Podcasting since 2004; Conversations, conflicts, adventures and monologues from around the world.
I suddenly find myself in the republic of Georgia and the first thing one needs when arriving in a new country such as Georgia is a guide. Mark Mullen knows Georgia, he has been here since the late 90’s and pays close attention to what is going on in the present. Who better to sit down with on my first night in Tbilisi, to talk about this country.
Mark’s Podcast about Georgia
I’m on my way to Tblisi, Georgia, the jewel of the Caucuses. Nestled next to the Black Sea, under the more infamous regions of Russia, and next door to the lovely nations of Armenia, Turkey and Azerbaijan. My focus in Georgia will be digital activism, a topic near and dear to my heart, and of interest to many people in that nation. As I conduct workshops I shall also be learning about the country from people I meet, specifically what is working and what is not working for Georgian citizens today. So stay tuned for podcasts, writing, and surely some video entries! See you in Tblisi!
The name of the book is Roadrunner, the story is that of journalist and world citizen Dilip D’Souza. A passionate traveller and a writer who has a talent for finding the soul in everything. From down in the Bayou of Louisiana to out in the desert on Route 66, Dilip watched the changes in the landscape as well as the people around him. When there were people! Throughout the journey he reflects on what these parts of the US have in common with his home country of India, and how two places that might seem so different, aren’t.
My guest on today’s podcast is Dilip D’Souza. You can find his book, Roadrunner on Amazon.com
It must have been spring of 2007 when I saw the incoming chat on my skype window: Dilip saying hello. A quick call – he’s in the US traveling around. Somewhere near New Orleans if memory serves. He asks me about my own travels and we disconnect pretty soon thereafter. The details of his adventures I would happily follow on his blog as I had since we first met online for a podcast interview some years before.
Dilip’s blog first caught my attention for both its style and its subject matter. Reading his words I recognized the thoughts of someone who could look critically and creatively at his own home country of India. He would also use this way of comparing specific regions or stretches of road in India, to places he had seen himself or heard about from traveling friends. Even beyond the critical analysis and the historical references, these were the words of a born traveler.
Over the course of 2010 I traveled with his book in my backpack. Through Siberia and Mongolia, hanging out in Vienna or Lisbon, on those sleepless nights in Tokyo, and when Kabul would go almost completely dark, I would slowly read and re-read chapters from Roadrunner.
I say slowly because having been raised on computers and the internet, I take forever to consume a book. But I say read and re-read because each chapter in Roadrunner is itself a story. One that I might tell a friend over dinner, or try to re-create on my next trip back to the US.
Just like the writing style that I’ve long enjoyed on his blog, in his book Dilip combines stories from traveling in the US with stories from India. Two lands that on the surface are often said to be very different, but looking at it through his eyes, there is no shortage of similarities. And just as one can point out the social-political problems in India and the US, Dilip also constantly describes beauty that both places share.
Being that my own specialty and passion revolves around human stories, Roadrunner had my undivided attention with each unique individual Dilip would run into as he rambled into yet another forgotten American town. Good and bad experiences alike, his words taught me new things about the very country I was born and raised in, while also showing me things about a land I greatly admire and wish to visit one day soon – India.
When all is said and done, in Roadrunner, the never idle traveler in me immediately recognized the wandering words of another fellow traveler; tired, full of stories, and already thinking about the next adventure.
I turn left into an alleyway which is narrow and somewhat foul smelling from the open sewer, like many alleys in Kabul. I’m thinking of what tasks still need to be done today and wondering how late I am for my next appointment, when suddenly a group of kids will run right passed me. They seem to be chasing something, looking up at the sky as they run and calling to someone nearby even though I can’t see another person over the tall walls which frame these alleyways. I suddenly realize they’re following kites, as I raise my face to the sky to see the scores of little specks in the sky. I stop walking, taking note if anyone is coming who might notice my foreign-ness, and I stare at the dancing kites in the sky with a big smile on my face.
Hours later I’m back at my residence and I decide to go on the roof to see what I can see. It is the last day of Eid, the very important holiday in the Muslim faith, and as one would expect on a holiday, from high above the city sounded calm. Yet on every rooftop including my own, groups of children are huddled together unravelling spools, squinting at the sky, and mending wounded kites. Those that aren’t working on something kite related are doing something with their own rooftop pigeons.
I notice the ladder leading up to another rooftop area, higher up then this one, where more kids are flying kites. As a matter of fact I notice many ladders, the primary means for kids to run from rooftop to rooftop, all in the name of kites. I give a warm nod to each of the kids, who seem surprised to see me at first, and then completely used to my presence. Even stopping to pose for a picture since they notice I’m using my little compact camera. I climb up next to them. Now, to the casual observer, I might even be in the kite flying business myself, standing next to one taller boy who seems to be running two kites that are flying higher those almost anyone can see. He motions with his hands and adjusts the spool with lightening agility, looking more like a master puppeteer than a kid with a kite. As the afternoon comes to a close and the sun passes almost behind the mountains that surround Kabul, the hundreds of kites that cover the sky like birds in formation start to disappear. My own rooftop colleagues grab the spools and cut the lines, making me wonder where their kites end up. They make for the ladders without looking at me. Just when I feel completely invisible, on my way down the ladder I can feel someone holding it steady for me. “Thank you” I say to the one of the boys in Dari and English, “You are welcome” he responds in his best english. By the time I’ve reached the bottom of the ladder, he and the kite kids have vanished, for what I can only imagine is dinner time. The end of another day filled with paper, tape, and string, another day of ruling the skies.
As I sit back down at my desk with fresh images of kite flying in my head, I get a message from a friend asking what meaning Sept. 11th has for people in Kabul. I have no big answer for such a question, all I can think of is what a great day it was to fly a kite.
Arriving in Kabul is like arriving in no other country I have ever been to before. The beautiful beige mountains surrounding this city in ruins, with military and police presence seemingly everywhere, it doesn’t take long before a visitor see’s something odd or funny, an instant story for whomever will listen later.
The following podcast is just an introduction to this journey, with a limited explanation as to what I’m doing here, what I’ve observed so far, and all kinds of additonal thoughts about Afghanistan.