Tigers

Normally it's exceedingly easy to find lifts to Paris on the Dover-Calais ferry. This time it was impossible. No one was going our way, or if they did, their cars were packed, or they didn't want to pick up hitchers. We were pretty sure we'd have to put the 82 Euros into the train, which is bit depressing at this point in our low budget trip. Only the high speed TGV trains run between Paris and Calais and the prices are unreasonable.

Then, as we were being embraced by the concrete jetty arms of the continent, somebody said yes. They were two dark skinned men, Londoners on their way directly to Paris. On their dashboard was nestled a little, multi-armed Hindu god. Itka and I began a Hebrew guessing game, spelling terms that would betray our topic.

"It's pretty obvious which subcontinent they're from," she said.

"Yes, but they could also be from S-r-i L-a-n-k-a, for example, or B-e-n-g-l-a D-e-s-h. Though most people from S-r-i L-a-n-k-a are Buddhists, and people from B-e-n-g-l-a D-e-s-h are usually Muslim and don't really look like this. By their looks I would guess that they're T-a-m-i-l-s."

"That's good. I've always been a fan of t-i-g-e-r-s."

The car deck was opened and we disembarked into the French night. The driver and his friend needed some help navigating onto the relevant autoroute, so we began chatting and actually asked them where they were from.

"Sri Lanka," said the driver, "You know Tamil Tigers?"

"It's my favorite guerrilla army," Itka told them.

"We are Tamil Tigers," said the other man, and, perhaps in order to sound not in the least threatening, added: "You should know that Tamil Tigers are always serious, Tamil Tigers never smoke, never drink." in a split second Tamil Tigers also stopped being Itka's favorite guerrilla army. Sic transit gloria mundi. She later admitted she anyway favored them mostly thanks to their sexy name.

The pair handed us a CD of militant Tiger songs. On the cover was an image of the Tigers' mustachioed leader, Velupillai Prabhakaran, in camouflage gear. They then played it for us - Indian Music with a snare drum.

These fellows were no simple fans. They were hardcore. The way the man at the shotgun said "we are Tamil Tigers" made it clear that being Tigers and caring for their organization was, if not their 9 to 5, at least a major occupation for both. The LTTE, mind you, is considered a terrorist organization in both Britain and France. During the 20th century, the Tigers have carried more suicide bombings than all Islamic terrorist groups combined. problem is that their foes, the Sri Lankan government and army, are not any better, and they are recognized as a sovereign state. "I'm very sorry about what your people are going through right now," I said, "I know most of the north was taken over and the press is not allowed to enter and report, there must be slaughters going on."

"Yes," said the driver, "but we kill more than 200 Sri Lankan soldiers each day."

Outside, along the nocturnal highway, signs were advertising historical attractions in the region, mostly pretty castles. We stopped at a service station and were treated to two cans of Red Bull by the driver and his friend. It was hard to believe, while traveling this excellent highway, that Northen Sri Lanka even exists, but it's almost equally hard to believe that when in Southern Sri Lanka. I remember having a pleasant "Lion" beer at a beach-front cafe in Rathgama, just south of Colombo. With me was a Dutch journalist who made it across the lines. He showed me photos of another world, a funerary world, one in which our ferry from Dover somehow briefly docked.

La Citta Invisibile

Natalia can't believe it. "How come you are going there?"

"I'm writing a travel piece for a ladies' magazine."

"A ladies' magazine?"

"It's the biggest magazine in the country and they keep sending me to the most unlikely places, like Sri Lanka, but I have to tell you, they couldn't have dreamed a better destination than your country. I've been dying to go there ever since I can remember myself."

Natalia is extatic. She gives me the number of her brother so I can bring a gift from the family, instructs me to climb the mount overlooking her city, especially at night, and adds: "bring lots of love from me to my people and bring their love back to me."

She's longing for Tbilisi, sweet romantic Tbilisi. How different the tone of her voice is from that of Israelis when they say "Gruzia" or "Gruzini". No nation suffers more stigma. Georgian Jews have become the most reviled of communities in Israel for no appearent reason. In jokes they are described as being hairy, dirty and somehow barbaric. "Why do Georgians smear shit on the wall at a wedding? so the flies won't swarm the bride."

I always try to keep racism out of my mind, but these jokes have had an effect on how I picture Natalia's city. In my imagination it is a scary metropolis mixing Eastern danger and Soviet grit, somewhere you can get instantly stabbed for chatting to a (knockout gorgeous, though slightly moustachioed) girl, or wake up in a bathtub full of ice after having had one of your kidnies stolen. Tbilisi, in my mind's eye, is a city where church spires resemble minarets, where old men play cards in dark allies and the suburban streets, running among the grey commie blocks, are unpaved and muddy.

My Imaginary Georgia, land of Stalin, of "The Knight in Panther Skin", of heavily spiced food and strong red wine, of silent ravines in enormous mountains, of war sacked villages and forgotten orange groves, of twisty alphabet and eaqually twisty music, is a thrillingly dark place. To Natalia, it's home sweet home. Let's see what happens when the visions are fused.

Satori

On a street corner in this little town along the Rhein, a stone crucifiction sticks out over a house's fence. I look at Jesus, touch his knee. It's dark already and his face looks extra suffering in the light of the street lamps.

On a similar street corner in Sri Lanka, for example, there would have been a stone Buddha, a man in a state of total, calm bliss. I'm wondering, when will they establish the religion that places statues of man in his natural form: not being tortured, not reaching Nirvana, just having a simple sandwich, a sandwich as sacred as life.