The Bushido Challenge

Everybody loves a challenge. It focuses the mind. Gets the juices flowing, they say. “Don’t tell me I can’t beat that guy, “ or “don’t tell me I can’t beat that record.” Where would "machismo" be without a challenge, right? In the food world, the notion of challenge can take several, less than elegant, forms: competitive speed eating comes to mind. Or, perhaps, Man vs. Food which routinely endeavors to shock the world with ungodly volumes of consumption.

And, so it is here in Charleston where the beauty, elegance and grace of sushi creation are savagely re-directed to the more primeval elements of “the challenge.” In this case, the venue is Bushido, a sushi restaurant in the West Ashley section of Charleston, where a steady stream of combatants come to test their will against the almighty spicy tuna roll. Some call it the Bushido Challenge, some call it the spicy tuna roll challenge, but the game is the same: to earn the title of “Legend of the Roll” one must consume in one sitting 10 spicy tuna rolls -- all hand-rolled -- in which each succeeding roll is increasingly spicy. The first few are deceptively easy, but the last few are laced with ever larger infusions of habanero peppers and thai chilies until the last couple fairly spontaneously combust if left unattended for more than a few moments. It is told that more than four hundred hearty, if delusional, souls have attempted this, and only a handful have succeeded.

I love spicy food and had looked forward to experiencing this diabolical, if ridiculous, challenge. Thirty years ago, when Lily and I were in Chiang Mai, Thailand I humbly met my match with a dish that caused my tears to flow as no other event in my life had up to that point (save perhaps the heartbreaking loss by the Yankees in game 7 of the 1960 World Series). I remember telling the restaurant proprietor that I was up to taking his best shot and I was taken down. Hard. I failed that day and now saw Bushido as a much delayed chance at redemption.

When we placed our order with our waitress, she sternly said to me, “You don’t want a number 10. Believe me.” Sadly, I folded, taking her at what had to be her very experienced word. Frankly, I think I may have been intimidated. I went with a number 6 which she said was the spiciest she had ever handled. (I had no intention of eating all ten and going for the Legend accolades. It wasn’t just a matter of the cumulative spiciness that loomed, but the sheer volume of all that food.) I was on red alert as she placed the fiery red conical torpedo in front of me. Waiting for the alarm bells to explode as I chewed, I was somewhat surprised that while this roll was most definitely spicy, even fiery, it was not a killer. That silver bullet lay somewhat higher up the food chain, as it were.

What was so entertaining, though, was to look around and see others there who were unmistakably there for the challenge. They were the ones who could easily be mistaken for being seasick as they sat rubbing their heads -- in disbelief possibly -- with a vaguely green pallor, a vacant stare, and beads of sweat popping up all too obviously on their foreheads. They were up to their eyeballs in tuna, peppers and chilies and their bodies were in active revolt. One poor soul, who had just eaten numbers 9 and 10 had bolted outside with a carton of milk in his hands. Too little too late, I was thinking. Another guy, at the same table, looked as catatonic as one might be and still be considered a paying customer. The girlfriend of the guy with the milk told us there was no way her boyfriend was going to sleep in her bed that night. It was the couch for him. No sirree, no unnecessary risks for her. A third guy came with a large group all the way from Macon, Georgia for the sole purpose of doing the challenge. He told me there was no way he could return home without victory -- here celebrated by the issuance of a headband with the Bushido name on it, a $25 dollar gift certificate, and the promise of lifetime bows by the sushi chefs whenever you enter the restaurant. He was sitting there with numbers 9 and 10 on the plate in front of him daring him to complete the challenge and possibly a call to 911. His vacant stares told me he would be a while and so we left not knowing his fate.

As for me, I am going back. Next time it will be a number 7 and perhaps a number 8. Redemption is out there, I know it.

Steppin' Out

There comes a point when you say to yourself, “okay, the ball’s in your court. It’s time to get out there and meet people.” After a year in Charleston, we have been swept up in a wave of extrovertism (if that’s a word). While I have been out and about for the past year making an easy fit of my new retirement fatigues, the same could not be said of Lily. Whereas I have been doing a steady meet and greet every morning in my jaunts to the beach with Mojo, Lily has been encased, as it were, working in her cave, which we alternately refer to as the office or guestroom numero dos. I have been flapping my gums for months meeting a wide array of dog owners, getting to like some, making my own contribution toward our assimilation into the South Carolinian life style. But now, Lily is retired. And, in anticipation of the event (which officially occurred last Friday), we have been looking for avenues to pursue to glad hand and embrace the entire Wild Dunes Community.

Our first shot in the dark came with the local bridge club. I know, I know it sounds so terribly stolid -- so old school -- but, hey, it’s a start. Lily and I do enjoy the game although we find it so much more enjoyable when it is accompanied by major servings of wine and opportunities to chat amiably with our opponents. As it turns out, the group we joined could not have been nicer: convivial, welcoming, knowledgeable. What the small print disclosed, however, was that the median age of the group was somewhere around 112, maybe a bit less. I mean these folks don’t just remember the Great Depression; some were walk-ons for the movie version of the Grapes of Wrath, I‘m quite certain. That’s old in case you’re missing my point. But, we have gone several times now even including their early bird dinners which begin about 5:30. My God, it's still light then, and it's winter for crying out loud. Stay tuned on this one.

Beyond this, we have enrolled (drum roll, please) in the Wild Dunes Yacht Club! Please, please try to refrain from laughter at this point. Really, wait just a second. First of all, you don’t have to be a boat owner to join. This is a good thing since, first, we don’t own a boat, and second, we are as comfortable in small boats as many people are in straight jackets. Second, it appears that the primary unifying force of the club is to get people together to drink and eat. Not necessarily a bad thing. And, maybe best of all, a number of the members don’t clearly remember a world without the internet. No Civil War veterans here. Lily and I went to one meeting a couple of weeks ago and were delighted at the wine selection, and the care free camaraderie of the attendees. We look forward to the next event.

I’m even thinking of trying to find the perfect ascot for these events. Maybe one with little anchors in it.

And on Reflection

(Dec. 28) On another 14 hour flight. This one’s from Hong Kong to Chicago. At the moment, however, it’s hard to think about anything but a very young, and very unhappy, passenger whose screams may break some windows before he’s done. My hope is that the steady drone of the engines will soothe both his and my jangled nerves. The flight plan for United 896 appears to take us over Russian air space. I presume the Russkies are expecting us.

Our vacation is over. Months and months of planning and coordination and, in a flash, it’s done. Isn’t it always the case? But, the memories of this one will last a long, long time. For Lily and me, traveling with Jesse and Alex once again (and Laura now too) reminds me how wonderful it is to do that, although no reminders are needed. Jesse is fast becoming a very accomplished guy: a 3.95 g.p.a. in grad school, an internship upcoming with the State Department in Mexico City, a graduate degree in June, and nuptials in September. A crowded agenda. He is so grounded and well-prepared for whatever lies ahead. His days as troublemaker par excellence are rapidly vanishing in his rear view mirror. He is master of his fate, and I love that about him. When he mimics someone’s voice, when telling one of his wonderful stories, he sounds like a stereotypical Russian, no matter what the nationality of the person he’s depicting. I find it hilarious. He and I are ruthless hearts players, and it is not uncommon for newcomers to our games to indicate that maybe they aren’t quite ready for this experience. But, we enjoy ourselves immensely.

And Alex? Here’s a guy who’s been traveling for a year. From Tierra del Fuego to Swaziland to Vientiane to Perth. And soon, Kathmandu and Mumbai. Mountain trekking, skydiving, shark cages, bungee jumping, safaris, and scuba. He has not been short changed in this adventure. What was once a kid with learning challenges and self-esteem concerns is now an emerging man of the world. When once reading was a painful exercise for him, he now devours books during his frequent solo journeys to the middle of nowhere. I know I am biased, but Alex may be the funniest person I know. Many people make me smile; Alex makes me laugh. Out loud. What could be better? Together, Jesse and Alex take great pleasure in pointing out my foibles, both physical and behavioral. It is one of the constant drumbeats of our time together. Lily is spared this; she’s their mom, after all. I, however, am fair game, and that’s fine by me. They kid because they love, right?

For the days we spent together in Indonesia in our shared scuba experience, I found myself watching not just the amazing marine life, but Jesse and Alex too. They would probably be embarrassed to learn this, but experiencing these fabulous underwater jaunts with them and Lily, together as a family, was at least as amazing to me. It provided one of those quintessential “pinch me” moments.

So, this adventure is now history. In this family, though, it is always about the next trip. On to Provence, I say!

Singapore, the New Cool

(Dec. 27) Move over New York. You too, San Francisco. There’s a new, cool dude you can learn something from. It’s Singapore. It’s modern, it’s colorful, it’s lush, and it is very, very cool. It is a city that reminds you of the old tale of the blind man trying to describe an elephant -- it depends on what part of the body he touches that reveals the creature’s appearance. The trunk, the leg, and the tail -- they all tell very different stories, and Singapore is much the same. It can be a modern, jet set-worthy, splashy shopping experience. Gucci, Prada, Rolex, Dolce and Gabbana, Calvin Klein, Louis Vuitton, even Starbucks. You get the picture. It has wide boulevards lined by a gorgeous canopy of trees and dotted with marble benches for the weary shopper. But, it is also a city that pays tribute to the best architectural elements of British colonialism. Beautiful white-washed buildings all flowing with graceful arches and large, welcoming courtyards. This style is typified most elegantly by the Raffles Hotel, now in its 123rd year. But, Singapore is also a city devoted to its ethnic neighborhoods -- Malaysian, Indian, and Chinese. Here, the streets are narrow with small shops and restaurants seemingly piled one atop the other as is so typical for so many parts of Asia.

It is a crowded city. Make no mistake about that. After spending almost all of our three weeks in relative backwaters with no roads or cars, sharing sidewalks with what strikes me as one-third of the planet’s population was unnerving and alien. The chaotic flow of pedestrian traffic, often elbow to elbow, paints the same picture for me as the hysterical movements of ants whose nest you have just unearthed. Nothing like post-Christmas shopping to get the juices flowing, I guess. And, the heat -- formidable. Not that it is any hotter than Thailand or Indonesia, but it’s amazing how it wears on you when you can’t shuffle around in nothing more than your swimsuit.

Lastly, a word about the food. It reflects its people: Chinese, Malaysian, and Indian. Every nook and cranny offers a fabulous diversity of cuisine. Having gorged ourselves for weeks on Thai and Indonesian food, Lily and I stopped for a change of pace -- middle eastern fare offered up by one of the many open-air sidewalk cafes. My grilled lamb was delicious, but the shawarma Lily had was to die for. Maybe one of the tastiest treats of the entire trip. I went so far as to inquire in the kitchen how they made it only to learn that the chef whose recipe it was had died some months earlier leaving it in the hands of a supplier to deliver the goods to the café. With a shrug, the current chef smiled and suggested that it was no doubt some combination of the 4 Cs that did the trick: curry powder, cumin, cardamom, and coriander. I will experiment when I get home.

Singapore: whatever you want, it’s here.

Night Dive

(Dec. 24) When I asked Alice, our dive master, whether a night dive would quicken or slow the pace of breathing, she said either was possible. People are either so excited or apprehensive that they use up the air in their tanks more rapidly than is otherwise the case. Or, she said, for some, breathing slows for those who find this adventure to be a remarkably relaxing experience.

Actually, I found both to be true. I freely admit my apprehensions at the prospect of descending to the ocean floor in total darkness. Wondering whether you’ll get separated from the rest of the group and feel the ultimate sensation of being lost, was in my mind not so much indulging in paranoia as it was recognition of a possibility that was uncomfortably greater than zero. We would have underwater dive lamps, of course, but their range was hardly limitless, and (definitely allowing my paranoia to take center stage) I felt the beam in mine was weaker than it should be.

And, so we descended as the sun was setting out over the South China Sea. It was Christmas eve. The drill was to stay together in a mute, marine conga line with admonitions not to bunch up too closely lest one whack a fellow diver in the head with an errant fin. There would be a dive master at the head, middle and rear of the line ostensibly to prevent strays. Well, that didn’t last very long. Not that anyone was lost, but by the end of the hour dive, most of us observed that at least at one point in the dive we had been the last in line with nothing behind us but black and endless ocean.

As we settled in to this weirdly new environment, I relaxed and began to understand what Alice meant by the likelihood of one’s breathing slowing. None of us knows what it’s like to be in the womb, of course, but this has to be a damn close approximation. Movement slows, effort eases, and each breath extends longer and longer. The 86 degree water temperature soothes and relaxes. And, the pace is slow -- very slow.

As planned, late in the dive, we form a circle on the ocean floor sitting on the sandy bottom extinguishing our dive lamps. Blackness you cannot imagine. You know there are people all around you, but you are alone, believe me. Lily, Jesse, Alex, Colin and Shanti might as well have been a thousand miles away. And then, magic. On cue, we all start waving our arms as if in some legless dance routine, and in front of our eyes appear phosphorescence -- tiny, tiny marine life that appear to you as thousands of tiny fireflies or microbursts of a thousand fireworks. Awesome.

There was no evidence of Santa or reindeer that night, but there was no question that this was a pretty amazing way to celebrate the arrival of Christmas.

The Gilis -- How You Say Island Bliss

(Dec. 22) I know it would be an exaggeration to say that here on Gili Air we have truly reached the other side of the planet, in all things literal and figurative. But, we are getting close. Gili Air is a tiny island, maybe 4 miles around. It sits in the South China Sea about a 4 hour ferry ride east of Bali alongside its island sisters Gili Meno and Gili Trawangan. These tiny islands serve as stepping stones off the coast of Lombok, an Indonesian province that will soon be a rising star for savvy jet setters. Stepping off the longboat that brings us to Gili Air, your personal decompression process begins to take hold. Not that what preceded this destination was stressful, but this place sets the standard for all that is laid back. It is one thing to say that there are no roads here or cars as was the case in Koh Phi Phi, but the difference between Phi Phi and Gili is the difference between New York and Mayberry RFD. There is only a dirt path that hugs the shore around the island, and the only thing that moves faster than the always strolling humans is the occasional pony-drawn cart and a random bike. There are a few bungalow-dotted “resorts,” a string of beach front bars and eateries, and, after that…..nothing.

This is an island devoted largely to divers. There is really nothing else to keep you here except perhaps a driving ambition to lower your blood pressure. No credit cards here, no ATMs. Things here are pretty much a half step ahead of the barter system. Our hotel, Gili Air Bungalows, offers 4 steeply roofed thatched bungalows, each with a front deck and a bathroom in the rear that is open to the sky. Sink, shower, and toilet -- all alfresco. Pretty cool. The pool is salt water as is the tap and shower water. Bottled water is, naturally, essential. The beach bars offer covered, raised thatched platforms each with overstuffed pillows you can lean against while you throw down your Bintang beer and your shrimp or calamari schnitzel. There you can while away the afternoons between dives or after dinner hours, reading, sipping cocktails, playing hearts and trading stories. And the dress code? Let me just say that dressing for dinner means putting a tank top over that bathing suit. And, if you simply insist on footwear, let it be flipflops.

Oh yeah, there’s stress here -- will it be tequila or beer, red snapper or calamari? It really doesn't get much more complicated than that.

Mayhem on Main Street

(Dec. 20) A word about the traffic here. Astounding. Beyond comprehension. There is simply no analog in the western world for this particular brand of hysteria. I grew up thinking that the mad dash urban traffic scenes of Paris and Rome were the benchmarks for madness -- where the rule of law evaporated in the no man’s land beyond the city’s sidewalks. What I didn’t know then was that these traffic models would be mere child’s play -- a stroll in the park -- compared to what southeast Asians engage in every day. To say the streets are crowded goes without saying, of course. The roads are blanketed by cars, trucks, buses, cyclists, and the ever-present scooters and motorcycles that soon take on the feel of swarming mosquitoes rather than machines. Scooters, often loaded with 3 or 4 people, dart among each other and between cars with a hair-raising optimism that their sudden movements will be injury-free. Helmets, though common, are hardly universal. Unhelmeted, small kids, in particular, who are sandwiched (indeed, seemingly suffocated) between parents, appear oblivious to the harm that I believe is not just apt to happen, but a dead on certainty. Cars, like the ones we traveled in, come up on the bumpers of these two-wheeled vehicles so damn closely that so often you can see what kinds of screws hold their license plates on -- and this is at cruising speeds. Add to this mix the suicidal brand of pedestrians who actually deign to enter this war zone and you have the dictionary definition of chaos.

The notion of lanes is not even paid lip service. Are you kidding me? I’m telling you, it’s a huge waste of paint. Sure, there is oncoming traffic. But, that gives no assurance whatsoever that the oncomers own their lane. They must share it with the cars and scooters that pass from the other lane, sometimes three abreast, in what I can only describe as a fiendish game of chicken. I am amazed as much as I have ever been that accidents are not just more frequent, but hellishly repetitive.

It is truly a video game on wheels, but I hesitate to learn in whose hands the controller rests.