Fly, Little Bird, Fly!

By Supriya Savkoor
 

Arriving at London's Heathrow (Photo: Jnpet)

I don’t know about my favorite mode of transport, but hands down, my favorite place to be, in any city anywhere in the world, is…odd as it sounds….the airport. 

I know, I’m a freak, but think about it. People of all backgrounds and classes, many of whom may never meet in the outside world or even otherwise be in the same room with any of the people around them, rubbing elbows. All of them hustling and bustling through a little microcosm of the world, coming from who knows where, hopefully going somewhere special, and possibly starting a new life, a new venture, a new family. The anticipation of both departing and arriving, of the infinite opportunities and possibilities, experiences and sights and sounds…it all gives me a heady rush. I’ve had plenty of celebrity sightings at airports all over the world. (I once spent an afternoon watching Huey Lewis sign autographs, as we both waited for a flight out to Chicago during a blizzard.) Even those little blue lights glowing along airport runways give me a tiny thrill, somewhat bittersweet from leaving somewhere, maybe someone, behind, but mostly thrilling because of the delicious anticipation of both the known and the unknown.

There is something extremely magical about the entire experience, even in this day of having to wait out in the main terminal rather than right at the gate when welcoming your visitors, taking your shoes off through painfully long security lines, or throwing out tiny bottles of your favorite perfume because you forgot to leave them behind. arrhow how For me, there’s almost no better place to people watch, dream up stories, imagine distant lands, and live vicariously. Oh, and eavesdrop…but never mind that…

Bus terminals, train stations, cab stands—all of these provide a sliver of what an airport offers in ample supply, but for my money (well, okay, so it’s free to just hang out at any of these places if you’re not going anywhere), nothing beats the excitement of an airport.

Besides, you know that special moment in your life when you feel sort of like a rock star? My 15 minutes of fame, give or take 5 or 10 minutes, occurred at London’s Heathrow Airport in the early ’90s.

A few months out of college, I was still trying to find my way around the adult world. The American public had spent much of the year anxious about an imminent war in the Persian Gulf, which in turn had led to a deep national recession, which meant limited job opportunities for me and many other new grads. By the fall of 1990, I’d quit my first low-paying newspaper job and scraped together my tiny bundle of savings to take a long, relaxing trip to India, where I hoped to figure out my next career move.

I’d caught an Air India flight from New York to Bombay via London’s Heathrow, where I and hundreds of other hapless souls converged at our boarding gate and received some surprising news.

It was mid-October 1990, two months after Iraq had invaded Kuwait. Nearly half a million Kuwaitis and foreigners had fled the country, where Saddam Hussein’s forces were plundering the little nation’s wealth and committing all kinds of human rights violations. The Indian government had just begun an aggressive week-long campaign to airlift 150,000 Indian expats, once an affluent Kuwaiti minority and now left destitute after all their assets, from their property to their life savings, had been confiscated. It was all hands on deck, so to speak, and Air India was among those aiding the rescue effort.

The airline had already begun running emergency missions, diverting a number of its planes to the Middle East. On that particular autumn day, the plane that was to fly me and my few hundred co-passengers to Bombay was instead en route to Kuwait City. We were stuck in London for at least the next 24 hours, with the option to stay at a London hotel, our accommodations paid in full, if—get this—we surrendered our passports for those 24 hours to the attendant at the boarding gate. That meant allowing the airline officials to shuttle us to the hotel, get us checked in, and bring us back the next day, all but guaranteeing that we couldn't leave either the hotel or the airport of our own accord. As soon as he made the offer, as though it were some kind of race, the entire crowd rushed forward, passports extended. All except me.

From the back of the crowd, I asked what would happen if he loses one or more of our passports. What if we couldn't find him to get any information about it. If he would kindly give us his full name and contact information, just in case the new attendant can't find them. Where exactly did they plan to store our passports that night. Who would be accountable and responsible if our precious passports did get lost or stolen. And why, for goodness sakes, we couldn’t just TAKE our passports with us to the hotel since, after all, there was no logical reason for us to surrender them (except the whole visa thing, which seemed a minor technicality given the circumstances). Especially, since we'd be lost, literally, without them.

This, in case you’d forgotten where my little story was headed (ahem), was my rock star moment.

Hundreds of heads turned suddenly in my direction. My co-passengers who were ready to hand over their passports, no questions asked, peered up at me, their arms slowly retracting. (Why were they looking "up"? Was I standing on a chair? I can’t remember, but at that particular moment, I did sort of feel like Moses.) You don’t think it’s a good idea, the good-looking newlyweds, at least a decade older than me, asked in their prim European accents. What should we do instead, queried a rather classy elderly gentleman. As though I were their representative here. As though I had all the answers.

I shrugged. I don’t know what could happen, I told them, but I’m not taking any chances. If that guy loses my passport, it's obviously up to me to figure out how to get a new one, not him. I’d rather stay here at the airport all night, even if I have to sleep on one of these chairs.

All eyes turned back to the attendant, who was no longer smiling. In that case, he said, you’ll just have to wait it out at the airport. I can give you vouchers for two meals at one little restaurant that closes early tonight. Sorry, that’s the best I can do. There won't be any breakfast. Maybe some coffee. Anyone still want to go to the hotel?

Nope, everyone—each and every one of those hundreds of folks waiting at the gate with me—decided to hang back. We spent a safe, quiet, if uncomfortable, night at Heathrow. Instead of Bombay, we ended up in New Delhi, again in waiting mode for some 12 to 15 hours for another flight. All for a good cause, of course. 

I didn’t move any mountains or save any lives that weekend in London, but I did make a couple of new friends and, most of all, feel kind of grown up for the first time ever.

Not bad for being stuck at an airport, no? See what I mean about that sense of adventure?

From Downtown to Main Street: The Hidden World of London's Street Art

By Beth Rehman
Beth Rehman is filling in for Kelly Raftery this Tuesday on the topic of street art.

Beth Rehman lives with her family in sunny Singapore. She has already lived her fair share of nine lives—in the United States, the UK, Germany, Russia, Switzerland, and now along the equator. After a career in financial services, Beth is now working on a novel. She also enjoys being a mother as well as the new president of the German European School Singapore. 

My friend, Judy, returned from London this summer with an interesting tale about street art. She had visited her daughter for a weekend, and they decided to take a different type of city tour. Judy’s daughter had booked a walking tour with an outfit called Street Art London Tours. This group of street artists lead walking tours around the streets of London’s East End.

The girl in this photo was painted
by her parents.  She carries on the
family tradition, creating small
works of her own.

The tour took place in and around Brick Lane, and the guide gave detailed background on each of the pieces and the artists they visited. There were several striking pieces, which Judy shared with me.

The group saw a number of unique and striking paintings, when they looked carefully enough. Reminiscent of the children’s novel, The Borrowers, these little figures were tucked away along door frames or between other paintings. They are little treasures you feel lucky to spot. I won’t show you more photos; you’ll just have to visit London and find them yourselves. 

Many cities now offer such street art tours, and it is a lovely way to get to know a new town in a different way. Not so much as a tourist, but as one of the locals, familiar with the streets themselves but now taking the time to notices their little treasures.

Street art began as “tagging” in New York and other big cities. People wrote their initials or gang signs inside unusual places such as subway cars to signify their presence there. The movement evolved and began encompassing different purposes—tagging for its own glory, graffiti to mark gang territory, street art for self-expression and beautification—but all of these forms had their roots in spray-painting walls, trains, and doorways.

A Belgian artist named Roa painted
this crane in only nine hours.

Today, street art has moved indoors. But the tour Judy and her daughter took led them straight to the streets where artists create the art as well as guide visitors through these communities. This is what street art was meant to be—a form of artistic expression that is accessible to everyone—for both the artist and as well as the art appreciator. The art is not hidden behind closed doors, creating a barrier between you and it. Instead, it lives and breathes. And then is washed away again by the rain and elements, only to be replaced by something fresh and new in the future. Ephemeral. Transient. Having its own time and place, but not meant to last forever.

Now cities are displaying street art in gallery exhibits, and such buyers as Wall Street traders and officials with the City of London are buying street art on canvas. Why? Because they are looking for a good investment. Or maybe, like many of the artists, they too have come from these local streets and identify with the artwork?

Judy’s guide painted these screaming faces,
which gave the tour a very personal feel.

This move to bring street art into the mainstream—Main Street, as the case may be—means that artists who previously worked furtively at night, rushing to complete their masterpieces before sunrise can now create their artworks at leisure.  No longer walking on the wrong side of the law, artists no longer fear showing their faces in public and can proudly display their works in galleries.

Perhaps this movement indoors is a good thing. This change has given non-traditional artists a way to break into the mainstream and be recognized as the talented artists they are. But, somehow, I cannot help but think that the street art movement may have lost a big of its edginess and spontaneity in the process.

The next time you are in a new city, see if you can find a local street art tour. It may just give you a new perspective on your holiday destination—or perhaps even of your own home town. Seeing the art in its natural habitat is a bit like seeing a wild animal while on safari versus in a cage at the zoo.

So, take a stroll through new streets and look around you. Enjoy the show!

Speakers' Corner: The Place Where Everyone Gets Heard

I watched as Gavin White, an independent filmmaker, explored the past and present of London’s Speakers' Corner, dubbed “the single best known place for free speech on the planet,” and wondered why we don’t have one in Central Park in New York. I had walked by the Speakers' Corner in London, and more than once. While the concept probably wouldn’t survive in the stricter, more prohibitive cultures, the Gotham city should’ve been able to handle it. For now, I bow to the Brits.

White’s documentary takes us through an engaging and thought-provoking series of clips shot at Speakers' Corner over a few years, ranging from criticism of every political system known to man to a heated debate about the Islamic marriage practice, and from modern gay and lesbian issues to Christianity and atheism. Yet, some speakers stand out of the crowd even in this eclectic sea of humanity. “I preach love,” declares a speaker whose platform seems to be completely apolitical and religion-neutral. He shares a few bits of his wisdom. “There was a Swedish girl here last week. She listened to a nutcase on the left, to a psycho on the right, and came to me. And we had an absolutely wonderful evening together!”

“You have the right to remain vocal,” says the civil right activist and revolutionary, Heiko Khoo, featured in the documentary. A son of a Chinese mother and a German father, he was interviewed about the history of Speakers’ Corner as well as taped during his political and cultural debates. As the film progresses, we learn that Speakers' Corner was frequented by Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, George Orwell, C.L.R. James, Ben Tillett, Marcus Garvey, Kwame Nkrumah, and William Morris. Interestingly enough, this symbol of free speech started as a place for public execution – it was home of the notorious Tyburn hanging tree. Later the tree was replaced by triangular-shaped gallows with each beam able to hold eight people at once. When a convicted person was about to be hung, he was allowed to speak to the crowd, which often gathered hundreds of people, and say anything he wanted. For the first time in his life, he was about to be truly heard.

A native Australian, White had just moved from Melbourne to London to work as a producer on “The Media Report,” a show for European Business News, when he discovered the Speakers’ Corner phenomena. “I was broke and discovering London, looking for a film project that wouldn’t take me away from my day job,” White recalled.
One Sunday, while walking through Hyde Park with his sister, he saw a crowd at the Speakers’ Corner and was hooked. As it was only held on Sundays and didn’t interfere with his work schedule, White explained, “It was the perfect subject for a documentary!”

The Speakers’ Corner project took close to 11 years of White’s life, during which he filmed every Sunday for 3-4 years through every season. “It was quite a labor of love,” he reveals. “The project languished for a while due to lack of funds, but eventually I convinced enough people to assist and make it a reality.”

Gavin White currently resides in San Francisco where he runs a company that provides text-based media to poor communities around the world using an online platform called Mobilize. His documentary Speaker’s Corner was recently screened at the Astoria/Long Island City Film Festival in New York.