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Every January 9th, millions of Filipinos converge in Manila’s Quiapo district to celebrate the festival of the Black Nazarene. Devotees- barefoot as a sign of humility- jockey towards the more than 400-year-old brown Christ statue. It is said that the image was charred when a fire engulfed the ship carrying it from Mexico to the Philippines. It is a popular belief that on the day of the festival, the healing powers of the Nazarene will rub off on those who touch it.  Just grazing the rope pulling the statue’s carriage is a triumph. Those who reach the statue often wipe a towel on it to throw into outstretched hands, waving eagerly from the crowd. The festival is often marked by hundreds of injuries and occasionally a fatality.

Many celebrations lead up to the formal feast day.  This recording captures the scene on January 7th as three thousand people come together to walk the procession route with their own life-size Nazarene statues. Vendors sell rosaries, colorful candles and (in the side allies) pills to induce abortion.  A concerned citizen shouts through a bullhorn- pay attention to your purses, thieves worship in Quiapo too. Stories about miraculous healings are commonplace. One mother cries recalling an unexpected seizure that stole her son’s vision. She didn’t have the funds to pay for a hospital visit so she prayed to the Nazarene. Her son’s sight was restored hours later. A man with one and a half legs thanks the Nazarene for helping him survive a serious car accident in 1980. A robed senior claiming to be Christ the King is surrounded by disciples. And a local TV reporter and a Princeton in Asia Fellow both record the scene.

I met Mr. Desert in Jaisalmer, a city in the heart of Rajasthan, where I planned to embark on an overnight camel safari.  He stood in the doorframe of the modest Sahara Travels, his striking blue eyes smiling a warm welcome.  His simple white dhoti provided the perfect backdrop for his most prominent feature: an impressive, well-manicured, and somewhat mind-boggling beard.

After a long day atop our camels, we 6 travelers arrived, sun-stroked and bowlegged but happy, at the campsite. In the quiet vastness of that place, we spread blankets on the still-warm sand and watched the sun disappear behind the dunes.  I decided, then, to ask Mr. Desert the question that had been on my mind all day: “Mr. Desert…how did you get your name?”

He smiled, his beard broadening in tandem, and we prepared to listen.  This was his answer.

Note: the music you hear in this piece is the work of Krishna, a street-musician I met in Udaipur, India.  He was kind enough to let me sit with him for hours as I attempted to learn his instrument, the ravanhattha.  When I abandoned that endeavor, he was kind enough to let me record his own expert playing.

-Catherine McCarthy, Thailand ‘09

-Alex Ashby and Aggie Baik, Malaysia ‘09

Nick Sramek, China ‘09

It was on this camel safari that I first met the man known as Mr. Desert.  He stood in the doorframe of the modest Sahara Travels, his striking blue eyes smiling a warm welcome.  His simple white dhoti provided the perfect backdrop for his most prominent feature: an impressive, well-manicured, somewhat mind-boggling beard.

The longer, more salient mass of beard was dyed to the jet-black color of a much younger man, but he let his whiskers grow in white—adding a distinguished, elderly grace to the multi-colored display.  A razor-made divide parted the sea of hair down the center of his chin, creating distinct left and right hemispheres of beard that swept boldly away from each other as if repelled by some magnetic force.   And, presiding confidently above it all, a perfectly groomed moustache—curled upwards in perfect imitation of his ever-present smile.

Mr. Desert waved goodbye to the 6 safari-goers, leaving us in the hands of Leelu and Bengali, his trusted camel-men.  He called after us as our jeep sped into the desert, promising to rejoin us that evening once we had reached our campsite.

After a day atop our camels, we arrived, sun-stroked and bowlegged but happy, at the campsite.  There, surrounded by shimmering, wind-whipped dunes, I heard something I hadn’t heard since stepping off the plane and joining the chaos of Mumbai: silence.  Profound and penetrating, it was an ancient sort of silence—one that made me want to listen for its whispers, to probe the depths of its wisdom.

In the quiet vastness of that place, we 6 travelers spread our camels’ blankets on the still-warm sand and watched the sun disappear behind the dunes.  Bengali and Leelu began preparing dinner—the open fire crackled, the curry and dhal gurgled their spices into the air.   Their smells drifted towards us as we turned our eyes to the deepening blue of the sky.  A few timid stars began to peek from their hiding places even before night had fully taken hold.

In this near-night stillness, Mr. Desert came to join us.   He sat with us on our blanket, and we told him contentedly of our day.  Black desert-beetles—as big as my thumb—crawled out of their sand holes to enjoy the new coolness of the air.  Mr. Desert brought over an empty cooking pot and expertly began flinging beetles inside if they dared to crawl too close. “Not to eat,” he reassured with a laugh.  Just to keep them away from us until after dinner.   “If you throw them away they just crawl back again.”

I decided, then, to ask him the question that had been on my mind all day: “Mr. Desert…how did you get your name?”

He took a deep breath, the silence punctuated only by the steady percussion of beetle against cooking pot.   He smiled, his beard broadening in tandem, and we prepared to listen.

This was his answer.

Note: the music you hear in this piece is the work of Krishna, a street-musician I met in Udaipur, India.  He was kind enough to let me sit with him for hours as I attempted to learn his instrument, the ravanhattha.  When I abandoned that endeavor, he was kind enough to let me record his own expert playing.

-Catherine McCarthey, Thailand ‘09

Even more people made it out for the Taegeuk Warriors’ match against Argentina. After starting with an inauspicious own-goal, South Korea lost 1:4. From my vantage point in the JoongAng Daily newsroom, it was not a pretty sight. Helping edit the final story, there were only so many synonyms for “slaughter” we could come up with.

But after the match, our sportswriter and I went toward Seoul Plaza, where earlier masses of fans had congregated.

Some were still there, and as they cheered, it seemed like they had already forgotten their loss. Ready for the next match or not, they lived up to one of the Red Devils fan boosters’ claim to fame, and kept on shouting.

-Andrew Siddons, Korea ‘09

I wasn’t so much interested in the film they shot as much as how somebody from Iraqi Kurdistan gets over the last 30 years of that country’s history to make a film that’s showing at a festival thousands of miles away. I spoke with Hussein Hassan, the film’s director, and Mohammed Jano, the film’s producer, who interpreted for Hussein. (10:49, headphones highly recommended)

-Andrew Siddons, Korea ‘09

However, the bus system took me quite a while to get used to.  Unlike the bus stops in San Francisco, the bus stops here do not provide a map of the bus routes.  I tried looking for one online and the one available on Google Earth showed that there are so many bus lines crisscrossing Singapore that it forms too dense a network to be of any practical use.  The Singapore Transit Authority publishes a booklet every year showing all the bus stops and is available for purchase.  Alas, even with the booklet in my possession, I still managed to spend half a day getting on buses which took me the wrong way three consecutive times.  iPhone applications with Singapore bus routes have been invaluable in helping me get around.

Here is a clip of the sounds as I rode the bus.  The intermittent beep sounds are people placing their EZ-Link electronic cards against the card readers which are located at the front and side doors of the bus.  The card readers will display the amount of the fare and your remaining balance on your card.  It works on all buses and subway lines in Singapore.  Typically, a bus fare ranges from less than SGD $1 to no more than $3.

-Amy Hwan, Singapore ‘09

Here is a clip of the sounds you’ll hear riding the East-West line from Tiong-Bahru to Tanjong Pagar.  One cannot help mimicking the British female’s voice which announces each stop.  I, like most Americans, was surprised by her use of “alight” which sounds so old-fashioned.  The multiple beeps indicate that the doors are about to close.  The usual wait time for a subway train is 4 minutes.  However, like all public transportation in Singapore, no food or drink is allowed, not even on the platforms.

-Amy Hwan, Singapore ‘09