Updated Blog with RSS and Email

Okay, so I am not as slow as I thought I was.

I often watch older people, like my parents, struggle with new technology. Even a cell phone elicited from my mom, "How do I check voicemail?" And then I wonder if she would figure out
how to enter names and numbers into her phones memory.

Heck, sometimes I even struggle with that stuff (if only engineers and designers made things more user friendly...but I digress.) Remember, I still not a member of ipod nation.

Anyway, I figured out how to add an RSS feed and email subscription box to this blog. So those of you who were looking to subscribe - if any - nows your chance.

Stay tuned...

Captain's Log: Spring Fever

Hey gang,

Happy May Day and Spring to everyone. The weather in New York City is finally changing, though it's been volatile the last couple weeks, going from 75 F to 55 F from one week to the next. Sorry that the Captain's been MIA for a few months. I think my last Captain's Log was around the new year. So I'll be catching you up on the last four months - but first a message from our sponsors...

Help Wanted

I need you all to start thinking of your social/business networks - you LinkedIn and myspace/facebook users.

1) Literary Agents - I need recommendations for a good agent for my book. A non-fiction work, a memoir about a naive young man that joins the Marine Corps. In essence a coming of age story; think combo of Accidental Asian meets Jarhead and The Caine Mutiny.

2) Movie People - I'm finding work as a Production Still Photographer very interesting and gratifying. I want more. So pass on names of movie people, producers, directors, etc. that I might reach out to for more work.

3) Event Planners - I do great work shooting events, and especially like corporate type gigs. So let me know who you know that is involved in this area that I might approach.

...now back to our regularly schedule program...


2008 has been a great year overall. I continue to build my photography business (check out revamped website www.michaelseto.com), with writing taking a back seat for now. I pretty much am committed to try and make a viable living from photography and more work has been slowly coming my way. I realize that I need to market myself much better since most of the work comes through word of mouth and recommendations. At the same time, I'm consciously holding back to make sure I carve out enough time to finish my book project.

What Now Lieutenant? is my memoir about my six years in the Marines and how it changed me. (updates on www.whatnowlieutenant.com) I have about 275 pages of the rough manuscript done. My outline projects a final manuscript of about 430 pages - so about 2/3 done. What I am focusing on is polishing a book proposal. I understand 90% of non-fiction is sold by proposal, a 10-12 page document that summarizes the book, market, competition, and why you should write it. It's supposed to be sent to agents and editors to try and get them to offer you a contract. A few selected friends, with writing experience, are helping me as readers for the proposal; it's always impossible to edit your own writing.

Now that I'm finished with my three month internship at a small publishing company, INK Publishing, the book proposal is my priority. The internship gave me some useful structure and a schedule. I learned a lot about how magazines, especially with tight budgets, solve their imaging needs. As a photographer, this was an invaluable lesson in how to make myself visible to the right people, and what skills I need to win their business. I successfully got a few pictures published in Skybussing, My Midwest, and Go, all airline in-flight magazines.

But April suddenly became busy with photo gigs - in one week I shoot a record eleven gigs. Wow. I'm finally emerging from under the resulting post-production; yes, the work does not stop with just snapping the shutter. I'm finding I spend two hours on post- for every hour of shooting I do. It's been great - I think I grossed about $4k in April, my best month yet. The great thing is that I feel much more certain about what areas of photography I want to concentrate on. I really enjoyed a couple of indie films where I shot the production stills. These are the stills that go into ads; they're meant to capture the look of the actual film. Then you've got the behind the scenes stuff as well. To me unit/production photography combines documentary with a commercial flair - all shot PJ style. That's photojournalistic style, I really like this type of work, as opposed to fashion. I'm also enrolled in a class on photojournalist at ICP, the International Center for Photography - the class is in it's third of ten weeks and I'm benefitting from having others look at my work, though most of the participants are more intermediate photogs and students.

With the maelstrom of photography work, the book proposal got put on the backburner till this week. Now, I'm starting on a revised proposal. My goal will be to get query letters out toward the middle of May. It's tough trying to balance working on the photography, marketing my photography, and setting aside the proper time I need to work on the book. It always feels like each week only allows me to do one or the other. Hmmmm. My plan going forward will to be try and build on a few areas like events and unit stills - stuff that pays well and motivates me, respectively - while setting aside adequate time to write. We'll see how that works out...

I do want to mention that the project I hoped for, a three-month documentary for City Harvest, a NYC based charity that rescues food, had been approved in Feb and we're entering our third month of shooting. This is strictly pro-bono but a great opportunity for me to get a foot in the door and associate my name with a well known non-profit. They'll use the photos for publicity, fund raising etc. And there's been some talk bandied about of a gallery showing to publicize the program I'm documenting - but that's putting the cart ahead of the horse and in the next valley.

Socially, I say I've been pretty reclusive and monastic; the immediate response from those who know me is, "bullsh-t!" They're probably right. I do get out, but I must say the range of what I do and where I go is curtailed. I'm trying to save $$$ so weekly $200 dinners are out of the question. I'm trying to keep my living expenses (outside of rent/utilities) to about $1000 a month. Maybe 30% of my previous spend rate when I worked on Wall Street. The Seto freezer is filled with leftovers and frozen pot pies - yikes. The only real luxury I allow myself is...you guessed it...GOLF! I've been on like four trips to Myrtle Beach since Thanksgiving with another planned for the Memorial Day Holiday. I'm also going out to the US Open in June at Torrey Pines San Diego with the hope of doing some golf photography. A friend of a friend is trying to hook me up with some folks from Sports Illustrated so we'll see how that works out.

Anyway, that's a very quick rundown of my last four months. I apologize for being MIA. I feel like I'm seeing people a lot less - those once a month things now have become once a quarter. Working a sole proprietorship, especially one where I'm constantly learning and far from any mastery of my subject takes a quantity of mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual commitment that I did not conceive of beforehand.


Michael Seto

Last Minute Gig

Wed morning 9 am. The phone rings, the caller wants to know if I'm free the next couple days. Yes, I answer. Well, can you meet our delegation at 45 Rock in 90 minutes ready to shoot? Should be a standard documentary assignment, grips and grins.

Sure. This is the reason I always recharge every battery and repack all my photo gear when I get back from a shoot. This way I am always ready to go when the phone rings.

Ready-Bag

For all my shoots, I pack two of everything: cameras, lenses, flashes, batteries. So this time, I grab my Think Tank Speedbelt and lug the D2x, D200, a 12-24mm, 17-55 f2.8, and a 18-200 VR (backup); 2 SB-800's and a couple sets of Powerex AA's. Gels for the speedlights since I am shooting indoors under all kinds of lighting. I decide to bring a portable lightstand, 36" umbrella with removable black backing, and a pair of Pocket Wizards - just in case. (Turns out I don't need the portable studio setup, so I ditch it the next day.) All this fits in my TT belt and a shoulder bag.


I meet the group at Rockefeller Center and away we go for two and half-days of shooting. Here's a photo of two members walking along the unfinished 38th floor of #7 WTC.

Dipping a toe in the world of blogging

Well folks, I've officially joined the world of bloggers with this. Hmmm, not quite sure how I'll approach putting my life on the internet. If you are really bored, then watch this space.

Asana, Sadhana, and Siddhartha

Rishikesh, India
9 March 2003

The holy city of Varanasi, India, on the Ganges, the home of Goddess Shiva. Photo by Michael Seto



A bather washing away their sins in the holy Ganges. Photo by Michael Seto

The 'dom' lifted the green bamboo stave, two inches thick and some six feet long, longer than his wiry frame. His stringy muscles flexed under his dark chocolate skin. THWAPPCRACK! The supple green bamboo pole snapped into the burning wood pile. Sparks and embers flew off in all directions. He shoved violently on one end, pushing large blackened log back into the heat of the fire.

My eyes darted from top to bottom of the scene, trying to take it all in, despite some itching and watering from the smoke. Standing behind a rail just fifteen feet from the flames, I held up my arm to shield my face from the radiating heat. Trying to discern the unfamiliar smell in the air. Around me, 'untouchables' sat amongst cords of wood piled high into the air next to a over sized scale - similar to the scales of justice...

I arrived in Varanasi, India a couple days ago and found a decent room in the Puja Hotel ('puja' also is the act of prayer especially in the Ganges River, just yards from the hotel.) Varanasi, formerly Benares, sits on the river Ganges and means 'eternal city' in Hindi - its the 'Mother Ganges.' Each year, thousands (and I mean THOUSANDS) come to bath in the waters in this holy spot. One dunking supposedly washes away all the sins committed to now. Dying here means instant transport to heaven, do not pass go, do not collect $200!

The old city, which abuts the riverfront on the West bank, consists of a warren of narrow passageways and alleys, some just four feet wide. Shopfronts, residences, hotels, and restaurants all mix together in the atmospheric neighborhood. Cows meander the cobbled streets, stopping to munch on organic trash piled in every corner, and then leave viscous evidence of their own passing.

Wandering around, I keep my eye focused on the ground, like a monk, lest I slip through some slimy trash or cow patties, which the Indian kids seem to ignore, running around barefoot without a care! Once a cow stood astride the narrow road, I helplessly I stood behind it, till some little kid came along, slapped the cows side, and then it sauntered away. Whew!

Ghats, or steps to the water, line the riverfront, the Dasaswamedh Ghat being one of the most popular for bathing in the Ganges; and every morning, in the rising sun, pilgrims and locals alike drift to the waterfront and descend the stairs into the water. Boatmen beckon passersby to take a ride.

Wandering along the ghats one morning, I stumbled onto a group of pilgrims, from all parts of India and the world, gathered under a tent listening to a guru of some type. I watched and snapped photos for a couple hours. Then they all rose and went to a section of the river screened off by a stage set up in the water. There, they undertook all kinds of ceremony and prostrations and in small groups of family and friends, entered the water.

My eyes followed a group of young women, resplendent in their brilliant saris, as they settled down by the water. Some clutched ropes set into the slippery steps, worn by countless soles and coated with moss. They dipped their hands and sprinkled the water over themselves, working slowly deeper into the water. Laughs and giggles and splashing as they immersed themselves repeatedly, their wrapped saris clinging to them like the red stripe holds a candy cane.

Fascinated and so moved by the bliss of this group, I unceremoniously set down my camera, stripped down to my shorts (unzipping my high-tech pants!) and slowly walked into the water. The cold grabbed my toes and ankles as I swam in, refreshed from the 85 degree air. I clamped my nose and mouth and eyes and dipped myself fully into Mother Ganges.

The Ganges ranks as one of the most polluted waterways in the world, with raw sewage pouring in from the city of Varanasi. Considered septic (no oxygen left suspended in the water) with astronomical bacteria counts, one can easily get sick from injecting the 'holy' waters. Dead cows often float by along with human cadavers.

Immediately after my dip, I ran back to my hotel, showered and soaped my body, shampooed my hair, put in eye drops and brushed my teeth. I ended up with just a mild rash which went away after three days...

Before Varanasi, I spent a few days in Bodhgaya, where Buddha (formerly Indian prince Siddartha Gautama) attained enlightenment after seven days of meditating under the Bodhi Tree. There I wandered about the Mahabodhi Temple all day, trying to get a bit of my own enlightenment through osmosis!

Several Buddhist countries have constructed elaborate monasteries for their own monks to live in while at Bodhgaya, and you can wander from Tibet to Thailand in a couple hundred meters. The other facilities for 'tourists' lack a bit, but most don't linger too long here.

I searched for a Vipassana meditation class, taking a rickshaw a couple miles outside of town to this known Dhamma school, but alas, the teacher was away and no courses were on offer then. In fact, I arrived a few days after several festivals and important Tibeten events (their new year) so most of the monasteries and such were winding down from that.

Instead, I made a nightly pilgrimage to the temple, removed my shoes (a requirement) and circumambulated the temple three times in walking meditation. Around me, groups of monks chanted, sporting the classic crimson and orange robes. Other groups in white sat in prayer: Japanese, Thai, Chinese, Vietnamese, groups from all over came to pay homage to the primogenitor of their philosophy/religion.

As chants also played over the modern PA system, I sat in seiza (where both legs are folded under you and you sit on your ankles) since I cannot manage lotus and pondered the Four Noble Truths, the Eightfold Path to Enlightenment, etc. I also wondered, 'what the heck am I doing? I don't FEEL anything!' So I sat and sat and sat. Well, it took me a while, but I realized you can't force these things. Its a step by step process for most and half and hour of meditating where Buddha sat doesn't always do it. No shortcuts!

Leaving the tranquility of the temple grounds, one immediately falls under siege of the touts outside the gate, selling incense, toys, beads, prayer flags and all the other accouterments of religion. Its the same everywhere in India and I felt more used to the noise and fury of it all, ignoring it more easily. (Maybe this meditation stuff does help!)

I drifted off after a couple days, and hoped onto a local train to Varanasi, tired of my valiant but seeming futile effort to find my Buddha nature. Better luck next time!

Everywhere in Varanasi, wander these ascetics who renounce all possessions seek enlightenment through 'Sadhana.' These men (only men) are known as sadhus; though to uninformed eyes they look like homeless guys, and act like them since their renunciation of possessions means they must beg for money, I mean 'alms,' to get through the day. After a couple days, I tired of handing out 2-3 Rupees to each guy (about 10 cents).

Clad usually in orange robes, they look like a band of Fanta mascots, except for the scraggly beards and the yellow or red paint exhibited on their foreheads. For years they pursue daily meditation and mortification of the flesh to reach a state of nirvana, supposedly. Wandering around here you feel like you stepped into central casting for some Rudyard Kipling movie.

Many of the sadhus seem to swear by 'catalysts' to help them in the search for nirvana, smoking prodigious amounts of hashish and offering some to every passerby. I turned down these generous teachers, never sure what actually passed around posing as hash.

One Austrian backpacker went berserk in my hotel, howling obscenities and incoherent phrases. He dashed out and ended up fighting some Indian policemen. Without any travel companions to look after him, the hotel folks generously collected him screaming back to the hotel. I awoke one morning and in the lobby found him buck naked, smeared in his own feces and yelling at the poor Indian innkeepers, who stood with bamboo staffs to protect themselves.

Finally, a few days later, another Austrian who checked in was enlisted to try and talk this guy 'down' or get in touch with the embassy for assistance. I left later that day, not knowing what happened, but impressed on not sharing every joint passed my direction.

After a week in Varanasi, tired of relaxing on the rooftop and watching the river flow by, I headed north to the state of Himachal Pradesh and the headwaters of the Ganges in Haridwar and Rishikesh, about 300 miles from Varanasi.

Rishikesh bills itself as the Yoga Capital of the World, where the Beatles found their guru and the banks of the Ganges are lined with ashrams where one take undertake all kinds of meditation and yoga courses. Haridwar, an hour further downstream, offers much more stringent courses which require silence and prayer and thus most foreigners end up in Rishikesh.

Settling into the cute little Green Hotel, I wondered how I would find a suitable course. But as the Zen saying goes, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear" I ran into a woman who suggested the course in the back of the same Green Hotel I resided at.

Popping in for the evening class at 5:30, I found about a dozen other western backpackers being led by Pankaj, the 28-year old instructor. Fluent in English and very knowledgeable in physiology, Pankaj led the group in some vigorous asanas, aimed more at intermediate practitioners, though a beginner could endure most of his course.

Unlike the more aerobic version typically found in US health clubs, we worked on Iyengar yoga, with the focus on the correct assumption of each asana, held for several minutes. Pankaj wandered the room, correcting us sometimes with a gentle nudge or by leaping on our backs to help in a stretch (like 'child's pose').

He exhorted us with contradictory and seemingly impossible and incomprehensible instructions, "hit the thigh, pull the knee up, expand the chest, open the shoulders, close the hands, move through your pelvis, tuck under the sacrum, elongate the vertebrae." It resembled a sadomasochistic game of 'Twister.'

We stood on our heads, our shoulders, our hands, contorted into impossible shapes, all now candidates for Cirque de Soleil. Each day after class, I staggered to my room and luxuriated in the hot shower, from a bucket, of course! Afterwards, a meal of pasta or thali at one of the local restaurants before retiring at ten o'clock.

With no alcohol and a strict veggie diet for the past few weeks, I feel great! These holy cities in India forbid meat and alcohol, though not super strict, I have not yet found any booze or even eggs around here!

After morning yoga, I spend the day walking along the banks of the river; or lying upon one of the rocks, shaped like a lounge chair, reading. I saunter up to a cafe overlooking the town and dine on veggie chow mein, or a latte and a piece of homemade apple pie. Then I'd wander around more, taking in the peaceful Himalayan foothills amidst the soothing sound of the water.

The week passed quickly and with belt several notches tighter, and buns of steel, and able to grab my ankles and touch my face to my shins, I left for Dehli, where my own sadhana would end and I will live large with my Mom for the next ten days, aboard the Palace on Wheels through Rajastan.

I stood transfixed still watching the fire; something eluding the grasp of my brain. I flashed back to my time in the gulf when we rampaged through Kuwait on the heels of the Iraqi army, torched tanks and trucks lining the road, evidence of the relentless air war waged on the occupiers of Kuwait. The Iraqi soldiers...

It hit me. The log this guy kept pushing back into the fire was no log at all. The sticks he smashed with the bamboo were no sticks at all. The log was the blackened torso of a cadaver, being cremated at the Manikarnika Ghat, the most auspicious place for cremation on the Ganges in Varanasi. He was breaking the arm bones and pushing the corpse back into the heart of the fire. Deep down, I knew this all along, but sometimes the mind takes a moment to grasp what seems so unacceptable, a human body being burned on an open fire.

Suddenly fully awake, no outside sign of my change in awareness to betray my insight and initial horror. I now looked closer, searing (pardon the pun) the image into my memory. This was someones father, mother, brother, sister, loved one. Indeed, several relatives, normally a son, stood nearby, having ceremonially started the fire and circumambulated the body. Eventually, the ashes would be scattered into Mother Ganges. Ashes to ashes.

My clothes, my backpack, my camera, my family, my friends, my possessions...my LIFE, all went up in smoke. What remains when we pass on from this world I wondered? If this pyre represents my final physical destiny, of what importance ultimately are all the superficial trappings I've so eagerly pursued and sold my soul to gain? If death comes down to this, what is truly of worth to me in life?

I don't know the answers yet to these questions, but in retrospect, spending the past few weeks by myself, wandering in the steps of Siddartha, amongst others in Sadhana, and whilst contorted in Asana; I feel a few steps closer to an answer.

Letter to America

Rishikesh, India
6 March 2003

A double exposure of a Cambodian prison cell (during the "Killing Fields") over a rice paddy. Photo by Michael Seto

From abroad, I have watched the image of America roller-coaster since that fateful day of 9/11. From pitied to pariah in eighteen months, how fortunes change.

I have listened to ill-informed, mis-informed, and well informed world citizens (backpackers like myself), and citizens of many nations hold forth on geopolitics, terrorism, globalism, environmentalism, capitalism; all the other -isms that scream for our attention from the daily headlines.

In these discussions, I sometimes play the role of American advocate, sometimes that of American apologist, but always that of full-time American. My observations:

The world loves us. And the world hates us.

I Want to be Like Mike

The world loves the American way of life - the consumption society and our abundant material comforts. This is envied and emulated everywhere.

Everywhere I go, I see people wearing Nike or NBA shirts; ball caps invariably sport 'NY' or 'LA'. They clamor to eat at McDonalds, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and Pizza Hut. They quaff Coke and Pepsi. Everywhere you look, American logos scream forth from shops, signs, billboards.

They surf CNN and Yahoo! and Ebay on the predominantly English internet on Microsoft software. Their local soap operas and news comes with Baywatch sandwiched in between and MTV available everywhere. Local cinemas play Hollywood blockbusters, with pirated copies on sale outside.

Still Waters Run Deep

The envy of our material success breeds much mimicry of our system, yet often without the proper underlying foundation of individual rights, democracy and rule of law. Capitalism-lite in many countries has devolved into crony kleptocracy, souring the masses to insensitive markets running roughshod over small farmers, ancient communities and traditional values. (Witness the backlash against the WTO and IMF and UN.)

Not that our system is perfect, but you have to hand it to a hundred white guys who wrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights two-hundred years ago.

Without the proper 'software' like courts and laws and government, the accouterments of capitalism ring very hollow and inflexible, becoming vulnerable to volatile markets. The 1997 Asian crises, Russian crisis, and current Venezuelan, Argentinian and Brazilian problems bear this out. Its imperative to build the institutions that regulate a free-market democracy; it cannot be faked.

Hypocrisy Democracy

And they hate us. The most negative feedback about America seems to boil down to our 'sanctimonious hypocrisy'. In the world's eyes, its "do as we say, not as we do." We do not practice what we preach; and we certainly apply our principals inconsistently in the eyes of the world. They see us as arrogant bullies.

We want to liberate Iraqi citizens, but not Saudi Arabian or Syrians or Pakistanis or Chinese. We will attack Iraq for weapons of mass destruction, but not North Korea or India or South Africa. We decry Hamas violence, but not equally egregious Israeli responses. We shower money on rebuilding Afghanistan and bribe Turkey, but aid not Zimbabwe or the Congo.

We make ill-advised friends of convenience, favoring patchwork short-term solutions over long-term problem solving. This thinking resulted in the Shah of Iran and now we chum up to Musharraf of Pakistan, smiling for CNN while making himself dictator.

The largest hydrocarbon emitters, we derail the Kyoto Accords. We take our ball and go home when it comes to setting up a International Criminal Court if US peacekeepers can't get immunity. The richest nation in the world, we still slap petty steel and banana sanctions against the EU.

We make a poor effort at trying to understand other cultures and beliefs, demanding that things be done the 'American' way. We paint the colored world in black and white, good and evil, with us or against us; alienating many potential supporters.

The most often heard phrase from locals as I travel, "We love Americans but not your government."

America the Beautiful

Don't get me wrong. I love America and in my travels see very little to entice me to live elsewhere on a permanent basis.

We do a helluva lotta things right and a lot of things very well. What country rallied to defeat totalitarian nations in two world wars? What country has landed men on the moon? Who invented the internet? Which country in just over 200 years of existence, from nothing, is the richest, most diverse, and most free place in the world?

Any local I met abroad, whom I queried, "if you could live in any country other than your own, where would you go?" The resounding answer, of course, they all want to come to America.

Return to the Desert

Thirteen years ago, I emerged from the black oil clouds shrouding the Al-Wafra oilfields in Kuwait from the sun. As part of a column of coalition military might, I helped to liberate Kuwait in a five-day, one-side war against clear Iraqi aggression. America faces two related short-term problems, the war on Iraq and the war on terrorism, the latter also a longer-term problem.

In my mind, we will be at war with Iraq in weeks. Inevitable. We will defeat Iraq quickly, but the postwar scenario ranks much more important and difficult than the campaign itself. Its installing and maintaining a democratic government in Iraq and preventing any possible instability from arising and spreading that will demand willpower and determination.

As Thomas Friedman, NY Times, puts it: "What all this means is that when it comes to building democracy in Iraq, the Europeans are uninterested, the Americans are hypocritical and the Arabs are ambivalent. Therefore, undertaking a successful democratization project there, in a way that will stimulate positive reform throughout the region, will require a real revolution in thinking all around ・among Americans, Arabs and Europeans. If done right, the Middle East will never be the same. If done wrong, the world will never be the same."

Grave New World (Dis)order

September 11th ushered us into a grave new world of insecurity, suspicion, and fear.

Terrorism is not new, nor is it unbeatable. But while we cut off the heads of the hydra, the important objective remains to kill the animal itself. This may be impossible.

Ultimately, terrorism gets managed, not defeated. There will always be the Mohammad Attas and Tim McVeighs. The task is to minimize their opportunities for success and minimize the tools available to them through political, economic, social, law enforcement, and preemptive action.

The longer-term task calls for us to minimize the number of people who want to be the next Atta or McVeigh. Tougher task, but again not impossible.

The dilemma is how to balance a free-society, and limit government intrusion into our privacy whilst accomplishing the above tasks. I am confident that our nation and the Western democracies will find a balance. Its inevitable that terrorist successes will bring overreaction in protective measures, but in the long-run, common sense should win out.

Brave New World

The next longer-term plan calls for us to loudly and consistently use our bully pulpit to push for the things we stand for. Democracy. Human rights. Free markets.

The West need to call on, cajole, and sometimes strong-arm governments, both friend and enemy, to move towards democratic systems where citizens control their own destiny.

Compassionate Capitalism

The developed and 'rich' nations need to use our wealth of resources to assist the poorer nations. In addition to the intangible 'software' of human rights, democracy, and free markets; we must assist in the 'hardware' building wells, sewers, schools, hospitals and power plants. To fail in this amounts to negligence.

We must offer hope.

If a Palestinian teenager thought about the upcoming school prom, borrowing the family Honda, playing Nintendo, and attending college; he would not be anxious to strap TNT to his torso and blow up a bus in Israel. Imagine if 10% of our defense budget, say $40 billion went to assist developing world in this manner; doubtless, in the long term, the global benefits would equal ten times that amount.

This last part really embodies 'draining of the swamp' of the short-term terrorism problem. Ameliorating the conditions that breed hopelessness and soften ears to the voices of extremism and intolerance, the siren song of violence and terrorism.

This cannot be accomplished overnight. This may take more like 25 years - a REAL long-term objective. Sadly, the US and the West tends to do poorly in these type of long-tailed undertakings. In our attention deficit world, we prefer those problems quickly and easily solved with an application of political, economic, or military power.

The Pepsi Challenge

This problem lies in the lap of our generation. That's us, the post baby boomers, Gen-X, Why and Zee; and maybe AA. The world we shape will be the world that surrounds us for the next quarter century.

Do we bury our heads in the sand and hope for a dot-com resurrection so we can continue consuming away and the other 94% of the world's population can suck our heel dust? Or do we step up to the plate and take up the mantle of this monumental task?

We are by far the most pluralistic and open-minded generation thus far; comfortable with hetero, homo, black, white, brown, Christmas, Haunakah, Kwanza. Yet we are stuck in pluralism and its shadow, a divisive tribalism. You can see it in the streets, the inability to integrate and synthesize a new order from all the parts. Instead, each special interest group clamors for its 'due,' each group feels owed or entitled to something.

Our challenge is to rise above such pettiness. We've made the tent bigger, the first step. But can we now get everyone singing the same tune, or at least pulling in the same direction.

Can we see the new potential whole of all these beautiful parts, unique in individual identity, but with similar needs, and with much in common below the surface. All these parts complementary and with the potential to form a whole which exceeds the sum of its parts.

A grand transcendence.

Bag an the Saddle

Bagan, Myanmar
14 February 2003

A balloon over Bagan, Mayanmar, at dusk. Photo by Michael Seto

The late afternoon sun warms my back as the swift breeze cools the sweat on my forehead; I shiver at the temperature difference and guide my bike down the narrow paved road. Around me, open fields with uncultivated grass and the occasional tree run away to the horizon. The sky blue and clear, I can see the distant foothills surrounding this valley.

Rust colored stupas stick up all around me, like oilcans, their spires gesturing skyward. The come in all different sizes, from a small outhouse to a ten story building. Each dedicated to Buddha and housing a statue or altar within. Some stand out starkly with whitewashed exteriors, others glisten brilliantly, the sun bouncing off golf plated domes.

The area of Bagan ranks as one of the least known Southeast Asian wonders, being situated in the reclusive country of Burma (Myanmar); long boycotted by the West at the urging of Aun Sung Suu Kyi, the charismatic leader of the democratic opposition to the military regime in control. Overtaken by Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Bagan beckons off the beaten track travellers with its own bucolic charm.

Waking up to roosters crowing and the rhythmic clickity-clack of horseshoes on the road, one feels transported back to Victorian times. In the early morning, a fog of cooking smoke clings at the ground and hugs the trees lining the streets. The smell of wood fires reminiscent of camping. Few cars go by, the roads dominated by horse carts, rickshaws, and the ubitquitous bicycle, all accompanied by pedestrians meandering to whatever obscure chores beckon.

Early in the morning, columns of scarlet robed monks appear like apparitions from the smoke, collecting alms and food in black lacquer bowls. Shaved heads bowed, they move from house to house, shop to shop, as locals dole out steamed rice or curries. Most Burmese are devout Buddhists.

Less inured to foreign tourists, the Burmese exude a friendliness and guilelessness that welcomes a jaded traveler, tired of incessant touts. Wide grins and a shouted "mingalaba" (hello) greet you at every turn. Kids and adults wave with genuine pleasure. To think that such happiness exists under a military dictatorship, where internet access is banned, surprises.

The tourist infrastructure here lacks the polish and choice of more developed Angkor Wat, but the enthusiasm of the service makes up for all the shortfalls. I stay at the May Kha Lar guesthouse for $7 per night and rent a bicycle to tour the area.

The town of Bagan was moved overnight by government diktat to New Bagan, though a few hotels still stand in now Old Bagan, with small village of Nuang Yu forming the hub of the tourist area. A paved ring road of about 12 miles links all three towns and the 'international' airport and takes you through the spectacular fields of payas and stupas and temples.

The Bagan catalog lists over 2,800 structures still standing, within the 80 square kilometer archaeological site. Three-dozen large multistory sites provide ample exploration for a week, especially when cruising leisurely from one to another on a bike.

Exotic named temples abound: Ananda Pahto, That Byin Nyu, Mingala Zedi, Dhammayan Gyi Pahto. The latter looks like a sixty foot tall soft-serve ice cream cone, gilded in gold leaf, it shimmers in the sun. Others reach skyward in the typical five pronged design that seems imitated in two-thirds of the structures, all built during 1000-1400 AD.

I turn off the road onto a dirt trail, pulled toward some distant spires. Bouncing past fields, oxen, farmers, as I make my approach. The various temples are still used for worship by the local people and Buddhist monks abound, meditating or collecting alms. With little regulation or supervision, one can wander at will around most sites, climbing hidden stairs to higher levels and gazing at the Buddha statues in relative isolation. With so many places to go, its easy to avoid other tourists and find solitude.

Sunset brings the most activity, with two or three of the larger temples becoming the focal point for tourists, disgorged from buses which themselves materialize from nowhere. Chattering hordes climb the steep stupas deigned the 'best sunset view' as a hot-air balloon from Balloons over Bagan drifts past. I cycle past the circus and find Khaymingha temple half a mile away. Here with just four others and a handful of locals, I watch the light turn orange then red and bathe the landscape with soft light, turning the red-rust temples incandescent.

Each day I mount my bike and head off in a random direction. No plan in my mind. No limit to my time.

BBRIIIiiing a liiinnnnng liiiiinnngg! I ring the little bell on my bike, ostensibly to warn other road uses, but I just love the sound of it! BRRRINNNNNG!! The bike sports a basket up front and one speed and a comfy bucket seat. Its the kind you owned at eight years old, the kind with tassels streaming from the handlebars and colored straws or old bare tennis balls decorating the spokes.

The tires growl as they grip the road while I weave from side to side, taking advantage of the dearth of traffic. Goat herds chew at weeds on the roadside while children's laughter wafts through the trees, coming from clusters of dirt-brick homes just off the road.

BBRIIIiiing a liiinnnnng! LIIIInnnnng a liiing! Kids turn and run and wave - I wave back. MINGALABA!! BRRIIINGGG! The bell calls like Peter's pipe.

The five days in Bagan went by quickly, each blending into the other in a enchanting monotony reminiscent of summers as a child. Those long days when the sun never set; when one never tired of running around in the grass; when you could stay in the pool all day before pruning; when scrapes healed overnight; when you spent all day goofing off with your friends; when adults came from an enigmatic alien race; and when a tuna fish sandwich and lemonade in the cool shade of your kitchen tasted like ambrosia. I never thought I would grow up.

The malaise hanging over me from Vietnam, as much my own internal mood as the external environment, evaporated in the warm dry sun of Burma. I was truly in the "beginner's mind" and back in the saddle again.

"...for I was rich, if not in money, in sunny hours and summer days, and spent them lavishly; nor do I regret that I did not waste more of them in the workshop or the teacher's desk."

- Henry David Thoreau