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We left Bombay on one of those trains you see on tv. Guys hanging off the sides, people sitting on the roof.

We were travelling third class, the cheapest form of rail transit in India.

Everyone in our class was packed into passenger cars with wooden bench seats which were quickly occupied by mothers with their children and a young Sikh military officer, off duty, to whom a crowd of young men passed a strong looking metal trunk through the open window.

He had been smart, boarded the train, ruthlessly knocking old women out of his way, without his luggage, secured a window seat.

The rest of us defended what little space there was near us and stood our ground through the swaying departure.

Joyce found a piece of floor near our backpacks where she could sit.

There was no point in talking. We were in for twenty straight hours, travelling third class from Bombay to Goa.

I stood leaning against a window, bending over to watch the endless slums roll by as we left the city.


A pair of Australian women began complaining as we entered the countryside. The difference stood out between the pampered Aussies and the stoic Indian mothers who sat on the floor for hours without uttering a bad tempered peep.

The whining grated on my nerves.

Chai wallahs appeared at the windows on the platforms of every stop along the way. You passed the money out, they passed the chai or sweets or Fantas, in.

The Aussies loved the distraction, but their greed showed. They bought more of everything than they needed, shared it only with each other.

They could not sit still and nothing was good enough.

We somehow slumbered a little that night.

I found myself standing at the window again as the morning appeared. Water buffalo looked up from wet paddies as the train sped by.

“Hello, how are you? Where you from? I am a salesman from Bombay”

I looked up to see a chubby, sweating Indian in a wrinkled suit and tie.

He was smiling at me.

When I told him I was from Canada, he laughed loudly. Leaning close, he waggled his forefinger in front of my nose.

“Never trust an Indian”He winked, proceeded to outline the steps the Indian government had taken to obtain a nuclear reactor from Canada, all the while swearing it was for peaceful reasons, then produced a nuclear weapon from it. It was vague to me, I had heard of it, it had happened, but it was vague.


I didn’t think it as hilarious as my Indian friend did. I felt embarrassed when he called Indians untrustworthy and thought, to myself, that I had about as much to do with the government of Canada as he did with the government of India.

He talked with his hands, demonstrating telling signs of the naivete of Canadians and Westerners in general. He used comical facial expressions to emphasize slyness and brilliance.

We chatted till he got bored and moved on.

The vegetation grew lusher as we travelled toward the equator.

The Aussies had been reduced to tears, then exhaustion.

I was just glad they shut up.

Joyce imitated the longsuffering Indian women.

We didn’t find out till we were installed in a farm house, with a family, near the beach, that Goa was a European vacation spot.

Famous celebrities from the West, rock stars, film stars, those in the know in Europe, with the means to travel to India for a one or two week stay, populated the seaside town during the European winter.

I soon became addicted to the bean baji they made at the little restaurant in the main square where the buses stopped.

The square was a leisurely stroll down the beach and dirt road from the farm.

The Aussie couple who arrived in one of the local buses had “gone native”.

They introduced themselves to us in the restaurant. She was the chai wallah and he was the chapati wallah.

They explained that they had left home two years before and as far as they could tell, from the letters they kept receiving, their families were on the verge of hysteria.


They were supposed to like India and travelling, but enough was enough. They weren’t expected to like it this much. They wondered if a family member would come over from Australia to try to find them in the teeming masses of India and take them back.

At the moment, they were perfectly happy in India.

They dressed like Indians and spoke to Indians in their own language. They liked the pace of life, the people, the country, the craziness.

The guy pronounced “Boom shanka” in an experienced manner when someone shared a pipe of Manali hash.

Goa had been a Portuguese colony until the 60s so they didn’t approve of dope smoking. There were less beggars there than in the rest of India and the locals still retained some Christian traditions like church and drinking scotch.

Goan cops didn’t allow nude sunbathing. They took their time, walked slowly down the beach, looked carefully before telling German and Scandinavian girls to put their clothes back on.

The “Boom shanka” was part of a religion which included sharing pipes of hash.

We had seen, in the train station in Bombay, an Indian all dressed in red, red robe, red in his long hair, red paint on his face, sharing a pipe with a blond Westerner with thick dreadlocks down to his waist.

They went through the boom shanka chants and held the smoking pipe up in front of them, as if offering it, before they smoked.

The barefoot Indian looked fearsome, wild eyes, many necklaces of nuts and baubles, carrying a red trident. They said he was a worshipper of Kali, the goddess of destruction.


The family matriarch, the grandmother of the family, questioned us one day. She gave Joyce a pitiful glance when she found out that we had  no children.

I had to admit that no, neither my grandmother nor my mother owned her own sambas.

The grandmother was proud of her palm sambas.

We lived among them. They were large plots of land like farmers’ fields full of tall palms bordering the beach.

They produced enough wealth to keep the family independent.

Women bent double in adjacent rice sambas for twelve hours, two dollars per day.

Other women, those working for the grandmother, carried huge piles of palm branches to the walled in yard at the farmhouse. The branches were trimmed for firewood.

The women, barefoot, casually killed the large rats which scurried from beneath the branches where they had their nests..

They were in a concrete trap and every one was killed. Those that weren’t crushed by the ends of branches wielded by the laughing women, were slapped sharply on the ground by the tail.

When bullfrogs are hunted for frog’s legs, the same killing slap is used on the water.

We wandered over mud paths atop the dikes which bordered the sambas by the white beach of the Arabian Sea. The wind rattled the palms and bent each stalk of rice.

Spots of bright colour in the distance pinpointed  women’s blouses. Luminescent blue and green birds darted through the dappled sunlight.

For people used to traditional North American fare at Christmas, the shark steak dinner at the seaside restaurant was different.

The cruel realities of the sea were displayed along the beach where we walked every day.

Piles of sunfish lay rotting in the sun beside dead sea serpents, many poisonous.


One of the indelicate but necessary realities of travelling in Asia is checking your shit.

Yes, it’s unpleasant, but a tendency toward diarrhea, called “loose movement” by the grandmother, is a good indicator of illness.

Travelling with a woman was much better than travelling with another guy or alone. The advantages were innumerable.

Women related to women in the kitchen, food preparation was a common part of their lives. There were a lot of things which an Asian woman could never say to a Western man but which she could share with a Western woman.

Joyce was learning to bake something from the women of the house just as we were leaving.

It tasted good when we ate it for supper, but they left it out all night and I got the runs from eating more of it in the morning.

We had to be very careful about cooking utensils in Goa because, as the women demonstrated, anything left out in the kitchen is an object to be examined and crawled over by the same giant cockroaches which hung around the toilet.

The toilet was even scarier than the kitchen. When you crouched to defecate into the darkness below the little room beside the kitchen, the giant barnyard sow in the back yard could be heard grunting and trying to climb the concrete chute below you, to meet your turds halfway.

When I started squirting brown juice, I couldn’t stand the sounds emanating from the depths of the toilet. I visualized a fat septic tank with teats waiting for my diarrhea. I found a place in the bush where I squatted, wishing for the cool Himalayas.

The monsoon season was approaching, it was time to head north before the world was submerged.


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Not Think


We escaped the desperate hordes of Bangkok to the small island of Ko Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. Its main industry was the export of copra from the millions of coconut trees on plantations. The labourers earned a dollar and a half American per day. There was a little tourism, a little fishing, a lot of houses with self contained environments. Each house had pigs, chickens, water buffaloes and a garden.

There were free coconuts: pineapples and bananas cost pennies. We headed across the island to a village called Tongkien where you could sleep for free under a bamboo canopy in front of a restaurant. You ate whatever the fishermen came up with that day. A few kilometres away was Lamlamai, the beach.

It had pure, white sand, warm, light blue, translucent water. In the sun it was almost too bright to look at. There were sand dunes between the sea and the coconut trees. The Thai sun baked everything in vibrating shimmers, the sea breeze blew.


The only people who didn’t seem to be affected by the blazing sun were the fishermen who stalked invisible prey with their coolers, Chinese hats and wet sarongs. They stood still, waded in the shallows with their nets, looked like outgrowths of the shore.

The Thais appeared out of nowhere, two of them, sat beside us in the sand. The sun, breeze and salt water dehydration drove us up into the trees to sit in the shade and drink coconut milk

Sante, “peace” in Thai, and Anothai, hacked some coconuts open, we all drank. Joyce liked the mature yellow coconuts, I preferred the yellowish brown ones, older. Some people liked the young, green coconuts, no one ate the old, brown ones.

Anothai, tall, well developed above the waist, skinny below, challenged me as we sat. He was dark skinned, full of energy, knew English because he worked for the Americans who were stationed there.

I was forced to respond to his pushing me, using me for a Thai boxing punching bag. The kids in Thailand knew Thai boxing like Canadian kids knew hockey. It was their national sport, on tv all the time. He flopped out some lazy jabs, then surprised me with combinations of whirling knee kicks and high kicks. Most of them landed on my shoulders and upper arms.

My rudimentary karate training bluffed Anothai into giving up after a long sparring session. Sante and Joyce watched with forced smiles until we mutually backed off. I made sure our hatchet was in plain view in our pack when Anothai flourished his curved coconut knife.

Sante said that he was educated in Bangkok, taught school on Ko Samui, but decided to give it all up and grow coconuts instead.

We sat in the sand facing the beach, comfortable in the shade and the breeze. Sante and I talked of education, work, money, our respective countries, considered religion and meditation.

Sante exclaimed

“Ah, not think!”


He demonstrated by sitting up straight, looking ahead with eyes closed, pointing with his index finger from the middle of his forehead to the horizon. He wore an intense expression of concentration and made no sound until he was finished.

He said that meditation was taken for granted in Asia, everyone knew how to meditate. It was simply the emptying of the mind, the absence of thought.

We slept under the canopy of the restaurant that night, returned to the ferry dock in the morning.    Anothai was after our money, Sante tried to cadge whiskey. We bought coconut palm bongs from them, went back to the ferry dock.

A man on a neighbouring island grew powerful ganja, the Ko Samui crop was rough, less powerful, plentiful, cheap.

Two brothers, trying to escape the heroin addictions which they had picked up in Bangkok, stayed at the same hotel. They were from New York City, wired to China White and oriental women. Both swore they would take an oriental woman over a westerner any time. They apologized to Joyce, told me of the wonders of living with a Thai girl.

They knew that they had to get out as soon as possible. They knew that they would inevitably be statistics on the list of heroin casualties if they didn’t. They smoked a lot of local weed to help them get through their withdrawals.

We rested, let the tension of Bangkok drain away. We walked down long, white beaches radiated by the sun. The salt water and wind sucked the moisture from us beneath the blazing sun. We drank soft drinks constantly.

Heavy punching bags tied to trees in back yards and farm yards were used for punching and kicking practice.


The whole country was filled with Buddhist monks who survived on what the population gave them every day.

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Devil’s Bargain

Devil’s Bargain

Steve Bannon, Donald Trump and the Storming of the Presidency

Joshua Green

Penguin Press, New York 2017

272 pp. US $27.00 Canada $36.00

Joshua Green is a senior correspondent for Bloomberg Businessweek and Bloomberg News. He has been a senior editor of the Atlantic and an editor at the Washington Monthly and has written for the New Yorker, Esquire, Rolling Stone and other publications.

Devil’s Bargain is a biography of Steve Bannon along with his connection to Donald Trump and their combined victory in the American presidential election.

Bannon was born into a blue-collar, Irish-Catholic family in 1953 in Norfolk, Virginia. He was educated in a Catholic influenced high school and, in the words of a classmate, “We were all taught that Western civilization was saved five hundred years ago in Spain when Ferdinand and Isabella defeated the Moors. The lesson was, here’s where Muslims could have taken over the world. And here’s where they were stopped…. When we were growing up, the threat was the atheist, communist Soviet Union… Now Muslims are trying to blow us up.”

There is a tendency to dismiss Bannon’s importance because of Trump, but when you take a step back you realize that this guy did all these things: graduated from Harvard Business School after seven years in the navy, worked at Goldman Sachs for years, went to Hollywood, eventually produced movies, worked in Hong Kong and was appointed with KellyAnn Conway and David Bossie to head the 2016 presidential campaign of Donald Trump. If nothing else, Steve Bannon was a driven, combative, special person.

Bannon was working on the deck of the Paul F. Foster when the ship she was following launched the helicopters of Jimmy Carter’s disastrous attempt to rescue the American hostages from Teheran in 1980. Bannon’s hatred of losing was magnified by America’s pathetic response.

Many years later, the attack on the twin towers, in an area where he worked, confirmed to Bannon that he was right: the Muslims were attacking America. The racism that Bannon is accused of harboring and which he denies but tolerates, (“Over time it all gets kind of washed out”) is like the use of the ‘Bad Guy’ image to draw attention to one’s self to accomplish an end. They are distasteful but useful props in any theatre, especially the political one.

When Steve Bannon graduated from Harvard Business School, he got a job by a fluke and succeeded in Goldman Sachs. He avoided the excesses of the eighties and went to Hollywood with another ex Goldman Sachs employee where he set up a company and got rich. When he met Andrew Breitbart, Bannon recognized his genius and followed him like a disciple. He taught Bannon about catching and keeping online audiences and the media outlets that they use. When Breitbart died suddenly at the age of forty-three, Bannon stepped in as executive chairman of Breitbart News.

An example of his good fortune in Hollywood was that a residual he was forced to take in order to make a deal was an unknown comedy named Seinfeld.

In Hong Kong he discovered a world of young, intense, male (mostly) underground gamers which he valued and would use in his online media business.

When Breitbart attacked Acorn and was humiliated by the revelation of its unfair, wrong reporting, Bannon says he experienced “nuclear winter”. When they exposed Anthony Weiner’s online genitalia a year later, he was a right wing media darling again.

Donald Trump was chosen by Bannon instead of the other way around. His boldness and outspoken, rebellious nature were right up Bannon’s alley. Trump’s talk of the wall, which had drawn a visceral response from his audience, was encouraged by Bannon and the powers that be to make sure the candidate talked about immigration. Trump retweeted some of Breitbart’s more outrageous articles and his underdog image was exactly what Bannon liked.

Bannon was responsible for Breitbart’s emphasis on Isis, race riots, what he called, “the collapse of traditional values”, and, of course, Hillary Clinton.

Bannon said “Our vision – Andrew’s vision – was to build a global, center-right, populist, anti-establishment news site.” It describes Trump’s attitude perfectly.

Steve Bannon agreed with Ben Shapiro’s description of his style, “Truth and veracity weren’t his top priority…Narrative truth was his priority rather than factual truth.” Ben Shapiro was a Breitbart writer who quit over differences with Bannon.

When Bannon started to become more popular than Donald Trump, when he became known as the power behind the throne, he was fired.

As long as Donald Trump continues to govern the USA as if it’s a company and its citizens are his customers and Steve Bannon keeps up his holy war’s shock and awe attacks, it’s impossible to conclude that the story of these two men ends here.

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