Dastgah: Diary of a headtrip by Mark Mordue
By Mark Mordue
Australian award-winning journalist Mark Mordue invitations you on his global journey that levels from a Rolling Stones live performance in Istanbul to conversing with mullahs and junkies in Tehran, and from a cricket fit in Calcutta to an S&M bar in long island, as well as many issues in among. Mordue chronicles his year-long worldwide trip along with his female friend, Lisa Nicol, exploring international locations such a lot american citizens by no means see in addition to problems with global citizenship within the twenty first century. Written within the culture of literary journalism, Dastgah will take you to all types of areas, the world over . . . and inside of your self.
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Additional resources for Dastgah: Diary of a headtrip
It’s all over now baby blue. With my wallet still fresh in hand, though, we’d go to Eden Gardens a few days later for the Australia versus India test match. Initially it had been hard to get tickets, despite the 120 000 capacity of the ground. But by the last day Australia was being slaughtered so embarrassingly two New Zealanders at the hotel happily parted with their VIP passes to the grandstands. They couldn’t bear to watch this one-sided game any longer. They warned us about sitting with the Australian contingent, a group of about twenty guys who had so angered the cricket mad locals they now had a police cordon stationed around them.
He’s only too happy to respond. 52 DASTGAH FINAL PAGES 4/9/01 9:23 AM Page 53 NEPAL He does not return home to Europe much he says. ‘Four years ago the last. Poland is below Thailand in development,’ he explains sniffily, clueing us in to his origins. ‘Poland was not a country for 150 years. They are very scattered. Polish people think let’s go somewhere else,’ he shrugs, dismissing the place permanently. He reads philosophy and psychology mostly. ‘I stay away from radio, television, newspapers too.
He knocks at the door and I am surprised to see him. I had forgotten his promise. Dainsun opens his hand to pass me a large stone and smiles. ‘Chakma,’ he says. ’ 48 DASTGAH FINAL PAGES 4/9/01 9:23 AM Page 49 THE ANGRY HAND don’t see her whole face at first. Hardly anything of the face at all. She has a shawl, exceedingly black and heavy in the mountain heat, that she uses to shield herself from my gaze. In the barest flash of her profile I detect the possibility of a great beauty, a line of perfection any man would covet.