360guy.org

Captain Cook’s second voyage, off the coast of Poipu January 19, 1778. He was 55ish and at that age when things disorderly start to wrankle beyond all sense of proportion.  He was a crisp navy man and did not tolerate the non-squared away.  This quality allowed him to bring back his crew twice, unscathed, after voyages twice around the world lasting over 5 years in climates as diverse as in the Antarctic, Hawaii, New Zealand and Alaska. Discipline, a light human touch and a commitment to the principles of the Enlightenment characterized his temperment the first two circumnavigations.

 Cook  died on his 3d voyage.  he had become a bitter, impatient man, rigid without the need for it.  As a young captain he had been a rarity in a racist Anglocentric universe—respectful of natives, patient with their differences without trying to convert them to Jesus, generous with gifts.  But a few more years of sailing under harsh conditions, deprived of the balance afforded by solid ground and a loving woman,  he became intolerant and short tempered like most old men who refuse to stay green and adaptable. He was a brown dried twig and snapped one morning in Kealakekua Bay on the Big Island.  The printed page above is from the journal of a witness who recounted how he used violence against the locals and paid for it with his life—bludgeoned to death, mutilated and dismembered. Here is part of the original  account:

“On the 14th our large Cutter moored at our Sml Br. Buoy was missing. Boats were manned and armed from both ships with orders from Capt. Cook to lay at the mouth of the Bay and keep the Passage, that nothing should enter or go out while he himself with three of his own Boats manned and armed went to the town on the NW side of the Harbour to secure the Chief of all the Islands at his residence there. Capt. Cook landed with the Marine officer and party of marines and visited the Chiefs house, but was opposed in his Demands upon Tireoboo the Chief and was returning to the shore where the Boats lay surrounded both him and his Guard with a vast crowd who were alarmed at his boldness and perhaps at a loss to account for his return to the Boats – or from whatever motives it was soon perceived that many of them were Armed – tho at the same time others were crowding presents upon him, which with much Anger he threw from him – some insolence was afterwards shown him and he fired some small shot at the Offender without doing any damage, this is perhaps partly nearly the situation of matters when a Skirmish ensued and the fire became general from the Boats and then from the Marines, but without any Orders from any quarter as I can understand, for Capt. Cook turned to the boats enquired the Reason of it and was ordering them to cease firing when a Chief came behind and stabd him between the shoulders with an Iron instrument like a Dirk (a type of knife) of which they had many made by Capt. Cook by their own directions. He fell immediately at the receipt of the Blow with his face in the water but did not expire till he had recd. several other wounds in different parts of his Body – every thing was in confusion now, the Indians were elevated at their success and a Corporal and three Marines shared the Fate of their Commander before the others got on board the Boats, the Lieut. of Marines was stabd in the shoulder and others badly wounded with stones which came like hail from such a multitude…”

A desert road from Vegas to nowhere, some place better than where you’ve been.  A coffee machine that needs some fixing in a little cafe just around the bend. A hot dry wind blows right through me, the baby’s crying and I can’t sleep. But we both know a change is coming coming closer—-sweet release…

Varkala Beach, Kerala…

The setting sun, that funeral fire in the sky, I looked away to follow the last flares of the cerise and magenta streaming  over the sea—safired in evening light.  “Farid the Fixer got you to the airport?”

As the stars slowly reappeared in the endlessness of sky, I cut the last mooring rope of grief, and surrendered to the all sustaining tide of destiny. I let her her go. I said the words, the sacred words: I forgive you…

I didn’t run. I wish I could say, now, that I walked that night and didn’t run because of something noble and brave that I found inside myself, but I can’t. I’ve thought about it often. I’ve recalled and relived that walk a thousand times, and each time  I remember it, there’s less certainty about the  why of it.  Every virtuous act has some dark secret in its heart, Khaderbhai once told me, and every risk we take contains a mystery that can’t be solved.

At the first bullfight I expected to be horrified and perhaps sickened by what I had been told would happen to the horses. Everything I had read about the bull ring insisted on that point; most people who wrote of it condemned it outright as a stupid brutal business, but even those that spoke well of it as an exhibition of skill and as a spectacle deplored the use of the horses and were apologetic about the whole thing. The killing of the horses was considerd indefensible. I s’pose the whole thing is indefensible. There is cruelty, danger–either sought or unlooked for, and there is always death. Can’t defend it, only tell honestly the things I have found  true about it…

More than two million people live in the capital – one fifth of the population – and everything converges here: roads and rail lines; air travel (Ferihegy is the country’s only civilian airport); industry, commerce and culture; opportunities, wealth and power. Like Paris, the city has a history of revolutions – in 1849, 1918 and 1956 – buildings, parks and avenues on a monumental scale, and a reputation for hedonism, style and parochial pride. In short, Budapest is an interesting spot overlooked by most Americans—-perfect for me.

The photos from the embankments or the bastions of the Vár (Castle Hill) make it easy to see why the city was dubbed the “Pearl of the Danube.” Roccoco buildings and bridges are magnificent, especially when floodlit. The eclectic inner-city and radial boulevards are a mish mash of old and new.  The local Magyar character makes it all unique.  Since the Communist system collapsed luxury hotels and malls, restaurants, bars and clubs have all proliferated – as have crime and social inequalities.  I read that the number of beggars and homeless people on the streets has risen. An interesting place, no?  There’s more.

The sex industry  has earned Budapest the nickname, “Bangkok of Europe,” and the law and order crowd has been cracking down.  That means not only hookers and johns get nailed but refugees and illegal immigrants (Africans and Arabs) are thoroughly hammered. The right wing is gaining the upper hand. A new repressive constitution took effect January 1, and the authoritarians who prefer order to other things human, hold sway. But the counterculture has strength too and the Hungarians are master infighters who know their way ’round the underground. I regret missing the ’56— ’57 Russian invasion, altho I couldn’t yet read, much less acquire a passport.  No excuses this time.

Budapest is cheap and still a window on historic Mitteleuropa, but also a  political hot spot with a potential revolutionary flavor—which makes me nostalgic for Berkeley in ’71 and Mario Puzo and SDS and all that.  Plus, I get a kick out of visiting communist  countries—China, Vietnam and Laos–where paradox, contradiction and irony rule the day.  Hungary was part of the Eastern European Russian block for 45 years, and now that they are headed back to what sounds a lot like a repressive  communist style government, it would be interesting to head over and have a chat with a few of the locals.

So, time to book tix for summer, before Phoenix morphs into Riyadh and I hate myself for spending summers in this beastly sweatbox. And before the groaty fascists close the borders (again) to westerners.  Besides, it’s a stone’s throw from Serbia, Croatia, Montenegro and the Dalmatian coast.  And y’all know what that will inevitably lead to.