Welcome back to ink-uilab. It’s 2023, and somehow this experiment in punctuality hasn’t succumbed to the ravages of procrastination (or worse, corporatization). Unless these have been relegated to the void of spam in people’s inboxes, thank you for your readership!
This one is a little long but bear with me. It chronicles eccentric explorers, Bukharan linguistic lessons, and the realization that all language revolves around the word aloo.
An Exposition on Explorers:
I’ve been reflecting on interesting genres of film, and one particularly stands out to me: documentaries by explorer-filmmakers. James Cameron is probably the most well-known living example of this genre of the filmmaker (for his adventures in the Mariana Trench, not Avatar’s Pandora). But the 20th century appears to have produced a veritable who’s-who of globe-trotting, peak-scaling, breath-holding, moon-walking documentarians:
Thor Heyerdahl is one such character:
Heyerdahl is best known for his daring and innovative expedition across the Pacific Ocean on the Kon-Tiki in 1947, which sought to prove that prehistoric peoples were capable of sailing and settling across the seas. Heyerdahl and his crew sailed for 8,000 km (5,000 mi) in 101 days in a hand-built raft from South America to the Tuamotu Islands.
While the journey, and its documentary film, brought him international acclaim and recognition - it is important to stress the pseudoscientific and racially controversial nature of his hypothesis. Anthropologist Robert Carl Suggs writes that “The Kon-Tiki theory is about as plausible as the tales of Atlantis, Mu, and 'Children of the Sun.' Like most such theories, it makes exciting light reading, but as an example of scientific method it fares quite poorly.”
These criticisms didn’t deter Heyerdahl, who followed his acclaimed voyage with a number of other trips, including a transatlantic journey on the Ra in 1969 (when he sailed from the western coast of Africa to Barbados in an Egyptian papyrus reed boat.)
I’m particularly interested in the Norwegian explorer for his distinctive film style which is a mix of documentary and poetic elements, as he sought to capture the true essence and beauty of the people and places he encountered. Both of these appear to be available, in their entirety, on YouTube. Both Kon-Tiki (1949) and Ra (1972) capture the excitement of adventure, the unexpected dangers of the ocean, and the lull of the endless open sea through interviews, reenactments, and actual footage of the voyages. Forgoing historicism, he weaves myth and mystery - highlighting the power of nature, the endless waves of time, and the courage of his crew members. Also of note is Ragnar Bjerkreim’s masterful soundtrack for Kon-Tiki, available here.
A fairly modern example of the explorer-documentarian is Christoph Rehage, the German who never stopped walking
You may remember him from The Longest Way, a ‘picture-a-day’ film about his 305-day adventure walking across China. Considered one of the earliest truly viral videos on Youtube, it chronicles the growth (and trimming) of an explorer’s beard. Along the way, he is joined by a compelling cast of characters (namely Teacher Xie and the trusty cart). If you haven’t seen it, it’s a must-watch:
To those that let it occupy some back corner of their cerebrum - kudos! You’d be surprised to know, thirteen (13) years on, he is still walking. He has not deviated from his plan to walk from China to his home in Germany. Let me reiterate: this internet man has been walking - on his own two feet - for thirteen years with nothing but one destination in his mind. He’s crossed borders, slept in Central Asian desserts, been shot at, and chased by rabid dogs. He’s faced a host of troubles - the police, COVID lockdowns, and degenerative diseases to name a few - and while these have certainly slowed him down, they have not stopped Christoph.
You can follow along on his adventures here. He’s been in Budapest since October recovering from a disc hernia. Once recovered, he plans to continue his journey. He’s three countries away from his destination, and I wish him nothing but the best. May he finally complete this decade-long journey, and rest his tired feet.
It would be impossible to discuss explorers which a knack for film-making (or filmmakers with a knack for exploration), and not mention Jacques Cousteau.
Jacques Cousteau was a French oceanographer, explorer, and filmmaker. Cousteau is most famous for his television series The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau, which aired from 1968 to 1976 and brought the underwater world to life for millions of people. I’m always taken aback by how wholesome his productions are. The audience feels like they’re a part of Cousteau’s read-beanie-wearing crew, called The Cousteau Society. Cousteau’s films are renowned for their stunning visuals and insight into the complex relationship between humans and the ocean. He was also a pioneer in the use of underwater cameras, being the first to use underwater cinematography to document the ocean depths in colour.
Listening to Cousteau’s narrations in his films, it becomes obvious that the ocean, and everything within it, is seemingly sacred to him. Even the bodily act of swimming is metaphysical. He writes, “Buoyed by water, he can fly in any direction — up, down, sideways — by merely flipping his hand. Under water, man becomes an archangel.”
The iconic figure has been immortalized in Wes Anderson’s ode to Cousteau, ‘The Life Aquatic of Steve Zissou.’ The film is both a homage to and a parody of Cousteau and stars the magnetic Bill Murray as the eccentric oceanographer. Personally, I think this is the most underrated - if not most experimental - of Anderson’s films. I also think the movie features the best ‘cross-section’ shot in any film, Anderson or otherwise. Watch it here:
The film also includes some heart-wrenching acoustic renditions of classic Bowie songs, in Portuguese. They feature Seu Jorge and can be found here.
On music and the explorer-documentary genre, I present to you Public Service Broadcasting, and their superb track Everest.
Public Service Broadcasting, a London-based musical group combines progressive electronic music, the banjo, flugelhorn, vibraslap and other insane instruments. I’m particularly fascinated by their choice of samples, taken from old public information films, archive footage and propaganda material. Everest is one of the best examples of this style:
The song is based on, and inspired by, the 1953 film 'The Conquest of Everest', which told the story of Hillary, Tensing and their crew’s successful ascent of Everest, and was directed by expedition member George Lowe (The film is available on YouTube.)
If this genre of music interests you, might I plug my own Spotify playlist Explorer’s Club - a collection of music with the spirit of adventure.
My childlike fascination with 20th-century explorers was piqued when I stumbled across this majestic photograph by Irving Penn of Arctic explorer Peter Freuchen, and his third wife and Vogue fashion illustrator, Dagmar Freuchen-Gale:
Rachel Syme describes the contrast in this image in a piece for the New York Times. She writes, “He is so large, swaddled in a colossal polar-bear coat, and she is so tiny, in her pert black suit and pearls, her one extravagance (a hat with a bow and netting, the millinery trend in those days) dwarfed by his opulent pelage. And then there are their expressions. His: leathered and intimidating, as if he were staring down a predator he intends to harpoon. Hers: complacent, demure, almost bored … The two don’t touch; if you cut the photograph in half, you might think they were in different rooms, different seasons, or even different centuries.”
Peter Freuchen’s life appears straight out of a comic book. I would summarize some of his exploits, but I don’t think I could do a better job than the author at badassoftheweek.com (yes, real website): “Lorenc Peter Elfred Freuchen was a 6’7” tall walrus-spearing, peg-legged, anti-Semite-clobbering Danish explorer and badass old-school 1900s explorer who wore a fucking awesome coat made of polar bear fur, rocked a seriously epic beard, rode a dogsled 1,000 kilometres across the Greenland ice cap in the 1910s, killed a wolf with his bare hands, escaped a Nazi death warrant at the height of the Third Reich, amputated his own fucking gangrenous toes with a pair of pliers (and no anaesthesia), and starred in a goddamned Oscar-winning movie – which was based on a book that he wrote, and this guy was so over-the-top awesome that he played the fucking villain in a movie that was loosely based around his own autobiography. He was also the fifth person to win the jackpot in the TV game show The $64,000 Question, published thirty books, founded two Adventurer’s Clubs, and his biography is called The Vagrant Viking.”
In a unique moment of explorer-crossover history, Neil Armstrong and Sir Edmund Hillary went to the North Pole together.
As the story goes, in 1985 the duo landed an Otter twin-engined ski plane at the North Pole. This cemented Hillary as the first person to complete the ‘Three Poles Challenge,’ which entails standing at both poles and the summit of Mount Everest.
According to an article in Atlas Obscura, on reaching the top of the world “they popped a bottle of champagne, which froze solid before even two glasses were poured.”
The open question is: Why? Why do they do it? What drives this thirst for exploration?
Is it curiosity? If so, what distinguishes the scientist (in the broadest sense) from the explorer? While many famed explorations have attempted to answer open questions (such as mapping the limits of a landmass), others seemingly have no direct rational justification. What are these explorers searching for?
Is it a competitive streak to be the first or the only person to achieve something? If so, how does it explain the excitement of explorers that are second, third, or the thousandth to summit Everest?
Is it an attempt to generate excitement procured by risk? But then, is every explorer simply one who gambles with their life? Could someone playing Russian roulette be considered an explorer?
Is it an attempt to demonstrate, and challenge the limits of human strength? If so, why? As Nietzsche posits, “He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.”
The most famous retort in mountaineering seemingly answers our question. On being asked, "Why did you want to climb Mount Everest?" George Mallory responds
“Because it's there.”
There is some solace in the realization that explorers, even in the middle of their adventures, haven’t seemed to figure out what the hypnotic force that drives them is. Below is an excerpt from the diary of Salomon Andree describing his attempt to reach the Pole by balloon, back in 1897. They never made it, and the bodies of the Andree expedition were found 33 years later on Bear Island:
Is it not a little strange to be floating here above the Polar Sea, to be the first to have floated here in a hydrogen–filled balloon? How soon, I wonder, shall we have successors? Shall we be thought mad, or will our example be followed? I cannot deny but that all three of us are dominated by a feeling of pride. We think we can well face death, having known what we have done is not the whole, perhaps the expression of an extremely strong sense of individuality which cannot bear the thought of living and dying like a man within the ranks, forgotten by the coming generations? Is this ambition?’
On the search for aalu-bukhara:
This entire soliloquy stems from a hunger-driven craving for plums. This craving set me off on a linguistic adventure (with great company: Sachien, Daevan, Tony, and David), and this is a compilation of a few interesting realizations.
While exploring the medieval bazaars of Bukhara, we eyed the handcarts laden with these wonderful Mirza melons, muskmelons, and watermelons. Amidst this cornucopia, the plum was missing. This was a surprise to us, as the Hindustani word for plum - aloo bukhara (आलू बुख़ारा) - literally translates to ‘potato of Bukhara,’ and we expected the purple fruit to be everywhere in the city.
Here was our hypothesis. The aloo bukhara is the name of the purple dried plum in India (taxonomically, the Prunus domestic or the European Plum). We hypothesised- the fruit originated from Central Asia (hence, the bukhara) and travelled to India. Given that it shares the texture and shape of a potato (this was a bit of a stretch), it was called an aloo (potato). This yielded the purple plum AKA the ‘Bukharan Potato.’
Ok, so get this.
We were correct about the Bukharan routes (duh.) The name of the fruit originates from the Persian آلو بخارا (âlu boxârâ), literally the plum of Bukhara. âlu/aloo is Persian for plum. What?
What came first, the potato or the plum? Seemingly the plum came first. How then, did the âlu lend its name to the potato? It seems there are three possible ways this happened (borrowing directly from Wiktionary):
Directly from Sanskrit —> “Inherited from Sauraseni Prakrit 𑀆𑀮𑀼𑀕 (āluga), from Sanskrit आलुक (āluka, “elephant foot yam”). The word began to be used in the sense "potato" after the importation of potatoes to South Asia from the Americas by Europeans, displacing cultivation of the similar elephant foot yam.’”
From Sanskrit via Persian —> “middle Persian, آلو • (âlu) for plum, prune. From Proto-Indo-Iranian *HaHlu, from Proto-Indo-European *h₂eHlu (“edible root”). Cognate with Latin alium (“onion, garlic”) and Sanskrit आलु (ālu).”
From Latin or Indo-European origins —> “Borrowed from Latin aloē, from Ancient Greek ἀλόη (alóē), from Hebrew אֲהָלִים (ʾăhālîm)”
But where did this arise from? It could originate from Latin for Garlic, Ancient Greek for garlic cloves, Greek for “'vegetables' among the Italians” or from the Proto-Indo-European *ālu- for ‘bitter plant.’
Thus, aloo for potato is a neologism! Hence, it’s not just potayto-potahto, but also plum-potato. (Cue, Fred Astaire singing potayto-potahto.)
Also interesting is a citation to an Armenian Dictionary of Fruits that adds nuance to this argument: “It is uncertain whether the cultivars called "alubukhara" are the same everywhere. It is possible the name was indiscriminately applied to different plums of high quality.
To start a conversation like Sachien does “So I’ve been thinking about cognates.” Here’s some more awesome aloo-themed edible etymology:
The stone-fruit and aloo puzzle does not end there. It gets better! The apricot is the Jardalu (or zard aloo) in Hindi, Marathi, Malayalam, and Kannada. Now, did the potato, the plum, or the apricot come first? The zard aloo stems from Middle Persian (zltʾlwk' /zardālūg/), equivalent to زرد (zard, “yellow”) + آلو (âlu, “plum”). So the plum is just âlu, the apricot is yellow âlu, and the potato is âlu âlu. Amazing!
On looking into the Persian cognate, the âlu is even more pervasive than we initially give it credit for. A shaftâlu which is a variety of peach and âlu qermez (red plum) a variety of plum. The Afghan kacalu (kac + aloo) means potato in Dari but taro in Hindi (along with the word arvi).
As an aside, the hindustani word bukhār, for fever, does not relate to the city of Bukhara. It is instead borrowed from the Persian بُخَار., which in turn is borrowed from the Arabic خَار (buḵār) for steam or vapour.
Here’s another kicker. Vindaloo, the famous Goan curry, does not have the same cognate as aloo, although the tomato-based staple can and does contain potato. It appears that “Vindaloo” originates from the Portuguese “vin-d’alho” meaning “wine and garlic”. This is apparently a shortened version of "carne de vinha d'alhos" or “meat in garlic wine marinade.” But this word stock gets spicier. It seems that the Portuguese alho is a cognate of aloo, coming from Latin allium meaning garlic. The Hindustani aloo comes from the Sanskrit ālu from the same PIE root. Thus Vindaloo does not have its root in aloo, but aloo and Vindaloo share a root in … garlic? Interestingly the Portuguese word for potatoes is ‘batatas’ (similar to a number of Indo-European constructions) and lends its name to the ‘Batata Wada’ (or the potato wada ‘fritter’ in Hindustani).
Damn, linguistics is such a plum job.
As always, some verses, in parting:
The Little Gidding, the last of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets. This is an ambitious and complex work of poetic genius, written over the course of seven years (1935 to 1942). Its publishing was delayed by over a year owing to the ongoing Blitz and Eliot's declining health. Beyond the poem’s themes of rebirth, purgation, and the cycle of life - I’m drawn to its ability to ignite hope and a sense of exploration in the reader.
Interestingly, when Robert S. McNamara was asked in 1968 what major changes he would have made in United States policies in Vietnam, he quoted some lines from The Little Gidding. These appear as the final four lines of the excerpt below.
The poem is available in its entirety at this Columbia database. Here’s an excerpt:
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England. With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.
godspeed,
BM
(All errors are my own, and a by-product of editing this at two a.m to the sound of raindrops hitting my tin-roof)
Great article . I always get to learn a lot . I keep your article to read over the weekend . The aloo Bukhara & the part about the explorers was excellent.