Enter David de Rothschild, an environmental storyteller. The 31-year-old British aristocrat has – from an early age – loved adventure, setting the record as the youngest British lad to travel to both the north and the south poles of the globe. But his zeal for exploration didn’t stop at a personal sense of accomplishment. Through his expedition-education organization, Adventure Ecology, this heir to one of the world’s largest banking fortunes is mixing his passion for adventure with his other passion: to rally people to save the Earth.

“When we skied across Antartica, it generated a lot of interest,” the socialite-on-a-mission told National Geographic in an interview. “It seemed insane to let all the energy dissipate. I still wanted to go on great expeditions, but ones with a point. So with Adventure Ecology, we’ve reversed the model and built them around environmental issues. I think saving the planet is going to be one of the century’s greatest adventures.”

With his team of researchers, artists and explorers, David and Adventure Ecology have planned and carried out journeys to some of the globe’s most fragile areas, including a field expedition through Ecuador’s Amazon Basin called Toxico, a climbing journey in the North Pole called Top of the World, and his latest? Plastiki, or sailing with a twist: boating from San Fransisco to Australia in a recyclable boat made of plastic bottles.

“When I first started looking into how we could make an expedition around waste, I came across a report by Charles Moore, an American oceanographer who actually discovered and named the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, which talked about the vast expanse of debris in the middle of the Pacific Ocean held in place by swirling underwater currents,” explains David of his inspiration. “My initial reaction was, ‘Wow, there’s an island of rubbish floating in the middle of the ocean that you can walk and explore.’” Exploring such phenomenas in a plastic bottle boat, he envisions, will be a story all its own.

People all over the world will be able to follow the 12,000 nautical mile journey through David’s websites www.adventureecology.com and www.theplastiki.org which will chronicle the team’s investigation of nuclear waste and the famed underwater trash whirlpool under one of the most unpredictable oceans in the world, including one just nearby Indonesia.

“We will be doing a number of dives when we reach a point of interest, whether it be a whale sighting or where we see flotsam,” continues David.

The planning process hasn’t been without turbulence, however, since building a boat completely out of plastic bottles is a novel, if not a lofty, dream. David has had his critics and the mission has been postponed several times, in an effort to build a boat that will be able to withstand the ocean’s most dangerous currents. While maintaining the shapes of the iconic bottles.

After months of research and disappointing dead-ends, David and his team found their magic ingredient in srPET (self-reinforcing Polyethylene Terephtalate), a material that contains plastic fibers providing fiberglass-like strength. With it, in the middle of this year, David began constructing a boat based on geometrical accuracy, over the traditional way that’s based on balanced weight. It’s this kind of undying determination and out-of-the-box thinking that makes David de Rothschild a daring dreamer and a different kind of hero.

“We’re looking at the Plastiki not to vilify the material but to understand it,” says David of the often-demonized plastic. “A big part of this project is to use technology to innovate new plastics, innovate new uses. We have to move from Planet 1.0 to Planet 2.0.”

Among the many things that he is internationally renowned for – socialite explorer, Earth’s ambassador and children’s book author – it is David’s environmental storytelling technique that continues to capture our imagination.

]]> http://lovelli.wordpress.com/2009/11/14/saving-the-world-one-mind-at-a-time/feed/ 0 lovelli http://lovelli.wordpress.com/2009/07/14/food-for-thought/ http://lovelli.wordpress.com/2009/07/14/food-for-thought/#comments Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:40:43 +0000 Lovelli http://lovelli.wordpress.com/?p=371 ]]> Published on Prestige Indonesia, December 2008 edition

“I am really obsessed with food,” admits Laksmi Pamuntjak on the second floor of Emilie restaurant in South Jakarta. “As soon as I woke up in the morning, wherever I am, I immediately think about what I am going to have for lunch or dinner.”

Laksmi finished writing the first edition of “Jakarta Good Food Guide” in 2001, and the third edition came out last March. The series has sold 23,000 copies since its inception. It features 440 restaurants, casual eateries and street vendors, and it has photographs by the award-winning Paul Kadarisman. No less an authority than restaurateur and gastronome William Wongso has said of the guide: “At last, the benchmark for good dining in Jakarta is established through candid writing and honest critiques.”

Asked to account for her obsession with food, Laksmi ventures: “There is something about human nature that always yearns for something familiar. Taste, smell, aroma and texture, they all remind us of an ancient feeling.”

As for her good food guide, she laughs: “First of all you need to be crazy to do it,” Laksmi tries more than 400 restaurants in less than a year to write her guides. “I write down any impression or sensation of any kind that I feel when I eat something,” she explains.

“I have always been proud of my city, proud enough to put together a regularly more updated guide that tells people what they already know—that the city is made up of a great regional food tradition and a half-baked modern restaurant culture. Writing about food requires us to expand our horizon. It requires us to build a habit of doing research.”

Laksmi says she discovered that Indonesia is not ready for rating system, yet. “Nobody is saying that street food, a realm acceptable to most tongues and sensibilities, is beyond rating,” says Laksmi. “But rating systems are about holding restaurants to a certain set of standards designed, not just to nose out incompetence or any slip in standards, but also to recognize a good thing when we see it.”

But still, taste differs from one person to another. “National cuisines are never originally national,” says Laksmi. “They begin as regional cooking habits with ingredients limited to the national environment. But the era is changing and taste expands. It all depends on whether we have been used to experimenting since our childhood or not.”

When a cooking style gets slapped with a national appellation, she adds, it is frozen in place: its purity has to be protected from alien influence. Laksmi says she was lucky to have had the chance to experiment as a child, exploring various kinds of food.

“Basically, we are born experimental and are already curious,” she says. “And in the end, eating is about human interaction and a basic metaphor. It brings out the basic emotions, nostalgic memories that were associated with our childhood.”

Her experimentations, however, do not occur only on dining tables and restaurants. In the span of her writing career, Laksmi says she was lucky to have had the chance to experiment as a child, exploring various kinds of food.

“What is important for me at the moment is wrapping up my latest novel,” says Laksmi. So far, “The Blue Widow” has taken her four and a half years to write. “Right now I am actually facing a critical juncture, but I only need to do two more chapters.”

The novel is set on Buru Island, where alleged communists were detained for more than a decade without being formally charged or tried in court. “There is always a grey area in history where we can use any kind of interpretation,” says Laksmi. ‘The historical memory is often erased by a larger sense, the panoptic sense of history.”

Writing a novel for her means allowing the world of the character to “possess” the writer. “The world has to sink in on us, and we need to be a part of it,” she says about her creative writing process. “When I have to do other things, they disturb the writing process. I need at least one or two weeks to get back in tune with that world, and this requires full concentration.”

Laksmi has published several poetry collections: “Ellipsis” (2005) and “The Anagram” (2007), and a treatise on violence and “The Illiad”: “War, Heaven and Two Women” (2006), Also in 2006, she published “The Diary of R.S.: Musings on Art”, which has been translated into French.

Laksmi herself has translated 99 of Gunawan Mohammad’s poems: “On God and Other Unfinished Things” (2007), published by Katakita. “In the future, I would also like to review a story in mahabarata, especially the one on Ambar and Bisma,” she says.

He never told me if he was successful in his first attempts, but as he took his first steps, as he often serenaded to me, a doll was lying on the naked earth. Its long dark hair kept growing and growing and growing, until it reached her tiny hips. It was a beautiful sight, Daddy would say to me, one rivaled only by a fountain spring during a drought.

He didn’t touch the doll, not even when that long, dark hair glittered in front of him, inviting, flirtatious.

Especially not when out of the doll’s artificial red lips came these few words, painting a mirage right in front of him — a living daydream.

I think about you constantly.

This first sentence, laid out before him by a talking doll. He ate the words that she fed him, chewing them slowly, and began singing the next verse of the song — just like an ever flowing stream. Your memories haunt me constantly.

Reborn by Lovelli Ariesti

Only a talking doll. Until, suddenly, it walked and, surprisingly, not away from, but toward him — and not for long, against him.

As the doll drew her sword, which she had raised up from the earth, it sang the song, constantly. Blood shed from his stomach, reminding him that this was not a dream.

Certainly not, although pain — the bodily response to physical and biological stress Daddy would later learn to cope with — was absent.

As the thick liquid made its way into the pores of his fine, broken, white shirt — tap, tap, tapping along monotonously — the doll’s feet began to melt like candles.

He had never seen anything as beautiful as the color of melting plastic feet, which by then were completely dissolved. Blackish peach with dabs of whites, mauve and then, boiling black. Disinfected and cleaned; sublime.

And that was when he knew he should marry the talking doll, who was by then no longer singing, but mumbling the magical word she seemed to be very fond of, in a static low note — constantly, constantly, constantly.

The doll’s long and flowery skirt covered the remains of her feet completely. She was no longer a whole doll, nor was she a half. Her long, shimmering hair, dragging along the earth as she inched down the isle in her flawless white wedding dress, was the only remnant of her first encounter with Daddy.

The wedding was held on the beach, where sands would absorb the leaking, melting candles from the doll’s feet, who continued to lose her figure by the second. The only witness was a sunset that never arrived, one which neither of them had realized was the only thing they should have waited for.

“So, Dad,” I asked him, “When did you decide to marry a walking, talking doll?”

But he wasn’t finished with the bedtime story, and from the look on his face, I knew that he was recollecting the memories of what had been laid out for him in the past. He had become forgetful lately, which was a blessing for me.

There were times when, just because of his absentmindedness, I could get away with two bedtime stories in a night. He never knew, or at least didn’t tell me if he did, that he had tucked me in twice during those lucky days. “I’ll continue the story tomorrow,” he whispered. His voice remained solid, slightly discordant at the end, as if he knew that there was never going to be any tomorrow. Not after that night.

Then, he gave me a kiss.

It was near midnight and I was wide awake. Rattles grew louder and louder from outside my window, which looked out onto a gigantic mango tree that, for more than ten years now, has not born fruit.

In my dreams, sometimes, I see the tree changing shape into an even more gigantic apple tree. It is always spring in my dreams, and the apples taste just as sweet, perhaps even sweeter, as they were in real life. Of course, they were all red.

“Daddy?” I looked around for that familiar figure amidst the darkness. I heard the hissing sound of water cascading down the open roof, a boiling kettle whistling in the kitchen and smelled the scent of loneliness — but no Dad.

From the look of things inside the house, messy and dirty, some sort of storm must have hit. An uninvited guest on an unattended night such as that night could only mean one thing — death.

After they got married, Dad and the doll went for a stroll along the beach. He had to carry her around, whatever was left of her, so I was told.

It was to my great dismay that I am now telling you this story, for it is not a lovely one. It could never be beautiful to know that the day you were born is the day your mother died. It makes you feel sort of like a murderer, one who deserves to be burned alive, like the witches in history books.

But the truth of the matter remained attached to my life. Just nine months after Dad married the doll, she completely disappeared. She vanished. On her bed, one morning, was an empty spot and there was nothing on it under the blanket but a messy bundle of flesh and blood — right next to Daddy.

“It was a strange morning and the air smelled like thick, boiling loneliness,” Dad once told me. “The same scent,” as you would later learn, “is present when there are newborns or when people pass away,” he said.

At our house that night the scent was unmistakably real, and that was how I knew he had died. Daddy had joined his doll, his — in his own words — true love.

I never once saw Daddy again after that night and in the morning I was surprised by a sight that would never again be present in front of me. The mango tree that was growing high toward the sky in the backyard, was covered in fruit, juicy mangoes weighing down, waiting to be picked.

So I took one and had it for breakfast, my first one alone. For the first time in my life, I understood a little bit how lonely Dad must’ve felt the moment he popped out of the suitcase. Poor little Daddy, I thought to myself.

As I usually did after breakfast, although this time I had to do it on my own and without Daddy, I sang that song I knew so well I could not picture a world without it — A flame that burns so bright, not only through the night but constantly.

Jakarta-Liverpool-Jakarta, Sept.7, 2008 *All are excerpts from Sir Cliff Richard’s song Constantly

Freddie died of AIDS in 1991, at the age of 45 and at the top of his career as a bombastic singer of the group band Queen (www.saguro.co.uk).

It happened in 2003. That was when I met the one person that would change the course of my life forever. Attempts have been made to recollect memories of what happened during that crucial period, and they have all been fruitless. The emotional attachment I have with the topic has made it quite impossible to position myself as an objective observer. Perhaps, this time it would be different.

A set of regulations hung on the wall of the outreach program of the Center for Health Research University of Indonesia in Depok, West Java.

He was one of those few people everyone talked to but never really knew that well. He was the fly that hopped from one table to another, engaging himself in all sorts of conversations without making anybody feel awkward. He was one of those who was no longer studying at the university but spend a lot of time hanging around at the canteen, which opened for 24 hours. I knew him casually, but I never really knew his name or what he was doing. And that night, when the sky was the color of ecstasy, things were about to change.

I walked out of the classroom feeling tired. I had spent more than 12 hours in between classes and there was simply not enough room to breathe freely. Anya, my best friend, had already gone back to her room, located not too far away from the campus, and I was left with loads of assignments for tomorrow. So I thought I would just grab some healthy juice at the canteen and chain smoke my way out of one of the assignments. As I arrived at the crowded area, I found myself tossed from one “hello” to another, choked up with smokes from all sorts of cigarettes, and sitting on a shaky chair that wiggled like it was trying to break free from its spot.

That was when I had that strange feeling I often get when I feel threatened—someone was looking at me. Right there, across the table, was this pair of sharp eyes, staring at me. The owner of the eyes, all dressed in black like he was ready to attend his own funeral any time, was reading an old chapped book. Realizing that I was aware of his presence, he put the book down and walked toward me, his left hand holding on to a glass of cold beer. The canteen didn’t sell alcohol.

“I’ve met you before,” he said. That was true, we had met at several occasions, but we were never properly introduced. I told him my name, which put a sneer onto his face, and he told me his. “Ebb,” he said. Despite the cold introduction, his palm was warm. He offered me a glass of beer, pointing at a number of them lining up on his table, which I answered with a ‘no, thank you’ because at the moment I hadn’t begun drinking. I was a purely study-oriented girl with nothing on my mind but how to get an A for all the subjects I was taking. Most of the time, I was quite successful in doing just that.

Suddenly, he stumbled right in front of me, his hand holding his chest like it was about to fall out anytime. “I’m having a heart attack,” he told me, half whispering. “Could you take me to the nearest hospital?”

I rushed to my car, drove to the back of the canteen and he hopped on—drowning in his own sweat. Insisting that we listened to the Rolling Stones cassette he carried everywhere with him in his bag. My 1977 Mitsubishi Gallant II, without any Air Conditioner and played only cassettes, was not really the best car for someone who just had a heart attack. I stepped on the gas pedal, but looking at him laying down on the chair next to me, I reluctantly reduced the speed of the car. It was pretty dilemmatic and surreal at the same time. Should I speed up and risk him having another attack? I think not.

“I usually don’t make friends with ugly people,” he said. It was my turn, I thought, to have a heart attack. Nobody had ever said anything like that to me.

“What are you saying?” I asked him, which he didn’t answer.

It is not uncommon to find unfinished works at CHRUI, as the turnover is very high. Still, art and personal expression are highly endorsed as a means to fight addiction.

In the car, he told me that he had had a heart attack for several times that day. To reduce the pain, he had been walking on the streets next to the campus, for a couple of hours. He hadn’t been home for a week, and he hadn’t seen his mother, who was the only parent he had—his father passed away when he was very young. He was married once, and he had a child—a boy with golden, curly hair. We were from the same English department of the university, but he was a diploma student, and he never graduated. I was about to graduate in a year. We were five years apart; I was 22, while he was 27.

As soon as we reached Pasar Rebo Hospital, we were asked to wait at the waiting room. There were many people also waiting for a check with the doctor. I remember the windows of the hospital were covered with cloth of the color of the shells of salted eggs. I never liked hospitals. They smell like death. We were both sitting down on the plastic chairs that were connected to one another with metal pipes, lined up and agitated. It was in that room that he said one of the most shocking things I’ve ever had in my life. And it was not so much what he said that made it all too much for me, but it was also the way he said it. He kept looking at the ceiling, like he was reading a script written up there that nobody but him could see. And he had on him, the facial expression of a five-year old boy confessing to have eaten the candies before his supper. Guilty.

“I’m not going to live until 40,” he told me.

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

He told me that he had had a dream, and in his dream his future was laid bare. He was to die before he turned 40 years old, and he was scared. Shivering then, he told me that he had met me before in his past life. We were never meant to be together, he added, this was somewhat against fate. But he would be spending a lot of time with me after we were both dead. But this wasn’t a love story, and the nurse was already calling out his name out loud. Before he went inside, he whispered to my ears, “And in my dream, I was told that I was HIV positive,” and then he went inside the doctor’s room. I held on to my note book, feeling kind of ill myself. Alone, naked, and was clueless of how to react. If there was ever a guideline to what you are supposed to do when a stranger confesses he has HIV to you, it would’ve made my life easier then.

After the check up, he said nothing and kept to himself. The wide smile that was never absent from his face, was then nowhere to be seen. He asked me if I wanted to have dinner with him at a restaurant just across the hospital, which got me wondering, “has he been here before?”

After the very late dinner, he looked at me with softer eyes. He told me that he was not what he seemed to be. He was a heroin user, he inject the substance into his vein, and that he had a very strong attachment to dreams and the after life. This life that we are living, he said, is the actual dream. “Your dreams are the real thing. They are your life,” he told me. He had been to the hospital before, wanting to get his blood checked for HIV. He was pretty sure that the result would be positive; he just needed to confirm. And he told me what had happened inside the doctor’s room.

“He denied me access to a blood test because I told him that I was an Injecting Drug User (IDU),” said Ebb.

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” Ebb answered my question slowly and very cautiously, like a father to a child.

It turned out that we lived close to each other. He asked me if he should return home or not. I told him that he should do whatever he felt was best for him. He made up his mind, and that night I was to drive him to his house, putting away all thoughts about my assignments. I also promised him that I’d accompany him find a hospital that would allow him an HIV test, and even if we couldn’t find them we’d still look.

I arrived home that night a changed person. Ebb was real flesh and blood, not just some character from a magazine article or a number in the statistics that I often read about. HIV/AIDS wasn’t something that I didn’t have any idea at all. I was an avid fan of Queen, whose vocalist Freddie Mercury died of HIV/AIDS. This was the one and only reason why I followed the news about one of the deadliest diseases in the world. I cried like a good girl when he passed away early in the 90s. So I was quite certain that death, despite how alive Ebb was to me, was pretty much clinging on to him like a dark cloud. And then I sort of felt scared myself. I was afraid that I would lose him, although I just met him that day—it felt like we had known each other for years.

He was a controversial figure, mostly known among his friends as the one who always said what was on his mind, regardless of the consequences. He was a brilliant actor, playing difficult roles and directing the plays at the university, a creative person with ideas so much they could be used to light a dark room.

***

I did take him to another hospital after that night. It took us several tries at different hospitals before Ebb was finally given an HIV test. The result was as expected, he was HIV positive. After that, he became a close friend. Too close perhaps. During the course of his life, he had shared needles with more than 100 people, and he had sex without condoms with at least 50 women and several men.

We tried approaching some of the women he was still able to contact, to tell them the news, indicating that they should check themselves for the same virus. Some of them took it seriously, some didn’t want to see us, while some others didn’t have time to care. Many of them were my friends. Ebb took his seriously, though; we spent a year after that approaching almost every drug user he had shared or would share needles with in the future, to tell them that HIV was real, and that they should protect themselves from the possibility of being infected with the virus. After the night I spent with Ebb at the hospital, I never looked at dreams the same again.

Ebb later found out that he also had Hepatitis C. After a year, his viral load was very low—too low in fact—that he started taking ARV, a type of drug that would allow him to extend his life time. In 2003, we approached the Center for Health Research at our university and convinced them to reach for the drug users inside our own campus, a program they didn’t have at the moment.

We established Exceed Community, along with three other HIV positives, one of which became my boyfriend for more than three years. Exceed was under the umbrella of the Center for Health Research, making it possible for us to run needle exchange programs and, probably in the future, drug substitution programs. I saw so many deaths throughout the four years I spent actively dealing with the issues of drug use and HIV/AIDS, that in 2007 I decided to take a break from the community. The others felt the same way, and now the organization is no longer running. We are curing our burn out.

I did a little research myself in that four years, trying out all sorts of recreational drugs from marijuana, mushrooms, cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, you name it, with Ebb’s parental guidance. It helped me understand better the scope of problems we were dealing with at the moment. I spent almost all of my later days with him, which shooed most of the guys away, because he was very protective of me.

He nearly puched the first guy I made love to, and was always around during our dates. The unhealthy relationship later turned into a much more mature friendship after he found the woman of his dreams. He shouldn’t have any trouble doing that, it was really easy to love him. Fearing that his life span was short, we spent almost every spare moment together.

Ebb is now married to a beautiful and caring woman who is HIV negative. They have one child, a boy, who is also HIV negative. After he found out that he was HIV positive, he used condoms whenever he had sex. I carried packs of condoms around, because Ebb often forgot where he put his. He hasn’t reached 40 yet, and we are constantly worrying if his dream was true and that he’d never reach the age of 40.

But here’s a small fact that really disturbed me about him: his name. Most of the times, we call him Be. Just Be.

[Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary 'defined him' as ebb\’eb\ n 1: the reflux of the tide toward the sea 2 : a point of condition of decline]

Lovelli Ariesti, Liverpool

As though reading my mind, the cab driver added a reassuring line before holding the door open, “welcome to summer in Liverpool” — or at least something that sounded like that to my Indonesian ears.

The Yellow Duck Marine, an amphibious authentic World War II landing vehicle. (JP/Lovelli Ariesti)

The man in the front seat had a plump figure that somehow suited his bald head and boyish face. He spoke loudly and walked with such ease in his long, light gait.

I lifted my hand and reached for the hair on the top of my head, to make sure that the soft, dewy sensation was indeed from the drizzle.

The fact was, I had no stored memories of what summer should feel like, as this was the first time I had ever traveled to another country, aside from the five days I spent in Singapore when I was five years old.

So I gave the driver a light smile, which was (if truth be told) my way of declining to flaunt my American accent.

Before traveling to that area of Merseyside, England, like many other beginner travelers, I had made lists. My note pad contained details of things to bring, things to buy, things to see, and a growing list of “dos and don’ts” — as told by friends and colleagues who had traveled to this country before.

That pad, and my own experience teaching British culture to first-year university students at a state university in Indonesia, I thought, would be more than enough for me to get by.

And by the time I had lit my second cigarette in Liverpool (the first was lit outside the coach station just a few minutes after I arrived) the driver was already on the phone to a friend, trying to find a cure for my curiosity.

“No, I’m afraid there aren’t any Indonesian restaurants in Liverpool,” he told me, apologetically.

By the time the cab had left Hanover Street where I would be spending the following week, members of the Genuine Pluck were already inside the Casartelli Apartment.

I reached for my note pad and wrote an additional item on my don’ts — “don’t mention Indonesian restaurants”.

Youth culture and the remains of the day

My first designated stop was certainly not an Indonesian restaurant, but a club. On my first night, I decided to visit the “new” Cavern Club — a rock n’ roll club which had witnessed performances by The Beatles in the 1960s, among others.

The club is on Matthew Street, which is only five minutes away from the apartment, so without hesitation I grabbed my jacket and took up one of the Liverpudlians’ more environmentally friendly habits — walking.

I had also made myself a new friend. Dachlan Cartwright, 65, who had spent a period of his college years in Liverpool, and had flown all the way from Indonesia to Merseyside to witness the Beatle Week Festival due to begin the next day.

One of the two Liver Birds, vegetarian birds portrayed to be feeding on seaweed, made as the symbol of Liverpool, perching on top of the Royal Liver Building, one of the Three Graces located in the area of Albert Dock (JP/Lovelli Ariesti)

With an air of excitement, we walked downstairs heading toward the core of the new Cavern Club (built to resemble the original) which was opened 17 years ago: Cartwright was revisiting a place where he had spent many weekends during his youth, and I was anticipating a new experience.

The new Cavern Club occupies about three-quarters of the original club site whose entrance stands only a few meters to the left of the present club.

Scattered throughout the club, on its brick walls, on the red telephone booth, on the door to the men’s toilets and on a giant poster of Sir Paul McCartney to the left of the bar, were doodles, messages and names of people who had been there.

My hand was itching to write my own name somewhere in the club, but before I could pick a spot for my doodle (I was planning to draw a happy cowgirl face) Cartwright arrived with a glass of cold cider and red wine.

While sipping his drink, Cartwright reminisced about the days of his youth.

“The Liverpool girls are called totties,” he told me, adding that back in those days, a man would ask a woman, “have you got your tail?” before approaching her for closer acquaintance.

If a woman didn’t have a “tail” (either a boyfriend or someone she was in a relationship with) then the man would proceed with his move.

But during the 1960s, the club was often too crowded for any dance that required wide personal spaces.

“We did the Cavern Stomp,” Cartwright explained.

The dance was a relatively simple social dance, in which a man and a woman would hold opposite hands — left with right or right with left — allowing them to move sideways or in opposite directions with ease — or without risking stepping on anyone else’s feet.

Despite the crowd, it was probably easier to do the stomp now than when the Cavern was first opened in 1957. At that time it sold alcohol and was one of the few clubs that had a license to be open until “late” (11 at night).

But the night was still young, and I didn’t have a problem with the cold glass of red wine that was placed in front of me. Soon, I found myself a bit tipsy, clapping along with the crowd, cheering at the end of every song the man on the stage had sung.

Fertile ground for arts

Even from the very short two days I spent in the city, I was able to decode glimpses of the woven mystery as to how Liverpool was able to breed and nurture prominent figures in modern musical history.

Here, there and everywhere, Liverpudlians interacted with an air of “inner confidence” that was nowhere near the overrated or snobbish stereotype I had been given previously of the British.

They were the kind of people who would provide support and see challenges as part of everyday life.

During the rest of my stay I took more strolls through the city, visiting cultural events and heritage sites that are the city’s main attractions, including the Tate Liverpool — one of the largest modern and contemporary art galleries in the UK outside London.

The gallery is at Albert Dock, the largest group of Grade I listed buildings in Britain, comprising some 1.25 million square feet (116,129 square meters) of public areas built to the design of architect Jesse Hartley.

The area, which includes three monumental buildings called the Three Graces, played a central role in the history of Liverpool.

The Dock was built to accommodate sailing ships with a capacity of up to 1,000 tons of cargo. It was closed in 1972 and, after a series of refurbishments, was officially reopened by Prince Charles on May 24, 1988.

Arriving at the Tate, I was welcomed by a rare exhibition which, between May 30 and Aug. 31, had attracted more than 194,000 visitors including Elvis Costello, Yoko Ono and comedian Frank Skinner.

The gallery showcased artworks of the leader of the Viennese Secession, Gustav Klimt (1862-1918), displaying the artist’s sensual lines and delicate play with feminine symbols.

Meanwhile, out on the streets were 100 three-dimensional canvases, called Superlambananas, showcasing Liverpool’s creativity — its people, heritage, regeneration and art scene.

These canvases, shaped like sheep with pointy ears and tails, were originally created by Japanese-based artist Taro Chiezo in 1998 and for ten weeks of the English summer (from June 16 to Aug. 25) they were seen at various locations across Liverpool.

That day, the second day of my adventure around this year’s European Capital of Culture, during my week covering the 25th Beatle Week Festival, I added another item to my list.

“Don’t forget to come back.”

Lovelli Ariesti, Liverpool

Liverpool existed historically as a city in 1880, building on a large influx of immigrants from places like Ireland and Welsh who entered the area via the sea.

Even in its early development, Liverpool had drawn the attention of thinkers like the early 18th century writer, Daniel Defoe, who commented on its booming trade.

One of the cultural traits provided on the streets of Liverpool. (JP/Lovelli Ariesti)

According to Defoe, Liverpool had “an opulent, flourishing and increasing trade to Virginia and English colonies in America”.

Since then, the city’s construction industry continued to boom, as a result of the 1919 Housing Act which had a continuous effect throughout the 1920s and 1930s.

By then, the city was already attracting immigrants from across Europe.

World War II had a heavy impact on the city, when air raids on Merseyside caused damage to almost half of the houses in the metropolitan area and killed at least 2,500 people.

Liverpool established a sister-city relationship with Cologne in Germany — a city that shared similarly abhorrent experience of aerial raids, which resulted in phases of rebuilding of housing estates and docks destroyed during the war.

Liverpool contains more than 2,500 Grade I and II (heritage) listed buildings.

One of the most significant areas, and historically the most important entrance for people outside Liverpool, is Albert Dock, which has become famous for its cultural heritage and has been used to host various cultural events.

It is also the location of the Three Graces, a phrase which refers to three most renowned buildings standing from north to south of the River Mersey. These buildings are the Royal Liver Building, the Cunard Building and the Port of Liverpool Building.

The Royal Liver Building, which was built in the early 1900s, lay the foundations for two bronze domes with the city’s symbol, the Liver bird, on each.

The origin of this bird, however, has been a source of confusion and controversy, as the earliest historical reference to it came in 1207 from the granter of the town’s charter, King John, who has been frequently associated with the patron saint St. John.

The Cunard Building, in the middle of the Three Graces, was the former headquarters of the Cunard shipping company, while the Port of Liverpool Building was the home to the former Mersey Docks and Harbor Board-regulators.

The mid-year estimate of Liverpool’s population in 2006 (as reported by its city council) was 436,100 dispersed in an area of 111.84 square kilometers.

It is said that Carl Jung visited Liverpool in 1927 and experienced a visionary dream of a magnolia tree growing from an island in the city square.

From this dream, Jung came to the climactic conclusion of the whole process of the development of consciousness, which triggered him to come up with the idea of “the pool of life”.

Perhaps this came as no surprise to some, and in the 1960s Liverpool became a center of youth culture, breeding musicians and youth idols — including four young lads who joined together in a group called The Beatles.

Other than Paul McCartney, John Lennon, George Harrison and Ringo Starr, the city has also been the hometown of other musicians such as Ian Broudie, who fronted the Lightning Seeds in the 1990s.

Melanie Chisholm of the Spice Girls was also a resident of Liverpool in the same period, and another female musician, Natasha Hamilton, who joined Atomic Kitten at an age of 16, also grew up there.

Over the years, the city has been a productive “figure factory”, allowing it to reserve its spot as a European Cultural Capital in 2008, sharing the spotlight with Stavanger in Norway.

In early September this year, Liverpool was rated as the third favorite city in the United Kingdom, winning over other historic destinations such as Cambridge, Durham and Machester (in a reader’s choice awards compiled by Conde Nast Traveller magazine). In 2004 the city had stood at 14th position on the same survey, but steadily gained popularity with the number of events and activities since that time, reaching its peak this year.

As of the end of July, Liverpool’s Capital of Culture celebrations enjoyed media coverage worth around £70m, a total that includes at least 7,500 national, as well as international articles in magazines and newspapers.

Lovelli Ariesti, Liverpool

It was in the middle of a spring night in Liverpool, but the temperature had not moved far from 12 degrees Celsius. Some five meters under an alley in the city, about 100 people were nesting comfortably inside the warm womb of the Cavern Club.

It was under the same alley, about three decades ago, that four young British lads — John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr and George Harrison — cast their spell on the city, lulling them with dreams of peace, love and friendship.

However, on this night the stage belonged to three American women in their 20s who call themselves the Cavern Kittens.

They firmly gripped their musical instruments, out of which harmonies from not only The Beatles, but also musicians who had a major influence on their music, such as Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard and — of course — Elvis Presley, burst out into the night.

The 25th Beatleweek festival had arrived, and for a week from August 20 to August 26, bands from all over the world got together in a celebration paying tribute to The Beatles — the band that paved the long and winding road of rockc ‘n roll history.

That night alone, at least 100,000 people from all over the United Kingdom and around the world had gathered in Liverpool — this year’s European Capital of Culture — to be entertained by around 200 Beatles tribute bands from across the globe.

This year is monumental for Beatles fans in Southeast Asia and Indonesia, as for the first time in 25 years, the festival had invited an Indonesian band, the Genuine Pluck, or G-Pluck, to play their role in history.

“We’ve never had a band from Southeast Asia before, so it’s great to see that we’ve got people still making Beatles music in your country,” said Ray Johnson from Cavern City Tours, one of the parties organizing the festival.

Ray has spent 21 years getting together promoters, performers and crowds for Beatleweek festivals all over the world.

Every year, he said, the organizers try to introduce to the festival new musical talents chosen regardless of their credo, color or country of origin.

Over the festival weekend, 160 bands played in the pubs and clubs chosen to host this year’s Beatleweek festival.

The sites include the famous Cavern Club, the Cavern Pub, the Royal Court and the Royal Court Bar, the four clubs at the Adelphi Hotel, the Hard Day’s Night Hotel, as well as outside stages such as the Town Hall and the Pacific Road.

“These bands were selected out of the 500 applicants sending out their requests to play in this year’s Beatleweek festival,” Ray explained, adding that to this very day he remained amazed by how many people knew The Beatles.

This year’s offering included Latin American bands the Shouts and 4!, Johnny Silver and Band from Germany in their 9th performance, the Los Brandys from Spain and the Aspreys from Japan.

Every year the festival makes way for new bands, some of whose members are very young and have been influenced by The Beatles and other music of the 60s and the 70s.

Other than the made-in-Indonesia Genuine Pluck, one such band was a trio claiming to be “the only all-woman Beatles band in America” and who was given the honor of performing at the Cavern Club.

“You can say that we’re hybrids, because we play not only Beatles songs, but also those from bands that heavily influenced them,” said vocalist and guitarist Isabelle Belance, still in her 20s, just a couple of minutes after their first performance at the club.

The band had arrived in Liverpool just three hours earlier, but under the dim street lighting of the Cavern walk, no trace of fatigue was visible.

Sabrina Lynch, the drummer in the group, couldn’t help but laugh and said, “You really can’t escape the great energy that circles all around you. And when people love it, you just want to play more and more.”

Other than the stage shows included in what is called the Matthew Street Festival — featuring senior bands including BBC Merseyside’s notorious announcer Billy Butler and his band Billy Butler & the Tuxedos, the Undertakers and the Merseybeats — the festival also included the some of the people behind the Beatles story.

Among these individuals was the controversial Allan Williams, who was present to promote his thick book, Fool on the Hill, which describes his experience of being roped into managing the band.

“Unknown to me at the time, there was this group called The Beatles, who used to hang out in my club,” he said between book signings, recalling his encounter with the band.

His story began in August 1960, when he was in his early years of managing a coffee bar club, one that didn’t sell alcohol, in downtown Liverpool.

He told The Jakarta Post the band members had gained a reputation as “coffee bar bums and lay-abouts” because all they did was “bumming free coffees off the girls” using the charm of their good looks.

During that period of his life, he was using the service provided by Steward Cliff, the so-called fifth Beatle, who one day asked him to manage his band.

“When he asked me ‘when are you going to do something for us?’ I told him that there were no more paintings to be done,” Allan recalled.

Little did he realize that Steward was talking about his band The Beatles, a band destined to become the most famous group in the history of rock ‘n’ roll.

Also present at the festival was Robert Whitaker, the official Beatles photographer who tagged along with the band during their last tour in 1966.

When asked about his experience with the Liverpool lads, Whitaker, better known as Bob, refused to say anything only,”It was a nice experience working with them.”

The festival ended on August 26, with between 100,000 and 150,000 visitors daily, joining the parade of dreamers in search for an antidote leading to a better, open culture.

Lovelli Ariesti, Liverpool

On that very same day 46 years ago, Ringo Starr joined the not-yet-legendary Beatles, the fourth of the Fab Four, to become one of the luckiest young musicians in the 1960s.

But this time it was a windy Friday afternoon in Liverpool, and walking across the alley leading to the Cavern Club was not Ringo Starr, although looking a lot like him, but Indonesian-born Beni Pratama.

To his left and right walked three other band members, all sporting gray suits carefully tailored to mimic what the real Beatles wore for the cover of their Please Please Me album. These young men were Genuine Pluck.

Genuine Pluck members (from front to back) Adnan Sigit, Awan Garnida, Wawan Hidayat and Beni Pratama pose on roadside of Boston Place in London. (JP/Lovelli Ariesti)

The band, casually called G-Pluck, is the only Southeast Asian Beatles tribute band invited to participate at the Beatleweek festival in 25 years.

In less than 15 minutes the clock would strike four in the afternoon, which meant that it was time for the four men — Awan Garnida as Paul McCartney, Beni Pratama as Ringo Starr, Adnan Sigit as John Lennon and Wawan Hid as George Harrison — to perform onstage at the historic Cavern Club.

It was their first performance since arriving in Liverpool the day before, and nobody in the audience had ever seen them perform at that venue.

But the stage was set, spotlights were trained, and Genuine Pluck was ready.

“These guys flew 20 hours to be here,” joked the master of ceremonies, “and they have to get back to Indonesia because they have a gig waiting.”

Enthusiastic claps and cheers greeted the foursome as they launched into the first song in their repertoire, “Twist and Shout”.

One by one, the puzzled looks out in the audience were replaced with enthusiastic smiles and occasional encouraging shouts and whistles echoed across the room.

“The band was chosen because we admire their enthusiasm, said Ray Jones from Cavern City Tours, one of the festival organizers.

About 500 applicants were reviewed and sifted through until only 40 bands remained. The 40 were invited to perform at the Cavern Club where the Beatles played regularly in the early 60s.

“The material that G-Pluck sent us, a recording of their performance, their photographs and their profile, arrived on time. And they were great,” Jones said.

After wrapping up their first set, the four musicians, already drenched in sweat and raring to go, got ready for their next round. They performed 13 Beatles songs in all, from all the albums except Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Their repertoire included, among others, “I Want to Hold Your Hand”, “She Loves You” and “Please, Please Me”.

Awan, the spokesperson for G-Pluck, looked out at the crowd and said, “We’re going to move on to the first film the Beatles made. As you know, this one is called “Help!”

In no time, around 200 people were dancing to the constant drumbeat, the melodious weave of the bass and guitar, and the solid and undulating harmonies of the three front men — “Help me get my feet back on the ground, won’t you please, please, help me” — thick with the British accents distinct to the Beatles.

Help was written by John Lennon and Paul McCartney in 1965, when the band started to feel burdened by the pressure of growing expectations from their fame.

“The band was really brilliant,” said 28-year-old Judith, who flew all the way from Germany for the 2008 Beatleweek festival.

She praised Sigit’s impersonation of John Lennon for his perfect accent. “And the way he stands,” she added, “is just like the way John Lennon stands. And only a Beatles fan would know that.”

Another avid Beatles fan, Phil Weeder, also commented on the band’s precision in adopting the personae of the world’s most acclaimed rock ‘n’ roll band and pioneers of their time.

By the fourth day of the festival performances, the band, already acknowledged by the Liverpool audience, made their appearance on the Billy Butler show on BBC Radio Merseyside.

At the end of the broadcast a smile broke out on Butler’s face. Right after he shut off the mike, he winked and said, “brilliant”.

Lovelli Ariesti, Jakarta

Upon entering the cozy and homey Ark Gallery in South Jakarta on a Sunday, the last thing most visitors would expect to see is a yellow goat, captured on its hind legs before a thick, solid black background.

But of course, it’s the “Black Goat Space” exhibition. In the distance, another goat beckons, black and white this time.

Its feet were fixed to a rail, connecting it to the wall in front of it. On the wall was a two-meter-high human figure bedecked in a black superhero outfit.

“My works speak of power relations and those in power. They remind people of former president Suharto’s New Order, when artists were forced into submission with no freedom of expression,” said artist Entang Wiharso.

“And they are also about the issue of labeling — something we can’t simplify as merely black or white.”

His works — including cutouts, prints, mock-ups and paintings — question the established definitions of what it means to be human. His paintings, which depict humans and goats in various poses, are rich in symbolism.

Most of them portray goats, black or otherwise, including white goats in the more subtle prints. And when they are not present, their absence becomes painfully vivid.

“You didn’t think I’d present only black goats in my exhibition, did you?” he said.

“The different colors are my way of associating goats with humans, and the terminology I use is ‘black goat’ not scapegoat or black sheep, both of which have negative connotations.”

Curator Jim Supangkat said Entang’s works offered a shift in meaning, oscillating between scapegoats and black sheep.

“He’s exploring the uncertain emotion of the gray area,” Jim said.

Having shuttled between Indonesia and the United States in pursuit of higher education, Entang’s artwork draws heavily from his experience juggling different cultures.

His recent works are more contemplative, full of symbols expressing raw emotion. He was clearly very moved by his experiences and emotions, Jim said.

Reminiscing on the creative process behind the “Black Goat Space”, Entang said the overall message he wanted his works to convey was based on his experiences at the immigration office in the U.S.

“Being a citizen of the world’s most populous Muslim nation, I had to endure the black and white dichotomy Americans use to judge us. The immigration office was extremely cautious because of our country’s history of terrorism. Such generalizations violate our identity as individuals,” he said.

However, when he decided to adopt the “black goat” mentality, Entang said he felt calmer and in control.

“By understanding beforehand the label imposed on me as a member of a certain population, I feel healthy, ready and immune from the labeling. More so than when people point their fingers at me,” he said.

Earlier in his life, Entang, as an educated young Muslim, was dogged by the religious taboo of drawing or depicting other humans.

“And so he came up with a solution to this problem. He included images of keris, a traditional Javanese dagger, in his artwork, thus allowing himself to continue painting people. His reasoning was if the people in his paintings had been killed by the keris, they were no longer human,” Jim said.

Entang was born in Tegal, Central Java, in 1967, and currently divides his time between North Kingstown, Rhode Island, and Yogyakarta. He received a bachelor of fine arts in painting at the Indonesian Art Institute in Yogyakarta.

His previous exhibitions include “Eating Identity” at the Mead Art Museum in Amherst, Massachusetts, and “I Kill the Sign” at Rumah Seni in Semarang, East Java.

Entang is widely considered an observant and vocal artist in exploring cultural problems and blatantly experimenting with tensions.

“I think Entang will continue making significant leaps in the development of his art,” Jim said.

“The international art world is facing big changes, and many artists are now trying to find new ways of understanding art through a variety of methods. I believe Entang will continue creating phenomenal works.”

One of his works in the “Black Goat Space” exhibition depicts a superhero hastily running toward the edge of a cliff, chased by a black goat.

Here again human behavior is dissected, questioning our conformity of the politics of power and intimidation, where conversation is not simply an exchange of ideas, but also a show of power.

It’s as if Entang Wiharso is showering us with a simple question: Why do we need more black goats?