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Celebrity Reportage : Confessions of A Dangerous Mind
from Marie Claire November 2003 | by Asha Gill
The glory and depravity of human nature. That is what TV presenter Asha Gill came into first contact with when filming Lonely Planet's Six Degrees for the Discovery Channel. She unleashes a stream of consciousness as sge reveals, in this marie claire exclusive, the highs, the lows and the powerful, and lasting, impressions left by the places to which she sojourned. In other words, we take you where no one has gone before...into the mind of Asha Gill.
OH, MOTHER INDIA!
Ah, to India we go. The first city on the Six Degrees Series map. Also the land of my foremothers, salt of Gandhi, independence of spice and all things delicious and auspicious. Or so I thought. Reality, of course, is a cockroach with wings, the size of a plate.
I have for so long been a proud Indian. Until I realised that I was so proud that I spoke not a stitch of Hindi or Punjabi, a flame of shame only to be fanned constantly throughout my epic duration in the city of Mumbai. Just the mere whisper of the citadel brings to mind a cacophony of smells, noises, action and claustrophobia.
This brings me to the arrival in the land of the sages and classist segregations. There and then, I opted to ehance my shallowness and proclaim myself Malaysian, for fear of mockery. Only the immigration officials would get a giggle over my name, my face and my inability to even say hello properly. I didn't care in the slightest, because my team and I were embarking on our first adventure together as a new family.
I should explain this part better. Let me introduce my wonderful new companions who would share the tears, screams of laughter and the next seven months. There is Greg, the world's greatest cinematographer and adventurer. Miki his counterpart in the sound department and in his lust for life. Jasmine our illustrious director, Malcolm our series director and Jocelyn, the Goddess of every need, producer on the side. Together, our mission, to conquer and male great television.
Right, back on track and into the bus that awaited us. After hours of conveyor belts, airport authorities, equipment debacles and the worlds most ridiculous trolleys, we loaded up 'David', our bus, and headed to the hotel. Amidst flailing arms to distract killer mosquitoes that infested our transport, and lots of tale swapping and getting to know you discussions, we arrived at a little boutique hotel called Gordon House. And bang! Out of nowhere came a troop of marauding urchins all multilingual and all professionals. It was a hysterical sight, us wading through this sea of drugged babies held by children not old enough to chew chocolate without making a mess, straight into the crisp cool splendour of glass and white floors. This was India, at its best, a sweet and sour soup made with everything you could get your hands on...what do they call it...mulligatawny?
The whole concept of this series was to barge your way in, with permission of course, to someone's life and get a rare glimpse of their city, from their perspective. From aging socialites, to camp-as-you-go-party-boy aristocrats, from famous choreographers to infamous photographers, from jolly-man-about-town to a eunuch who should be president. We soon found that the city's inhabitants were a genuine minefield.
I think on the whole, India for me was a huge turning point in my evolution as a woman and inhabitant of this earth. I remember the time an invitation to luncheon at the horse races was delivered. I made sure I looked respectable and was looking forward to seeing just how much of Rule Britannia was being held onto for the sake of a good sport. However, when my director suggested we meander on over to see the 'commoners' stands, I was in for a surprise. We filmed both aspects of the punters, and on the last shot, I was to wander into the actual betting arena. I wandered into the throng to begin my link (this is where a presenter or host talks directly into the camera explaining a situation, a bit like a news reporter does) when suddenly I felt scared. A group of men had cut me off from my crew and one rather insidious creep actually put his hand up my skirt and grabbed my right cheek. I lost my temper and grabbed his hand and started shouting at him. Wrong decision. The group closed in on me tighter and they all backed him up saying it was my fault I was standing there in the first place. I could see my crew, they could see me, and there was no way I could get to them fast enough. If Miki hadn't barged his way in, I doubt I would have left intact.
The day I sat and wept, though, was the day a priest tried to rub himself against me in a religious festical. There I am, trying to pray and ask for help, and this was the message sent. The man just smiled at me when I scowled, as if to say, "I'll bless you anyway even though I didn't get a piece of you." My insides were unraveling. Was this an entire culture made up of misogynists?
Ironically, it was a biological man/psychological woman who pulled me out of my maudlin state. Lakshmi, was a Hijra (male eunuch or transvestite) named after the Goddess herself. She/he was one of my favourite subjects who offered us the chance to see the gutters and soul of the city. Long ago, Hijras held court in the palaces of kings. The British invaded and feared these 'abominations', outlawed them and denigrated them to exlie and thus into whoredom. Lakshmi was a person in the midst of poverty, strife, life's cruel twist of karma; a woman inside, a male in form, who, like Nefertiti, is trying to change her community so some sense of harmony and balance is established. If it weren't for her, I would have lost my respect for the city of Mumbai. She/he is helping to re-build what a woman is and should be. This person, male genetalia still intact, who refrains from whoring, preferring to sleep around; proclaims the virtues of prophylactics to her 'girls'; and regularly campaigns for AIDS and HIV awareness in the slums. It takes a man wanting to be a woman to do this. Incredible.
I needed to keep a light perspective if I were to continue enjoying this city and seeing it in its entire truth. Cue Vaibhavi Merchant another of my subjects who happens to be the hottest choreographer in town. I was given special privileges to visit Film City (Bollywood's Hollywood) and a set built for a dance sequence in Amitabh Bachan's latest film. I grew up watching the 'Big AB' as they call him. He was not more than five feet away from me, looking tall, regal and still youthful. He wasn't too ecstatic about myself and the camera crew around, nor was he too stoked about the fact that I was also given permission to dance in the sequence by Vaibhavi. Unfortunately, the God of Indian cinema cut his foot on a flagstone during the dance rehearsal and everyone looked in askance as to who would be shot. Thankfully no one was even flagellated and I lived every young Indian girls dream, to be in an Indian movie.
My excitement climaxed iin a Holi way. Originally celebrated for good harvests and fertility of the land, the festval of Holi is now a symbolic commemoration of a legend from Hindu Mythology. The festival still lingers in my mind when I think back on Mumbai. The city awash with colours, bright, pure effervescent splashes. People of all ages joyous with wonderment and happiness. The thing that tickled me most was one does not celebrate Holi, one plays Holi. I don't quite know why that keeps rolling around my head, I'm sure an epiphany will arrive in due course. Perhaps Mumbai just needs to absolve itself of its past, and what better way to heal than in laughter?
BELLO BUENOS AIRES
Chivalry is not dead. I'm not talking about the colonial sort. I'm talking about manners. In Buenos Aires, the next city on our stop, people hold the doors open for you, they smile at you, and they have a beautiful sensibility about them. Even when I passed a group of people banging down the metal sheathed bank walls in retaliation for the government stealing their livelihoods, I was not scared, because two of them moved aside to let me pass down the lane that was congested with shoppers.
Even on day one of the shoot, jet-lagged to high heaven and disorientated, we had to laugh. There I was, interviewing Erica Pas, a famous tango singer, when our local counterparts yelled at us for cover. Apparently, a group of hoodlums were making signs to mug the crew for the day and no one was hurt at all! It was an adventure unfolding.
Buenos Aires is a city that belongs in another era, where Men are Men and Women are Goddesses. And they all live passionately, like my characters for this episode. Martin was a third generation soap maker my age, who cooks his perfumes whilst listening to classical choruses and thinking of wake boarding the following day on the Tigre Delta. Then there was Romulo, the consummate Latin Casanoca and party animal who runs La Feria de Mataderos (a community cultural fair) on Sundays so that the indigenous Indians can still work in the modern era and keep ther traditions alive.
It is a city of colour. Take the addiction to Mate, an herb drunk vy everyone, which is a kind of green tea that has etiquette to rival that of the Chinese and Japanese art of tea ceremonies. The list is endless, the choice of wine limitless and the conversations always intense. The people never ignorant of their history nor their dreams of changing it for the better. I definitely had something to learn from this. The secret elixir, how to be fulfilled at every moment in life. I started to scrutinise everything about me.
Did you know that you would be in the vast minority in Buenos Aires if you did not have a personal psychoanalyst? Yes, they are all in theraphy and proud of it. Now, we must overlook the fact that the Tango only became popular again after it returned from Paris, and that the brain was only exercised because of the Swiss. These folks carry their honour with aplomb and are good people. Always trying to better themselves.
Argentineans lead busy lives and as we were following some very busy bees as our characters, we worked extremely long hours. The test for my own limits came one night. We had been filming since the morning and now it was two am and we were all worn out. Our final destination was a club and a Ramones tribute that had been going on since that afternoon. The club was full of merry making, head banging lunatics, moshing to the music. The musicians my subjects. I had to mosh like a banshee across the stage for the last shot. A shot that was necessary to illustrate the mayhem and anarchy we were witnessing. I balked. I wanted to cry, instead I kept shouting at my director begging for mercy, I was physically atrophied. I didn't want to do it, but I had to. And I did. The concept of paradigm shift happened. The point where ego and requirement unraveled itself. I saw me in the real light. After all the swearing that is. I saw the difference between battles and was, whim and need. I was getting enlightened, I pushed my own limits and won. ...India was making sense.
Another thing that hit me hard was a day out with Eduardo, one of the city's leading psychoanalysts. He took me to Place de Mayo, where the Mothers of the Disappeared hold their vigil every week in an unrelenting rally for the truths surrounding the "Dirty War." Between my knowledge of the Junta's regime and Eduardo filling in the gaps, I stood there alarmingly inconsolable. For the first time in my life, I could not cover my emotions because of work or the camera, for the first time I didn't give a monkey's squiff. My heart broke and I wept. And I wept. Human beings are capable of such vile atrocities. No matter their station or their blood.
Stiff upper lip, Asha... Nicola was an artist and one of my charges for the show. She worked with moulds and delicate subjects for the love of satire and absurdity. I met her in my favourite place. The cemetery. She was toting a bag she had designed pattered with anuese. Yes, you read right. She broughtme back to her studio to show me more of her work and to use my belly button as a mould for something else she was concocting. The highlight of my time with her was sitting on a couch in her office and slowly realising it was upholstered with mire arseholes. Male, I have to add, and I learnt how to tell a male from a female one by the way! I love education.
I have to say that a far cry from men trying to feel me up was the Latino lover personality of every male. The best example, Tango Maestro and Artist Guillermo, another one of my subjects. Now he was a flirt, but a good one. He kept his boundaries, taught me how to tango, made me feel lightheaded... But he was still a hotblooded male who appreciated the feminine form and revered it. That got me to thinking, why can't we appreciate each other that way, with class?
Oh I loved the sense of possibility in the air steeped with the contagions of corrupt governing bodies and the people getting back on their feet to play the game all over again. I felt liberation. Just like the evening I danced the Murga wearing the full ensemble. Murga the dance of utter release. With a history of political fights and street gang dance-offs, it's music that vibrates on notes only your soul feels. No one laughed at me, no one got irritated because I didn't really know the steps. I was encouraged every step of the way and got face cramp from laughing and smiling because that was truly one of the most exhilirating, happiest moments of my life. I didn't think about anything other than letting go, being supremely primal and listening to my heart thump.
I will remember Buenos Aires for the fact that I pushed myself to speak basic Spanish in three weeks and danced my weighty bottom off. But most of all, because I found a piece of me there. My free spirit, nestled in amongst the mausoleums oin Recolleta. A place I floated about for hours in peace and silence, with only the thousand stray cats to keep me company.
MALAYSIA...THE HOMECOMING
Funny thing coincidences. There is that old biscuit of an adage about everything happening for a reason. I happen to remain predominantly optimistic thanks to that train of thought. Although I do get swolled up in the valley of conundrums and disappointments when in the midst of such moments. This was exactly my reaction to the next port of call. Initially we were supposed to be heading over to the fragrant harbour of Hong Kong for an episode. But dear old HK was stricken with an illness called SARS and for a fear of contagion, we, alas, could not visit with her. Instead, for logistical reasons, our destination revealed itself to be Kuala Lumpur.
What a position fatehad put me in. A homecoming awaited me and I grappled with the complexities of perspective. Whilst I love this country, the concept of revealing its treasures to the world filled me with morbid dread. I felt an immense responsibility saddle itself upon me. I had to find a way to see with a new set of oracular orbs, at this point one can safely thank a foreign crew and the guidance of Malcolm my director for this episode, for the great results that were achieved. And, of course, some of the wonderful lunatics we encountered along the way.
I should have realised that my journey back to the mother ship would be a crash landing. An episode of Survivor ensued. Not only was I confronted with tasks that sent my coccyx curling back into my body, but also the lesson of how anger and fear can be a positive thing.
Working with directors is complex. One never knows whether reluctance to cooperate is a direct result of recalcitrance, or human limits. Defining which explanation is correct can make the result a powerful one. I was out one day, with the crew, at Sungei Chilling, or Magick River as we call it. A day out in the wilderness with a character called Antares. Now he's a real scream. All went swimmingly until we had climbed, waded and almost drowned crawling along the banks of the river to a small baby water fall. Baby being an affectionate term, to me, it was Niagra the demon personified. The water a deafening roar of pure unadulterated undiluted power. Soothing really, until you looked over the edge and the words 'now jump Asha' echoed up. To make me feel at ease, two water nymphs from the village jumped first, to prove all was well with the pool below. Then Antares dived in, like a swallow, full of the grace of a rainbow. I just sat, squatting and thinking of all the instructions of which part was safe, and how to navigate my body into the witches cauldron below. I was cajoled, guided, pampered and pleaded with. I remember the sunlight tickling my face and I could smell the wet rocks that I crouched upon, and I knew, that today, for the camera, I would not jump. Because I was not ready to. When I spoke my last NO with courage, I felt such liberation. Despite the teasing, I was not a coward, I just wasn't ready. And that is nothing to be ashamed of.
Something else that crossed my mind on this trip was how we really are all defined by our formative years. Despite having traveled quite a bit, I had to face the fact that as progressive as I would like to believe I am, some things about me will never change. They are too deeply embedded into my soft bilious brain and will not budge. Some of these things I am glad to keep, I might add. On an evening as clear as an empty wine glass I had the fortune of teaming up with two characters at one; Francis the spookster guide to all places haunted in K.L. and Resh my muse. We were filming in a graveyard, on the eve of my 31st birthday. My director and crew lit up a portion of the area in order to show us walking down through the tombs whilst Francis scared us with tales of folklore and phantoms. I felt extremely uncomfortable with this as did Resh. The closer we got to the path, the more we felt our skin go hot, then irritable and then finally the itch that spread all over our body had nothing on chicken pox in the middle of a sweltering day. Resh did the sensible thing and said he couldn't go any further. I tried to appease my director and picked my way up the path muttering 'sorry' to the spirits every second, when suddenly, I felt a force hit me on my back, that threw me off balance and I dropped the egg that I was carrying for protection (apparently ghoulies are attracted to eggs thereby making the human carrying it safe) and landed right on top of a small tiny grave. I was so incensed that I whirled around to shout at everyone to stop playing games, only to realise no one was near me. This incident amplified my adamant refusals, prior to and after the event, to follow any orders from my director when it came to traditions or religions. I may be a modern woman, but I was brought up an Asian and we Asians do not incur the wrath of Gods, blood suckers or ghosts alike at any cost. A pretty good ingrained habit to keep, prevention better than cure and all.
I spent many a quiet contemplative moment getting angry. Or perhaps frustrated with many of the things that I found irksome. Like locals kissing their teeth at the crew and myself, and feeling ashamed that we lacked so many manners, grateful that at least they didn't try to touch you. Sicked that it was a trade off. Or the busybody on the street who waltzed up to us out of nowhere in the middle of mAsjid India. I was having a laugh with Rest, trying to get some street food vendors to sing into a microphone that Resh carried with him. We were collecting sounds of K.L. for him to then make a truly organic piece of music to be used on the episode. This man, walks up, interrupts and pretends to be someone of authority asking if we had permission to film there. Well of course we did. He refused to give us his name of title, just stood there making calls and acting as if we were demonstrating the right to Karaoke in the nude on a Sunday at a family picnic. I decided I would end up murdering him if I kept standing there trying to reason our existence to him. In the end Resh spoke to him and he sidled away. What made me fume more than anything is the fact that this sort of thing happened everywhere. For some reason, in Malaysia, people can't just get on with their own work, or be proud of others doing well. Nope, it has to be snitch and control, power and autonomy. But then again, there's always a bad apple in the longan basket isn't there?
As I experienced Malaysia through the eyes of my crew I realised that although cultures are still preserved and faith in all deities still strong, you can tell that a lot of the continuance of these things is because of parents and grandparents. I felt a little fear seeing many weddings and ceremonies take place on auto pilot. I wonder if the young generation will ensure some things stick around long after the elders have gone off to haunt cemeteries and eggs. Perhaps it's the way traditions are forced upon the children or the true knowledge of where and why something is done is lost. Culture is losing its stories and with that, the insistence to just do something because it is done this way is not good enough for the young anymore. They want to know why. To have a definition of where they come from albeit in a vague sense is there, but it also serves to highlight something archaic which isn't cool anymore or just darn confusing and complicated. I started to worry about everything of colour dying out, only to be replaced by a designer handbag and the perfect car.
Thank goodness for the knowledge of food, though. The way of the people may be disappearing, but culture still exists in the hoistory and the preservation of food. I'm glad that an imminent outcry would ensue over then closing down of a local favourite nasi kandar store, or the retirement of the town's best cendol maker. In this respect, I proudly turned to my compatriots and told them, "See, our heritage is not all lost!" Bring on the rojak.
RUNNING AMOK IN SINGAPORE
Singapore is a country with no capital, or at least, its capital is itself. Strange but relevant enough because of its size I suppose. It's the only country I've been to that has no main city or town, which is quite a unique geographical anomaly. Its also a city slash country known for its campaigns. There is the Love Cmapaign, the Speak Right Campaign, the Courtesy Campaign, the SARS Campaign, the God We Are So Bored We Need A Campaign Campaign. Needless to say, on this particular show, I went on two.
The first one was more of a 'going on the road' Campaign with a band. Their initiative was to educate Singapore as to their existence, music and...zany presence. The band was called Force Vomit. I have nothing to add to that, lest I bias your point of view further. We donned apparel worthy of a band of circus clowns on a bad acid trip and ran amok through the streets of Singapore terrifying very normal people busy on their way to acheive the ultimate goal in life, the 5 Cs. Apparently that is what denotes a successful life: credit card, cat, condominium, club membership and something else beginning with the letter C. We jumped around like lunatics at a community hall during a lion dance rehearsal, gate-crashed a rave party called Zouk Out, handed out flyers and also hit the shopping Mecca of Orchard Road. Needless to say I was grateful for the orange wig and sunglasses.
My journey with this band had many ironic if not hysterical situations delivered to me. A great one was Speakers Corner. Free speech, the right of every human being. Not every one of us has this luxury. Not every country confident enough to allow it. However, this country has such a premises. It's a piece of grass verge, not more than a foot by a foot and a half on the edge of a park. The playing field sits right behind the sign and if you don't get arrested for not conforming to the rules of the Speakers Game, then you might just find yourself concussed by contact from the ball game. I had to laugh, not only at the rules but at the fact, and it is a fact, that all over the world, no one minds you speaking as long as you are saying what they want to hear. And even in this little first world city, you had better speak in one of the four languages allowed, not sing, not illicit support from any possible spectators and oh yes, must clear your speech at the small little office at the front of the park.
My sanitised perception of Singapore was altered when I met Mr. Super Loo, Jack Sim, another character in the show. He is a very funny, cheeky fellow who taught me a big lesson in responsibility. He headed another Campaign and by this time, I was a little tired of causes to keep the folks off the streets or jumping from roofs. He is the Director of the Restroom association, his mission, to run a group of volunteers to check public loos. BNow I laughed at this until I met him. He quite rightly told me that a human being has the right to access a public toilet fit for human use. He was disgusted at the state of hygiene and decided to rally against the people and out pride in place. Because of him and others like him, the Restroom association is a global affiliation growing by the day. I went with him and a couple of his volunteers to several toilets all across the country. We ticked off many little boxes on the survey sheets concerning odours, cleanliness, soap, etc. I was astounded by the difference this man has made. Toilets are now being awarded Stars, like hotels and restaurants. People don't have to worry about gagging or where their 10 cents on entry goes. They can see and gladly cough up a few coins knowing that it works to their benefit. People were willing to be responsible if the other party keeps their end of the bargain up. I had a whale of a time with Jack. In Singapore the question of 'To Pee or not to Pee' is not relevant, it surely is 'Where to Pee'. The choice thanks to this man is bountiful.
By far the most wonderful thing Singapore has to offer is Pulau Ubin, a little island just off the coast. A haven and sanctuary for wildlife and mangroves, and home to my favourite character. Priscilla the pig. Of course, Grant Pereira the guide extraordinair and grand pappy of conservation was a close second. You'd be forgiven for thinking this man insane, he is, but in the best possible way. Although his sense of direction nearly left us a little stranded in the heart of the jungle. Let me clarify that he knows what he is doing and can navigate his way through any given situation. It was just a particularly funny day that went completely belly up and under. We traipsed out as the tide receded and saw many creatures that lived in ignorance of the city across the waters. We went up into the mangrove and jungle and saw all sorts of wondrous fauna and flora. And then our camera assistant, Yasir, got stung by two hornets on his head and through this commotion, we lost our bearings. The only route out was to retrace our steps. I was having a ball. I strapped myself up with Yasir's bad full of batteries, tapes and equipment, and followed Grant and the crew towards the swamp. Only now, the water was returning, changing the hard sand into a quagmire of sludge that threatened to swallow anything it could. Even Greg our cameraman, Mr. Outback himself, was having problems, sinking up to his knees dur to the added weight of the camera. My director and Yasir of the swollen head were behind me and fast losing their shoes and Wellington boots. I had been the laughing stock of everyone by choosing to wear army combat boots. They weren't laughing at me so hard now! I racked my brain for ideas of how to make it back to land safely. That's when I turned around to everyone and said you are sinking because you are staying to long in one spot. I told everyone to distribute their weight, the area of contact and time in any one footing. Basically I hitched up the heavy back pack and shouted 'RUN'. Off I went, stumbling over roots in the mud but finally making it back by sprinting as fast as I could. I couldn't shake the grin from my face. It was a GI Asha moment. Even Greg stopped and sank in order to film me in my mammoth race against muddage. Thanks to Singapore, I met the warrior in me. I'm just thankful that there were no leeches anywhere or I might have fainted.
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