Berliner Mojo and Handmade Street-Cred

One of the reasons I love Berlin is because the city oozes with the juices of the freshly squeezed fruits of creativity and entrepreneurialism. As you stroll through the streets of unique boutiques and specialty stores, you often notice the walls before you notice the window displays. Paste-ups, bill posters, graffiti and street art cover every meter of prime wall space and the unmistakable scent of inspiration is in the breeze.

With cheaper rents and a distinctly alternative feel - East-Berlin has something for every sub-genre and sub-culture known and unknown to the world. Interwoven through the neighbourhood are countless of organically grown hangouts that began as train yards, factories or abandoned buildings. It’s a sprawling patchwork that is an example of how artists and designers have grown their own ‘business district’ within the larger city that aims to nourish the Creative Industry by investing in philosophical intrinsic values as well as developing more public spaces designed to foster social creative behaviours. The neighbourhoods exude an attitude of necessity to balancing the corporate skyscrapers by embedding visual and public art into a metropolitan city.

In this kind of environment, your imagination is the limit for how you design and present your business. Anything safe or too streamline and you’ll literally just be painted over. An example of this creative-business sprawl is the area in and around Simon-dach Strasse (Pronounced zee-mon-dagh strass-eh) in Friedrichshain-Kreusberg, that has come to be a hub for artists, independent designers and creative types to hang out, live and take their businesses into their own hands.   

Antje Eismann (or Eisy to her friends), is a self-taught fashion designer who has established her fashion line from her atelier-store on Simon-dach. She has been in fashion for the last 8 years and since 2008, she has been producing her own designs from her shop/studio, Eismann Unikate. Her atelier is the back room of her shop and her colourful creations are brought straight to the store-front within minutes of her conceiving of them. 

Eismann says her draws her inspiration from the street. She describes the fashion in Berlin as “crazy” with a lot of mixing old with new. Berlin fashion is sort of fusion of vintage with the touch of designers reinterpreting and reinventing. “I’m always looking at people. I see what they wear and what cuts and material and how they mix their style. I like colours and the combination of strong colours,” she explains.

When asked about the difference between her summer and winter collection she responds, “I change my collection every day. I invent on the fly. I look what material I have, I take it on my table and decide what I’ll make.”

When she’s on a role, she can make up to three pieces in a day and all the pieces are unique because of the way Eismann works. She sources her material from local markets in Kreuzberg and other flea markets around the city. Recycling clothes and transforming other people’s thrown out wardrobe into fresh and bright modern street wear.

Eisy is a prime example of the mind-set of Berlin artists and designers who want to bring their art into the public eye. Instead of waiting to be discovered, they take it on themselves to bring their imagination to life. And even further than that - create a tangible way for people to not only buy but experience their creativity. Silicon Valley is to the dot com start-up what Berlin is to DIY-small-business.  

Eisy can produce her products and test out evolving ideas that could literally change from day-to-day, even hour-to-hour and she is only be answerable to her customers. This kind of business champions the resurgence of lo-fi prototyping and urban recycling which adds a new aesthetic of ‘old with new’ to the products and spaces being developed carrying with it, a strong sense of responsibility to social and environmental sustainability. No wonder artists and designers from around the globe are flocking over there to be a part of this creative surge.

Photo credit: https://getamen.com/misterschtief/amen/eismann-unikate-is-the-best-selfmade-hoodies-in-berlin

Glastonbury, Coachella... Guča?!

I love music. Festival music is something else, you enter a portal into a fairy land where each stage transforms your world into whatever the band wants it to be. Where the lands you are shown on the wild ride are gothic, grungy, magical, stormy, and luscious with melodic flora and fauna of every variety. What makes you keep going back is your desire to be surprised and your willingness to leave your senses in the hands of the musicians and the surrender to the atmosphere. 

Still going strong after 53 years is Guča Trumpet Festival. Sure, this festival may have changed over the course of half a century - there's more acts, more stalls and whole lot more people, but at its heart and shooting out of every artery is unmistakably Serbian culture and tradition. 

Once a year, the tiny town of Guča (goo-cha), with the population of no more than two thousand people, swells into a puffy gypsy fish in a rendition of a Disney movie like no other. The fairy tale Serbian village sets the backdrop to a musical score of dizzying Balkan brass like you cannot imagine until you experience it yourself. During the course of the festival, the population inflates to over half a million kolo-ing party people in the space of seven days. Erupting into an overflowing of merriness fuelled by meat, music and copious amounts of rakija. The sound filling your ears are tunes forged from the Byzantine, Ottoman and Greek musical fires - injected with wild gypsy flavour to give it distinct rhythm and flow. From your first step into the prefecture, you'll be greeted with the trill of trumpets and horns at any hour of the day. 

We arrived to the greeting of the overlapping of tooting scales of musicians. At first it sounds like a drunken song, the fatigue of five days non-stop playing. But it was only the outskirts of the town. We would soon feel the full force of the menagerie of brass bands. 

While weaving through the gauntlet of food and beer stalls and people all soaking in the summer heat, I couldn't help but wonder how a vegetarian could survive out here. I have never seen so many spit roasts displaying what must have been a small farm massacre of lambs and pigs sacrificed for the staple meat and bread menu on offer. My eyes widened taking in the scene. Pushing onward through the trumpet lovers and curious new comers, I found myself swaying through the dimly drunk carnivores, not really knowing what I had just stepped in to.

With the festival initiation under my belt, so began my education in how life goes in Guča... Rakija in hand, Lazar and Ana, our family hosts, welcomed us to their town. Half a litre of Serbian culture later, and so much affection for the family who opened their home to us; the muted sounds of trumpets, trombones, tubas, accordians and bass drums continued to serenades us just a street away. "Okay, you are ready," announced Lazar while pouring us both another nip of homemade schelvovitsa. "Now you can understand our music", he added while supporting himself on his garden wall. Taking another sip of scheilvavitsa, I sat back and thought... Ahh, I was deaf, but now my ears can see!

Brass! And Ohhh... the chaos of Balkan Brass!! 

Over the course of 3 nights and 4 days, I experienced Guča, 'the trumpet capital of the world’. The music never stops. After their performances, the bands who go there primarily for the competition take to the streets. Infiltrating themselves into bars, restaurants and anyone who will listen. Musicians roam wild and free, busking their repertoire into the pre dawn hours and after a short morning nap, they're back at it with the sunrise. They live a symbiotic existence with their instruments, as though their music making was breathing the party life in to them with every inhalation and exhalation and not the other way around.  

The last night of the festival features Goran Bregović, one of the most internationally acclaimed performers to come out of the Balkans. The open air stadium roared with appreciation as he pumped out each feeling filled hit. You might not know what he's singing about, but you can't help but throw your arms in the air and let the music send wild hip wiggles through your body. Only when bring yourself back into the crowd do you see that everyone feels just like you do. 

What you will find more and more, is that festivals that developed their reputation on delivering a sweet sample of bands in a particular genre, or an exhibition of a country's characteristic culture are now, sadly, evolving into a fusion of (usually) western influence, using a more pop music line-up to attract the masses and maximise ticket sales. It's almost as though all the festivals of the world are losing their individuality and evolving into a general music show. The magic of being in a big festival takes hold, but you could be anywhere in the world. Coachella Valley, Glastonbury, Niigata or Byron Bay - what makes you really feel these places? Are you really submerged in the culture of a town and it's people thanks to the music?

The Serbian Prime Minister encapsulated the essence of Guca when he was quoted on his thoughts of the festival:

Guča represents in the best way what Serbia is today; its openness, belief in oneself, hospitality, party and music. [The] trumpet festival is a confirmation of our courage and joy both in good and bad times. It represents people's return to the roots, joy and meaning of life. It speaks about who we are, what we are, our urges. We express our joy and sadness with [the] trumpet, and also buried with the sounds of [the] trumpet... Those that can't understand and love Guča, can't understand Serbia. 

 

Tak Taku

Toudeshk-cho is a small village one and a half hours south from picturesque Esfahan and three hours north of the desert city oasis, Yazd. The town is 500 years old and was known for camel trading along the Silk Road centuries ago. The village has a population of around 500 people who live in traditional Iranian mud brick houses. From the outside, these houses appear to be desert igloos but when you enter the gate, the space opens up to a breezy courtyard that is the main sitting area for the family and their guests. Their foundations start below ground level and the roofs are shaped in the old style dome. They are built with mud brick and rendered with mud, which requires annual maintenance after the rainy season. The derivative –cho simply means that it is the ‘old town’ of the attached newer village Toudeshk. 

You won't find Toudeshk let alone, Toudeshk-cho on most maps of Iran. The village is small, and everyday as predictable as the last. People here live with the pattern of the seasons. Nevertheless, this small place has a big thoroughfare of cargo and people moving between the neighbouring cities of Esfahan, Yazd and the larger town of Na’in. It’s relatively unknown to most Iranians, however, its popularity continues to grow among travellers who visit this region thanks to one man, Mohammed Jalili.

The story begins with Mohammed’s curiosity about foreign visitors and the world outside Toudeshk and Iran. When he was thirteen, he took action upon his curiosity…

Mohammed began to sit on the side of the road waiting for foreign cyclists or motorbike riders. He carried a piece of paper with which he could note the few words in English he started to pick up from these people passing through. He would wave down whoever passed. Some stopped, and some didn’t. But most did, even if it was just for a chat before continuing their journey. He would wait days or ever weeks before a new person would pass by. His dedication was undeterred through 45 degree summer days and minus 5 degree winter ones, patiently waiting to meet someone by chance. His desire to learn more about where they came from and where they were going, why they were doing what they were doing and what they found interesting about his country continued to burn bright.

One winter, when Mohammed was sixteen, a German cyclist stopped at the side of the road next to his village. When the two met, he asked Mohammed if there was a hotel or a guesthouse is the village. “No” was the reply. An entrepreneur in the making, Mohammed knew of an abandoned house in the village and offered its shelter to the man for the night. The house had several empty rooms, and was home to a family chickens and the odd stray cat that would come and go – most likely to try their luck for food or to catch a baby chick or mouse.

To Mohammad’s delight, the stranger agreed and they walked together into the village and towards the abandoned house. The German cyclist became the first foreigner to set foot into Toudesk-cho in 300 years. And Mohammed was the one to lead him.

After clearing out the chickens and setting up a place to sleep, his guest asked if there was anything to eat. Mohammed thought quickly and said he would soon return. He went to his family’s home and made his plate of food for dinner but he didn’t eat. He hid it from his mother and then returned to his guest with the food he had saved and offered it to the cyclist. Worried about what his family might think about bringing a stranger into the house, he decided it would be best to keep him a secret for the time being. Mohammed went hungry for the night, telling the traveller that he had already eaten with his family. That night he didn’t sleep. It wasn’t the hunger that was keeping him awake, but the excitement having a foreigner in his village after so many years of sitting on the highway.

Once the traveller left, Mohammed reflected on what a wonderful idea he had had to bring the cyclist to the abandoned house. His dream began to form. From then, he started to invite any traveller passing by to this house for a night, or two. He would stop, not only cyclists and bikers, but buses and lories too. Asking them if they had seen any travellers headed in the direction of the village so that he could be ready to wave them down. He began referring to his place as his Home Stay.

Inviting foreign travellers to stay the night in the village did not go unnoticed. Soon enough, the locals voiced their concern to Mr. Jalili about his son’s ritual at the roadside and the activities inside the abandoned house. Mr. Jalili reprimanded his son, telling him that it may not be safe to bring these travellers into the house. They were strangers after all.

It was only when one traveller on a BSA motorbike pulled up and asked about accommodation for the night that his father became intrigued. His father happened to be an avid enthusiast for British built bikes and he was attracted to Mohammed’s guest like a magnet. His father came to inspect the bike and traveller who came with it. The biker explained all the features of the bike to Mr. Jalili and spoke about his travels thus far. Mohammed watched as his father’s acceptance of the stranger grew. Mr. Jalili invited him to dine with their family that night. And from that point, the Jalili family became invested in Mohammed’s hobby of housing and feeding weary travellers in their village.

It has now been 13 years since Mohammed has been waving down travellers from the side of the road. He now receives calls and messages from hotel managers, bus and truck drivers and even other travellers who have been to his home stay telling him that there may be people coming his way. The home stay has developed into a family business in a non-conventional sense, and has even been reviewed by Lonely Planet, Trip Advisor, WikiTravel and a popular Japanese guidebook. People who have had the chance to stop and meet him and his family tell others of their experience. At its heart, the home stay is determined to remain a place apart from any dime-a-dozen hotel or guesthouse. Mohammed has modeled the experience he wishes to give his guests as one where they feel as they would at their own home, only in the middle of the desert in Central Iran. He offers what no Persepolis can. Not a sight to be visited, but an experience to be had. Where the value comes from the exchange of cultures. 

Mohammed speaks near perfect English and expresses himself fluently on any topic of conversation. The beginnings of his vocabulary all from the small piece of paper he used to carry in his pocket. When asked about his home stay, he proudly explains that he had a dream that continues to be realised. He dreams to build a place for all travellers to stop, rest, talk and share their time, experiences and knowledge with each other and with the tiny village that cannot be seen on most maps. He stresses that everyone is welcome and eloquently adds, “ If you are human, you are welcome. No matter what gender, nationality, religion, sexual preference you have, the only border that exists here is between the land and the sky”. After speaking to him, you quickly understand that his mind is wide open and hungry to learn. He freely expresses his views on life with intelligence, conviction and sincerity. 

Mohammed completed studies in Persian Literature at university, but he vouches that his real education came from building and growing ‘Tak-Taku’ Toudeshk-cho Home Stay. “The world is my university, the people I meet are my teachers. I cannot leave my country yet, but I’m lucky that the world comes to me.”

Gora Map

The Pleasure of Your Company

You can never be alone in India. I have met so many wonderfully colourful characters on our walks through streets or in places we’ve visited. You simply can't walk more than ten metres without someone stopping you for a chai and a chat to find out more about who you are, where you come from, and how you are enjoying India. Talkative curious men line every street, some with hidden agendas, and some just wanting to practice English conversation, or make a new friend. I’m sad to say that of these friendly and spontaneous interactions, next to none have been with a female. Maybe that says something about my own conversational shortcomings? I don’t know. But from what I’ve found, it’s harder to make spontaneous connections with women in the streets than it has been with men. The women I have had the opportunity to share more than a smile with, I’d have to say, I’ve met under much more intimate circumstances. In fact, I could count on two hands the women who I feel I shared a real connection with and who have become part of my thoughts from shared memories.

The women at Ashok’s house gave me a glimpse into village life, with families and strong personalities forced to live on top of one another harmoniously.The first of these women who I met was Nanni. I can’t remember her name or if it was ever told to me. Nanni is married to ‘Uncle’ and is the head of the Nagri family. She looks like she is in her fifties and she has two sons and one daughter. Nanni has bright, smiling eyes that are curious. Her voice is gentle, even when she is angry. Her legs are thin, but strong. And she doesn’t seem to have as many joint problems as other people her age in the village. She greeted each day with a loving smile, touching my hair the way a mother does. Her maternal gentleness pours out of her through her openly transparent expression and her actions. And the resolute finality of her opinion was never lost in translation. During my stay with Nanni, she never seemed to stop working. Even when there was nothing to do for the farm, she would spend the day in the fields collecting wood or picking vegetables for the family.She seemed happiest and most comfortable when she was sitting on the ground outside the house with her grandchildren, watching them play with one another.

Dropita is thirty-five years old, mother of three and the wife of Sri Hari Nagri, Ashok’s brother. Her family is from a village about 50km from Terela past the town of Beed in central Maharashtra.She is a small but incredibly strong woman. She impressed me when I saw her comfortably balance 30kg of water on her head and carry two 10kg pots in each hand from the local well to the house, a two to three hundred meter return trip. Dropita has a broad smile and a fantastically enthusiastic head wobble, that I grew accustomed to. I got the impression that her children were beautiful reflections of her own traits in their excitability, athleticism, caring nature and a streak of crazy impulsiveness. I think our friendship was forged after she showed me how to properly take a bath with a bucket. I didn't mind being the source of laughter when the family realised that we needed a tutorial from her on how to maximize the water in a bucket. I am an expert bucket bather these days.

Kanjun is the wife of Bibishin Nagri. She is in her early twenties and she was married at the end of last year. It’s been just over a year since she has lived with the Nagri family. Her husband has been working and training at an army base camp in Bangalore since January and isn't expected back at the village until June. Kanjun taught me about sari style. On the night of the party she firmly shook her head when I pulled out a used sari that I thought I picked up for a steal. Instead, she selected a beautiful number from her own wardrobe, in traditional gold embroidery, showing me the difference between ‘bargain basement’ and ‘Indian elegance’.  She wrapped me delicately in the lovely material like her own sister and afterwards stepped back and nodded approvingly at her own handiwork.

Kanjun's responsibilities include chapatti making and cooking, water collecting and any household tasks given to her by her mother-in-law and helping her sister-in-law with all her housework. She is the youngest of all the wives in the house and treated so. Since she has no children she can dedicate all her time to chores and housework. She is quiet and generally only speaks only when spoken to. Often though, she would come into our room just to sit and talk. Kanjun misses her husband a lot, and is counting down the days until Bibishin’s return. She wants her own baby and it would seem that by having a child, she would gain more respect from her mother-in-law and more of a voice within the family. 

Pasang is a beautiful woman who owns a small restaurant at the top of the hill in Darjeeling. She always wore her hair down using a few bobby pins to hold back her hair away from her face. Her eyes are always lined lightly with mascara and this frames her eyes on her white skin, making her smile even more striking. She dresses comfortably and warmly with shoes she proudly announces are from her eldest son who is away working in the Middle East. In a photo she showed me of her when she was younger and travelling. She was wearing a red dress and she looked incredibly elegant and almost like a Japanese woman on her wedding day. Her husband is not around, but we never spoke of him, all that I knew is that they were in love. She runs the shop alone and sometimes has help from her son Karma. She seemed reserved towards us at first, but it’s only natural when people pass through her restaurant so frequently. We had the pleasure of hearing her infectious and uncontrollable laughter that confirmed to me that she is still a girl at heart.

Ang Mu is a mother of two and thirty years old. She lives in the only house in the district of Yurutse on the edge of the Markah Valley in Ladakh. Her marriage was “not a love marriage” as she told me. She lives with her in-laws, her husband and her youngest son. Her parents live in a village two days walk away. She never went to school. Her eldest son is ten and has been at boarding school in Leh since he was four. She smiles sadly while looking at her almost two-year-old son, and says, “When he’s four, he will go too.” Ang Mu moves and works silently, but laughs heartily when she’s amused and her smile is generous and kind. The family opens their house as a homestay during the summer to earn some more money during the tourist season. It is perfectly situated between Rumbak a popular rest stop for trekkers coming from Zingchen, and the Kande Pass, for those coming from Chilling. 

It hasn't been easy to meet and speak with Indian women everyday. They juggle family and everything else, as well as being resigned workaholics. I realised they're harder to meet because they're generally just very busy and don’t have much time in their days to sit down for a chat! The women I’ve been lucky to meet who have let me into their days, have come from different backgrounds and live in different settings, and despite being imposed into sometimes-difficult social and family traditions and situations, they seem to have found happiness even though it is sometimes born out of tolerance. Although my encounters with these women were brief, it was their independence that first jumped out in the look of their eyes upon meeting them. And while talking to them and hearing their stories, I feel it’s their internal strength, sense of humour and individual spirit that makes them unforgettable to me.

  

You Can't Walk Before You Crawl

As I approach the five-month mark, I have come to regard myself less like a holiday-er and more like a traveller. At one month, I was shocked by the overload of India and still unsure of whether I would be able to sustain life over here for the time I had told myself I would before leaving home. After two months, I had perfected a system for packing and moving, I had grown accustom to hard beds, frequent power outages and I let my taste buds and stomach do the judging of food and not my eyes. Two months would usually signal the end of the longest of holidays, but this was still just a formation. At the end of three months, I could deal with any form of transportation from train to tractor and many a stern stare in my direction could be broken down with a friendly smile and a Namaste. I had settled into a rhythm and I saw myself as well and truly in long-term-travelling territory. At four months, I could say that I was completely comfortable - out of the ordinary has become ordinary. The goal isn't to cross sights off a list or snap the oldest temple or the highest pass. Although these amazing things just happen to be along the way, there is more a desire to converse, to observe, to admire and absorb the soul of places rather than just the statistics they have attached.

To be a ‘traveller’ (for me) is to be able to create routines despite being constantly on the move and it involves adapting to each new environment through making real connections and affecting the foreign environment/ habitat with something of myself. It also implies redrawing the limits of my comfort, and not just surviving the journey, but thriving in it. To last the distance, I've had to take things slow. It might sound ridiculous, but sightseeing becomes more like a job and you need to take a break from it and live life as though you have lived in the place for years. Otherwise you’ll burn out from it, or worse, become desensitised to the majesty and beauty that surrounds you.

Learning to cope with the limitless inconveniences and frustrations of travelling and come out of these situations smiling is a skill that has been refined over these past months. The first thing that becomes quickly apparent is that a structured approach or any plans whatsoever, are never final. It’s not so much leaving decisions to the last minute, but in many instances, it means having to delay decision making or simply going with the flow and letting outside circumstances decide your fate for you. In these cases, fighting against what the Universe has in store is futile.

Constantly changing variables and negotiating immersion into a new culture every few days has become everyday life. In India, arriving in a new place, as soon as you exit the bus, you have to quickly assess your new environment and its people and make decisions on the fly. Moving states or cities equals new customs, new food and new local dress, sometimes new religious beliefs – completely new vibe. You have to gauge people around you – whom do I want to speak to, whom to avoid at first. But at the same time, you have to be open-minded and not avoid every tout or person who makes contact first. Sometimes the first contact could be the most valuable relationship for the time you spend in that town.

Being polite has served us well and I like to think it has even been a sort of protection for us in many ways, without being naïve. We have had what would seem like incredible strokes of luck, but it all comes down to conversation and first impressions. People who we have crossed paths with, have come back to us in a round about way, and we have had mutual benefits from the meeting – either be it finding a comfortable place to stay, needing their help in finding transport and revealing local secrets, hidden around corners opening our eyes to the intricacies of a city or the pulse of town. 

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late, or in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same; there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that or not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”