Al Shavarsh Gardner Bardezbanian

It is still too soon to have fully formed thoughts on a character as large and wonderful as Al Gardner but I’ve attempted a start at it.

In one’s short time on earth it is a rare and fortuitous occasion to be accepted as a student by a truly great teacher. The teacher/student form is ancient and human and has a structure from time immemorial. Such a teacher was Al Shavarsh Gardner Bardezbanian and I was infinitely lucky to have found him as a student.

The martial arts as practiced in Asia had a teacher/student dialectic that does not translate easily into modern America. Obedience, respect and subservience are not characteristics of americans, as de Tocqueville observed. For a bookish, intellectual recluse like myself to have found a great teacher of the oriental physical disciplines is an impossibility not to be imagined. Nonetheless something led me to Al Gardner and it changed my life. I remember how it happened. I was in the locker room of a gym and someone mentioned him. I had seen him around town, how could you miss him, 400 pounds, barefoot, on a motorcycle and I said something slighting. A man there said I was completely ignorant and that that man was something really special. I was impressed enough to go and introduce myself.

He accepted me as a student with his easy grace and friendly air. Just as I was about to sign up he grasped my wrist, gently but with immense strength. Looking into my eyes he said; “Ninety percent of the people that want to join the martial arts are assholes. Are you an asshole?” “I don’t think so,” I squeaked, and he accepted it.

To learn at Al’s dojo was to accept his understanding of the martial arts. He told me that learning karate his way meant that one would never have to fight again and he was right. Sure there were tournaments, sparring, exercises, but in the real world, no, one’s acceptance of the way meant that one’s carriage, posture, behavior would preclude fighting as an intrusion of ego. More than my mind he taught my body and when I went on to travel the world, walking the streets of strange cities and byways alone in far away places time and again I saw that my mere attitude meant that I was safe from attack. Because of what he taught my body I was able to walk around the whole world without fear, able to experience the most exotic places and not find them in the least threatening. For this I could never thank him enough.

It was an amazing thing to me that he was not only a martial arts master but one of the finest musicians I’ve ever known. The oud is a notoriously difficult instrument, fretless and obstinate yet Al could make it effortlessly soulful, ardent and deeply emotional. He was not only an oud master, and I don’t believe there’s been a better oud player in America, but his understanding of jazz was encyclopedic and his reed playing was superb, clarinet and alto sax in particular. It was a relief to him to have a student that understood, at some level, music, because he could teach me kata forms with reference to musical notation. “Slow the sweep like a dotted quarter, then the hand strikes are triplets,” he’d say; a great teacher finds a way to communicate. He could enchant me with stories of his encounters with the jazz greats and make me want to learn better. I saw him create the same sort of common understanding with all his students; bankers, ironworkers, lawyers, hippies, it didn’t matter, he would find a way to get his knowledge across.

Anyone that has studied the martial arts with a great teacher knows how they become part of how one experiences the world, a voice in the ear, a presence over one’s shoulder, helping one to be stronger, more disciplined. I saw time and again how Sensei Al turned ordinary people into better humans and I felt myself how he changed me. There is a great loss in my world now that he’s gone yet his voice will still be there, making me work harder, think ahead and BREATHE! I can never thank him enough.

Update: There’s a fine article here (sign in required):

http://www.prx.org/pieces/15307/stationinfo

 

Cumberland Island Report

In an attempt to shake off the profound sadness resultant from the death of my teacher ( see post below) I’ll describe the beautiful weekend we had on Cumberland. We keep some bees on the Island, in good years making honey for the spectacular Greyfield Inn. This year was no good year, either on the mainland or the barrier islands for honey, blueberries, peaches, corn or most other agricultural enterprises. In the dearth of nectar some or our colonies on Cumberland succumbed, to starvation or varroa mites or hive beetles but I went through the survivors, helped them out as best I could and got them ready for the spring that will soon be upon us.

This is the best of times to be on Cumberland, cool, clear, free of pestiferous insects, generous of sun and balmy airs. We had a fine hike on Friday morning, along a trail new to us, through mature longleaf forest and old live oak. 10 kilometers of beauty full of butterflies, spanish moss and big trees. I did some fishing in the afternoon. The sea was soft and still with fish swirling and jumping and small pods of dolphins feeding back and forth in the river. I caught one speckle trout and one redfish and sent them both back to eat more shrimp and get bigger. The air was so still that one could hear the exhalations of the dolphins in the channel as they hurried back below to hunt.

In the evening we went to Lane’s Landing where there’s a cabin we hope to stay in soon. There we experienced a sunset of transcendent beauty and imagined bringing friends there for another such. From the immense marshes to the west rails and herons squawked and chattered and stately wood storks roosted in the trees. As it got dark we went to Plum Orchard, the restored Carnegie mansion, now a Park Service facility, to use their dock for some early evening fishing. I hooked a pair of beautiful sea trout and sent them back to get bigger.

At sunrise we drove up to Stafford Beach, where we were engaged, six years ago, and had a good beach walk, poking in the spindrift for curiosities. Cuban rum bottles, many florescent light tubes and the remains of a dolphin, clearly butchered for meat. Who eats dolphins? It couldn’t have been killed more than forty miles away and I puzzled over it though Ellen pronounced it ’stinky’ and insisted we move on. I’m not talking about dolphin fish ( dorado, mahi-mahi ), a noble fish for the table, this was a bottle nosed dolphin, like Flipper, a mammal and not generally thought of as food. Perhaps it was by-catch for a commercial shrimper. We watched the shrimpers towing their enormous nets offshore, defined for our eyes by the cloud of birds diving into them, and saw plenty of dolphins inside the trawl.

Grateful to our generous hosts we were back in Fernandina by 4:30. It was as fine a weekend as one could have.

Update:  I really should always ask Stacia first.  All dolphins found dead are necropsied, the skulls saved along with some crucial parts and the remains sent back into the sea.  What I found was a relic of research, not harvesting for meat.  Wrong again.

 

Al Gardner Bardezbanian RIP

It is with the greatest sadness that I hear of the death of Al Gardner. One of the finest musicians I’ve ever had the privilege to hear and my martial arts instructor for many years he had a huge influence on me and all of the students in our dojo. A wonderful teacher, a great friend, a man it is impossible to describe. I’ll try to gather my thoughts and write more about him later, I’m too affected now.

 

LK & RB Live in Maine

Back from Maine to the still steaming South. While in Maine autumn is in the air and summer’s end is all too evident here in Georgia there is the faintest hint that the ovens have been turned down and that the long gentle southern fall is just over the horizon. Nothing like frost or days of 55F rain, just day time temperatures hovering below 90F and nights finally falling below 70F. There’s none of the urgency and intensity of New England falls and I think I can get used to it. And foliage, well I’ve seen plenty.

I was lucky enough to catch my friend Walter in his office on Wednesday and he says I don’t write enough about the band and bluegrass as I should given how much I think ( and talk ) about it and maybe he’s right. We had a fantastic gig at the Old Town House in Union, ME and the rehearsals were even better. The hall is remarkably intact and a super facility for intimate musical performance. The antique quilts on display help the sound ambience ( as well as visual ) and the angled stage, beadboard walls and general air of the nineteenth century made for a fun time. Although the audio quality is atrocious this gives an idea of what we were up to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71dm60Yd1fI

We played twelve hours straight on Saturday with time out only to drive to the gig and back. It turns out that we’re all equally crazy about this project and have been putting in lots of woodshed time. Thus the sound was even more our own and even better than last time. We can’t wait for next time.

 

Green Papaya Salad

The weather has been steamy, 99F to 101F, maximum humidity and it makes me think of Bangkok where stifling is just regular. For me Bangkok, its difficulties aside, was a non-stop every day street food party. The local denizens are nobody’s idea of fun, like the residents of capitol cities everywhere ( see Paris, Cairo, Bonn, el pinche DF, etc. ) but they do have ideas about things, especially food.

Among the many street food discoveries in Bangkok was green papaya salad. It was like putting a grenade in one’s stomach. Noises I’ve never heard from inside a living body that kept going for a long time. Every time I’d have it one hour later I’d swear never again. Then, the next day, I’d find myself in the vicinity of a papaya salad dealer and I’d think, oh yeah.

The components of Thai cuisine are all present in papaya salad, magnified. For a serving of typical ( to American eyes tiny ) size there would be three cloves of garlic, two or three fresh, red Thai chilis, fish sauce ( lots ), lime juice ( lots, natch ) a yard long green bean, sliced, three or four leaves of lettuce, the papaya and…. some kind of sea flavour.

One place that I favoured for a fix was a bizarre food court on the eighth floor of a vertical mall. The view of smog choked and flat Bangkok was exotic and the food choices, in brightly lit, white tiled booths were, well, different. At a table was a papaya salad group, three or four vendors in a row. They had nurse like uniforms and a near fiendish delight in preparing a salad that would make you regret it. The reason I would get papaya salad there was on account of the black crabs which were only occasionally available on the street and are crucial for the sea flavour. After all the other ingredients were mixed in the big wooden mortar there would be a pause. Because I was a farang and therefor insane and unpredictable ( but probably had some money ) the server would look at me interrogatively. I would, with my best Thai manner, point to the crabs. There would be a second interrogative look. That was because of the significant upcharge for the crabs. Imperious, I would assent. One of the small, live, black crabs would be chosen, cut up with scissors and added to the mortar. More vigorous mashing. The resultant mixture was added to the shredded papaya and poured over the lettuce and bean.

It is so explosive your brain can’t remember how intense it is, every time you take the first bite and say, oh yeah, I remember now. It is too hot, too salty, too citrusy acidic, and don’t forget the enzymatic action. Papain, just one of the enzymes in papayas, is one of the main ingredients in meat tenderizers. I wished they would give one more salad with it but try and tell them anything. The rumblings start soon and before you know it there’s a Tambora going on in your heartland and you’re swearing never again, again.

So last night I made green papaya salad. I tend toward the Vietnamese style and add more lettuce and greens than you’d ever get in Bangkok but it had the authentic effect, making the heat outside more endurable. I like the substitution of honey for sugar and habaneros for Thai chilis. I used raw Georgia shrimp in place of the black crabs. Our friend Vinh, the source of our green papaya, says that a similar crab is available in Florida but I haven’t found it yet.

• One green papaya, peeled, seeded and shredded
• 6-8 cloves garlic, chopped
• 2 ripe habaneros, seeded and minced, hey, I said it was going to hurt
• 1 tablespoon honey
• 2 tablespoons Thai fish sauce
• 4 cherry tomatoes or one regular
• 5 tablespoons fresh lime juice
• 5 medium size raw shrimps

Lightly steam a handful of green beans and shred a small head of romaine. Arrange some beans and lettuce on serving plates ( this is for four servings ). Mosh all ingredients except papaya in a mortar. Toss with papaya and serve on lettuce.

 

Elders do at least one thing right

Evidently Peter Gabriel and Richard Branson talked Nelson Mandela into launching The Elders, a group of international boffins ready to hector the rest of the world into doing right. Jimmy Carter, Mary Robinson, Muhammed Yunus and other of the great and the good were treated to some a capella Peter Gabriel and generous helpings from the platitude platter and the banality buffet. One wishes them well.

In the BBC report I heard on the event there was one detail that electrified me and had me sitting up sleepless for two hours; they kept an empty chair for Aung San Suu Kyi. It was my great good fortune to be in Rangoon when the evil junta was still allowing her to speak once a week over the wall of the compound where she’s been under house arrest. There were around four hundred there, mostly students, and many cruel faced men in aviators, both in and out of uniform, taking photos of the crowd in what seemed a pretty effective intimidation technique. They were chilling.

I was surreptitiously invited to sit amongst some students who, holding magazines and paper in front of their face to hide the fact they were speaking to me welcomed me and translated the proceedings. After some brave chanting and susurations of suspense she suddenly popped up from behind the wall, radiant, with a spectacular orchid in her hair. Speaking in Burmese she urged a strategy that might seem anodyne and obvious but was heartfelt and very like what my grandfather or I or even Antonio Gramsci would say, that education, investigation and research were the only possible tools against a tyranny so monstrous as that which had taken Burma.

Called ‘Lady’ by most who dare refer to her in the country she was greeted by a chant of ‘Thank you lady’ which brought tears to the eyes of many there and which clearly affected her too. Still she very consciously projected strength and bravery and a kind of steel. She avoided mentioning the junta ( the fantastically named State Law and Order Restoration Committee… SLORC ) and accentuated the positive, what ordinary people could do in the extraordinary circumstances. It was the most affecting political event I’ve ever been at and at the end, after a short greeting in English to the dozen or so tourists there she waved to all and disappeared behind the wall. A very brave man, it seemed to me, stood up and waved his arm in a circle and cheered out her name three times, each time followed by a louder cheer from all there and I found I was cheering with tears in my eyes with every one else.

That was my second day in Burma and one of the finest memories I have of life on the road. I loved Burma and its people in a way that changed the way I traveled. I cared less about the monuments and sights and found myself finding ways to involve myself with the people every day. Later in Bangkok two smug leftist girls from Holland were scolding me for going there and ’supporting the dictatorship’*. My answer was that the tiny amount of money I might have given them was completely outweighed by the value of having a friendly american with a guitar laughing with the Burmese from one end of the country to the other. I was a tiny indication to them that some part of the outside world knew and cared and their gratitude, kindness and emotional generosity touched me deeply.

I was using an over the shoulder bag I’d gotten in Laos and its rudimentary stitching had given way. In Lashio in the northern Shan state I was walking down the street and met a woman on the sidewalk with an ancient Singer sewing machine, black with worn gold lettering and run by a treadle. She was in her sixties, friendly and dignified and like most her age had pretty good english. She clucked at the Laotian stitching and assured me she knew exactly what to do and got right to it. We chatted as she sewed, about where I’d been and her family. I told her I’d seen Aung San Suu Kyi and she brightened but looked around anxiously. After completing the sewing and showing me how strong it was she handed it over with a little flourish. I asked her what I could give her and she absolutely refused all payment. I insisted, as gently as I could, and we went back and forth. Finally she said ‘How do you like my country?’ With genuine feeling I told her I loved her country. ‘That is payment enough for me’ she said.

On the train back to Mandalay days later there was an itinerant musician with only one leg that hopped on the train a couple of stops south of Lashio. He had an odd five stringed instrument, something like a lute but with steel strings. Of some non-Shan ethnicity he sang keening folk songs and plucked away. I gave him some money of infinitely small value and he sang me a few songs. I pointed at last to my guitar over head in the rack and his eyes widened. With signs he insisted I get it down. I no sooner had the guitar out that word spread throughout the train ‘farang play guitar’ and most of the people on the train packed into our car, dozens of them in the seats with me. There were three with hands or arms on my shoulders, a few more on the floor around my feet and more snuggling up on either side and spilling over the backs of the benches. I played them ‘Walkin with my baby by the San Francisco bay’ and Single Pin keened out one of his. I gave them Stormy Weather and Hesitation Blues and got some more keening in return. It was great. The folks were so warm and appreciative and uninhibited. There was much air guitar playing and silly faces and friendly mocking of my size and singing. I gave One Leg a bunch of spare strings and picks and he swung himself off the train to catch the next one north.

A week or so later I was in Kalaw, a former British hill station. By then I was traveling with an Irish Canadian named Diarmuid Conway and we heard there was a real billiards table left over from colonial days. Sure enough in an old officers club was the real, full sized deal. It was empty when we got there but word spread fast and in by the time we’d finished a warm-up game there was enough of a crowd that peanut hawkers came round, the guy with buckets of iced beer and a little betel nut stand appeared, soon followed by the local pros. Diarmuid and I put up a good fight before conceding to the home team and breaking up the party. We’d heard there was a secret restaurant in town and wanted to track it down. Under the SLORC you need permission to do any business with tourists and they keep a parallel currency system in place to enforce it. I had been coached in Bangkok on how to avoid the mandatory purchase of tourist scrip at the Rangoon airport and used either Burmese money, Thai baht or dollarsUS the whole time I was there. Because only cronies or toadies could run restaurants for tourists many were execrable or worse. The deep poverty of the general population didn’t help the food scene either. Hence we were excited at the prospect of a classical Burmese meal at a secret restaurant.

We went to where we’d been sent but could see no sign of the place. It looked an ordinary neighborhood left over from the Raj with bungalows of varying seediness. On the sidewalk neatly dressed women gossiped in the evening cool. On our second time back and forth on the block one of the women whispered ‘You want restaurant?’ and ushered us quietly around a bungalow to the beautiful garden in back. She took us into the house where there was a single table set in the middle of the main room, all curtains drawn. It turned out to be three sisters, maybe in their early thirties though Burmese women are seemingly ageless. As the three of them introduced themselves and stared us expectantly we both got a little nervous. Our request for beer, cold and lots of it seemed to fluster them a little too. When we told them we wanted them to cook whatever there was, Burmese style and spend as much as they wanted they got a little more flustered and we started to worry. Two went away to confer and left us with the youngest one who had the best english. She was also the prettiest and caught our nervousness. In an attempt to lighten things up I complemented the flowers. There were flowers in bowls and vases around the room and on our table a large bowl of sweet peas. I told her, quite truthfully, that they were among my favorite flowers and that I associated them with a beautiful Burmese girl I had dated in the States. The woman visibly paled, seized the bowl and rushed from the room.

Diarmuid started berating me. What have you done? Why go and upset the poor girl? What kind of a meal do you think we’re going to get now? After a prolonged silence one of the sisters brought our beers and things started looking up. After some delicious appetizers the youngest sister rushed into the room with a brilliant smile and a giant bowl of glowing sweet peas. As she put them on the table; ‘Those others,’ she said with a dismissive gesture,’Those were from yesterday.’ Our meal came and the three of them stood there with folded hands and big smiles and wished us a good appetite.

I could go on, but that’s why I was glad that in their somewhat self-congratulatory little ceremony in South Africa they left an empty chair for a wonderful representative of a wonderful people.

Update: My friend Audrey has a letter I wrote to her at the time and says that I told her the crowd chanted ‘Bless you dear Lady’ not ‘Thank you Lady’ as I say above.  I bet that’s right.  Thanks Audrey!

 

Now with even more chicken

One chicken method I’ve never been able to reverse engineer, and one of the best I’ve ever had anywhere is ayam percik. A specialty of the northeastern Malaysian state of Kelantan it is at its best in the night market of Khota Bharu where I first had it. Chicken pieces are marinated in spices and coconut milk and then grilled. In most of Malaysia thats it, thats ayam percik but in Khota Bharu they serve it on rice and bean sprouts with a heavenly sauce. Something like satay because it has nuts and chilis but more complex because of spices and citrus; if I had to guess I’d say candlenuts and oranges are in there, maybe cinnamon. Its lighter and spicier than most satay and quite delicious.

I’ve been googling ayam percik for years hoping to get closer to making it at home. The closest I’ve come yet is this report straight from Khota Bharu complete with pictures of one of the places I had it and a good picture of the dish itself. The night market in Khota Bharu is really fun with dozens of food stalls making regional specialties. Biggest drawback: a total lack of beer.

 

Roosters, grrrr.

When we got our chicks they were guaranteed to be 15 meat birds and 10 layers. There were 27 birds and it looked like 16 meat birds ( now gone to their reward ) and 11 layers. One of the layers disappeared two months ago, a presumed owl victim. Since then we’ve had the BBC on overnight out in the barn and it has prevented any further losses. Any effect on the pronounced muttonchop sideburns sported by the hens is, I’m sure, coincidental.

Once the meat birds were gone the layers were more free to develop whatever character chickens can muster and there was one that didn’t look like any hen I’ve ever seen. Its complicated by the fact that we got an assortment and there’s some pretty different birds but this one, which started out as the smallest and feistiest of the chicks grew into something that resembled a rooster. Sure enough I was working in the garden the other day and he discovered his gender and started crowing. It was a little tentative, he’s still an adolescent but it was unmistakable rooster type noises. Since then he’s working on a personal style and a routine, he gives a few crows between 5 and 5:30.

One of our agreements when we decided to get chickens was: No Roosters. I have issues with roosters because of some old history which I’ll now relate. There I was in Java after the worst train journey I’ve ever had ( which is another story….. while most of my 3rd world train trips were fun this one was a nightmare ) and I found a guesthouse by a process I no longer recall. I had a cubicle of my own, a rough twin bed and the traditional cardboard walls and dim lighting of most Indonesian backpacker accomodation. There’s always a reason why its cheap and I found out at 2:45 am the first night when a demented rooster started crowing on the other side of the cardboard wall. He started an equally demented elderly lady who started moaning, keening and wailing. This symphony continued for what remained of the night. I got very little sleep and it wasn’t restful.

The next day, still considerably reduced by the train trip, lack of sleep and the boring Javanese diet I couldn’t muster the energy to change inns. I had also developed an astounding rash, a poison ivy like itching that I blamed on the wretched train trip. After some desultory sightseeing and some snake satay ( anything to break up the dullness of Indonesian food ) I once again retired to my cubicle. 2:45, the rooster starts up and the demented elderly lady joins in. I toss and turn and scratch. It seems to my sleep deprived mind that the rooster has some bizarre connection to the demented elderly lady or vice versa. He crows with increasing urgency. She moans, wails and keens with increasing urgency. Surely it must lead to something but no, it just goes on until drowned out by the urban sounds of dawn.

In the morning, now three days without sleep, I decide I must seek medical assistance, the rash has become all consuming and I can’t go on. I ask at the desk for the nearest clinic and the young man asks what the problem is. I explain and exhibit the symptoms. A smile crosses his face and he says; “Oh, is no problem. Is small animal, live in bed.” Heroically suppressing the urge to punch him repeatedly I inform him that I’m ready to check out. It was the only time I ever saw that particular kind of bedbug, although I never did actually see one. I hear they are very small. The combination of sleeplessness, itching, demented elderly lady and rooster left me scarred. For years afterwards I had an irrational antipathy to roosters.

Jump forward to 1999. I was in Puerto Escondido, Oax, Mexico looking for a good Y2K party. There was some kind of surfing contest involving boogie boards going on and rooms were hard to find. After a long slog in the equatorial heat I finally found a very nice room. The bad news was the owner, a tall blond German married to a small round Mexican, was obsessed with fighting cocks and had a herd of two dozen tethered in the central patio of the hotel. I asked the girl who checked me in how bad it was in the morning and she said about the way you think. Puerto Escondido is a party town, there’s almost no reason to be there except to go out at night and yet. I was always aware that every beer, every mezcal brought me that much closer to 4am when the fighting cocks would start their daily competition.

The german would do a daily ritual with his trainer and the roosters, releasing them from their tethers and holding them while he spoke sweet nothings to them. I’ve seen fighting cocks back in Indonesia where they invented them and it seemed to me that these coddled Mexican ones wouldn’t last long against serious opponents. Inquiries confirmed that he hadn’t had much luck in the fights. I tried to work out the translation for ‘cock whisperer’ but gave it up as fraught. I stayed five nights, deepening my bias against all things rooster. The morning of Jan 1, 2000 came as all other mornings came there with a cacophony ( cockophony? ).

So now I have a rooster, still adolescent and tentative but crowing nonetheless. Perhaps it will cure my antipathy.

 

Dodged a bullet

Another fantastic gig as the band gets better in oh so many ways.  This time the singing was better, the audience was bewitched and we remembered some of the arrangements.  Today in South Georgia a front came through with much needed rain and the pressure drop did this.  I’ve been stressing about it the last three gigs, had spare strings along just in case  ( though not very good strings ) and while one never likes to see a $50 string give up the ghost doing in my music room two days after a gig is the best way it could happen.

 

Tiffany Tavern gig coming up

The band plays the Tiffany Tavern this coming Saturday, June 16.

We get better every time and the last gig was more fun than is legal in many states. We’re doing three sets, come on out if you’re any where near DC. Rob and Bob will be there too, they’re just not in this shot which features Lisa Kay, our fearless leader.