Honestly

Or was that Honesty.

First, let me mention how hot it is. As in ice cream just isn't an option here hot.

OK, 100 miles north or north east of where i sit now, this would NOT have happened.

As you do from time to time, I needed to buy bread, so into 7/11 (convenience store chain) I go and take a loaf of bread off the shelf, proceed to the check out counter with cash in hand, wait in queue and then my turn, pass the money, get some water as well and wait....... the check out clerk, looks at the use by tag on the bread and then replaces the loaf with a fresher one.

I didnt ask him. No legislation requires him to do it. He didn't make a big deal of it either. To him it was just important to be fair.

I am in a Malaysia. Langkawi actually. Kuah if you really want to know. Email me for the longitude and latitude :-)

North and North East of me is Thailand.

There, I would be charged extra because of my white face (well slightly sunburnt face, did I mention the heat?).

In Thailand, the rip off is an art form. Practiced from an early age. From the moment you arrive at the slightly new airport and are harassed all the way from the point of baggage collection to rent a taxi, until you leave by the same portal, the smiling faces always seem to want to sell you something. Always more expensive than it should be, but what the heck you're on holiday eh?

Having based there for quite some time, one gets guarded whenever approached on the street by a stranger (no not in that kind of way). My hand automatically covers my wallet. Thailand, land of a thousand smiles.

Back to Malaysia. The melody of the Mullah drifts through the heavy humid air. Languid. Oh yes, here the state religion is Islam.

I am approached on the street by a stranger. He says hi and asks where I come from. My hand flexes and covers. Guardedly I respond. Turns out he's a tourist like me, and just wants to chat. Nice guy, nothing to sell.

All over town, people say hi to each other, even old tourists like me. No one yet has tried to sell me anything. No one yet has been anything other than very polite and friendly in a genuine way. 100 miles to Thailand. 20,000 miles of cultural change.

I blame Islam for this, or maybe its the heat.

Salam Malam

Singapore 4

Noodles, noodles, rice or noodles, chicken, pork or seafood, too many
options. She senses my indecision and drifts away lips pursed in amusement
at another's folly.

A seemingly endless myriad of corridors and alleys wind my eye and
eventually feet away from the lunchtime aromas of the central hall where a
score of small stalls labor over lunch for the army which lives above.

This is Peoples Park.

The center of the housing development boards public
housing project in Singapore. A venture first promulgated in the 60's to
house Singapore's ever burgeoning population of workers in the island city.
A success story by any measure, its now aging denizens have a secure life
in a comfortable environment. Everything one could ever need is within a
short walk

Its easy to lose your way in the Parks sprawling commercial areas, as paths lead to shops lead to food stalls lead
to money changers lead to public transport lead to massage clinics, ever
winding and more confusing as only a grand Chinese puzzle could ever be.

Hoardings struggle for recognition amongst lucky symbols and lantern
shapes. Red is everywhere.

The afternoon buzzes with the serious chatter of Uncles and Aunties,
gathered in so many tea shops, all engaged in their favorite hobby. Gossip.

The tea choice is enough to cause comment, only the finest of what
China can muster is expected and its preparation is a serious matter.

Alone, I am mesmerized by the animation of these mostly octogenarians whose
banter and laughter electrify the surrounding air with mirth and sparkle.

An elderly gent walks to the middle of the main square, sets a small
speaker down and begins to sing Chinese Opera.

From the moment he begins to
intonate and croon out the characters of his performance, the crowd stops.
Onlookers quickly gather, even children visiting Grandma are hushed.

Total reverence. Dignity in his every move. Remarkable that we can sit quietly
over tea and watch.

And so daily, the populace dances from the serious business of food, to
tea, to thoughtful art, surrounded by cheerfulness in a setting of peace.

Peoples Park. Yes I can see that.

Singapore Three

OK you guys, quit with the antics la!!

I have trouble enough sleeping without the doors closing noisily and the creaking stuff. Give me a break eh?

Plus, I need those socks that got lost in the laundry back thank you, and I would prefer that you dont break anymore of my appliances.

Whew. Thats a lot to ask I guess, but i am an expat and we do quite press the point. What exactly do I have to give or do to create a bit of peace around here?

Probably easier to answer that, than why exactly do the Chinese consider the gates of hell open for this month? As in once a year the gates of hell open. And it's this month. Hmmmm, loose ghosts, pandemonium.

I'm serious. No one buys a car or a house during this month. No swimming at rivers or beaches and other adventurous activities whatsoever during this month.

No big business decisions either. Singapore, whilst not exactly grinding to a halt, takes on an air of caution. Consider that the general populace here is urbane and well educated this kind of creeps up as a bit of a surprise.

So, whats the story?

Evidently its a bunch of Hungry Ghosts.

Hungry Ghosts appear from Chinese ancestor worship. 鬼法界, 鬼界 is "the realm of the hungry ghosts". Some Chinese believe that the ghosts of their ancestors return to their houses at a certain time of the year, hungry and ready to eat. A festival is held to honor the hungry ancestor ghosts and food and drink is put out to satisfy their needs. Honor of ancestors is a big thing amongst Chinese. Might be a useful attribute methinks. Even the Buddhists get in on the act. The temple next door to me has been working overtime with chanting and horn blowing all weekend.

So little bins have started appearing across the neighborhood. A fire burns in the bottom and into this goes food, clothing (probably my socks) and anything else which could make the dead ancestor happier for the year ahead. They are never forgotten, and angered at ones peril.

Oh and money. Hell is not cheap la. It has its demigods and gate openers all of whom need to be "well oiled" for a comfortable existence.

Now, if you don't get with the swing of this, then certain little prompts start to help you appreciate the situation.

First it was the socks. Then the doors mysteriously opening and closing when i wasn't looking. Creaking sounds have woken me up in the last few nights. Now my appliances have started malfunctioning. Yesterday was the washing machine. Today the espresso machine.

The thing about superstition is you can say all you like about how silly it is, ill-educated nonsense, but......

Its been a superstition for thousands of years. Skepticism has only been a "science" for around 20 years. Its just a pup.

Me?

I pride myself on rational explanations and an understanding of natural laws rather than pseudoscience. Animistic beliefs I respect, they are born of long cultural experience. Skepticism only lasts until you are looking for that missing sock.

I am out tonight to make an offering of food to my local ghosts, and to also sling a few dollars for all my departed ancestors. I wonder what the exchange rate is and do they take Visa. Of course they must, hell is well populated with bankers hehe.

Just call me ill-educated :)

Singapore Two

No problems lah! Dont be so Money Face Lah! Aeyo can lah!

Today I am so blur blur, I wonder how I can write this and put sense to the language known as Singlish.

4 cultures (maybe 5 considering the english expat in addition to Malay, Chinese, Indian, European) have intertwined to form this modern day republic, each with its own diametrically opposite language structures, cuisines and fashions to make Singapore one of the most eclectic places on the planet. Vaguely reminiscent or familiar of all of the homes of the cultures it combines yet somehow blended to a new level to make a Singaporean no matter what their ancestry or ethnic heritage stand out in a crowd when returned to their mother place.

It really becomes obvious when you sit in on a discussion amongst its denizens, white skinned chinese, darker skinned malay, dark skinned indians all of whose cultural homes are obvious and yet when you hear them speak, the colour distinction is the only difference you can notice. (The lower case use for the ethnic origins is intentional, they are now Singaporeans)

Close your eyes

Listen

Its English, but its not. It blends Malay, "you makan already?" with Chinese "Hey Ah Beng makan already?" with Hindi/Urdu "Hey Ah Beng makan roti already?" with the parent English (I say parent, as English is what Singaporeans mainly speak) to come out with "Hey ah beng you wan do makan roti prata already lah?"

What the hell does this mean?

How the hell do I know, I am just a visitor lah

No lah makan liao lah. Tze tze, terimah kaseh

Now I go play play cause I am a little slow slow

Singapore One

With a nod and a swaying of his head (as only an Indian can do and interpret) Waiter Number 136 acknowledges my order of Roti Prata and Teh Tarik.

I sit back in the plastic chair at the cheap laminex table, savoring the moistness of the tropical evening as Singapore traffic rushes by oblivious of the ritual through which they drive like the possessed.

Roti prata is the Singaporean evolution of the Pakistani and Indian paratha, a pancake bread made of dough composed of fat, egg, flour and water. Roti means bread in Hindi, Urdu, most other North Indian languages and Malay, while Prata means flat. It is traditionally served with curry or, more rarely, with sugar or condensed milk. In addition, although consumed at any time of the day by some locals, the vast majority tend to consume it as a late night or early morning dish, particularly at 24-hour outlets.

There are two main types of the dish - the smaller but crispy version (made famous by the Jalan Kayu chains) and the flatter and more fluffy version common elsewhere. Both versions are prepared in similar fashion - by flipping the dough into a large thin layer before heating it on a hot plate.

Teh tarik (literally pulled tea or 拉茶 in Mandarin) is a hot tea beverage which can be commonly found in restaurants, outdoor stalls and kopi tiams in Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei. Its name is derived from the pouring process of "pulling" the drink during preparation. It is made from black tea and condensed milk.

The mixture is poured back and forth repeatedly between two vessels over a height, giving it a thick frothy top. This process is said to cool the tea to drinking temperatures, and helps mix the tea with the condensed milk more thoroughly.

Thanks Wikipedia.

Now back to the show.

The Prata cook and the Tarek maker seem to be in a competition as to who can perform the most flourishes per step all the while acknowledging each others simple magic with a wobbling motion of the head. Quite amazing to watch the geometry of this as nothing is spilt or misplaced during the dance.

Up swirls the Prata in the air before landing perfectly square on the large flat cooking surface the cook dives on it with a large spatula turning and prodding it into its fluffy end product, the Teh spirals back and forth between the large metal jug and the cup, a continual cascade seeming to flow with no end between both vessels.

Its pure India where dramatics and inferred magic may make the difference between a sale or no sale/no eat, although the affluence surrounding the demo (modern day Singapore) belies its rural roots. The transportation to the old markets of Delhi nearly works.

In its simplest form, exposed by the preparation of food, thousands of years of culture and migration lay bare. All for $2.20.

Within minutes I have old India served on a plate with a watery lamb curry, the teh (tea) is frothy and sweet. The smell can only be described as sensuous. The taste? Ahh Singapore, forget your expensive nightlife, this is truly part of you.

And Waiter Number 136 gives me a wide smile and an appreciative nod to acknowledge that this Ang Moh recognised the show.

Ah Beng Lah

Aperture

London grows on you. The more you poke your lens into its numerous crannies the more its uniqueness reveals itself.

Of special mention here is the Aperture Photgraphers Cafe on Museum Street.



In addition to serving Lavazza espresso (of course its my favourite, isnt it yours?) They have an amazing array of very hard to get cameras, all second hand, but in great working order. The ambience is interesting with a mix of amateurs and working pro's either midway or just back from some of the most interesting places.



The camaraderie is brilliant and the sales staff very interactive. The shop looks like a rubbish dump though, be warned, although most working photographers seem to have an appetite for things boheme. The place just reeks of funk.



Also worthy of special mention is Classic Cameras in Pied Bull Lane, just round the corner. Its the best Leica Shop I have ever been to and the staff are great. Its nice to buy things from people who truly believe in what they sell, no hype, just honest input.

For a more thorough look at Londons nooks try here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikefrancisphoto/

I am starting to really like this town.

Jesus Saves

I am in San Diego.

The phone shatters the darkness (thank whatever god invented black out curtains).

I roll over in no fit state to deal with whoever is inflicting this pain and notice its 8 AM.

I have a vague recollection of having to do something at 8 AM. Answering the phone, my comrade tells me he is waiting downstairs for our big Sunday trip to Mexico. Politely I decline begging off due to my poor state of health (and confusion) on a bad dose of something I ate. Or was it something I drank until 5 AM?

Its amazing how you can lie when pressed.

I try to go back to sleep but the throbbing behind my temples is reminding me that I should never again drink vodka in such large quantities.

I decide to try and stay awake and here I make the second mistake of the morning (waking up was a bad enough move). I switch on the TV.

No matter which channel I surf to I am assailed by the jesus channels. As in every channel I flick to has a god botherer in action.

I settle on a woman with large breasts who is, in her best pitch, telling the world that jesus is the answer. “put your hand on the part that hurts” she wails. “Let jesus cure your ills”.

I am exhorted to action. How can I refuse such an offer from such a well-endowed lady who obviously has jesus's private cell number.

So here I am, standing in front of the TV in my underpants with my hand on my forehead listening to her wailing how if I truly believe, all my hurts and ills will now be gone.

With a hangover like this, trust me I believe.

Sadly, jesus has no sense of humour about vodka.

Tylenol, however has a much better sense of humour. After a handful of these, normality returned, sleep ensued and in the very late afternoon, I had Mexican for dinner.

Might start a new religion.

The Tea Dance

Manila is not the nicest place I’ve been to for many reasons. The poverty, the lack of decent food, and the overwhelmingly cloying Catholicism get to me after about 3 hours of landing.

I do however have an affinity for Philippinos. I have worked with them all over the world and some are lifelong friends. And there lies an interesting fact about the Philippines. A large proportion of its exports are people. Balikbayan is the word for the men and women who leave the sanctuary of home to head out and break the poverty cycle they face in the barrio.

For the guys, most are well trained and work hardened before they leave Manila. Those that aren’t quickly get adopted by their new working brothers and are able to cope with indescribable hardships by dint of this pseudo family structure.

The women however (outside of the nursing profession) fare not so kindly.

Let me first explain that the majority of Asia’s maids are Philipinas.



They work a 3-year contract cycle during which they will endure long working days and very limited contact with the outside world or family.

In the first contractual year, it’s generally a 7-day week. It’s not until the subsequent years that they start to get Sunday off, and some even get Saturday afternoon.

Singapore has an interesting phenomenon that occurs every Sunday. It’s known as The Tea Dance. And it is an entirely Pilipino affair.



Sunday starts with a visit to the local Catholic church for early morning mass. After this it’s a visit to the Post Office (Singapore Post opens early for them on this day) to send letters away followed by meeting anyone they know from home or just generally taking the afternoon off during which they wander local shopping malls, which in turn cater to them as a market.





This is a tradition that has continued for many years. Ever since I can remember.




Not much dancing gets done nor tea drunk. Instead, shopping malls and park benches get filled with maids on parade doing their best to get some form of social interaction or normalcy to their otherwise confined life of servitude. The whole area takes on a carnival flavour.



So on any steamy Sunday in Singapore, take a walk down the Orchard Road. Drink some Tea and enjoy the view.

No problems lah!!!!

Koh Chang - a photographic adventure

Once upon a time, in a far away place, there was a fabled island known only to locals and shaped like an elephant, referred to in hushed whispers as the paradise Koh Chang (Elephant Island).

Near vertical, tropically swathed, misty mountains surrounded by white sandy beaches with crystal waters. Palm fringed, coral reefs on the seaward side. An island that actually did look like the photograph in the brochure.

I remember this place. I slept on its beaches and conversed with the fishermen who used to pull in with their small catches to sell. An old lady and her husband would cook.

So with a week to spare between assignments, I hook up with Martin the dancing bear and we sashe (or was it tango) our way down the coast looking to capture the heart of the quaint sea villages and island charm of Thailand's eastern seaboard.

From Pattaya we head east towards Cambodia looking to stop at each little town along the way and to "grow" a life as it is here essay by camera.

Inwardly I cringe a little as I write this.

It appears that the worlds (or at the very least Thailand's) entire plastic bag stock has been dumped in every place we stop to shoot. Scenes of graceful fishing fleets nestling on the low tide sands are totally eviscerated by what in my estimate were at least a tonne of plastic. Everywhere the lens looked.

When we get to the island, it actually gets worse. My wonderful little island no longer looks the picture of paradise.

Its been plasticized. And not just with plastic bag garbage. To add insult to injury, its been overbuilt with some of the ugliest buildings ever built (no way will I use the word architecture cause that implies art which this place sadly now needs).

Water has suffered a bit as well. Its brown. Cant see my feet at knee level brown.

The entire foreshore is now overbuilt with 4 star and 5 star hotels. You cant get to the beach anymore unless you stay at one of these places. I wonder where their sewage discharges to? And with all this trampling by construction crews and the odd suckered tourist, its just a mud quagmire and its hasn't started to rain yet.

I could rave on about the greed of the Thai people who did this or the apathy of the Thai people who let this happen in a listed National Park. Instead I go home, photoless and deeply saddened.

I am not accepting plastic bags anymore. They kill islands.

Mai Pen Rai eh?

Cambodia Again.......What Have We done About It?

The Great Moscow Circus

Can you recall it? The dimming of the lights, an electric air? The hush, then the roar of applause? The excitement at the entrance of the ringmaster, theatre resplendent. Lit by a big spot of crisp white light?

Hundreds of thousands of children world over, clutching crisps/popcorn/grass derived snack, entertained by an exotic mix of animals, garishly painted sets, daring do feats and simple slapstick comedy by some of the worlds most talented athletes all under one roof. A Big Top no less.

The Great Moscow Circus.

From the USSR it sprang forth to entertain generations. Itself an icon of perfection in the circus industry. Who can ever forget its most famous assets Yuri Vladimirovich Nikulinor or Oleg Konstantinovich Popov.

Perhaps better remembered as Nikulin and Popov the clowns.

Definers of the clowning medium on the world stage and both Heroes of the Soviet Union.

On the Metro between Mendeleyevskaya and Chekhovskaya lies Tsvetnoy Bulvar, the station from which I have just exited to stand in the warm twilight of a lovely Moscow evening.

I cant find words to describe just how purple the sky is.

My destination is………yes you guessed it, the Great Moscow Circus.

I wander along the boulevard, past facades of Italian drawn houses with cute boutiques on the ground floor to arrive at a rather unimposing and artless building with a faded and part broken sign and…

Its closed.

All this way from Sheremetyevo, via the Bolshoi Ballet, Lenin’s Library, The Arborium, St Basils cathedral, GUM department store on Red Square, Comrade Lenin’s mausoleum, the Kremlin with the changing of the guards at the eternal flame (women old and young weeping while the guards march to a mechanical doll precision goose step), the Arbats Old and New, Gorky’s house, the Lubyanka and Gastronom Number One with its amazing ceilings.

And damn. It’s closed.

Might as well have stayed home.

I amble over to a guy dressed in rather old fashioned and badly tailored military garb sitting in a small guardhouse and casually enquire as to when it will be open.

His English is great, he tells me to “piss off”.

Maybe he was a also a Hero of the Soviet Union and is offended at the fact that I failed to recognise such a high status.

My mistake, Russians are not generally so offensive but they do have a certain officiousness about them given a uniform. However they also have an inbuilt rebelliousness to authority.

Its hard to imagine how those two traits combine, but once you’ve got it, there my friend, is Russia. No wonder hardly anyone smiles. Its as though the world owes them a favour, and life is an unfolding drama ever increasing in hardship.

The sorrow. Makes for great literature over the centuries.

And yet, the world can rightly thank them for some great contribution to Art and Science and of course the Circus.

A circus is commonly a traveling company of performers that may include acrobats, clowns, trained animals, trapeze acts, hoopers, tightrope walkers, jugglers, unicyclists and other stunt-oriented artists. The word also describes the performance that they give, which is usually a series of acts that are choreographed to music.

A circus is held in an oval or circular arena with tiered seating around its edge.

Moscow is built in three rings. The Sadovayer ring road surrounds the center of the arena. Its within this loop that one sees the true circus which Moscow always was and very much still is.

Anyone who is anyone lives in the inner ring. It was built by mainly Italian masons several hundred years ago and looks very very Milan like.

The heathen others live outside of the purple circle (that’s the colour of the tram signage).

And from the Purple Circle to the next ring is well…….ummm, very soviet. As in startlingly lacking any form of art in architecture and more than a little rundown/seedy looking. Except for the amazing sculptures exhorting the masses to work harder in the struggle (against what I think no one really has any firm idea).

So given 200 years, what has the inner facades of downtown Moscow witnessed?

First was the Boyer. The merchants surrounding the court of the Kremlin.
Second was the KGB. The merchants surrounding the court of the Kremlin.
Third is the Biznizmen or “new” Russians, merchants surrounding the court of the Kremlin.
Most of these Biznizmen are from old Boyer families and ex KGB.

Remarkable. A Circus by any definition.

So the act never stopped, the jugglers continued to juggle and there is no shortage of acrobats or conjurors in the new Souvenirgrad. It’s business as usual.

Except old people don’t get pensions anymore.

Capitalism was always a much better proposition for the Boyer, how many communists drove Mercedes Benz’s?

Who the hell wants to read Bulgakov or Gorky or Pushkin when Fox TV is at hand?

I sigh, and get back onto the Metro and head to Gastronom, at least it serves a decent espresso.

The original Great Moscow Circus moved to the “West” years ago, its now a franchise. Perhaps its owners read the writing on the wall. They were Heroes of the Soviet Union after all.

A crisp white light shines on the Kremlin as I goose step past heading up Tverskaya, the music is martial.

"Engineering is my lawful wife," he once said, "and photography is my mistress." And with that, Gorky rolls over.

What is it with Foreigners in Thailand.

Conversation overheard number one

I am in subway (no no not the train station, the sandwich shop), a guy with his demure Thai girlfriend strolls in and asks “how long is the six inch sub? I tell my girlfriend its six inches but its only this big“ (thumb and forefinger held aloft for all to see).

Conversation overheard number two

A guy walks into a Seven Eleven (convenience shop for you outsiders) and asks the female cashier for a box of condoms. He then proceeds to expose himself to her and says “big enough for this”.

EEWWWWW. What is it with foreigners visiting this country?

I have never seen a booth at Bangkok international airport that hands out licences to be a total asshole. Maybe I am not looking in the right places.

What I do see though are males, typically Anglo-Saxon in ethnic origin, acting like primitives, and with the special ignition properties of alcohol, primitives with astounding amounts of ignorance and cultural insensitivity.

One should always listen to ones surroundings. One should never bludgeon an opinion or racial bias, or think in a superior or holier way to those one walks with when travelling.

The Thais know this. There should be a booth at the new airport that holds mandatory entrance courses to every single or unaccompanied white male entering the country.

Imagine the reactions if they behaved so badly at home.

Mai pen rai eh? Farang ting tong.

Song of the Desert

The warmth of my day is penetrated by the call to the faithful.

It undulates, pitched perfectly to give sanctity to its message.

I stand transfixed each time I hear the call, it is mesmeric and melodious, and although I am not even remotely religious, it has a certain purity to it that always makes me pause and consider.

Its not taped, or a spoken set of instructions, but a song to you to come and be with god sung by the leader of the mosque, himself, personally.

The desert, in all its loneliness is punctuated by mosques. Thousands of them. Each of them has a loudspeaker system and it is used to call all who live around or are just passing to the mandatory prayer service.

Even Gas stations and MacDonald’s have mosques. Refineries have mosques (ours has about 7 within a short walk). The beach has a mosque. The shopping malls have mosques.

There is no excuse.

Everything closes at prayer time. Except of course the mosque. You will be asked to leave any sales establishment (except of course the mosque) until prayer is over then business resumes.

Prayer is an interesting ritual. Men come from everywhere, wash at specially designated areas, then attend a session of bowing led by a songster who most often preaches a message whilst the faithful face towards Mecca and fall forward on their faces at a specific intonement in his words. Its mesmeric almost messianic.

Six times per day.

Sometimes I think the mindlessness of it all sets a man free.

And the women stand or sit around and wait.

Clocks are sold in the market that have all the prayer times built in, they also have an inbuilt GPS which gives the direction of Mecca from wherever you are.

They are digital and made in China. But can they sing?

The Cuckoo Clock

Sunlight streams through the mountain air, razor sharp, I try to walk in a straight line. My neck strains from my swivelling gaze.

Vistas, wow what vistas.

Grietze! Umm yes good morning

The mountains are snow covered and the world looks a postcard as I wend along the valley floor on a path especially for hikers.

Grietze!! Grietze!! Umm yes Good Morning.

This place is so perfect no wonder they make cheese here.

Grietze!! And 2 seconds later..Grietze!!

Grietze I mumble back. Wondering what the hell is a grietze, I grietze my way along the path and into the nearest grietze looking little refreshment kiosk which reminds me of a big chunk of cheese. It looks fairly grietze though, given the mountain air and the rare angle of the light.

Grietze exclaims the kiosk vendor and I do mean exclaims. So I amble up and ask in my poshest English “er excuse me, whats grietze mean?”

Hmm yes so Swiss, so very very Swiss.

So I buy some cheese and some…………………….ah, well you know…… chocolate, and continue my little wonder along the valley floor, totally blown away by the mountainous view until….. Grietze!!!! Yep you get it, every 10 steps as you would pass another hiker the ubiquitous greeting Grietze!!!!!

Smeh, I’ve had enough of mountains anyway at this stage and so I stealthily repair to the nearest railway station avoiding everyone with a backpack and a hiking stick, and board a train headed back to Zurich.

Not a Grietze was received, especially at the railway station. Trains are a very serious affair to the Swiss and who am I to argue, given I am now released from the passing stream of Grietze bidders.

I have seen many a Swiss start to tap their watch and get quite agitated when a train is a minute or two late. Swiss watches of course. Swiss trains would never run late for Japanese watches. But of course if you’re Swiss you know this.

The trains in Switzerland are absolutely civilised. They go everywhere and in addition to the famed reliability, they are cheap. You can even take your bike along. A mountain bike of course silly. They have special racks, and whilst you pay, the bike rides for free.

Another amazing transport feat of the Swiss is the Post Bus network. Yep the Postman in addition to delivering mail, delivers you to the top of the mountains, whereupon you get to either walk (and be Grietze’d at all day) or ride down the mountain at speeds way to quick for all but an echoing Grietze.

Not long after my first little mountaineering excursion, I moved into a rather posh little flat in downtown Zurich. Quite the quarter. A short walk from the Bahnhoffstrasse and with its very own little rail station a block away. It had 3 chocolate shops within metres but what I didn’t realise was a little Zurich secret.

One night, I was waiting for a friend and fellow traveller to arrive in town and decided to quarter the city by foot. Zurich isn’t that big so this was not such an heroic feat.

What struck me was that Zurich, aside from the shopping facades, consists of basically 3 services downtown in really extraordinary quantities.

OK, Banks is a no brainer, and the Law firms are also a gimme but heres the secret. Psychiatrists. Yep Psychiatrists, they outnumber even the banks.

So as I move in to my flash little apartment, I start to get the neighbours knocking on the door.

Grietze!! Yeah yeah, hi, thanks for coming ……nice to see you how can I help?
Now picture this. The first knocker was a guy dressed in only a bathrobe. Couldn’t speak English, all he did after the Grietze was hold out an empty salt shaker. Yup got rid of him. Then an old lady asking about the mail and did we have her mail, after of course the obligatory Grietze.

And so it went. All evening. Never seen quite so many oddballs in one place

Next door to my flash little abode was a private mental clinic.

I checked out the next day, much to the amusement of the rental clerk who thought I knew.

Ah the Swiss sense of humour.

So if your at your limit, or think that someone’s out to get you, perhaps Switzerland is for you. A warning though. Have serious money. And always, yes always hire a lawyer and Zurich will embrace you with a hearty (well cheesy maybe) Grietze. Or “May God be with You”. (Pronounce it Grr it zee).

Whose God you might ask? Well if you haven’t worked that one out yet, let me recommend a good doctor I know…………

Did you know that each Swiss dwelling MUST by Law have a nuclear fall out shelter? I am serious. And it gets inspected once a year by a man in a white coat.

Maybe it’s the chocolate. Who knows?

Oh and if you want good food in Switzerland, drive to France. How much cheese can ya possibly eat after all?

A Wind Called Khalid

For Dani

Morning quiet in the desert.

No no……….something is wrong, there is a shrieking. A moaning. The world is complaining.

Its 5 am. (Please don’t ask). Its normally sunrise and I stand at the window checking the day. Except today hasn’t come.
Outside its pitch black and moaning, yep……..moaning it is.

Mornings generally are not kind to me. After the alarm intrudes, I have little routines that I follow until I start to come alive.

This generally occurs after at least three espressos.

However this morning its just not happening so as I stumble out to my car, I am almost levelled by the wind in the darkness moaning with a thickness to its voice.

This is a Shamal.

A sandstorm. Quite a phenomena. Saudi snow. Particles of fine sand find every part of you exposed and settle in. The sky is black.

The Shamal is a herald. It sweeps the desert clean at the end of the heavy aired winter. It renews the connection with the vastness of the open desert for the Bedouin, the traditional Saudi people. For them the desert and its desolate emptiness is a pure ecosystem and frankly its an awe inspiring sight to me in all its stark immensity.

I have witnessed much weather phenomena in my travels. From earthquakes to floods and tsunamis. Massive surf and minus 60 C cold with driving snow and I am always blown away by these weather events at how powerful Mother Earth is and how adaptable her creatures can be to survive her extremes. Humans included.

Local adaptations of clothing and shelter, the trade mark Saudi headscarf and felt tent being the two most useful here, demonstrate a people who are still close to the earth, reliant on her for life. No sand intrudes through the fine mesh of the woven clothed tent and the headscarf whilst also a tribal marking is ideal to prevent sand blasting of your face.

Adaptation is the key.

In the west, we try to control not adapt.

We build structures based on commercial viability and constantly attempt to alter our living spaces to effect climate convenience and so called ease of movement.

Only poor people have to “suffer” the elements and walk.

The energy costs and garbage created of improperly used material has reached incredible proportions. Fashion dictates useful lifecycles.

Its well reported but do you listen?

No wonder we are now fearful of global warming and its reputed adverse weather. We have lost the ability to deal with change and to survive and adapt to our home. We seem to think we are the masters and the earth should do our bidding.

Amazing arrogance really.

I would postulate that its not global weather change we should fear. Its our inability to be in unison with our environment that’s our real problem. Modern man has become too insulated and this will be our downfall as we continue to isolate ourselves from the earth.

Its a matter of balance.

Go outside while you can. Walk barefoot on the earth. Feel it between your toes, revel in it. Its not dirty, its earthy. So should we all be.

There is no bad or good weather. Get real. Its weather, its where you live. It has cycles to which we need to be attuned and to which we should adapt and celebrate.

For celebrations, try solstices instead of fake religious events. They are natural and a signal of time to change tempo. Its nature not voodoo. Weather is not a threat that needs to be combated its what drives our world and sustains us.

I wear my headscarf and walk on into the Shamal, marvelling at its power and being thankful that I have had the chance to be its witness.