Britain 2012: Land of Hope and Eccentricity?

Posted on August 1, 2012 by

It’s not often I get to post about the Olympics, the British Ambassador to Washington, and my favourite nonsense spy fest, Burn Notice, in one fell swoop, but that’s this week’s task.

In a strange turn of events all three recently appeared on US cable within a couple of days of each other, and all provided an unusually candid glimpse of what makes modern Britain tick.

If the opening ceremony of the Olympics can be used as a bell-weather, it would seem this involves attention to detail, understated confidence, satisfaction in a job well done, tolerance and liberal values, multiculturalism, self-deprecation and humour, a lot of catchy music, and a significant dose of quirkiness.

The Olympics is proving something of a hit back home. I’ve heard nothing but praise from friends and relatives, the country’s collection of often cynical newspapers have been almost universally gushing about the proceedings, and even the most jaded of Londoners looks to be getting into the Olympiad swing of things, enjoying the games alongside the unusually good weather.

Will it prove to be a home run? Well, for the most part, it would so far seem not. Certainly the press on the other side of the pond is being pretty forgiving. One of the major channels is offering a daily guide to the country’s idiosyncratic language, while a high-profile paper went so far as to provide a guide to the cultural references and in-jokes of the opening ceremony.

That said, as Sir Peter Westmacott (could he have a more British foreign office name?!), HM’s Ambassador to Washington pointed out during a spot on The Colbert Report, the two countries have that ‘special relationship’. By dint of this, it would surely be pretty unsporting for America to criticise its most solid ally.

In many respects, Sir Peter epitomises modern Britain. The country’s days of glory and global power have long receded, but it continues to forge a respectable, intelligent, self-confident presence on the world stage.

Pressing the boundaries of career civil service, the relatively new Ambassador is proving a savvy political operator in DC, and has shown an unusual willingness to embrace the media with an array of interesting media appearances, as well as regular blog spots on the Huffington Post, and well-placed interviews in top-notch papers.

He held his own well against Stephen Colbert and his narcissistic, right-wing, cunningly intelligent comedic creation. Westmacott was professional, personable, engaging and engaged, and reflected in his devilishly dashing socks, quirky. But what the Brits may view fondly as quirky, I’ve come to realise others see as eccentric.

Frankly it’s almost impossible to avoid this aspect of the British character, and it’s this ‘quirkiness’ that perhaps came across most strongly in the Olympics opening ceremony leading some foreign news commentators to describe it – fondly or otherwise – as ‘bizarre’, ‘bonkers’ and ‘random’.

As Burn Notice shows, this trait feeds easily into a tenuous plotline. Enter a stuffy British Embassy official into last week’s episode on a mission to outdo the CIA (really, just how plausible is that?) and bleed a confession out of plucky Fi just as she was about to get released from a high-security, dangerous-inmate-infested prison facility.

The official booted and suited in a three-piece suit, with pocket-handkerchief no less (seriously, in the heat of Miami?), sported a risible British accent, and came bearing a completely nonsensical IRA-related red herring to the episode’s storyline. My husband sat on the sofa laughing and shaking his head in disbelief at the character. He was a long way from the real thing, but sadly conformed nicely to the stereotype of a mildly eccentric, well-to-do, if not somewhat evil, British diplomat.

So, will the Olympics and figures like Westmacott do much to change the perception of Britain to outsiders, and with it, Burn Notice’s plot lines? I doubt it. They play to the country’s strengths, and eccentricity just happens to be one of those.

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Niagara: Little India?

Posted on July 16, 2012 by

Niagara Falls, major tourist spot, majestic natural wonder. Yes, but Little India? During our recent travels we headed up to the US border with Canada to take in ‘the Falls’. I’d been expecting a mini-Vegas, at the very least a grim barrage of souvenir emporiums lining our route to the spectacle itself. I’d also been warned that I’d see nothing from the American side, and that the almost-eight-hour journey door-to-door was only worth it if we crossed the border into Canada to see the famed Horseshoe Falls.

In the event, our brief wander through Niagara was pleasant. Yes, there were souvenir shops and concessions, but most housed in purpose-built local stone shops, which sat alongside some quirky old buildings, a nod to the period when the Falls was first ‘discovered’ and brought tourists of a different sort, seeking healing and enlightenment. The Falls themselves are part of a nicely landscaped national park on the US side, which further eases the transition from resort town to roaring waters. The park runs alongside the dramatic rapids that feed the American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls, which themselves can be seen better from a vast observation platform planted in the river that runs from the base of the Falls.

 

Adding to the list of surprises was the presence of Little India. This was felt immediately as we spied an Indian restaurant across from the car park. The presence magnified the further towards the Falls we approached, with one Indian concession after another. The lure of Jain and vegan was like some sort of utopia after a route of deja vu Arbys, Wendys, MacDonalds, and iHop. Instead we were offered the likes of Bollywood Bistro and a Taste of India, hardly original but why reinvent the wheel?

Ultimately we chose an Indian-sounding place, with a modern sign and row of fresh international flags fluttering outside its entryway. None of this belied the interior, which was a swift transition back to the sub-continent from the random job creation to the lay-out. At the base of an unnecessary carpeted ramp was a cross between a welcome podium and cash register, manned by two eager youths, one of South Asian origin, the other, who alternated between the podium and kitchen, indistinguishable in his birthplace.

If he was the chef, he was kick-ass. The food, which was laid out on self-service hot plates was incredible. It’s surprisingly hard to find decent South Asian food in North America. It’s not that it’s been bastardised like some other cuisines, it just simply doesn’t exist in most places. My husband will disappear to a formica-tabled concession in Virginia frequented by Pakistani-taxi drivers for his curry fix, but we’ve yet to find a Little India near DC.

We sat at a table wrapped in white paper, circled with obligatory South Asian chairs. Like the ubiquitous plastic bathing jug that inhabits most South Asian bathrooms, the region also seems to favour a specific type of chair. The restaurant served up a purple velour version, with spray gold legs and back, almost exactly the same model I’ve seen in countless conference facilities and hotel eateries in Pakistan. Adding to the authentic vibe was the restaurant’s odd layout. Tables, a bank of food sitting in the middle, and a strange ante-room beyond this, separated by an array of Bhutanese-styled prayer flags,

I assume this was the room to which one retires after a hearty meal, but it looked largely unused, situated as it was aside from the bathrooms. It contained pink upholstered chairs, an array of dolls in ethnic costume, and lengths of birds and animals so beloved by charitable foundations looking to promote local female artisanal skills and wage earning capabilities.

Finally, the background noise and entertainment was a widescreen with a racy Bollywood number playing. The screen was directly opposite the welcome/cash desk, and probably explained the regular presence of the possible chef as the two young men ogled their way through the evening interspersing their entertainment with customer service that included the ordering of canned sodas and various speciality breads.

It was an enjoyable dip back into one of our favourite regions, but I have yet to fathom why Niagara is home to quite so many South Asian eateries. Canada has a pretty large diaspora, so perhaps the lure of a glimpse of the US makes for an entertaining day trip, but not sufficiently alluring to try a burger and fries.

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Getting Derechoed

Posted on July 2, 2012 by

It’s not often a direct comparison presents itself between life in Pakistan and the US, but one very hot evening in late June offered one up.

Like Islamabad, the mercury had risen throughout the day in DC, nudging the low 40s by 4 o’clock. The heat was threatening to make the city a tinderbox: a disconcerting thought following the recent photos of Colorado’s wildfires.

A road on my nightly walk was closed as the fire department swiftly dealt with a burning tree. Acrid smoke filled the air, a firefighter dodging embers that fell about him as he aimed the hose’s nozzle high into the treetops.

It was an otherwise uneventful, quiet, heavy Friday evening, until 10.30. The sporadically dimming lights was the first red flag. The sky began to light up and then from behind the curtains came the sound of frenzied wind. Trees were violently shaken, a good proportion of which we’d discover the next day, lost limbs, were cleft in half, or simply uprooted. Several minutes of intense rainfall and then an eerie quiet. The upper levels of the house quickly became uncomfortably hot, the loss of power leaving the heat to seep in and stealthily envelop every room but the basement, where we’d subsequently take up residence for the next few days.

Power outages do strange things to the psyche. The extent of the storm’s – or more accurately the derecho’s – damage was evident once the sun came up. Initial reports revealed five killed in the region, houses and cars crushed, numerous power lines downed, a compromised water supply, branches everywhere. Nearby Virginia declared a state of emergency, queues swiftly formed at petrol stations, fears exacerbated by the fact that many weren’t operating due to a lack of power. Residents scoured the area for any outlet at which to charge their electrical essentials: perhaps the most inventive I saw was one anxious man and his iPhone in Target’s car park. For those of a less nervous disposition it became a time to kickback and take a break, head to Mall (notably the shops got their power restored shortly after the hospitals and emergency services) or laze by an outdoor pool.

It took a while to figure out what had happened. A derecho is essentially a tornado-like thunder-storm that moves in a straight line, and what a devastating straight line this particular one took: brewing in Chicago before sweeping through Ohio, Western Virginia, Virginia, Maryland, and DC. It took less than 12 hours, fuelled by a recent heat wave, which the storm apparently ‘ingested’ before violently sending hot air back down to earth in the form of downdrafts and high winds. Apparently derechos hit DC roughly every four years, but rarely to this extent, and certainly not with such loss of life and property.

So, what does this have to do with Islamabad? Extreme weather events aside, of which both cities suffer more than their fair share, it’s been an uneasy reminder of living life in the midst of large-scale power outages. Islamabad, like the rest of Pakistan, suffers major power outages. Successive governments have come to power pledging to address the situation, each so far failed. In parts of the country residents go without power for 22 hours of the day. Whether they are suffering the scorching heat of the summer or the miserable cold damp of the mercifully short winter, it’s an unrelenting problem.

For the lucky an array of noisy generators replace the grid, kicking in as soon as power is lost, with a noisy splutter and belch of petrol fumes. Others might have a smaller power source, enough to run a fan, which will tend to irritate the soupy air rather than cool it. A large proportion of the population have nothing, and instead endure months of discomfort, loss of employment (power outages have decimated industry), and little by way of distraction. For them, there is no Mall or outdoor pool. Routinely the busy evening markets, a hive of entertainment and activity once the heat of the day has passed, are forced to close early, themselves beset by outages.

DC has offered up a reminder, thankfully only a brief one, of what Pakistan endures on a daily basis. As the US moves to celebrate its Independence, its liberty, and world pre-eminence, it’s a surprise to find it so vulnerable, so quickly felled by a mixture of extreme weather and deficient infrastructure. This derecho has flagged up just how dependent we are on all our electrical gadgets (if a reminder was ever needed), and what happens when the lights literally go out.

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Keep On Strutting: the Wagah Border Ceremony

Posted on June 20, 2012 by

Borders should be awe-inspiring, impressive, frankly kick-ass. Given the distinctness of national identity, and often how fiercely a country’s inhabitants will seek to protect this, it seems only part of the natural order of things that a border should really do its work.

The view from Pakistan’s Khyber Pass to the valley floor that leads into Afghanistan is a spectacle. There is a great sense of permanence and the feeling that it is a scene that hasn’t changed in centuries. Swap the presence of flatbed trucks for camels or horses, and this is probably quite literally the case. This is what borders should be all about. Where there isn’t a natural wonder like a valley, mountain range, or water system creating a natural border, man has made his own. The Great Wall of China is perhaps the most obvious and impressive example, mirrored on a smaller scale by the likes of Hadrian’s Wall, which kept the ‘barbarians’ of the north out of the rest of Roman Britain, or more recently and proving just how controversial a border can be, the Berlin Wall.

Given the historic animosity between India and Pakistan, I’d expected an impressive border, something that clearly delineated one territory from the other. So, it was something of a let down to find that it’s just a field, at the time, planted with corn, across which a length of barbed wire is incongruously stretched.

The border at Wagah has the feel of being in the middle of nowhere. It sits somewhere in the flat, parched, brown lands between Pakistan’s beautiful city of Lahore, and India’s religious city of Amritsar, noteworthy for the magnificent Sikh Golden Temple.

What Wagah lacks in border presence it more than makes up for in ceremony. Daily, come rain or shine, hostility or no, border guards from both countries stage an elaborate flag-lowering spectacle. This involves some alarmingly John Cleese-esque marching, a mock standoff, far too much strutting than should be allowed, and a race to lower and then crisply fold their respective flags.

What makes the ceremony are the spectators. India has constructed a vast amphitheatre, from where a multitude chant, dance, laugh, and cheer on their ‘team’. It’s colourful, it’s loud, it’s fun. Things are a little more austere on the Pakistani side, but no less enthusiastic. Naturally, the genders are delineated, men on one side of the track, in a preponderance of white, brown, and blue shalwar kameez, women and children on the other, adding some colour to the scene. Western pop music incongruously belts out of antiquated loud speakers, and the young men are psyched, keen to vie with their Indian counterparts for ceremony supremacy.

As the sun sets, the gratuitously uniformed guards ham it up, the crowds lap it up, and there is a distinctive party atmosphere. Following the ceremony, the guards mill happily among the crowds, posing for photographs, families mass, food appears. It’s easy to forget that this is a working border post, through which traffic, goods, and people pass daily. Then, as swiftly as the crowds arrived, they are gone. The dust literally settles, and the border post returns to work, at least for a few hours until the spectacle kicks off again.

Entertainment aside, the ceremony provides hope, hope that however sour relations between the two countries may be, they retain a relationship. There remains an endless fascination on both sides of the other, while the amount of choreography that goes into the ceremony suggests regular dialogue, and some sense of camaraderie between the guards at this unusual outpost.

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The (Naked) Running Man

Posted on June 1, 2012 by

In contrast to its official purpose (to remember the country’s war dead) Memorial Day is often touted as the start of the summer. It’s when the outdoor pools open. It’s when the television barbecue ads begin in earnest. It’s when DC’s semi-naked runners take to the side walks and cycle paths.

After a few weeks of prevarication, the city’s weather has finally turned, and it’s hot. What’s more, good weather is pretty much guaranteed until November. For someone who comes from the UK, this is frankly mind-boggling. With the Queen’s Jubilee weekend beginning, the country is on tenterhooks: will it rain, worse still, will it be a ‘wash-out’, a situation that would quite literally put the damper on thousands of tea parties, and other Royal-themed events that are bravely taking place outdoors countrywide.

If inclement weather strikes, the Brits will soldier on because that is what British people do. They have little choice, the alternative being to never plan anything that involves going outside at some future date. So, to be able to plan is a strange luxury. To think, “hmm, at the end of the month I shall plan a barbecue for some friends,” and then be able to enjoy the event weather-risk-free is a joyous novelty. Sure it rains, but it’s tropical rain. It’s heavy, it’s short-lived, things dry out quickly, and everything is left looking pleasingly fresh and dust-free.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the line that caught your eye: the one about the semi-naked runners. I’m sure DC has it’s fair share of runners year-round, but the hot weather brings out its own breed, those wearing more gadgets and running accoutrements than clothing. They power by in small ‘breathable’ pieces of fabric, some chatting hard in groups, others pushing jogger strollers one-handed, others still on their cells (either that or they are giving themselves a pep talk). They carry – generally strapped about their person – a cacophony of bottles, pouches, weights, and iPods.

These individuals were the most striking and surprising aspect when we arrived in DC from Islamabad in August (when semi-naked running is arguably at its zenith). Having got used to covering up (both so as not to offend Muslim sensibilities and to protect against the sun), it took a while to adjust to the sight of flesh, all the more so, in such substantial quantities.

To be fair, the city has a good percentage of lithe individuals who can carry off this sort of activity. It has a large college population, an only slightly older intern brigade, collection of young political staffers, and legions of health-conscious office workers. Coupled with this, it very much an outdoors city, littered with parks, cycle tracks, rivers and waterways, offering an accessible range of activities for much of the year.

This potent mix ensures that I can accurately forecast the rhythmic thud of feet (naked or otherwise) for much of the next five months. Welcome to DC’s summer.

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The Pen is Mightier than the Tweet

Posted on May 22, 2012 by

In an age of Twitter, email, and texting, where communication is swift and the time invested in an individual communication even quicker, it’s somewhat heartening to find that the letter is still in circulation.

My husband had been writing a letter at work. The letter is a formal diplomatic communication. It has something of an elevated status, more significant than a telegram (of Wikileaks fame), and often only for the eyes of the addressee. In this case it was sent by the Ambassador to a Minister, and focused – as diplomatic letters generally do – on a specific policy issue in detail.

Sadly, for those who have an old-fashioned leaning towards paper and ink, it isn’t crafted on a pristine sheet of Basildon Bond, but is sent electronically. I have no idea whether it bears a nicely inked signature and an Ambassadorial stamp at the foot of the page, but I’d like to think so.

For those wondering if the letter is a curiously anachronistic element of today’s Foreign Ministries, I can reveal that the e-Diplomacy-loving Americans use – or at least accept – them too. Several months ago, I was intrigued to find my husband’s diplomatic errands taking him to the Pentagon to deliver a letter by hand. Details are sparse (he judiciously reveals only the bare bones of his day to me), but I have pieced together the following dramatic recreation.

There was a blast of heat through the opening car window. He slipped off his sunglasses. Bright afternoon sunshine reflected painfully off the tarmac. He squinted as he handed his diplomatic card and id to the deliberately overbearing guard who seemed impervious to the sauna that was DC in the summer. An efficient check of his documents was made, his name tallied against a list attached squarely to a clipboard, and he was quietly surveyed, the guard noting the locked document wallet resting on the passenger seat. In surprisingly warm tones he was directed towards the parking lot, the backdrop to which was the imposing sides of the oddly flat building.

The Pentagon had the feeling of a facade. It was hoisted stage-like a couple of meters above the level of the parking lot. Rows of identically-spaced windows reached along its sides.

The air-conditioned lobby was a relief: his skin prickling in the cool. A bank of beige counters swiftly served the raft of visitors, receptionists dispatching the tour groups to a separate waiting area, and calling through to a network of invisible offices with details of their guests.

He found himself studying the 9/11 memorial quilt. It was odd to think that ten years previously the building had stood one morning with a large smouldering hole in one side, the brown facade charred, its secrets exposed. His host approached, shook hands warmly, and nodded towards the other side of the lobby, away from the foot traffic. Pleasantries and a restaurant recommendation matched their passage. There was a pause, the wallet opened, the letter revealed. It remained unopened, not yet at its final destination. They talked shop for another few minutes. Another handshake, his host slapping him lightly on the back as he turned to leave for the brightness and heat of the DC afternoon.

My husband reads this, his eyebrow raised, he chuckles, looks at me over the top of his iPad, shakes his head, and returns to browsing the net.

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Florida and The Four S’s

Posted on May 13, 2012 by

We’ve just returned from Florida and a few days of much-needed sun, sand, swimming, and as a non-optional extra, seniors. The over-65s dictate much about Floridian living from the standard of driving, to the prevalence of easy waist-banded clothing on display in the shops, and the 4.30 dinner-time rush.

I suspect much of the editorial board of the local Naples Florida Weekly, tagline ‘In the Know. In the Now’, are also of an older disposition. I picked up my freebie issue lured by the promise of a definitive ‘Best Of’ guide to South-West Florida. Great, I thought, local knowledge can really add a nice bit of colour to a holiday. So, I duly turned to the guide, which had more of a local flavour than I’d anticipated.

It appeared to start off well, with the heading, ‘Best Points of Interest’, until I realised that this wasn’t a reference to local attractions, but instead American Eagle Mortgages, which was ‘voted’ best at facilitating your condo purchase.

It continued with:

Best May to December Romance: I’ll admit I originally thought this referred to the dating period, then expecting the ‘best January to July romance’ etc. That would certainly be a good filler for any top 100 list, but no, it refered to age difference. The couple in question were Tony Marino (70) and Shannon Livingston (39). When Tony was asked leadingly if he could keep up with Shannon, he was rather boringly (and sourly), quoted as saying that he wasn’t planning on speeding up so Shannon would just have to slow down live with it.

Best Headline: Man Accused of Attacking Woman with Swim Noodle Over Watermelon Dispute. Okay, that’s a pretty good headline. As is often the case however, the story turned out to be a lot less interesting.

Best Smile: Went to Peggy Farren, presumably a friend of the editors, accompanied by one disturbing photo involving far too many teeth.

Best Skunk Ape Scoop: Seriously? Wasn’t the ‘smile’ a sufficiently weak contender? Described as one of the area’s more kitsch attractions, one can apparently head to the Skunk Ape Research Headquarters on US 41 to size up, and smell up, this subject.

Best Sleep in the Swamp: I get the sense that sleep and swamp aren’t happy bedfellows, but should you want to experience the region’s “watery wilderness” close-up, and dammit, glimpse one of these infernal skunk apes, then the eds recommended heading to landscape photographer, Clyde Butcher’s two rentable swamp houses.

Best Baptismal Pool: Well, religion had to feature somewhere in any US top-100 list, so why not at a leisure centre? In an unusually enterprising move, Waypoint Community Church bought up a leisure centre last year converting it into a church, complete with the Believers and Refreshments bar, and Olympic-sized baptismal pool. One can only wonder what the introductory package deals are.

Best Place for a Senior Date: Given coupon-mania that seems to dictate the location of most senior evenings out, this had to be a tough call, but the eds went with the surprise choice of Pavilion Cinema 10. At $6 a ticket, it’s apparently worth confessing to being over 55, and even better (or worse maybe) they don’t ask for ID.

Best Ladies Room: Goes to Calistoga at Coastland Center, for having stalls big enough to fit both the individual and their purse so a woman never has to again chose one over the other. Those must be some serious purses Floridian ladies carry about.

So, I may now know where to get my varicose veins surgically administered to along Gulf Coast Florida, but I passed on this in favour of the white shell-littered sands of Vanderbilt Beach. Fortunately I packed my Florida guidebook.

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