Read The Tsar's Dwarf (Hawthorne Books)

Read The Tsar's Dwarf (Hawthorne Books)
"A curious and wonderful work of great human value by a Danish master." Sebastian Barry, Man Booker finalist (Click on the picture to go to the book's Amazon page)

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

No, Oprah, Danes Aren't Happy. We're Godless Patriots on Painkillers

It's old news now.

Danes are the happiest people on earth. That survey came out in June, 2008, and just a month ago Oprah dedicated a TV-show to us happy Danes. What's our secret? Why are we always so goddamn happy? Even when we shop for carrots we're the Embodiment of Bliss. And when we throw poor refugees out of the country, we smile because we live here and they don't.

So what's up? Are our expectations lower than others? Are we happy because our welfare state works (kind of), or do we simply take pride in the fact that we invented Lego?  If you've ever played with Lego, you know it makes you happy, right? Well, that's what we Danes are all about, supposedly.

But are we seriously happy?  No, we're simply patriots. That's what the survey reflects. We suffer from The Small Country Syndrome. We're tired of being taken for Swedes or Germans. We want to come out of our Southern Scandinavian closet; we simply want to be seen!

That's what the coming UN Climate Conference in Copenhagen is about as well. See us, appreciate how much we do for the environment, admire us. But happy? No, how could we be? Most Danes don't believe in anything, not even in ourselves. Our only God is the welfare state. That has become the church we worship, and the walls of the church are crumbling down.  The recession will see to that.

So Oprah, next time you come to Denmark, please continue to celebrate us, because we do have a great little country with socialized medicine. And Denmark is still the kind of fairy tale place where it makes national news when a gang member fires a bullet into a park bench.

But if you walk around Copenhagen on a cold November day, you won't find much happiness. You'll see people in their own comatose world, walking to and fro with plastic bags and briefcases, not saying hello to any one, not smiling through their painkillers, just going about their business in the dreary drizzle.

Strangely enough, if you want happiness, you  see more of that in a poor village in India or Bali - maybe because they have 52 million gods to help them with their pain?

Read my award winning blog entry, Denmark for Dummies: A Superficial Introduction to the Happiest Country in the World.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Milking a Cash Cow in India (The Joys of Bad Karma?)

I love India.

I've been here about eight times. I love the spirituality of this great country. And when I get tired of that, there are always the strong colors, the humorous people, and the best spicy food in the world.

India is full of surprises, too. Yesterday I ran into three holy cows and Goldie Hawn. And I was head butted by all four. I'm truly blessed.

This time I'm here to do research on my next novel. It takes place in Varanasi, the holiest of all cities. Varanasi (Benares) is the famous place where you wash away your sins in Mother Ganges. And cremate your loved ones at the same time. You could argue that Ganges is the biggest funeral parlor in the world.

Varanasi is India at its best and worst. It's colorful, charismatic, loud, polluted, dirty, generous, kind, obnoxious, spiritual, and deeply criminal. Everybody wants something from you. Sometimes it's your soul, most of the time, it's just your money.

I ran into a wonderful scam the other day. Since I know how to navigate in India, it didn't take me totally by surprise. But sometimes I'm not as cynical as I like to think, so let's say I was mildly disappointed.

I was walking down the colorful alleys of the old city avoiding the cow dung, the beggars, and the scrawny cows feasting on plastic bags.

A man came up to me and started to talk. His English was good, so we chatted for a while. At one point he asked whether I wanted to see the burning ghats - the place where the dead are cremated before their ashes are spread over Mother Ganges.

I said, sure, and we went to a house that supposedly was a hospice for the poor. Here people come from all over India to die and are taken care of for free. I was greeted by a little old lady in a dirty sari.

"This is The Mother Teresa of Varanasi" I was told, and then I was introduced to a guru in a dhoti and two volunteers. A "pious" looking gentleman lead me up to the roof of the patient-free hospice, so I could get a good view of the cremations at the nearby ghat.

"You have to understand, we're not asking for money. We're all volunteers at this hospice," my guide said.

I nodded, knowing that when a con man says he doesn't want money, things are going to get very expensive. But I went along for the ride for the simple reason I wasn't totally sure whether this was a scam or not. Yet.

From the roof top there was a nice view of the Ganges and the three platforms where the dead are burned: One for the upper cast (business class?), one for the middle cast (coach), and one for the lower cast (freight?). The fire that was used for the cremation was lit thousands of years ago and had never gone out.

I started to cough. I've always been sensitive to inhaling the deceased.

My guide looked at me with that pious look he had practiced in front of the mirror, "Look around, Sir. Look at all the people bringing the bodies. Do you see any women?"


"Women are not allowed to attend because they cry. Crying holds back the soul. It's very selfish to show emotion, Sir."

"Well, sometimes men are emotional, too," I said.

"Yes, but men are not women," my guide answered with surprising contempt. Then he told a story about a widow who threw herself on the fire to be with her dead husband. This unfortunate incident happened ten years ago and meant that women had been banished from the cremations ever since.

After ten minutes of watching I'd had enough. Even though there was something sad but beautiful about the cremations, there was a limit to how much of a voyeur I wanted to be.

When I got downstairs, the guru was ready to bless me as a token "for the large donation I was going to give to the poor".

"The small donation," I added quickly.

The guru asked me to kneel and put a warm hand on my head and started praying. I liked looking into his eyes, and I clearly felt good karma was coming my way.

When that was done, my guide stepped forward and asked me to give a donation of 2000 rupees which would cover the expenses of a cremation for two people.

"I'll donate 200 rupees," I said immediately.

My guide looked at me with horror. "No, that's not possible," he said, once more putting a hand on his heart as pious people do when they've asked God for cash. "A 1000 rupee donation is the smallest we can accept."

Now suddenly I was crowded by six people. A young volunteer from Europe said he was sick and tired of "tourists who'd only give the equivalent of 5 euros when they are filthy rich."

The atmosphere was getting ugly, but now I got stubborn. If these people were who they pretended to be, they wouldn't pressure me. So I stood my ground, convinced that this was a scam.

When it finally dawned on everybody, I wasn't going to give more than 200 lousy rupees (a weekly wage for most in India), one of them shouted, "give at least a something to Mother Teresa."

Suddenly, the frail old lady stood by my side and looked up at me with her big compassionate eyes. I sighed and handed her a 50 rupee bill, just to end things on a civilized note.

The next second I'll never forget as long as I live.

"Mother Teresa of Varanasi", this pious woman who had dedicated her life to the poor; this modern-day saint who had renounced luxury to do God's work on earth, stared at the 50 rupee bill I'd given her with a baffled look on her face - a look that I best can describe as "you gotta be fucking kidding me." Then the look slowly turned into contempt and then to anger. For a short second I thought this angel was going to attack me and rip me to pieces.

When I walked out of the hospice I heard the sound of people spitting after me, and when I continued down one of the narrow alleys, I felt how the good karma I'd been promised slowly evaporated and gave way to ancient curses from the "spiritual" people at the patient-free hospice.

The first minutes afterward I was shaken. Had I been too harsh? Could I be so sure that it was a scam? Maybe the Western volunteer was right in his criticism. Why didn't we tourists give more money to the poor when we easily could afford it?

But then I remembered the sinister atmosphere, the intimidation, and the spitting when these people didn't get what they wanted. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew that my money never would end where it was supposed to.

So I was happy with the outcome. 250 rupees to experience something as wonderfully absurd as this was a damn bargain.

By the way, it's important for me to say I have the deepest respect for the Hindu religion, so if any one finds the above disrespectful, I apologize. But I reserve the right to be facetious when spirituality is being abused. And spirituality often is, in India and everywhere else.

But needless to say, scams are a small part of India. The country is so picturesque it's impossible to take a bad picture.

This time I enjoyed my aimless walks along the Ganges and in the alleys of Varanasi - one of the most incredible places I've ever been. I enjoyed the masala dosas at the local grease joint, I enjoyed my talks with Mr. Namit Agnihotri, the general manager at The Gateway, one of the finest hotels in Varanasi (I recommend it highly). And hey, I did run into several holy cows and Goldie Hawn - the latter actually stayed at my hotel, but she "disappointed" me greatly by not asking for a signed copy of The Tsar's Dwarf.

When I left Varanasi I saw a great sign in the airport. YOU'RE BEING WATCHED, it said.

That's good news for us narcissists.


Tuesday, November 3, 2009

My Pretentious World Tour: Now at Lingnan University, Hong Kong

"Sterilize in every hour," says the sign at my hotel in Hong Kong.The sign is referring to the elevator keyboard - this potentially germ, bacteria infested death trap that will give you the swine flu the second you push any button.

Yes, it's not easy to survive in this world with so many dangers. The first time I was in Hong Kong everybody was afraid of SARS. Now it's the swine flu, but as long as you don't touch anything you should be safe.

Let's face it, life is a death sentence - even if we "sterilize in every hour".

Apart from the paranoia, Hong Kong is an upbeat town. I love its mixture of East and West, of double decker buses and sampans, of nerdy computer wizards and soulful soothsayers. However, I'm not here because I was born in the Year of the Monkey: I'm doing a reading and a workshop at Lingnan University in Tuen Mun.

Lingnan is far away from the sizzle of Kowloon. It's situated in The New Territories close to the border to China. This university is small and quaint with a landscaped garden, an Olympic size swimming pool, and a great collection of turtles.

I've also been invited to Lingnan to do a writing workshop, so Friday I return from Hong Kong Island to teach a Master Class for 15 adorable students.

It takes place in a classy room with freezing air condition and good tuna sandwiches. The participants are from Hong Kong, Mainland China, Malaysia, and Nepal. Several students have actually traveled from Lignan's sister university in Southern China to sit at my feet.

My Master Class (yes, I like using this word as often I can) is part of Lingnan's Life Writing program - an absolutely great invention where students write about their own life experiences. If you're a bore you could call it autobiography, but I like Life Writing much better.

I read and critique five stories, and some of them are very good. One student has written a moving tale about how a small gesture of trust from a stranger in Wales changed her life. Another story is a wonderful character study about a late uncle on the Mainland who was accused of counter-revolutionary tendencies, even though he was a mere loner.

But what impressed me the most were the students themselves. After an hour I wanted to put them all in my suitcase, so I could bring them with me to Denmark. They were wonderful, and so were the professors at Lingnan.

"We want you back," says chairman Richard Freadman. And who am I to argue with an Australian chairman? Or with fellow Dane Mette Hjort, chairman of Visual Arts, who invited me here and who knows more about Danish films than any quiz contestant?

Before I leave campus I go back to the turtle pond and kiss my new friends goodbye. "I wouldn't dream of making soup out of you," I whisper lovingly and return by train to crowded Hong Kong Island.