Doubting Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire is underwhelming. It is not a bad film just medium, pedestrian. The fact that it was nominated, let alone selected, for Best Picture is confusing. I have not seen all of the other nominees so I can't comment on whether they were more deserving but I have seen two films from last year that were not nominated, Doubt and The Wrestler, and can say unequivocally that both are better than Slumdog.

The story centers around a poor Indian boy from Mumbai, a slumdog, who by chance ends up on the Indian version of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Much to the chagrin of the show's organizers, he gets all the questions correct despite having no formal education. The authorities assume he is cheating since no slumdog could ever get these questions correct. Through the course of his interrogation we learn how he knows all the answers. I guess the point of the film is that life isn't all about education and status. Life experiences are educational and we should not draw conclusions about people based on their upbringing. That's all good but it is not an original theme nor is it a particularly inspiring or original take on an old theme. There is no creative cinematography and the script is not particularly good. The film is just average. It leaves you uninspired and slightly unsatisfied.

Dreams From Malcolm X

In an effort to better understand our Premier and what he may have in store for our future, I am reading his first book, Dreams From my Father. I attempted to push through it before the election but was so frustrated by the pretentiousness and self importance of the book that I quit reading it after thirty pages. This time I am resolute and open minded, taking his words in their most favorable light and hoping to be proven wrong.

I am currently eighty pages deep and the hatred this man spews is getting more vile by the page. Barry Obama was not born in Harlem nor was he raised in South Central L.A. He was born in Hawaii, spent his childhood as an expat’s son in Indonesia, and returned to paradise for high school. His account of his experiences in Indonesia does not speak of a child subjected to racism and poverty. His step father had plenty of money in Indonesia; he loved Obama and treated him as one of his own. After his mother split with his stepfather, Obama moved to Hawaii to live with his white grandparents. He attended a prestigious prep school and lived the life of a middle class white man, which he was. The outside observer would be tempted to see Obama’s childhood as normal, even pleasant. But, he was not content to have food on the table, a loving support system, and a first class education. The budding Premier is bitter at the father who left him. He takes the few racial slights he incurs as life altering events that cause him to retreat to his room, pouring over and identifying with, Malcolm X.

His hatred has a clear origin. He describes his mother as the classic liberal- anti American, cynical. Obama recounts an exchange between his mother and her Indonesian husband. Lolo, her husband, is asking her to attend a meeting with some American oil company representatives. She is defiant so, Lolo, confused, says that she should feel comfortable attending because these are her people. “These are not, my people”, she replies. Taking this in the light most favorable to Barry, I read him as trying to say that his mother was not a fan of big business oil types. But, read in the context of his pity party, the underlying message is clear: America is bad.

The book makes this much clear: Obama does not like capitalism. He sees it as a tool that white people use to oppress black people. He sees it as the implementation of American arrogance. He despises our way of life and does not identify with the American way.

Age and maturity have made me more intelligently patriotic. I still believe America is the best place on earth but I do not blindly support American foreign policy, whether promulgated by a President I support or not. Each aspect of American life should be scrutinized and, if lacking or flawed, improved. But, capitalism is still the best way to further individual freedom. Socialism and communism have failed miserably in this goal and will not suddenly work on a 300 million person melting pot.

“You show me a capitalist and I’ll show you a bloodsucker.” –Malcolm X

Granada 3/7

Journal

I'm glad we got up so early. I felt a little rough but once the day started, things were bueno. We saw all of Granada by about noon.

We climbed a 17th century bell tower, perused the market, and visited a Nicaraguan cigar factory. The factory was run by a local who spoke English fairly well and loved talking about his craft. We each bought cigars that would cost $20 in the States for about $2 a piece. After the cigar factory we went to a Granada Tiburones (sharks) baseball game. For $2.50 we sat in box seats behind home plate, the best seats in the house. The game was pretty well attended. The cheap seat were on either side of a barbed wire topped fence.

Mas Nicaragua en Photo

Classic

I am a University of Florida fan unless they are playing the University of North Florida but my old biases occasionally come to the surface. I tell you that in the interest of full disclosure. All I wanted out of life, from the age of seven to eighteen, was to play baseball at Florida State University (and make love, or what I thought was making love, to Kathy Ireland). Naturally, when I watch Florida State play baseball, I have to manufacture the hate that I am supposed to feel for them. That being said, Florida State has the uniform thing figured out and Florida is well behind the curve. I'm watching Florida-Florida State right now and our boys look like a team from the late eighties-early nineties that is failing miserably at being trendy. Think Rick Pitino's old Kentucky uniforms. Did the denim Uni's come to mind? They should have. Ron Mercer in a Canadian tuxedo, that's what the Florida baseball players look like.

Granada

Journal

I am exhausted. We took the chicken bus from Managua to Granada. They pack you into these old school buses. There was a crazy Australian on board who started in L.A. and was working his way down through Central America.

My first impressions of Granada were not so favorable. The bus station we got off at was in a dirty, run down part of town. We decided to hail a cab and head to the city center. The center was considerably better Granada is dripping with charm. I can't wait to see it during daylight.

We went into one hostel that was booked. Luckily we found an American who pointed us in the right direction, hostel row. The hostel we settled on is basic but pretty nice, cleaner and nicer than a lot of places in Europe. The guy at the front desk spoke very good English. $30 for a night.

Dinner was average. It was at a Mexican place. The whole meal, for both of us, cost $20. After that we went out for a couple of drinks. We tried two sleepy bars before going into the Moon guide recommended, "Zoom". Gator memorabilia decked the walls. It turns out, the proprietor is from Florida, a huge Gator fan. he served up the local rum and filled us in on the details regarding baseball. Granada has a very proud baseball tradition. The minor leagues are a bigger deal than the majors. The local team is called, Los Tiburones, The Sharks, so named because Granada (in lake Nicaragua) boasts the only freshwater sharks in the world. The baseball stadium is just outside of town and we are honored guests for tomorrow night. For $2.50 we can sit just behind home plate.

First Day of Our Trip to Nicaragua

Journal

I feel like a 17 year old on the brink of his first prom. No I don’t. I feel like I have done this a million times. Of course, I haven’t. I have never been to Central America, never been to a place where the exchange rate is in my favor and I have to worry about drinking the water.

The similarity is that I have been to both Italy and Spain where you have to struggle with the language barrier. I feel a lot better about the language this time because I have been practicing Spanish and, having taken Spanish in college, came into my studies with at least some background. It should not be as difficult as struggling through Italy.

Travis is in good spirits. He seemed a little stressed just before we boarded but quickly calmed himself. American Airlines is no Jet Blue or even Air Portugal. The planes are old and dirty. The flight attendants are in a perpetually bad mood. The boarding process is chaotic and frustrating. The plane is full and the mix of people is surprisingly eclectic. I’m glad we are starting in Granada (a picturesque, largely war spared colonial town). It should be a nice warm up before tackling Isla de Ometepe and some of the poor places to the North.

Retrospective Thoughts

My neighbors immediately left and right on the plane were both Nicaraguan. The guy on the right wanted to talk about all the clubs we could go to in Managua and the girl on my left was floored that we had chosen her homeland to visit. I thought she was going to be one of those people you don’t want to sit next to and probably would have been just that had I not broken the ice. She was constantly fidgeting and sighing before I spoke to her. I don’t remember how it started but I quickly learned that she spent her childhood in a little town outside the capital of Nicaragua but grew up in Tampa. Liliam swore by Nacatamales and - to my great surprise since every guide book says it’s a must see - had never been to Ometepe. I suppose this is due to the difference in the perception of time and distance enjoyed by the Nicaraguans. An hour is an eternity in the land of lakes and volcanoes.

It costs $1.00 to get from the capital, Managua, to Granada which is situated about an hour south. You get what you pay for. The buses are always a few minutes late (although they are much more efficient that you might think) and are often standing room only. They are old American school buses, yellow cheese style. Foreign travelers affectionately refer to them as, chicken buses, because people will bring their livestock or bicycle or whatever they are carrying onto the bus with them. I saw a guy grab a bicycle from a boarding passenger, climb to the top of the bus, drop the bike off up top, and then crawl back into the bus through a different door while the bus obliviously continued on its route. It looked like a scene from Speed, if Speed was set in Central America and the stakes were much lower. At each stop, vendors board and sell you all kinds of homemade treats. My first experience with Nicaraguan cuisine was a little bag of really spicy roasted peanuts that cost about $0.10. They were pretty good. The first purchase gave me confidence that I could eat the local fare without too any problems. That proved largely true. My stomach stayed slightly upset for the duration of the trip but not so much that it affected my mood.