My mind immediately raced to that old CSNY song, “Marrakesh Express”:
Blowing smoke-rings from the corners of my ma-ma-ma-ma-mouth…
That was the theme song of the hippies, white folk who loved the Noble Herb. Some came to Goa directly from Woodstock, and never returned. You sometimes come across these nice folk in these parts.
Anyway, I didn’t have “Marrakesh Express” in my poor CD collection, but so what? I put on Marley, who loved the Noble Herb too. Marley was not black. He was mulatto. Some white genes there. And he sang in English. That’s why he became a Third World Superstar. Makes absolute sense. Peter, Lord Bauer, often said that those underdeveloped nations that never had any contact with white folk were worse off. Goa had 500 years of the Portuguese.
So Mr. Marley started to play his stuff:
It’s a natural mystic blowing through the air,
If you listen carefully now you will hear,
This could be the first trumpet,
Might as well be the last,
Many more will have to suffer,
Many more will have to die,
Don’t ask me why….
Then he went on to “Rat Race”:
There’s a horse race,
There’s a dog race,
There’s a human race,
But this is a rat race.
It is here he makes the famous shout:
Rasta don’t work for no CIA.
That’s me.
And then on to “Exodus: Movement of Jah People”:
Wipe away transgressions,
Set your captives free.
A movement of Jah people got me thinking about Chacha in New Delhi. And of Dylan’s “Ballad of a Thin Man”:
You walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, “Who is that man?”
You try so hard
But you don’t understand
Just what you’ll say
When you get home
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
I found these lines especially appropriate:
You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations
You’ve been with the professors
And they’ve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
You’ve been through all of
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books
You’re very well read
It’s well known
Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?
Yeah. Something’s happening out there all right. I get all the signs. Wonder if Chacha gets them too. Or is he headed for the fate of that Last Mogul:
Poor old Shah Alam
He rules from Delhi to Palam.
Palam is the village where Delhi’s airport is located. Lots of property without titles in Palam.
But who wants Delhi? Recall Babur, when Humayun brought him Ibrahim Lodi’s severed head. Two of his top generals immediately revolted, saying Delhi was too hot. They deserted ship and rode off back to Kabul and Kandahar. And summer is approaching. The Brits always vacated Delhi in summer, taking their The State to cool Simla. Chacha and Pachauri prefer air-conditioning. And then they talk of global warming. Funny old world.
So, if I don’t want Delhi, where do I go?
Actually, Harare sounds like a great opportunity for conquest. They surely need a sound money man there. And Harare is the city in the world with the maximum number of golf courses. Great city, I am told. So we could paraphrase Marley, who supported independence for Zimbabwe:
We’re gonna chase that crazy Mugabe outta town…
What about Goa? Well, this is no Rasta place. The Noble Herb is smoked here in hiding, and sold in hiding. The mafia rules. There are no freedom fighters. And no freedom songs either. You don’t find a single shack on Palolem Beach, where Rizla papers sell by the bucketload, playing Rasta music. No Marley T-shirts are sported. My other serious option is Jamaica, where they could do with a Professor of Rastanomics. Ha ha.
Anyway, my Marathi manoos girlfriend in Goa complains if I have another beer.
I thought women complain if you have another woman.
But see how the mighty have fallen.
No comments:
Post a Comment