As Decision Makers Dither, Pakistan Water Crisis Deepens

A woman with her children in Badin district, an area of Sindh province facing acute water troubles. Photo: David Lepeska



By David Lepeska

ISLAMABAD, Pakistan: Water taps choke and spit. Irrigation canals dry up, shrinking farm output and making food scarce. Suddenly fallow regions are depopulated as villagers migrate to urban areas. Blackouts and drinking water shortages hit Karachi and Lahore. Hungry, thirsty, desperate peoples jostle - violence surges, the country falls apart.

As water becomes increasingly scarce across Pakistan, this apocalyptic scenario is not far from what experts envision.

"The very sustainability of Pakistan as an independent nation may be at stake, as shortages could lead to increased social discontent and disharmony amongst the federation and the provinces," a May 2008 World Bank report on Pakistani infrastructure warned.

With a population expected to shoot from today's 170 million to 220 million by 2015, the country's already weak water storage capacity will become woefully inadequate in the very near future. The problem is particularly acute in a developing nation that relies on water not only for drinking and agricultural production, but also for energy. Pakistan is already facing a 4,000 MW power shortage and will likely require several hydro-electric plants to satisfy demand.

Speaking in late April at a conference on the water crisis in Lahore, Sindh Water Council Chairman Hafiz Zahoor ul Hassan Dahir said a lack of water could devastate the country.

"Pakistan could become Somalia or Ethiopia," he said.

In 2007, the World Bank listed Pakistan among 17 nations facing acute water shortages and noted that the country had used up nearly all of its surface and groundwater. Indeed, nearly half the population has no local access to safe drinking water. One quarter of irrigated farmland suffers from acute salinity.

"Unless plans are put in place urgently," the World Bank report concluded, "these critical shortages will continue to undermine the efforts to improve socio-economic indicators and to reduce poverty."

But which plans, or more accurately, whose? The bank has put forth several ideas and the government is discussing at least two mega dams. Various independent experts and non-governmental organizations have countered with smaller, community-based water storage and usage schemes. But as Pakistan works to achieve a bright, democratic future, none has received widespread approval. The hesitation may be warranted.

If At First You Don't Succeed…

Pakistan's recent history of World Bank water projects is less than stellar. After $1 billion and 13 years of construction between 1984 and 1997, the Left Bank Outfall Drain collapsed under storm surges in 1999 and again in 2003. The LBOD project was financed by the World Bank, Asian Development Bank, Saudi Fund and U.K.'s Department for International Development, among others, and implemented by the Pakistani government. It preceded the World Bank's National Drainage Program, which mostly failed to undo the damage. Progress reports and a bank-led investigation found that the poorly designed canal had irrevocably damaged the fragile ecosystem of the coastal estuaries, failed to benefit most local groups, and made life more difficult for the poorest of the poor.

More recently, a $130 million emergency rehabilitation project for an aging reservoir called the Taunsa Barrage, also backed by the World Bank and executed by Islamabad, led to forced displacements without adequate compensation, severe river erosion, and a wall breach that killed several villagers. Locals are pushing for an independent commission to examine the failures and provide reparations.

Even the Tarbela dam, widely touted as a success, has its faults. Completed in 1976 some 50 kilometers up the Indus River from Islamabad, the dam has effectively stored water for agricultural use for some 30 years.

It has reduced seasonal flooding, but also severely curtailed downstream water supply: The flow of the mighty Indus River, which supplies 90 percent of Pakistan's water, fell to one-fifteenth of what it was in 1947, according to the Water and Power Development Authority of Pakistan (WAPDA). Further, the waters of the Indus carry a great deal of silt. Bank and government experts agree that within three years, the Tarbela dam will become useless because its reservoir will have filled completely with sediment.

Other water projects have faced problems from the start, including the plan, approved in 1953, to create a new dam in northwest Punjab's Kalabagh District. Design and paperwork were completed in 1984 and construction was set to begin with U.N. Development Program assistance, World Bank supervision, and WAPDA execution.

Then the real trouble began. Sindh legislators worried that construction of the dam, occurring far upstream in Punjab Province - which contains more than half of Pakistan's population and is considered its bread basket - would curtail their water supply. Two other provinces, Baluchistan and Northwest Frontier Province, soon joined the chorus with the former alleging rule by Punjab fiat and the latter downplaying the project's anticipated benefit. In 2005, President Pervez Musharraf overruled the objections and declared the government would go ahead with the project. But construction had not begun when a new government was voted into office this February. Some 55 years after it was conceived the Kalabagh dam exists only on paper as Pakistan's water crisis deepens.

Despite these hiccups, in late April the World Bank announced it would spend $8 billion on the construction of the Daimer-Bhasha dam, as well as two related Indus River projects at $500 million each. The offering represents one of the bank's largest single country loans - to a nation with a poor track record for mega-development projects.

Bigger May Not Be Better

Why have these large projects repeatedly disappointed? There's enough blame to go around.

"The state is culpable, the multilaterals are culpable of reproducing the failure time and again," said Assim Sajjad Akhtar, history professor at the Lahore University of Management Sciences and a leader of the People's Rights Movement, a left-wing political group. "You have a very deeply entrenched bureaucracy, and their planning conception is very colonial, paternalistic, top-down; if you try to give advice, you're not helping, you're committing sedition."

Projects are designed in a very short-sighted manner, as illustrated by the impending Tarbela dam failure, Akhtar said. The government rarely makes design plans public or explains how funds are being spent, he added, and the resulting constructions are often faulty and spur discontent among locals.

"The World Bank, Asian Development Bank, all the donors refuse to accept that they are somewhat responsible for what happens," Akhtar said. "They are the ones who describe this whole development and liberalization paradigm as interconnected, but whenever they fail they say it's not their responsibility."

Development analyst Syed Mohammad Ali, a fellow at the Open Society Institute, put it this way: "When you go for mega-projects you have mega-squandering."

The World Bank offered a laundry list of Pakistani shortcomings in a May 2008 report: a lack of adequate education and skills training; a lack of government commitment, vision, planning, and budgeting ability; corrupt contracting procedures; no protection against adverse physical conditions or external processes; delays in payment and absence of credit; and unfair competition from government-linked contractors and consultants.

Ayesha Siddiqa, visiting professor at the University of Pennsylvania, argued that the real machinations occur behind the scenes and that Pakistani farmers have been completely removed from shaping policy. According to Siddiqa, politicians and bureaucrats do not much care whether projects succeed.

"The whole thing is political," Siddiqa said, citing the example of Shah Mahmood Qureshi, Pakistan's foreign minister and a former Farmer's Association of Pakistan leader.

"Instead of putting him in charge of agriculture, they put him in charge of foreign policy," she noted. "There's a great gap between growers and policy, between rural and urban populations, and those gaps will only be narrowed once the government realizes there is a problem."

Stemming the Crisis

To Akhtar, the solution is obvious.

"Don't do big projects, do small projects," he said.

Small, community-led projects are more cost-effective, he argued, as well as more ecologically sustainable and less divisive.

The water minister of neighboring India has expressed similar views.

"The era of big dams is over," Saifuddin Soz told the Indian Express in late May. "We should have small dams and try and do something on rainwater harvesting and recharging ground water."

Pakistan faces a more severe water crisis than India, but the minister's views are relevant.

If the mega-projects were to continue, program managers should take into greater consideration the needs of affected residents, Akhtar suggested.

"Large projects can only work if the state actually does it [sic] in a manner where people are not looked at simply as objects to be transformed," he said. "They have to be the end, not the means."

Siddiqa takes more of a macro approach to improving water management.

"The problem with this government: It doesn't have a clear-cut agenda," she said. "To begin with, they have to define their plan to develop the rural areas, one that appreciates the gaps in the Pakistan economy and seeks to bridge them."

Projects should include lining all canals to prevent water seepage and switching from flood irrigation to the drip-sprinkle approach Israel uses, Siddiqa said. To break the industrialists' monopoly, farmers should shift away from cash crops. Siddiqa acknowledged such efforts would be costly, but said that returns would validate the expense.

Ali, the development researcher, recommended a more holistic approach that takes into account local needs and seasonal river flows, government capabilities, and donors efforts.

The panel that investigated the failure of the World Bank's LBOD and National Drainage Program seems to agree.

Its report "highlights the need to take a holistic view of water and drainage systems to ensure risks are identified and assessed and harm to people and the natural environment minimized," panel chair Edith Brown Weiss said upon the report's release in 2006. "We trust that the Bank's Action Plan will be implemented in close consultation with affected people."

But the bank appears to have other ideas. Despite identifying a long list of inadequacies with Pakistan's capacity to build and sustain its infrastructure, the bank suggested in a recent report that Pakistan "needs to establish frameworks under which it will deliver say Bhasha, Kalabagh, Karachi Mass Transit, or other large infrastructure projects and procure teams based on ‘framework' agreements."

Thus, the World Bank, which employs some of the most well-educated and skilled development experts, is counting on a series of working agreements between designers, builders, and suppliers to curb the failures that have destroyed thousands of livelihoods and bedeviled $1 billion in projects, including the LBOD.

Whether it's small, community-led projects, integrated, holistic approaches or mega-project partnerships, Pakistan needs to act soon.

"The ethnic divide is huge in Pakistan to begin with, and water is increasingly a source of that conflict," Akhtar said.

In newly settled regions and along provincial borders and shared irrigation canals, the tensions are particularly high.

"These areas are waiting to explode," he explained. "It's a time bomb."

--- posted on devex.com on 01 July 2008

Neighborhood Justice

I moved into the South Delhi neighborhood of Lajpat Nagar in early April. Wedged in between the very high-end Defense Colony and the sometimes suspect Jangpura, Lajpat Nagar is pleasant, sprawling, and defined by rectangles of four and five story housing units built around delightful green parks. My single-room rooftop apartment overlooks one of these little parks, in fact. The neighborhood is predominantly populated by Hindus relocated from Pakistan during Partition, and as such they have a variety of their own rituals and traditions and keep much to themselves.

In my first full day in the neighborhood I strolled out looking for a place to lunch and found a little vegetarian spot not far from my apartment. As I was digging into a thali of tomato paneer, dal, raita, and roti, a slim youth shot past my window down the alley. He was followed seconds later by a rather angry man, who then returned a minute later, hauling his prey roughly by the collar.

"You think you can rob my store, thief?" the stronger, older man said. He was wearing a pink shirt, holding something in his clenched left fist and heading with the youngster towards a jewelry store just across the street from where I was eating. He was shaking the kid and jabbing him in the jaw as a crowd gathered. "Huh? I'll show you what we do to thieves."

The thief was probably around 16 or 17 years old. Apparently he had snatched something from the jewelry store and bolted down the alley, which is when I first saw him. He was stringy, almost unhealthy looking, and right now he had the fear of God in his eyes. I assumed the police would come and take the kid away, but the crowd gathered round as the pink-shirted man took his quarry up the stairs in front of his shop. He stopped halfway, where another staircase went down to a different, now-shuttered shop. And he punched him full-on in the face. Once, twice, three times. And then in the stomach. Blood spurted and the crowd surged and I couldn't see any more.

I finished my meal and went to get a closer look. Two large Sikhs had the thief down at the bottom of the stairs in front of the shuttered shop. His chest was heaving. His nose and mouth were bleeding, his eyes swollen. His shirt and pants were torn and he was wild-eyed and desperate. I guessed he was either plotting his revenge or thinking that if they were to let him live he would never steal as much as a glance for the rest of his days.

"What did he do?" I asked pink shirt, the jewelry store manager who'd caught the guy and started the beating. "I caught him red-handed!" he told me, almost defensively. "He was stealing a necklace and we got him." What he meant was this: since we saw him do it and caught him attempting to escape, we're entitled to mete out punishment.

And apparently he was right. The gathered crowd, all furrowed brows and thin grins, seemed to approve. And after a couple minutes they dispersed and went on with their day. Couples walked by, chatting and laughing. Old men resumed storefront perches. And the young thief, bloodied and bruised, crawled to his feet beneath the jewelry store.

An Auspicious Arrival

Yes, I'm in Pakistan. Decided it was time to visit the place I'd read so much about so I found a couple stories to cover for DevEx, who were willing to cover half the travel costs, and off I went, on a very fast...bus. Not wanting to lay out $400 to fly the 300 miles or so between Delhi and Lahore, I instead dropped $75 on matching 12-hour bus tickets.

But first I should tell you about getting my visa. I dialed up the Pakistan High Commission and asked for the Press Minister. “One minute,” said the operator, putting me on hold. What song did proudly Muslim Pakistan offer callers to its Indian embassy? None other than the bouncy piano theme song from the movie The Sting. On ominous sign, I thought. But Press Minister Khan was very helpful, not to mention rather pleasant, although he had his doubts about journalists. “I know you journalists,” he said, smiling. We were chatting in his spacious office, waiting for his assistant to make copies of my passport. “You go in, do all of your reporting, and then you come home and write whatever you want.” I smiled and said I'd return after my visit.

The bus departs at 6am but travelers are advised to arrive at the station two hours early, so there I was long before sunrise with dozens of Pakistanis in skullcaps and headscarfs, checking bags and getting patted down before taking a seat in the lounge. The relatively high price includes full meals, so we were treated to coffee and biscuits. The woman next to me offered her whiny toddler a sip and the kid cried for more. “It's her first time trying,” she told me, smiling. “She seems to like it.” The half pound of sugar may have helped the medicine go down. Either way, I hope I'm not sitting next to these two on the bus.

We load up and set off on time, positively zipping through Delhi as a red-orange sun rises over the horizon. I've never seen the streets of the capitol so empty, so calm and peaceful during daylight hours. It's eerie, almost apocalyptic, to see chaotic Delhi, a sprawling metropolis of nearly 20 million, the world's fastest growing city over the past three decades, suddenly without its people, nearly transformed into the artful, tranquil burg it was a half century ago.

Except, that is, for the wailing sirens of our police escort. One SUV each in front and back, they will be with us the entire journey, most likely for safety, to avoid the deadly bombing that last year hit the Samjhuata Express train, which linked these same two cities until it was stopped, after the bombing. We are not inconspicuous.

Stop for breakfast. Stop for gas. Stop for mutter paneer lunch before arrival at Indian customs around 2:30pm. Unload all bags and then back on and then stop for same on other side of border, which is much quicker and more efficient in a sleeker and more modern building. They essentially wave me through – “With bus?” they ask – and I'm in Pakistan.

The Favre Legend

Cast your mind back, way back. To a time before cellphone ubiquity, before the advent of email and the Internet. History had just ended, Dan Quayle was our nation's vice president, and William Jefferson Clinton still a relative unknown when Brett Lorenzo Favre started his first game for the Green Bay Packers on September 20, 1992. Fifteen years later just about everything has changed, both within the NFL and the world at large, but number 4 remains a constant. Every fall, rest assured, he will appear in the northern firmament at least 16 times bathed in Green and Gold.

During his unprecedented 258-game streak the native Mississippian won three consecutive MVP's and a Super Bowl and earned All-Pro honors six times, so the legend has grown. But ESPN columnist Patrick Hruby, among others, has had enough. Before turning fiercely anti-Brett, he begins his Monday blog entry thusly: "Usually good. Sometimes great. Always plays. Loves football." Any sportswriter or fan who cannot understand widespread appreciation for an NFL quarterback to whom these descriptions apply must be something of a failure at both. For are these not the very qualities we prize? I do. And these four phrases encapsulate Favre's career: He is usually good; although sometimes bad, he is also sometimes great; the man always, always plays; and last but not least he loves football with an abiding, joyous exuberance.

But Hruby is unimpressed and goes on to explain how Favre is neither a metaphorical raging against the dying of the light or some great bulwark against creeping metrosexuality, as the experts would have you believe. (Where are you getting this excreta, Pat?) After informing us that no quarterback in NFL history has won more games than Favre, without a trace of irony Hruby adds that the Green Bay QB has “long been more myth than man.” This is wrong-headed in more ways than one.

See, Favre's very appeal lies in his humanity, his shortcomings. He's the anti-myth, the everyman hero. Jordan and Federer, Woods and Gretzky. These guys are epic, mythic, more god than man: stunningly, deeply and diversely skilled athletes who at their best cannot be beat and at their worst are still a joy to watch because they are better at their job than anyone has ever been. Supermen. Geniuses, if you will. Brett's no genius; he's a holy fool, with a rocket arm, a bayou-sized ticker, and little else. The tale of his career is one of overcoming faults and adversity and bumbling, in fits and starts, towards glory.

In his rookie year, 1991, Atlanta coach Jerry Glanville tarred Favre as a partier after he repeatedly stumbled hungover into practice. Favre burped and farted and cracked jokes and Glanville famously claimed that only a plane crash would get the rowdy southerner into the game. Glanville might've regretted not keeping his word: Favre's first NFL pass was intercepted and returned for a touchdown (sometime in the next few weeks, in fact, Favre will replace George Blanda as the all-time interceptions leader). In the routine physical examination after Favre was traded to Green Bay the following off-season Packers' doctors found Favre had the same degenerative hip condition that ended Bo Jackson's career. Packers GM Ron Wolf was advised to void the trade, but refused. A few months later Favre's first pass as a Packer became his first career reception, for a 7-yard loss.

Indeed, unlike many of the great ones, Brett Favre does not make quarterbacking look easy. He makes it look difficult. Nigh impossible, in fact. You won't find any of Tom Brady's cool customer or Peyton Manning's full-bodied confidence here; watching Favre one appreciates the anxiety that is part and parcel with staring down angry, hard-charging 250-lb. men for a living. He taps his feet and fingers in the huddle. He appears tense while under center and makes his audibles peculiarly obvious. The ball is snapped and Brett drops back to become the tin man, all herky-jerky -- bobbing, juking, twitchy-eyed. If he doesn't get rid of the ball within a few seconds he will start hopping and consider an exit strategy. A bad decision is imminent and it is here that any true fan -- and I've been a Packer fan since I could burp – begins to wince and readies a moan. A defensive lineman lunges at Favre, clasps his torso but somehow Brett twists away and after a quick peak down field fires a dart into triple coverage. The ball is tipped by a defender, smacks off the shoulder pads of a receiver, pops high into the air and lands just out of the reach of a diving safety. Then it's back to the huddle to start over again. "Look at this guy!" thinks the armchair QB, the former high school athlete, beer in hand. "If he can do it, so can I. I could do that."


Yet he plays with his heart on his shoulder pads. When he's happy, he's overjoyed, and viewers have borne repeated witness to his infectious, childlike glee. Sprinting 50 yards to tackle a teammate in the end zone. Running thirty yards cross-field with arms raised after a game-winning TD pass. Double, triple fist pumps and chest-bumping teammates after a 2^nd quarter touchdown. The day after his father, Irv, passed away in 2003, Brett punctuated 399 yards passing and four touchdowns with bouts of sideline weeping.


Fiery and shaky and occasionally oops-a-daisy, Favre's open-hearted, nerve-jangling style makes first downs cause for celebration. Yet despite a catalog of minor and not-so-minor injuries, an addiction to painkillers, near divorce, and countless family tragedies (the NY Times recounted Favre's off-the-field troubles Sunday), over the years they have arrived with some regularity. Now, almost inexplicably, Favre has become the winningest QB of all time, with several major passing records in his pocket and more on the horizon. Perhaps more any other contemporary professional athlete, he personifies that most appealing of sports contradictions: regular, imperfect guy turned larger-than-life hero.

So, Pat, do me a favor. Try to forget everything you've read or heard or imagined about Brett Favre over the years and just watch. Watch this gray-haired ancient mariner stroll onto the field in his patented bandy-legged strut. Watch him trash talk opposing defenders. Watch him go a little gooey under pressure. Watch him jump up and down like a teenager and chest bump teammates after a touchdown. Knowing it won't be another decade and a half before he hangs up his cleats, watch this guy play football and ask yourself: how does he make you feel?

I bet you'll like what you find.

Burning Down Our House

March 2007 Book Review of Raj Kamal Jha's Novel Fireproof

On a chill, late February evening five years ago, a gang of marauders stopped and torched the Subarmati Express near Godhra, about 150 kms from Gujarat's capital city of Gandhinagar. The case filed later by the police claimed several Muslims conspired to burn the train and its passengers, but two subsequent court decisions were inconclusive. Either way, the deaths of 59 Hindu passengers – including several returning from Ayodhya, where they had been campaigning to build a temple in place of a mosque destroyed ten years prior – sparked an unprecedented communal conflagration across the state. The deliriously violent five-week spree of fire and rioting destroyed 25,000 shops and homes and resulted in over 1000 mostly Muslim deaths.

Award-winning novelist Raj Kamal Jha covered the carnage for Indian Express, where he is executive editor. Sifting through the detritus of Ahmedabad's Gulbarga Housing Complex, which had been torched with residents still inside, he came upon a child's workbook. The cover was singed but inside were several pages of exercises and a number of surprisingly mature poems. One stunningly relevant verse stopped the author in his tracks and inspired him to pen a fictional account of the tragedy, one that could encompass all of the horror and the guilt, the suffering, fear, and denial that pierced the heart of India in the late winter of 2002.

The result is "Fireproof," one Ahmedabad man's fantastical, fearsome hurtling through the anxiety-drenched first days of violence and a visceral fever dream of a book readers will find hard to put down and impossible to shake. Although occasionally stomach-churning, Mr. Jha's new novel is not only a crackling good read – a thrilling bullet train of mayhem, mystery, and magic realism – it is also a wake-up call.

The book opens with the protagonist, Mr. Jay, at the hospital. Due to a difficult delivery his wife is unconscious and his newborn son horribly deformed: wrapped in dark, burnt-looking skin; without arms and legs; and with a slit for a mouth, a two-holed bump for a nose, and a soft, lumpy head. Only the eyes are like other babies', allowing him to keep watch as events unfold. Flummoxed by his progeny, Mr. Jay dubs the baby Ithim, a mash-up of "it" and "him."

While waiting to see his child he spies a woman standing in a window across the hospital courtyard. She scribbles "HELP ME" on fogged-up glass then vanishes along with the words. That night, after Jay has taken Ithim home, he receives a call from the mysterious woman. Miss Glass tells him to meet her the following afternoon at an undisclosed location a few hours outside the city. She says she can fix Ithim. After some indecision Jay acquiesces, leading to a riveting journey through which he begins to fully appreciate the horrors that have gripped his city.

A Greek chorus of soon-to-be-killed bit players delivers a warning shot in the Prologue, making readers aware, right from the start, that this will be no walk in the park. And indeed, tongues are cut from mouths, women raped and killed in front of their children, and bodies rain from the sky. The brutality and gore are presented with such forthrightness the reader finds himself riveted even as the steady drumbeat of death appalls.

"Then they rape the daughter-in-law. They strangle her with a towel. They slit her throat. They wait for her to die. They slit her stomach, all the way down. From her breasts to her pubic bone. They take her baby out. They throw up, at the sight of unborn flesh. And, of course, the blood. They throw up on the kitchen countertop, over the vegetables she was peeling. Then they set the house on fire."

The above is from one of three lengthy eyewitness accounts attached to an email Miss Glass sends to Mr. Jay providing directions for his journey. In these tales the witnesses and victims have names but the perpetrators are simply called A, B, C, and D. And between each chapter a member of the chorus of the dead – Head Nurse, for instance, or Taxi Driver – recounts his or her fiery end at the hands of a similarly nameless, faceless gang. The acts of violence remain vivid but anonymous, for now.

And the gruesomeness of these literary body blows is intended. Gujarat was vile and indefensible – over a month of jaw-dropping communal murder on a vast canvas – and Jha is attempting to recreate the aura of shock and disgust, danger and fear that swallowed the state like darkest night. THIS REALLY HAPPENED, he is reminding us, and such matter-of-fact recounting of horrors – Jha keeps the prose mostly plain rather than purple – rings more of history than fiction.

In an audacious and hilarious set piece at the railway station, however, Jha looses his pen. Jay is awaiting his escort to Miss Glass when a dwarf named Bright Shirt appears. Waltzing through a puddle of trousers, shoelaces, and a lengthy black and white-checked scarf, the stubby one freezes Jay in bemused awe:

"He was running, on the spot, stomping and stamping in this puddle, his clothes flapping like giant tropical birds perched on his body. He was jumping up and down, his elbows and knees jerking back and forth, restless, impatient, like a player limbering up before a game. …
'Forgive my looks, for I am just a clown,
My job is to cheer you up, Whenever you are down.
You look very tired, sir, you look quite beat,
So let's sit down for a while, and get something to eat?'
Then he turned, with a flick of his heel, a stamp of his foot, like a soldier in a parade, and was off. He walked as if there was no crowd, barging right into people, banging against their suitcases and their bundles, almost knocking his head against their knees. This strategy of his seemed to work, though. For the crowd was parting for him, easily and spontaneously, and he was walking, running, jogging, as if this were a playground and he were a child."

The comic relief is short-lived and serves mainly as a bridge between the atrocities of the book's first two-thirds and the surreal fantasyland of the finale. Here we find dead families swimming in water-filled homes, books and towels doing stand up, and juggling, singing fire-wielders. With the last fifty pages Jha floats to heights of silly surreality and stoops to somewhat reductive social commentary. The clash with what has come before is jarring, yet in the cacophony a potent message rings true.

Even as Gujarat burns and hundreds die, this is a story about Jay. We never meet his wife, and in a way we never meet Ithim, either. And all of the lesser characters end up dead. There are clear echoes of Kensaburo Oe's piercing novel Bird, in which the titular deformed son reflects a physically and psychically scarred post-WWII Japan. But in Fireproof it is the protagonist, not his misshapen offspring, who stands in for a devastated Asian nation.

Once upon a time Gujarat was just one of 28 Indian states. A pleasant enough spot snug up against Pakistan and the Arabian Sea; unremarkable, perhaps, but with decent beaches and Asia's lone lion preserve it kept up appearances. Today the word describes not only India's stubby most-westerly appendage but also a time and place one would prefer to forget.

Five years later the violence has waned but tensions have yet to ease. Some 30,000 of the 200,000 Muslims made homeless by the pogrom still live as refugees in 81 relief camps across the state. Afraid of inciting violence, Gujarat's theatre owners regularly refuse to screen controversial films: last year Fanaa was banned because of Aamir Khan's controversial political stance and just last month it was Nasaruudeen Shah starrer Parzania, in which parents search for their young son, one of the countless lost in the madness. And it appears a lack of political will is as culpable as lingering communal animosity: as of June 2006 only 10 convictions had been made in over 4000 criminal cases originally filed by the police in connection with the carnage.
Gujarat, then, is the great national nightmare from which India has yet to awake. With Fireproof, Mr. Jha endeavors to ring the alarm.

A Long and Winding Road

Album Review of Sufjan Stevens' 2005 release, "Illinois"

Undoubtedly the most ambitious musical project undertaken since Harry Smith endeavored to record the history of American folk music fifty years ago, folksinger-instrumentalist Sufjan Stevens’ grand plan to lay down an album for each of the 50 states reaches full flower with his second in the series, the lush, vibrant, and uncategorizable “Come on Feel the Illinoise.”

His fifth album since going solo in 1999, “Illinois” follows up last year’s quiet “Seven Swans,” a departure from the states series that began in 2000 with “Michigan,” about Stevens’ home state. Like that album, the 21 tracks of “Illinois” evoke their eponymous state with literate lyrics, but ratchet up the meandering soundscapes. Stevens has again practiced his lyrical travel writer’s craft on a worthy locale, but with this release drifts further from his folk rock roots. The album credits include a string quartet, the Illinoisemaker Choire, various friends singing back-up and blasting horns, and Stevens playing over 15 instruments, including an oboe, a glockenspiel, and “Laura’s rickety accordion,” and it shows.

The tracks, some with titles as long and twisted as a Dylan song, alternate between long and winding tales of historical people and places and short, lush instrumental numbers that break up what might become monotonous in lesser hands. The tale of serial killer “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” is detailed and disturbing (“He took off all their clothes for them/He put a cloth on their lips, quiet hands/quiet kiss on the mouth.”), while “A Short Reprise for Mary Todd,” honors the first lady who went insane after her husband, Abraham Lincoln, was shot dead next to her at the theatre. “THE BLACK WAR…” is a barker’s call to the fantastical festivities, with a slow building of voices and strings and wind instruments that climaxes in triumphant horns and drums; “Welcome to Illinois,” the song practically screams, “the greatest show on Earth.” Stevens steps on the gas with the twirling, swirling “Come On! Feel the Illinoise!,” which lifts from piano scales to a jazz hands-eliciting bounce of horns and percussion in taking us back to Chicago’s dazzling White City, built for the Columbian Exposition of 1893: “Chicago, the New Age, but what would Frank Lloyd Wright say?”

One shudders to think, but surely even Mr. Wright would blanch at the nightwalkers in “They are Night Zombies!!” The long intro has gotten short shrift in alternative music of late, yet in that track, as well as others, Stevens uses a simple layering technique to brilliant effect. Start with slow, long piano keys, add bass guitar riff, cymbals, and drum beats, top it off with excited strings and a women chanting in fright, and you’ve got yourself a perfect mazelike sound. Stop! For just a second. Now drop some breathy, nervous lyrics and start ratcheting it up again. Repeat. Rinse. Not bad. Now change instruments, lyrics, and performers. Do it again. In “Chicago,” Stevens reaches orgiastic heights employing a similar scheme, with sleigh bells, shakers, and a clarion trumpet call that perfectly compliments the harmonies of the choir.

Some may call Stevens’ lyrics twee or his singing voice precious. A reasonable complaint, but with grandiloquent musical statements like these, the closeness of his voice and the sentimentality of his writing personalize the wild goings-on more than they drift into syrupy emo.

“Illinois” is an unqualified triumph, with echoes of Beck, Iron & Wine, the Shins, and the psychedelic pop of Athens, Georgia’s Of Montreal, not to mention many artists long gone. Stevens has created an album that is as broad, expansive, and unpredictable as the nation he is only beginning to document. Whether the 27-year-old will live to finish his musical road trip is impossible to know, but he should certainly make all efforts to do so. Like an improvised road trip in an amorphous roadster with an encyclopedic and musically gifted uncle, “Illinois” is a rich, informative, and stylish tour of the long gone and underappreciated.

Kung Fu Cartoon Chaos

Film review from April 2005


A visceral, visually explosive kick, Stephen Chow’s "Kung Fu Hustle" is one of the most enjoyable, elastic, and relentless films of 2005. Where his previous film, 2001’s “Shaolin Soccer,” mostly kept the whiz-bang of CGI-pyrotechnics to the soccer pitch, the visual exploits of Kung Fu Hustle know no such bounds. (“No more soccer!” one gangster says early on, after stomping on and deflating the ball three young boys are kicking around in an empty lot.)

Part homage to Hong Kong chop-socky, part ode to 80’s American cartoons and film parodies, and part paean to recent sci-fi spectaculars like “The Matrix,” Chow’s film serves up a wealth of aesthetic delights: spectacular combat sequences, a grinning Buddha in the sky, suited gangsters dancing with hatchets, a weapons-grade harpsichord, and an immediate classic of a chase scene lifted from the Road Runner. The viewer stumbles out woozy, stomach muscles sore from laughing and cartoon tweety birds circling his head.

And, oh, yes, there is a story as well. In Pre-Revolutionary Shanghai, the Axe Gang holds sway, turning cops, peasants, and crooks into lackeys, and making Sing, an unaccomplished street dweller played by Chow, yearn for membership and respect. Stumbling upon the aptly named Pig Sty Alley, Sing sees an opportunity to impress the Gang and tries to intimidate and extort its residents, who are more than up to the challenge, to even their own surprise. The Axe Gang soon shows up seeking vengeance and is quickly dispatched by three kung fu masters who had been hiding in plain sight as Pig Sty residents. From there, the stakes, chaotic carnage, and fantastic visual and physical gags swell to Looney Tunes proportions, climaxing in a vertical battle between Sing and a killer known as the Beast for what might well be the entire Universe.

There is a cutesy love story thrown in for good measure. As a child, Sing was told by a wizened con artist that he had the look of a one-in-a-million master of the Buddhist Palm kung fu technique. After buying an instructional book from the man and flipping through it, he tries to save a deaf girl from bullies. The young Sing is beaten badly and gives up his dream of being a master, but the girl, who will of course be seen again, never forgets.

But concerning ourselves too much with narrative misses the point, for Chow uses the tale mainly as a vehicle for broad comedy and fantastical physical exploits.

Although a deft, fearless comedian, Chow smartly chooses to focus less on Sing and lets the other players shine. Comprised of several former Asian action greats that Chow practically resurrected for this film, the cast is uniformly good. Yuen Wah, known to Chinese audiences for his many baddies, plays the split personalities of the Pig Sty landlord to insouciant perfection. Lueng Sui Lung’s Beast, a physically volatile yet emotionally contained assassin for hire, is undeniably one with which we would never mess. And special recognition must be given to Yuen Qui as the landlady of Pig Sty Alley. A former Hong Kong action star returning to film acting after a 28-year absence, Yuen gained 30 pounds to play a chain-smoking human powder keg that dominates tenants and husband both physically and verbally. A comedic force of nature, she steals every scene she's in.

With its brutal violence and occasionally pixilated images, Kung Fu Hustle is a mishmash of X-box fighting game – the Toad Style and Lion’s Roar are two of the combat moves – and animated violence from Tom and Jerry and the Road Runner, but jacked up on crystal meth and peopled with slightly more human characters. The combatants’ ability to withstand impossible beatings and the outlandish nature of many visuals, however, render the brutality benign and entertaining rather than cringe-inducing. When the Landlord is slapped about his own home and then thrown through the window by his wife, only to land face first on the stone ground three stories below and have a flower pot crack on his head, we do not feel his pain but relish the perfectly executed beating. There may be a loss of empathy that results from such cartoonishness, but it’s hard to complain when having this much fun.

Whither a Peacekeeping Force for Darfur?

This article, published by UPI in March 2006, could, with a few minor cosmetic alterations, run again today.


Speaking Tuesday at an Arab League summit in Khartoum, U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan echoed a common and disheartening refrain concerning Sudan’s war-torn Darfur region.

“People continue to be killed, raped and driven from their homes by the thousands,” Annan said. “The security situation has worsened as a result of fighting between Chadian troops and Chadian armed opposition elements on the common border.”

In an update to the Security Council last week, the U.N.’s top envoy in Sudan, Jan Pronk, offered scant evidence that recent agreements and cooperative steps had made any impact.

“The ceasefire does not function; the Joint Committee does not meet; the sanctions…exist only in theory,” he said at U.N. headquarters in New York, adding that countless human rights abuses threatened the peace in Sudan as a whole.

From Pronk and Annan to U.S. President George Bush and U.N. Human Rights Chief Jan Egeland, and from International Crisis Group to Africa Confidential and Human Rights Watch, a growing chorus of discouraging updates and urgent warnings has ratcheted up the urgency on Darfur over the last fortnight. Yet as the world’s worst humanitarian crisis deepens, a lack of international cooperation has underscored the logistical and political hurdles to swift and effective intervention.

Some 200,000 people have been killed and 2 to 3 million displaced since the conflict began three years ago, and in February the turmoil spilled over the border into neighboring Chad, igniting another proxy war and endangering additional hundreds of thousands.

This month Egeland predicted a rise in mortality and dubbed the region “the killing fields of the world,” Human Rights Watch urged the application of sanctions and an arms embargo on Sudan in an open letter to Annan, and an International Crisis Group study warned of an imminent disaster, placing the blame on the Sudanese government and calling for the immediate deployment of a 5,000-strong intermediate stabilization force.

“Darfur has become even more explosive because of tensions between Chad and Sudan,” said Africa Program Director for the International Crisis Group Suliman Baldo, referring to government-sponsored raids, cross-border incursions, and criss-crossing refugees. “I don’t foresee any improvement in coming months because I don’t see any change in the attitude of key players; why would the situation improve?”

The vocal tide has swelled on the heels of a March 10 African Union decision to accept U.N. intervention after its September 30 departure.

“I was pleased with the AU decision,” said Pronk, highlighting a lack of international preparedness. “Even though I had expected nine months [to prepare] because I don’t think we can do it, the transition, technically, in six months. We need troops and where are they to come from?”

Two days later the Security Council, expressing a similar query, formally asked U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan to develop preparatory planning options for a UN-led Darfur mission. Not only thousands of highly-trained troops and advanced military supplies are needed, but, also consensus from a variety of players including the United States, NATO, and the Sudanese government, which again reiterated its stance against United Nations interference at the Arab League summit.

Key members of that government, the National Islamic Front, were in Abuja, Nigeria, this week at peace negotiations with opposing rebel forces of the Sudan Liberation Movement/Army and the Justice and Equality Movement. The U.S., European Union, and other international observers are pushing for an April 30 agreement on the Improved Ceasefire Protocol, but since the NIF violated the January 2005 agreement and has been openly supplying the janjaweed militia and controlling access to the region, analysts foresaw little real progress.

In violation of previous agreements, “the government is still blocking aid and there is virtually no access for non-governmental organizations and aid workers,” said Gillian Lusk, deputy editor at Africa Confidential, an insider’s weekly newsletter, who visited the region this month.

“Sudan may sign an agreement with the rebels, which will not go far but will allow the NIF to save face,” Lusk said. “If the U.N. is coming in, Khartoum will try to get as much as it can beforehand.”

Precisely how the U.N. comes in—including the number and allegiance of troops, degree of mobility, and, crucially, whether the mission is given a Chapter VI peacekeeper mandate, or the more robust, action-oriented Chapter VII, or peacemaker, distinction—is crucial.

Eight African nations announced their willingness to send soldiers after a closed-door meeting at the Arab League summit, while the U.S. and NATO have offered logistical and material support but committed no troops.

Baldo was pessimistic on the potential impact of a 20,000-strong NATO-led force.

“There could never be a military solution to this problem,” he said. “Greater international involvement and a cooperative U.N. force could stop the terrorizing of civilians, assist humanitarian and aid workers, and perhaps bring those responsible for this manmade disaster to account, but a political resolution is absolutely necessary to bring about legitimate social reconciliation in Darfur.”

Crisis Deepens in Darfur

The following story was published in the Sudan Tribune early last year.

Feb 9, 2006 (UNITED NATIONS) — The lone AU peacekeeping presence in Sudan’s western Darfur region is ill equipped, understaffed, and fast running out of funds. Violent rebel raids have recently torn tens of thousands from their temporary homes. And gun battles regularly spill over a neighbor’s border, threatening to further destabilize an already tense region.

As Africa’s best attempts to manage the crisis have faltered in recent weeks the region has fallen deeper into chaos. Yet as discussions on replacing overextended African Union forces loom the United Nations was working aggressively to garner international assistance while the United States sought to turn down the volume.

The 7,000-strong AU force had done an admirable job keeping a lid on Darfur’s cauldron of hostilities since the signing of the Comprehensive Peace Agreement in January 2005, but as the $17 million per month mission has sapped its thin resources, tensions have spun beyond its control. The conflict, which began after the end of a long-running civil war in late 2002, has claimed about 300,000 lives and displaced over 2 million.

U.N. Secretary-General Kofi Annan differentiated between the AU force and a possible U.N. mission, which would require Security Council approval.

"The African Union forces did really courageous and noble work," Annan said Thursday, adding that they did not have adequate soldiers, logistical support, or mobility. The U.N. "force would require the participation of governments with highly-trained troops, who are also well-equipped.

"It is not going to be easy, [but] the big and powerful countries...will have to play a part if we are going to stop the carnage," said Annan, who included the U.S. in that group. "They will have to commit troops and equipment."

U.S. Vice President Dick Cheney appeared to contradict these words on Tuesday.

"It’s a huge area; it’s difficult to get at, but we have been actively involved," Cheney said during a televised interview. "I am satisfied we are doing everything we can do."

Last week U.S. Assistant Secretary of State for African Affairs Jendayi Frazer downshifted the American rhetoric on Darfur, citing genocide only in the past tense. Her comments came just days after U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. John Bolton assumed the rotating presidency of the Security Council, which will soon begin discussions on the Darfur mission.

"The U.S. has said that genocide has occurred in Sudan, and we continue to be concerned about the security situation in Darfur," said Frazer. The situation "is very different than what it was. It’s not as systematic...there isn’t large-scale organized violence taking place today, [but] a series of small attacks and incidents."

The scene on the ground belies the American assertions.

After the Sudanese Liberation Army assaulted a government building in Golo last month, Khartoum-prodded Janjaweed raids on displaced persons camps in the Mershing and Shearia areas exploded, leading to the forced ouster of up to 70,000 refugees. Another rebel group, the Justice and Equality Movement, recently accused the Sudanese government of seeking to extend the conflict into neighboring Chad by supplying troops and equipment along the border, according to the Sudan Tribune. Chad, in turn, has beefed up its Darfur border presence and humanitarian groups in that area have complained of increasing violence.

"The developments in western Darfur and the borders between Chad and Sudan have caused grave concerns,...whether inside Sudan or in the peace process here," said JEM leader Ahmed Tugod from the ongoing peace negotiations in Abuja, Chad.

A Security Council report released Wednesday detailed a thriving and mostly government-sponsored arms trade from neighboring Chad, Eritrea, and Libya. The report, which came on the heels of a survey chronicling late 2005 Darfur violence from the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, recommended sanctions against the three countries in violation of a Security Council arms embargo.

Additionally, a study released last month by the Physicians for Human Rights detailed not only the usual rapes, killings, and various violent attacks of the past 40 months, but also "the disruption of all means of sustaining livelihoods and procuring basic necessities." After three extended visits to the region and more than 100 interviews in a two-year period, PHR found that "the government of Sudan and the Janjaweed have created conditions calculated to destroy the non-Arab people of Darfur in contravention of the ’Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide.’"

At the center of the Security Council negotiations will be the size of the force and its mandate. In January, a U.N. military official cited a ceiling of 12,000 troops, which would most likely necessitate either U.S. or European involvement, if not both. And there is a vast gulf between the Security Council’s Chapter VII mandate—which confers peacemaking authority—and a Chapter VI mandate—which gives forces peacekeeping authority.

Annan described the U.N. mission he sought.

"I would want to see a highly-mobile force on the ground in Darfur...to be able to send a message to the militia and the people causing the damage, that we have a force that is capable to respond, a force that is everywhere, and a force that will be there on time to prevent them from intimidating and killing the innocent civilians."

Asked about the possibility of igniting a holy war in Sudan, the Secretary-General was cautious yet sanguine.

"The African Union needs to work with us to convince the government that they are coming in to help contain the situation, not coming in as an invading or a fighting force," said Annan. "I don’t think it’s impossible to get them to agree...and so I’m very optimistic about that."

(UPI)

Second-Hand and Vintage Shopping in Williamsburg

This visitors' guide was written in late 2005 for a non-local magazine.


Tired of the stratospheric prices of shapely dresses at Donna Karan yet unwilling to bow one's head in submission to Gap or H & M? Venture to the home of hip: Williamsburg, Brooklyn, where affordable treasures abound. A clutch of quirky shops sell rare and quality second-hand clothing, handbags, and furniture, and high-end vintage stores offer the latest in retro-bohemian fashions. Just a short subway ride from Manhattan, with less crowded shops and streets and satisfying sustenance close at hand, Williamsburg should be your next shopping stop.

Beacon’s Closet

The Vibe: A youthful scene of uber-cool, where hipsters dig for deals among color-coded circular racks and a soundtrack of Bowie and Bright Eyes blares through the three-room space.

The Goods: Rows and rows of affordable jeans and pants ($15-$25), jackets and coats ($30-$100), sweaters and shirts ($10-$40), as well as dresses, records, and random funky finds like classic wool hats and cheesy 70’s lamps.

The Lowdown: The second-hand Mecca of Williamsburg, Beacon’s Closet expanded considerably after moving into its current digs three years ago. Ever since it has been embraced by both locals and informed foreign tourists. Vast selection, so persistence pays.

* Beacon’s will buy your clothes in return for 30% of its value in cash or 55% in store credit.

Pirate Supplies

The Vibe: Models of pirate ships and nautical knickknacks dot the small space and sidewalk display, offering the intrepid shopper the peaceful solitude of the sea. Proprietor Bonnie Bloomberg says the name originated from the idea of her store as a treasure chest of sorts.

The Goods: Amid books, boots, hats, and a diverse and quirky selection of clothing for men and women, a classic black leather jacket in good shape was priced at $60 and a pretty polka-dot summer dress $25.

The Lowdown: This cute, eclectic store, which also serves as a salon for many area musicians, is the perfect place to find a high-quality vintage gem at a good price.

Ugly Luggage

The Vibe: A constant stream of Bedford Avenue passersby slip in and out of owner Marcus Tyler’s time machine, where he spins old 45’s on a creaky record player as classic wood furniture and old tchotchkes whisk them into their past.

The Goods: Yes, there are pieces of luggage, primarily boxy brown leather cases, but the offerings here are all over the place. Fifties black Kodak cameras go for $40-$70, a porcelain lamp of a Chinese nobleman and his concubine will cost you $66, and antique wood tables start at around $300.

The Lowdown: For a hip trip down memory lane, there may be no better place in the city. “If you grew up with it,” says Tyler, ‘we’ve probably got it, or something similar.” Whether or not you want to take home a souvenir is another matter.

Amarcord Vintage Fashion

The Vibe: Sleek, white-walled outlet of vintage European styles with 21st century soundtrack and stylish employees.

The Goods: Imported from Europe, the clothes are fashionable and priced accordingly. Hats, sunglasses, and scarves speck the space, where shiny leather purses go for $70-$100 and a great selection of vintage zip sweatshirts $50-$70.

The Lowdown: Bring a chunk of change and a bit of attitude, and you might leave with something your friends will secretly envy.

Salvation Army Thrift Shop

The Vibe: Musty and smelling of mothballs, this sprawling space is the old gray lady of Williamsburg second-hand, and wears that moniker on its sleeve.

The Goods: Everything except the kitchen sink. Blazers and pants, books and cigar boxes, shelves, tables, chairs, couches, t-shirts, albums, and ancient sweaters, all decidedly affordable.

The Lowdown: It is nearly impossible to visit the ‘Burg without passing by this centrally-located shop at some point, so why not pop in? You might find just what you weren’t looking for.

Eats

For a break from the bustle of Bedford Ave, slip into Spike Hill, a comfortable brick and black wood restaurant-bar with semi-private booths, about 30 single-malt scotches and 50 bottled beers, and an excellent brunch on weekend afternoons. Just across the street is Bliss, a vibrant vegetarian café that offers hummus and lentil soup, a delicate, tasty quiche, and a wide, people-watching front window. Or, in clement weather, step into The Read Café, walk directly past the cashier and small kitchen, and settle into a table in their quiet back garden, where you can soak in the serenity and refuel with a fat mug of dark, rich coffee.

Smokers' Revolt

This article was published in a Brooklyn weekly in mid-2005.


Just before midnight on a recent Thursday at an intimate, darkly lit bar in Williamsburg, an attractive young woman – let’s call her Cynthia – pulled a Marlboro Light out of her purse, flicked open a lighter, and brought cigarette to flame in plain sight of the bartender. She inhaled deeply, blew a billowy gray cloud into the previously unsullied air, and smiled. Within minutes, a nicotine domino effect had smokers lighting up in every corner of the cozy space and the bar had gone back in time, to New York City circa 2002.

“Once again, we’ve taken back the night,” said Cynthia, proudly surveying what she’d wrought.

A little more than two years after Mayor Bloomberg’s Indoor Smoke-Free Act went into effect in April 2003, the city’s late night bar goers are conveniently “fuhgedding” about it and lighting up indoors late at night. What was recently the sole provenance of the city’s few tobacco bars is fast becoming de rigeur for happening New York nightspots after midnight, posing public health risks and often infuriating abstainers.

“When the ban first went into effect we would only let people smoke in here every once in a while, and even then only after 2 a.m.,” said Heather, a fast-talking, raven-haired bartender, from behind her Williamsburg bar recently. “Now the cigarettes come out every night after midnight, and it’s the same in a lot of the bars around here, too.”

A recent Friday night survey found indoor smoking in 8 out of 20 Williamsburg bars, including Zablonski’s, Blu Lounge, and the Brooklyn Ale House. In another hot neighborhood, the Lower East Side, the numbers were slightly lower, at just under 40%. Even with the temperature rising and Bloomberg offering free nicotine patches to any quitter who calls 311 looking for a quick fix, smokers seem undeterred.

Chad Gracia, 35, a non-smoking theater producer who lives in Hell’s Kitchen and frequents bars in the Meatpacking District and Lower East Side, pointed the finger at the smokers themselves.
“It’s the fault of this cutting edge, smoking hipster class, who think it’s just a harmless end of the night indulgence,” he said. “In reality its cuts through my ability to have an enjoyable, peaceful evening. More importantly, it’s a legitimate health risk.”

Indeed, the dangers of second-hand smoke have been widely-reported and the law itself claims that employees of smoking establishments have a 50% higher risk of lung cancer whether they themselves smoke or not.

“Last night I did some late night bar-hopping in the Village and Meatpacking District with some friends, and I can’t remember a single place where we weren’t surrounded by smokers,” Gracia said. “Now my throat hurts and my clothes stink. It’s like 2002 all over again.”

“It’s definitely a hazard to public health,” said Lauralee Munson of the American Lung Association’s New York chapter, who has monitored the effectiveness of the ban. “Something should be done.”

The law itself places the responsibility squarely on the city, stating “the department shall enforce the provisions of this [ban].” Yet a 311 operator, who had recently taken several smoking complaints, quoted a Dept. of Health brochure that read: “enforcement of the ban is the responsibility of the establishment.” Repeated requests for department clarification and comment were left unanswered.

“The inspectors were originally sent around after the ban went into effect to make sure bars put up no smoking signs and removed ashtrays,” said Munson. “That work is done so they’re not coming around anymore. Now it’s really up to the bar owners, and lots of them would rather have the smoking crowd.”

The reality bears out Munson’s assertion, with many late night establishments turning a blind eye. In the Tribeca club Mannahatta, cigarette smoke mingled with manufactured dance floor fog as revelers puffed with impunity on a recent Friday. The bartender, a slim 30-ish Ukrainian woman who was also smoking, said, “It’s like the law never happened in here.”

Asked if the owner of her bar was aware of the nightly smoking, Heather laughed and said, “She pretends not to know.”

Colum, an East Village bartender, was more forthcoming.

“Of course the owner knows – it was his idea,” he said, as several patrons drank and smoked at the bar behind him. “Look, would you rather five, ten smokers standing outside making noise at 1 a.m., waking up the neighbors and causing problems, or would you rather have them in the bar buying drinks? After midnight – sometimes even earlier – we prefer the smokers to stay inside.”

Desire for increased sales and neighborhood tranquility may have helped, but lax enforcement from the Health Dept. has played a major part.

“At the start, the inspectors were here pretty regularly,” said Colum. “We even got a couple of fines. But now they’ve pretty much disappeared. I haven’t seen an inspector in months, so we feel like we can do what we want.”

Citing sales concerns, city bar and tavern owners have been vocal in their opposition to the ban since Bloomberg first broached the topic in 2002. This past March, the state legislature approved a bill that gives public officials the power to give a waiver to establishments that are experiencing financial hardship because of the ban.

At the same time, the disappearance of inspectors appears to coincide with increased business for these establishments. A state Department of Taxation and Finance report released earlier this month revealed that, after six months of falling sales following the advent of the ban, New York City bars and taverns have experienced growth in four straight quarters, going back to late 2003. The report suggests that smokers have been flaunting the ban in increasing numbers.
Suggestions for better enforcement were less than revelatory.

“The inspectors have to get back on the beat and owners need to step up their enforcement, too,” suggested Munson. “Otherwise it will keep getting worse.”

Gracia recommended vigilante justice.

“People just have to keep an eye out,” he said. “I did it myself once. Went up to a guy trying to be the trailblazer and politely asked him to stop. He immediately put his cigarette out and apologized profusely.”

It is unlikely, however, that all New Yorkers will be so polite.

Prichard Smith, a Williamsburg filmmaker drinking among smokers in an East Village bar recently, sees complete obedience as an impossibility.

“In New York City, when you go out, you gotta expect to run into some smokers, some rule breakers; that’s what this city is all about,” said Smith, a nonsmoker who is not bothered by the return of the late night haze. “If I wanted everybody to follow the rules, I’d live in Iowa.”

"Snake in Fridge"

Theatre Review

The Themantics Group production “Snake in Fridge” is misnamed. Call it hungry home, or the lonely house, because we hardly glimpse the titular reptile and the twisted, noisy abode where most of the action in this sex, drugs, and anxiety-drenched story takes place ultimately becomes the most interesting character in a rather dull tale.

Like any number of predecessors, “Fridge” lays out the lives of six twenty-somethings living in that large Toronto home and attempting to navigate the waters of youthful hedonism and mature responsibility, and mostly failing.

“It’s not like I’m damaged,” one character says early on, and yet it seems all involved are just that in one way or another. The creaky old house, with its rhombus windows and angular doors and which one character repeatedly claims is haunted, is owned by Corbett, a closeted, drug-addicted, and self-consciously short young man who shoots steroids and pumps iron incessantly to compensate for his shortcomings, and his sister, Violet, an imperious, amoral careerist who lives elsewhere. Caddie, an angsty stripper, and her older, delicate sister Donna, who was sexually abused by their older brother years ago, spend their days in a muted tug-of-war for control of their relationship, while the studly Randy, who works for and sleeps with Violet, and his sweet girlfriend Stacy, who moves in with him early in the play, drift apart. Victor, a big, strong, and responsible black man, is Corbett’s best friend and apparently the only undamaged character here.

Stealing bits of “Less Than Zero,” “Rent,” and even “Reality Bites,” Brad Fraser’s story involves three main strands: Corbett’s drug habit and clubbing is catching up with him and he needs to take desperate measures to pay the rent; Violet offers Randy and Stacy $2,000 to be the first couple to have live sex on her new cyber-porn site, driving a wedge between the lovers; and Caddie grows increasingly upset and frustrated with her sister Donna’s flirtations and excursions with their new housemate, a gawky 40-ish man named Charles, who recently left his wife.

Although “Fridge” is directed with considerable energy by Blake Lawrence, with short scenes that pop up in one corner of the stage and melt away as the lighting moves to another spot, the story droops. The almost-youths enter and depart, grow upset and party, scream and screw, and progress predictably. The grungy slacker and gay club worlds seem dated, more out of 1990 than 2006, and the characters are mostly two-dimensional. A “Warning and Disclaimer” from the show’s promotional cards and emails proves accurate – the play does contain both male and female nudity, drug consumption, and even a couple of sex scenes – but rather unnecessary because it all feels tired rather than shocking.

The performances, too, are less than extraordinary, excepting those of Susan O’Connor (Donna) and Sean Baldwin (Charles). We watch with considerable interest as these two figures grow into themselves believably through the action, Donna from shy, almost-retarded waif to assertive, passionate young woman, and Charles from potential stalker to strong, protective lover.
Unfortunately, the action is not focused solely on them, and so we end up in the basement, with that little seen snake slithering somewhere in the shadows and Corbett tied to a pole after robbing and killing a drug dealer. “There’s no wrong when nothing makes sense anyway!” he argues to Victor. The angered house – shaking its disjointed windows and doors and sending residents scurrying with shouts for “More!” – would probably agree.

Snake in Fridge

By Brad Fraser; directed by Blake Lawrence; Sets by Jennifer Varbalow; costumes by Erin Murphy; lighting by Carrie Wood; sound by David Gilman; video design by Corey Behnke; production stage manager, Angela DeGregoria; production manager Beth Slepian; choreography by Tesha Buss; props by Sara Katzoff; dialect coach Kate Lavender. Presented by Jay Aubrey and the Themantics Group. At the Sol Goldman 14th Street Theater, 344 E. 14th St., Manhattan; 212/868-4444. Running Time: 2 hours 9 minutes.

With: Sarah K. Lippman (Caddie), Susan O’Connor (Donna), Angela Ai (Stacy), Christian Feliz (Travis), Matthew J. Nichols (Corbett), Sean Baldwin (Charles), Mimi Bilinski (Violet), and Gabriel Grilli (Randy).

Shopping in Pahalgam, Kashmir, India

Kashmir is known for its cashmere – “Sex and the City”-popularized pashmina in particular – and Pahalgam is no exception. Along MM road are over a dozen shawl, stole, and scarf sellers, the best of which is Kashmir Kalla Emporium across from the Pahalgam Hotel. Below are several alternatives to the ubiquitous wool hawkers.

Fresh Milk Shop (5a-11p, no phone.) Habibullah took over from his father a few years ago, but this tiny blue storefront still serves up the area's best milk, cheese, and yogurt, same as it has for over 40 years. Try the sweet kesar (saffron) lassi (Rs 15) and praise nature’s glorious bounty.

Smiling Gifts (428437, 9am-9pm, summer) Satisfy your plastered paper jones at this 50-year-old papier-mache fantasyland, where brightly colored hookahs (Rs 400-600) and ducks jostle for shelf space with keychains, bells, lamps, jewelry cases, and music boxes. The intricate and unusual wood-carved gifts include cigarette holders and tri-level pen and pencil cases.

Pahalgam Color Centre (5am to 8pm daily) Young owner Aishad and his minions have been churning out enough bread for the surrounding villages -- over 2500 Kashmiri rotis per day -- at this former copy-print store turned kiln-fired bakery for 10 years. For a healthy, tasty breakfast at less than Rs 20 pair two with a lassi from the nearby Fresh Milk Shop.

New Market -- Kolkatta, India

One block north of Sudder Street, New Market (10.30am--7.30pm Mon to Fri, Sat till 2:30pm) is definitive Kolkata and a bargain hunter's paradise. Opened in January 1874 as an up-market alternative for Britishers loathe to jostle with "natives" at hot and dusty bazaars, this sprawling shopping center is the brainchild of then-Calcutta Corp. Chairman Sir Stuart Hogg, for whom it was formally named in 1903. A northern portion added in 1909 and the 1930's addition of the renowned clock tower -- of a piece with architect R. Bayney's broad-shouldered, red brick style and ringing out every quarter hour -- have made the grand edifice one of the more appealing Raj era structures downtown. Even a fierce 1985 fire, after which several northern sections were re-built, failed to diminish its appeal.

Designed with airy, 19th century European shopping arcades in mind, New Market has since morphed into something entirely Indian. With over 2000 shops, the interior is choc-a-bloc with stalls and stands of every shape and size, from spicewallahs and their wares crammed into twenty square feet to the ample space and abundant salespeople of the Jamna Departmental Store. From sweaters to saris, chapals to cardamom, leather goods to luggage, toys, flowers, tea, pet supplies, sporting goods, cosmetics, jewelry, and a great deal more, a determined shopper can find anything here, often at prices that preclude haggling (this is where Kolkatans shop, too). Stores are grouped by product offerings – dairy goods in the NW corner, for example, and flowers on the SE – for easier perusal and greater competition. Essential stops include: Nahoum and Sons Confectioners, an oasis of warm baked goods and dark wood near the NW corner, offering popular Western-style brownies and dense, rich fruit cakes; Bombay Dry Food has a lock on the best nuts; and at Curio Cottage, brass Dancing Shivas and wooden Ganeshas share shelf space with white and blue habit-wearing miniature Mother Teresas. Additionally, an attractive variety of only-in-Kolkata specialties -- glass bangles, palm sweets, cane baskets, and fine embroidery -- can be found at the back, or northern end, of the market.

Although the licenses of the ubiquitous, wicker basket-carrying coolies patrolling the grounds attest to the continued existence of Sir Stuart Hogg Market, their place of work has been widely known as New Market for decades. Be not leery of their services; many have been working the market for decades and can lead you to the finest Kalimpong cheese or Kashmiri shawl at the best price in no time, and since they are paid a commission from the seller with every purchase, they expect no more than a nominal gratuity.

Finally, the market has matured beyond its original structure and purpose. Tentacles reaching into nearby alleys and side streets have transformed the surrounding seven or eight blocks into a single, slapdash shopping district. One block east on Mirza Ghalib, for instance, is a row of music shops. Record Prince offers the latest Western and Hindi CD's and an eclectic collection of old 45's; a quick flip-thru turned up Judy Garland, Charley Pride, and the Bay City Rollers.

After dusk, most of the interior shops close and New Market becomes a lively outdoor gathering place, with tea stalls and snack shops crowded with munching, chatting patrons and well-manned area shops staying open and brightly lit til late. The Chaplin Theatre in the northeast corner occasionally shows plays or performances, and numerous cinemas, restaurants and bars just north do a brisk business in the evening.

SPOTLIGHT: For the strong of stomach, a stroll through the Gothic masterpiece of a meat market that divides the New Market building into east and west wings is essential, and a powerful sensory experience. Less a place to buy meat -- although that is still an option -- than to absorb the glory of gore, the space seems to have dropped in from a previous, more forbidding century. The aroma of fresh animal viscera smacks the nostrils upon leaving behind the market stalls for the slaughterhouse. Cleavers crack through bone and meet tenderized tree stump with a thud as chicken-feathered blood runs wine dark thru small canals edging the butchering floors. A smiling Bengali jabs his arm elbow-deep into the body of an upside down-hanging goat, bobbing feverishly to separate furry skin from flesh and bone while nearby his colleague peddles two-gallon tubs of cream-colored animal fat. Overhead, dozens of cawing blackbirds perch on crisscrossed, cobwebbed ropes and wires, hedging hopefully towards freshly skinned shanks of pink meat. Hazy fingers of light streaking through shattered windows and vents bearing a century's worth of dust complete the Grand Guignol aura, as well as the eloquent argument for vegetarianism.

Liberation from the Inside Out

The inaugural International Film Festival of Kashmir unspooled at Tagore Hall this past weekend. Screening more than a dozen features, documentaries, and shorts from a handful of countries over three days, the Experimental Moving Image and Theatre Association (XMITA) event was a godsend for local cinephiles and an opportunity for one and all to experience varied and valuable points of view.

Despite a turnout hamstrung by the weekend's political rallies and traffic jams and several technical glitches that marred early screenings, the mood was upbeat.

"This is just the first one," said festival organizer Aarshad Mushtaq, a local filmmaker and theatre director. "We plan to do this if every year, and hopefully each one will be bigger and better than the last."

Many of the films commented directly or indirectly on the conflict in Kashmir. Temporary Loss of Consciousness, a short by Monica Bhasin, analyzed the legacy of Partition, while Anand Patwardhan's two-part Father, Son, and Holy War dissected communalism through the efforts of India's majority Hindu community to launch a baby boom as a means to overwhelm Indian Muslims. Paradise on a River of Hell, by Abir Bazaz and Meenu Gaur, shined a light on the havoc and destruction wrought by the violent struggle in Kashmir.

Amidst the rabble, one gem gleamed: Amandla, a feature-length documentary from Lee Hirsch. The sleek, professionally-made film reveals how Black South Africans used enduring traditions of music and dance as primary tools in their decades-long struggle for freedom. In doing so, the film celebrates the indomitable nature of the human spirit and highlights an ingenious undermining of an oppressive regime.

Apartheid, the social and political system in which an elected white Afrikaaner government segregated and treated as inferior black South Africans, began officially in 1948. A charismatic black leader named Vuyisile Mini emerged soon after: political figure, actor, poet, composer and singer, he spread the message of the freedom movement through song. His most lasting tune was "Look out, Verwoerd," which warned Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd, known as the "architect of Apartheid" and South African Prime Minister from 1958 to his assassination in 1966, that the blacks were coming to get him.

Buoyed by an endemic song-and-dance culture, Mini sparked a trend that came to define the black South African movement. Starting in the mid-70's, Radio Freedom, the propaganda wing of the pro-black freedom African National Conference, brought the songs, ideas, and energies of the movement to a large and hungry audience, even as its propagators courted arrest. As the years passed and the suffering deepened not a rally, protest march, funeral, or public gathering of any sort would pass without group singing of freedom songs old and new.

"I want to join your revolution!" renowned American jazz musician Dizzy Gillespie is said to have admitted to one of the better-known South African musicians in the 1960's. "Everybody's always singing and dancing."

This movement expressed in song succeeded mainly for two reasons. Firstly, group song and dance is inherently appealing, with pleasing rhythms and smiling faces, and was thus allowed and even supported by the authorities. Second, the songs were written and sung in a language -- predominantly Zulu -- unfamiliar to the oppressors, and thus went unnoticed for years. Celebrating life as it denounced oppression, the music encapsulated a quest for freedom even as it freed a people.

"It wasn't liberation music," explains Abdullah Ibrahim, a musician, composer and activist forced into exile for almost 30 years. "It was a part of liberating ourselves."

In the last couple decades Kashmiris have failed to do the same. Admittedly, Kashmiris are not a people that breaks into song or dance at the drop of a hat, but Kashmiri history does include cultural touchstones capable of serving a similar purpose.

Sufiana is the most analogous musical form, mournful and spiritual; Kashmiris have embraced its soothing tones for centuries. It also represents a form relatively unfamiliar to our oppressors.
An even better alternative might be bhand pather, a respected yet slowly dying dramatic art. Alternatively comic and pathos-filled, pather is perfectly tailored for expressing, exagerrating, and satirizing oppression, and in fact many of the traditional tales make light of or point up Kashmiri suffering at the hands of various historical tormentors. This artform could undoubtedly have been dusted off and polished for a new era, used in the service of a new and more intense struggle. Instead, the most outspoken of Kashmiris embraced victimhood, and when independence seemed nigh, turned to violence.

[Black South Africans also took up the gun, in the 1980's, and experienced the most violent period of their struggle as a result. But as an underground movement it was never widely embraced. Also, no "friendly" neighbor offered a helping hand.]

The road to freedom has been a long, torturous and winding one for Kashmiris, but it seems the long-suffering people of the Valley have finally set aside the gun. On top of a considerable decline in violence and militancy of late, recent signs suggest Kashmiris are beginning to liberate themselves, as Mr. Ibrahim put it. Plays about disappearances and fake encounter killings have been well-received, a major screening of a lively pro-people film drew an animated crowd, and a Kashmiri-authored graphic novel about militancy has put the plight of Kashmiris in a vibrant and easily-digestable form.

Could it be too little too late? It's never too late to end needless self-destruction, but maybe Kashmiris have grown too comfortable with their sorrow.

"When we left the gravesites after a funeral we didn't weep," a South African freedom fighter says in the film. "We sang, because if you mourn for too long you start to lose hope."

Kashmiris have made mourning and victimhood a defining trait, thus rendering legitimate liberation anti-thetical to their way of life. Let's hope recent developments herald the birth of a new movement, one that finally brings true Amandla (power) to the people of Kashmir.

Into the Woods

Dachigam National Park sits nestled among Kashmir's Zhabarwan hills some 20 kms southeast of Srinagar. Famous for its hangul, the indigenous and endangered Kashmiri stag, the mountainous 141 sq. km. wildlife park also boasts himalayan langurs, black and brown bears, leopards, jackals, foxes, weasels, and marmots as well as an astounding variety of bird life, including babblers, redstarts, wagtails, flycatchers, wallcreepers, griffons, and tits.

For one April afternoon it also provided pleasant yet forbidding shelter to five bumbling conquistadors.

It all began in mid-March, when soon after the late winter snows melted my good man M. Farooq Shah proposed a little field trip.

"David, my dear, how would you like a nice spring visit to Kashmir's famous and very lovely Dachigam Park?" he asked with a winning smile.

I would like very much, but since Dachigam visitors require an officially-approved permit I spent the following month prodding him to make arrangements. The old enthusiasm shriveled.

"What's the status on Dachigam passes, Farooq?" I asked in late March.

"How many people should be we bring?" he asked in return. "Big group or small?"

"Doesn't matter to me," I told him, noticing the bright sun shining high in a clear blue sky. "Let's just go."

I asked again in the first week of April.

"How are we going to get there?" he shot back.

"I don't know," I said. "My bike, a bus, a SUMO; who cares, let's just go."

A couple weeks later he blithely ignored my waning interest.

"Dave," he served up in his sing-song, "I really think we should bring food for a picnic."

"Sounds great, Farooq," I responded dully. "Let's do it."

And then like a bolt of lightning the date was set, along with the crew. Your courageous adventurers were Noor - a chipper, middle-aged school principal, Mushtaq -- a kind, restrained restaurateur and businessman; Abrar - a young, laconic photographer, and sometime lackey of; Farooq -- renaissance man, leader-ever-in-training, and rebel; and Your Correspondent - intrepid foreigner. Abrar, Noor, and I had never visited the park, while Mushtaq hadn't been since he was a kid. Farooq was the seasoned vet.

On the appointed late April morning we gathered and tucked into a cup of tea.

"What do you think we'll see?" I asked Farooq, envisioning leopards and bears, even a glimpse of the shy hangul.

“Maybe everything, perhaps nothing,” he chirped confidently, eyebrows raised. "Let's just let nature take her course."

After securing our lunch in the trunk, five grinning, giddy explorers squeezed into Mushtaq's sub-compact and set off for adventure. At the front gate Farooq hopped out to show our permits to park officials as Mushtaq parked nearby and we hauled out the supplies.

"Hold on," said the comfortably seated security guard, raising his hand then pointing towards our bags of food as somewhere a gramophone pin scratched its way across an old '45. "What's this?"

"This is our lunch," Mushtaq replied.

"No, no," he told us. Standing next to him, an astute assistant frowned and shook his head. "No food or drink allowed."

We marched back to the car, popped the trunk, and shifted the food and drink from the plastic bags to our shoulder sacks, then strolled back through the gate and past the guards. A little semi-obvious deception appeared to satisfy all parties, and we entered at half noon.

Dachigam Park has been a protected area since 1910, first under the Maharaja and later under the state government. Initially created to ensure clean drinking water for the summer capital, Dachigam was not officially declared a national park until 1981.

As we enter the grounds over a quarter century later sun streaks through sheltering chinars, green mountains looming in the distance. White butterflies flutter by. In the front yard of the Woodland School just inside the park gates, a few dozen white and blue-uniformed girls sing in harmony with the rushing waters of the Dagwan River a few meters away. Wild cherry, peach, and apricot trees line its path as it wends from Marsar Lake in the park’s 14,000-ft high upper reaches towards the lower valleys. We cross a bridge over the rapids and hit the trail as fresh mountain air fills our lungs.

Within minutes we come upon the Animal Rescue Center and turn in to find three leopards lolling about in the mid-day sun. The largest and oldest emits a near-growl purr as we scratch the back of his head and neck through a chain-link fence. He rolls slowly over and sits up to face us. From a foot away I stare into the big cat’s shimmering gray eyes.

"Beautiful," says Mushtaq. "Just a beautiful beast."

Back on the trail we soon fall into a groove, around curves and over hills of dense green, making our way deep into the reserve. Now and then Abrar and I stop to snap pics of rapids, bridges, and the odd flower. Mushtaq, Farooq, and Noor chat amiably as they amble. I pick up a walking stick. Suffused with enthusiastic contentment laced lightly with guilt about duties left undone, we are boys playing hookey, and on a day custom-made for a leisurely stroll in a quiet wood. Indeed, after the Rescue Center we see no living thing bigger than finger-length lizards.

Recent Dachigam visitors complain regularly of a noticeable lack of wildlife, particularly hangul. Part of the blame can be put on Dogra rulers who used the park as their private hunting grounds throughout the first half of the century. But the lawlessness engendered by the conflict has nurtured illegal timber smuggling, wetland encroachment, and administrative neglect, significantly reducing wildlife habitat. Last week J&K Forest and Environment Minister Qazi Muhammad Afzal acknowledged that the state's hangul population was dwindling as a result of illegal hunting, and that other large mammals may also be at risk. Indeed, in the last few decades locals and even militants have taken to killing leopards, bears, stag and other big game for poaching purposes, but also for sustenance.

"Let's find a place to eat," suggests Farooq. We have paused in a dense thicket, with shards of sunlight fingering through thick branches over a grassy path.

A few hundred meters further I find a cozy spot along a burbling stream, with water for washing and large stones for sitting.

"No good," says Mushtaq. "We need a deck, to see the mountains, the park."

On we stroll, and after another luckless twenty minutes our moaning stomachs force us to park in the middle of the path and break out the briyani, rista, and roti. Soon sated, we clean up and resume the assault.

"Farooq is feeling good," he announces to noone in particular as he clambers to his feet. With stout walking stick in hand he assumes the lead, taking us deeper and deeper into the uncharted undergrowth of an overgrown Dachigam. Without warning the path peters out.

"We're lost, Farooq," I say.

"No, w'ere not," he replies. "Over here."

He tears through some thick, prickly bushes and climbs to the top of a small rise from which we can see the river. It's rushing loudly some two hundred metres below, over and around great gray rocks, its edges lined with poplar. In between us and the river looms an impenetrable wall of crisscrossed jungle fastness. Across the way a rust-colored hill rises sharply. Mid-way up, perhaps some two kilometers distant, a thin band of khaki snakes through the reddish brown.

"There's a road over there," Farooq says, gesturing vaguely.

"That one way up there, by the army post?" I ask, incredulous.

"No-oo," he responds with his classic two-syllable negation. "It's down there, just on the other side of the river."

"I don't see anything," I say, squinting.

The two of us look at each other and I get to thinking. This journey is fast becoming Conradian, an illogical quest to the heart of nothingness, or a race to nowhere, in which giving up means dishonorable defeat. And I'm not sure Farooq is the right man for pulling this motley bunch together and leading us back to civilization.

I take a deep breath and put my hand on his shoulder to keep him from heading down the path to our right.

"OK Farooq," I say, looking meaningfully into his eyes, "we wait here for the others and then take a vote."

"A whaa?" he responds, insulted. "I know there's a road right on the other side of this river."

He stomps away down the hill just as Mushtaq and Abrar catch up to me.

"So?" asks Mushtaq, catching his breath. "What now?"

"Farooq thinks there's a road over there, wants to keep going," I tell him. "I say we vote."

"Yeah, we should," he says. "It's getting late."

"One problem," I tell him, turning towards Farooq's fast-receding figure, "he's already gone ahead."

And so we follow, around looming hazards of tenacious, prickly branches, over and under fallen trees, through muck and marshes, and past several used firepits and a tranquil grove of wild orange blossoms. Around 4 p.m. I begin to wonder if there is a point of no return, and whether we have passed it, and if leopards pounce from trees. Ever positive, Mushtaq breaks up the plodding with tales from his youth.

"One time we were on boats in the Dal, and we had chosen this one guy as team leader for our group of rowers," he says, turning back to face me and stepping over a gnarled elm root. "Well, he didn't really know what he was doing so half the boat was rowing correctly and half of us weren't. So we just kept going round and round."

He laughs, and so do I. But then I realize that such circular movement wouldn't be so bad in our situation.

"Not a very good team leader," I say, grinning. "Let's hope Farooq is equally inept."

Finally as we approach yet another dirt rise with the river on our left, he comes around the bend in front of us, heading back our way.

"It's no good," Farooq says, resigned yet decisive. "The hill is too steep up ahead."

And just like that, more than three hours' walk into Dachigam, we turn the boat around. Amazingly, there are no moans and groans, just a quick time check and a sudden, determined focus on the task at hand -- getting out of the park before darkfall. The group walks steadily and remains mostly silent.

About an hour later I'm leading the retreat with long strides when I come upon two large trucks -- one a light blue animal release vehicle of the game department. About 20 mostly young men, a couple with video cameras shooting at a densely forested hillside, are milling about, chatting, and squinting in the direction of the hill.

I stroll into their midst.

"Hello," I say. "What's going on?"

In a single body the group turns to behold what must seem a strange beast: An English-speaking and white-skinned young man, unshaven and wearing patched-up jeans with a bright red bandanna wrapped around his head. He is brandishing a dead branch and strolling alone through the jungles of Dachigam as evening descends.

A 40-ish man dressed in silvery gray from shoes to cap bursts towards me, blue-green eyes shooting fire.

"Who are you!" he demands with grand melodrama. "What are you doing here!"

"My name's David," I respond. "I'm just walking around in the park."

"Where is your permit? Give me your permit!" he shouts, apparently certain I'm hiding three Kalashnikovs and a grenade under my t-shirt. "What are you doing in this section of the park!"

"I don't have it, my friend does." I tell him. "There are five of us."

"Five of you!" He is fuming yet strangely satisfied, perhaps wondering with whom we are in league and what sort of promotion he can expect for capturing foreign conspirators red-handed. "But how did you, what are you all...I need to see those permits!"

"Why are you yelling?" I ask. "And what are all you guys doing here? What is this?"

"Bears," I hear somebody say.

"What, you saw bears?" I blurt out, instinctively moving towards the hill and trying to follow the camera lenses.

"Right over there," a cameraman whispers to me, pointing to 11 o'clock.

"I'm still speaking to you!" the warden shouts. He is seething but begins to accept that his display has failed to put the fear of god into his subject.

"Where, where?" I ask of the bears in low tones.

Noor comes down the path behind me, followed soon after by the three others.

"Hey!" I shout, spying a couple bears moving up the hillside. "I see them -- there they are! A big one and a little one! Over there!"

A few of the men nearby laugh at my enthusiasm. I shrug.

The warden's assistant snatches the permit papers from Farooq and delivers them unto his master as another assistant conveys to me the gravity of the situation.

"You shouldn't be in this section of the park."

"Why?" I ask.

"Dangerous," he responds, nodding gravely. "There are bears and leopards, even militants."

With his minions gathered round, the warden examines the paper as if it contained a new key to the Rosetta Stone: bringing it close to his face, flipping it over once, twice and looking closely for clues or suspicious markings of any kind.

Mushtaq steps forward.

"Nobody told us not to come into this area," he explains to the warden. "There were no guides at the entrance or anything, we just walked in and nobody stopped us."

"Nobody told us this area was off-limits," I echo.

Realizing his dreams of the great catch and ensuing renown had vanished, the warden attempts to regain some authority.

"You have a foreigner with you," he tells Mushtaq sternly in Kashmiri. "You have to be careful and be aware of the situation. This area is not safe; there are many possible dangers here."

"Ok, yes Sir, we are sorry, Sir," says Farooq, "But we were never told."

"Well now you know," the warden says, putting a point on it.

The warden and his men get in their four very roomy SUV's and drive off, leaving us five neophyte explorers standing by the side of the trail without food, drink, weapon or compass in this very dangerous area of the park as the sun nears the horizon.

Yet as we resume our walk laughter consumes us as we recount the red-faced warden and his bumbling crew. My ostensible friends gleefully rehash my wild reaction at having seen bears "in the wild." Turns out our tormentors had released the mother and her cub into the wild just two minutes before I happened upon the scene. The last hour of walking passes in a flash.

After petting a caged, limping black bear and picking up a few kg’s of trout from the in-house fish farm we arrive, staggering, at the park entrance shortly after half six. The Kashmiri word Dachigam means ten villages, but by the time our weary gang settles into the car we feel as if we had crossed untold thousands of hills and vales. Mushtaq and Farooq estimate we have walked some 25kms on demanding terrain, and our legs are feeling every inch of the adventure.

A weary, contemplative silence reigns as we descend and edge around Dal en route to Srinagar. The place undoubtedly presented a pristine, natural beauty, but its failings were many. All of the large animals we encountered were either in cages or very recently in captivity, most less than completely healthy. All of the park employees with whom we interacted were unpleasant and uncertain of park rules and regulations. They hindered our enjoyment of one of Kashmir's most renowned public wildlife areas and generally made us feel unwelcome.

As we near the Boulevard, Farooq asks Mushtaq what he thought of the experience.

"I don't have the words for it right now," he says after a pause. "I will need to consider it for a while."