge white saviour saint was easier, although it was necessary to watch your step when descending the steep and uneven old stone stairs. It was still early and not quite lunchtime. I was hot and tired from the walk under the blazing sun, so I decided to enter one of the several churches lining the Kura river. The beautiful church was indeed cool inside and the darkness was restful to the eyes. Despite the soothing silence, the church was teeming with people. The Georgian Orthodox faith is alive and well and plays an important role in many people’s lives. Georgians are proud of the fact that the country was amongst the first ones to adopt Christianity as the official state religion. Caucasus itself is a religious mosaic. In the neighbourhood, most nations except Georgia and Armenia adhere to a different creed. Turkey, Iran, Azerbaijan and the southern Russian regions, such as the troubled land of Chechnya, are all Islamic.

Inside the church, worshippers were moving from one altar to the next, lighting candles in front of shrines devoted to various saints. There were equally many young people as old. The younger ones wore their Western street cloths, but the women had covered their heads and arms with scarves. Many of the older women wore all black. Despite the crowd, the scene was tranquil. The gold in the many beautiful icons glistened in the flickering candlelight.

Once outside, I found a shady table on a terrace in a small mall with several restaurants clustered in the semi-closed open courtyard. I ordered a tall glass of ice water, which I gulped down before selecting a chicken salad and a glass of dry white wine for lunch. The mall was clearly newly built, but the style fit nicely with the old neighbourhood by the riverside. Little by little people started to come in until after a while all the tables in the restaurants were occupied. There were a couple of foreigners—a Norwegian father and son enjoying a cold beer after sightseeing; a British businessman directing a deal on the cell phone while sipping wine—but almost all of the people were locals. Almost all were also youngish, elegantly dressed and well groomed, smoking and chatting while waiting for their lunches. Presumably they were workers from offices and shops located in and around the mall. Sitting here, I had to remind myself that this was a post-conflict country where one quarter of the people lived in absolute poverty.

It has proved challenging for the United Nations to find a proper niche and to promote human development in Georgia, especially as the government has not been very susceptible to ideas that target specific poor and vulnerable groups for assistance. The 2008 Georgia Human Development Report, The Reforms and Beyond, prepared under the auspices of UNDP, identifies a number of areas where creation of wealth is not enough to guarantee human development. On the political front, it is important to ensure rule of law and to reign in corruption. Social issues, such as health and education are equally important, as is environmental quality. Lately, the government has become more inclined to address specific social problems, notably the very high unemployment rate, that mar the country.

The elections came and went without any troubles and with few surprises. The Council of Europe that sent observers to the elections commended Georgia for significant progress towards international electoral standards, although in some regions systemic problems, such as ballot box stuffing, were still reported. As my new buddy, George, had predicted, no major changes took place. But as he said, the key should be to keep a cordial relationship with Russia. Whatever happens in Georgia, the neighbours are going to stay and they are big and aggressive.

Florent Ghys @ Noguchi Museum, 13 June 2010

As the rain was nearing, the performance was moved inside from the lovely sculpture garden. It was probably better for the music anyway.The main room with Isamu Noguchi’s works is wonderful in its own right. The Noguchi Museum is one of my favourite places in New York and it was the perfect setting for this afternoon’s concert with the French composer and bassist Florent Ghys. The young man was a new acquaintance to us, but being a part of the adventurous Bang on a Can collective was enough of a recommendation for Yoko and me to take the bus-subway combination to Queens. A decent sized crowd had gathered at the museum for the event, lounging on the floor between the sculptures.

Florent Ghys stood in the corner of the spacious room alone with his bass and laptop computer. The bass itself was a stripped down version of a double bass, electrically amplified without the wooden body. Florent, who is classically trained and has played with the Paris Opera Orchestra, would today play his own music, which combines elements from contemporary music, rock, jazz and electronic. For the following 70 minutes we, together with the entire audience, would sit transfixed by the enticing sounds of Florent Ghys.

While the bass was naturally in the leading role, the composer used it in a very interesting way. In many pieces, Florent Ghys would set up an ostinato or a pattern that he would play on the bass, either bowing or picking the strings, while recording it on the laptop. He would then let the computer repeat the recorded piece while he would lay over textures or a melody on top of it. Many of the melodies he created were truly beautiful. As a highly skilled bassist, he would play them high on the strings making the big instrument sound like a cello.

In between the pieces, all of which were clearly circumscribed and never extended beyond their predefined extent, Florent would communicate with the audience in a shy and friendly manner. He would tell a few words about the pieces and express his joy at playing in this beautiful place.

Not all of the music was instantly played and replayed on location. Some of the background tracks had been recorded in advance by the composer himself. They contained mainly percussion and some bits with guitar. On several tracks he used voice samples. These were mostly in French (for which he modestly apologized to the American audience) but one was in English and another one in Japanese. Apparently, he was not sure what the Japanese text was about, so he asked whether there was anyone in the audience who could tell. A Japanese woman with short spiked hair and big white-framed sunglasses said it was about bad news, which again brought out a ‘sorry’ from the composer. (According to Yoko it was actually about local elections, which may or may not be bad news.)

One of the best pieces included an American weather report as a voice track around which Ghys had composed the music. According to Florent himself, weather reports (alongside things like hair dryers, numbers, girls and blinkers) are amongst his interests. The melody he bowed on top of the music and the weather report had a melancholy beauty that was quintessentially French.

Perhaps the most interesting moment to me was rather early on in the concert. It was a composition built around a sampled French woman’s voice. In the middle of the piece when the woman continued speaking all other music stopped and Florent followed the melody and rhythm of her speech on the bow. The effect was unique and demonstrated both the tonality of the French language and Ghys’ impeccable ear.

There was a surprising variety to the music. Some tunes were rather avant-garde exploring the harmonies of the strings. Others had a pulse that made you want to tap your foot, even if the time was not always straightforward. One of the last pieces combined both. It was, the composer explained, the first piece ever in which he had sampled a speech that had a political message (as opposed to, say, a weather report). This one was about closing down of factories and consequent lay-offs plaguing France.

What a delightful event this was. The music was both captivating and innovative. Florent Ghys is a composer and musician whose explorations I am sure to follow in the future.

Kings of Convenience @ Warsaw, 4 June 2010

The Norwegian duo had packed the Polish National Home, Warsaw, in Brooklyn's Greenpoint on this Friday night. The demographics of the audience were somewhat unusual, with a preponderance of geeks and oriental girls. Of course, there were also a large number of tall blond Norwegians and other Nordic types amongst those crowding in front of the stage. It struck me that Yoko and I fit quite neatly in at least two of these categories. I went to the bar to get us cups of white wine and as I returned I found that there had been a further condensation of the throng close to the stage and I had to push myself through to reach Yoko in their midst.

I had been aware of the Kings of Convenience for a long time and I had listened to their CDs, Versus and Quiet is the New Loud, which we had at home. We also had the solo disc, Unrest, of Erlend Øye who together with Erik Glambek Bøe forms the duo. But although I had found these records to be generally good and quite soothing, they always were more Yoko's music than mine. Neither was I aware that the Kings had such a following even here in the States, so I was surprised at the whistling and girls screaming when Erlend Øye modestly showed up on the stage just to announce the warm-up act.

So the concert started with Franklin for Short, a less known band from Ventura, California, performing for the first time on the East Coast on this Kings of Convenience tour. As Erik Glambek Bøe would later say, Franklin for Short is their favourite American band, for now. And I could see why. Franklin for Short was quite fresh with an early-1970s spirit in their music (think The Beatles, Beach Boys, The Byrds, with a heavier Indie rock sound) that extended to their appearances. The bearded lead singer/guitarist, Seth Petterson, wearing a baseball cap, had the air of the Beach Boys after they had abandoned the clean look of the 1960s. The bass player Trevor Beld's style was that of George Harrison of All Things Must Pass period, with skinny white pants and a beard as long as his hair. Even the instruments reflected the bygone era. The lead guitarist Bryan Russell played a green Fender Telecaster, while Beld used a white Fender Mustang, which he plucked very skilfully with his thumb. But the most impressive was the set-up of the long-haired keyboardist, Matt Barks, with a drooping moustache, who in addition to a vintage looking keyboard had a theremin hooked up in front of him. All in all the quintet's music was quite engaging, with with better than average vocals and definitely better than average melodies. I only found the drummer Brian Granillo to be a bit heavy handed, but there was a nice variety in the arrangements.

Then finally the boys from Bergen came on stage accompanied by wild screams and applause from the audience. From the moment they launched into their first song (which they announced as playing their first song), they held the rapt attention of the audience throughout the lengthy and rather low volume concert. It was just the two of them and their acoustic guitars, Erlend on steel strings and Erik on nylon strings. The music was interspersed by low key banter by the two friends in their heavy Norwegian accents. Erik apologized for their concert starting 15 minutes late and told that Guns and Roses had just been to Bergen and that their concert started 3 hours late: “Everything is so big in America.” They played their known songs that had been modest hits, such as ‘I Don’t Know What I Can Save You From,’ as well as numbers from their new album, Declaration of Dependence. At times they sounded like young Simon and Garfunkel with quiet songs and close harmonies. Apart from mellow love songs, their lyrics would reflect a modesty that is quite rare on this side of the Atlantic (“Failure is always the best way to learn…”). At times, they’d be quite riotous, as far as one could be with just two acoustic guitars. In the song ‘The Girl from Back Then,’ Erik cooked a lively jazz beat with a strong bass on his guitar, while Erlend jumped behind the grand piano. The result was a very nice jazzy jam. Frequently, the mood turned Latin with Erlend playing solo against Erik’s thick Bossa Nova chords. At one dramatic moment, which the boys made their best to hype up in their deadpan way, they switched instruments, both of them testifying how liberating it was after having had their specific roles in the duo for a decade. But the switch was only for one song before they were back with their own guitars in hand.

It is hard to pinpoint why the music of the Kings of Convenience is truly so appealing. I guess it has to do with many factors, not least that the songs are really very good (as my friend Jussi observed, “the boys play nice music”). But it also has to do with the fact that Erik and Erlend are deceptively good musicians. They both play the guitar amazingly well and the arrangements for the two acoustic instruments are very imaginative indeed, making them sound like a larger instrumentation. It also helps that the fellows are genuinely sympathetic and clearly are having a good time on stage.

Towards the end of the concert, they invited Franklin for Short back. From that moment on the mood again changed as the music was fortified with the electric instruments and drums. Erlend, who at that time was liberated from the guitar hanging around his neck, danced around goofily with his red hair swaying above the bespectacled face as he craned his long neck to the reggae tinged beats. He also went back to the piano and added some well-placed accents to the music. Franklin for Short proved their own skills as musicians, having mastered the intricacies of the Kings of Convenience songs. The audience was dancing along and reacted enthusiastically when asked whether they’d want to hear another song (Erik: “Good, because we wanted to play one more song”). When the concert finally ended, I could see only happy faces streaming out to the warm Brooklyn night.