The Pilgrims Journey

Fly Fishing

2011-07-22T15:46:00.001+07:00

There is lots to like about my new sport but here is a quick summary.........no queues.

No crowded surf breaks
No ski lift lines
No fighting for a seat
No traffic jams
No problems parking
No drunks with big eskies (cold boxes) full of beer being noisy.

Just tranquility, rhythm, awareness, focus then adrenaline and finally a sense of accomplishment.

But damn it's cold. Having just emerged from wading in a snow melt lake, I still can't feel my feet.

A Cheese Sandwich

2011-06-11T18:00:00.000+07:00

You would think that such a universal thing as a cheese sandwich would be of ease to an international 4 star hotel

I just flew in to Ho Chi Minh City, Saigon, in southern Vietnam. fascinating place which seems to have inherited the French tradition of eclectic building codes where nothing seems to match. It's as though the architect burns her plans and starts anew with each building on the street totally ignoring the ones beside..

Traffic is best described as a swarm, like bees. Any obstacle such as a pedestrian or car is simply swarmed around without so much as a pause. This is the one place I reckon I would never ever drive no matter what.

Service in the hotel is nothing short of exceptional, except when I ask for something outside the circle.

Waitress: please sit sir, can I help u

Me: I would like a cheese sandwich please, no vegetable or salad and no mayonnaise

Waitress: certainly sir and drink?

Me: Diet Coke thanks.

That morning during a conversation with the people who brought me to Vietnam I was complimented on how clear and easily understood my English was. My accent is best described as Mid Pacific, not broadly Australian, tinged with UK English and a touch of Californian. All good however.

Said Waitress arrives with toast and butter. Where is the cheese I ask. She points to the butter and says " there sir"

Me: no sweety, that is butter not cheese

Waitress: no sir it's cheese.

Back and forth we go, finally she gets it and leaps off and this time returns with the cheese.

Vietnam, having been excluded for quite some time from the world after the war, struggles to truly deliver. By gosh they try hard though, nothing but smiles, but it seems most expectations fall short of the mark.

I will come back though one day, everyone smiles and is super friendly, traffic not withstanding.

The Diet Coke was awesome. I wonder if Uncle Ho drank coke.

The Hat

2011-06-07T12:51:00.000+07:00

I have always fancied myself in a Hat. Not just any hat but one of substance. A mans hat, fit for all hat purposes.

Over the years I have worn everything from beanies, to baseball caps, various Islamic skull caps, even a Fez (and yes of course it was a red one). Never though have I considered a proper Australian hat. An Akubra. Until, whilst browsing their catalogue one day I came across the Adventurer, made by Akubra in my home state. It's me. My daughter agreed. Had to have one after that.

A second thing I have always fancied, and given my years of travel I have never done, is to wander my own home state. Inland, the bush, the outback. Given Akubras rural roots, what better place to go to buy a hat.

The search begins. Sydney to Mudgee, thence to Nyngan. Nyngan on the edge of the cotton belt and officially the beginning of the Outback (so the signs proclaim) has a hat shop. They have all styles of Akubra. No adventurers though.

On to Cobar, the mining town, nope. So to Wilcannia. there is nothing repeat nothing in Wilcannia so it's on to Bourke. Nope, but being a little desperate at this stage as I was heading out of the outback with no major town until I reached the coast, I bought a Cattleman. Very popular style the guy tells me. I buy it. I wear it. It keeps the sun and rain at bay. But this is NOT my hat.

My sister takes a look at the Cattleman, puts it on. It soooooo suits her. She swipes it. I need to go buy an adventurer anyway.

So on I go to Moree, lovely town, sat in a hot spring for an afternoon wondering just how to get this hat there. No adventurers.

Then Grafton, nada, Byron, nope, Ballina, never heard of them. Then Taree, nope.

Finally a guy in Gloucester who has had his hat shop for 38 years tells me I am the first person to ever ask for one. I now really really have to have this hat. I fly fish a few more streams but the urgency is growing. So it's off to Wyong, nope, Newcastle, nope, Forster nope. Port Macquarie, never heard of them, didn't believe there was such a style, had to show them in the catalogue.

Then, in despair ( I discourage easily eh?), I decide to ring their Kempsey distributor. Not only has she heard of them, she will check her stock if I wait a minute. Sure, I wait. And wait. And wait some more. She comes back on the phone and says sorry no stock, plus it's a ten week delivery from the factory she thinks. Despondently I tell her the story thus far, kindly she offers to ring Akubra and ask what they have. Akubra is also at Kempsey. She will ring me back in the morning.

Next day, sunshine, crystal air, lovely espresso. Phone rings. It's her and she says, " you won't believe this, Akubra have one only of that style in stock and it's your size". I race to Kempsey, pay her the money and then zoom out to the factory to pick up My Hat.

Just as the lady from Akubra was giving me the hat, she notices a slight imperfection on the ribbon which she says is easily fixed with a bit of steam. Off she goes with My Hat promising a speedy return.

Fifteen minutes pass. I am getting nervous. She walks in with a guy whom she introduces as the Manager and says "we would like to talk to you about this hat". Oh yeah? What now?

The guy takes me outside and we have the following conversation

The Guy: you obviously know your hats so I want to show you that this hat has a slight mark on the top.

Me: can't see any mark there

The Guy: well I don't want to sell you this hat so can you pick another style please?

Me trying to stay calm but my tone is about -10 icey cold: Mate, I went from Sydney to Nyngan, to Cobar and Bourke, then Moree to Grafton and every point in between to get this hat. I AM HAVING THAT HAT.

It's 12 degrees and I am sweating, wondering why I havent bought a gun with me.

The Guy: Sorry mate, you are misunderstanding me, this hat is your hat, but we want you to choose another one as well.

Relief. MY HAT, and I don it right there. 4500 kilometres after the search began.

I head to Jnidabyne and the Alps with my hat on. Still haven't taken it off despite wind, rain, a bit of snow, lotsa sunshine. Does everything

Oh and the second hat? It's a plainsman. Lovely as well, but not an adventurer.

If you go bush, you are not dressed until you have an Akubra on. www.akubra.com.au

You can order them on line but it's not as much fun as my search.

Oh and by the way, I have lots of slightly used baseball caps, beanies, and Islamic skullcaps for sale. No way will I sell the Fez

My Home

2011-04-18T18:43:00.000+07:00

And the fundamental question to our reality on earth is this. Do we live in a society or do we live in an economy?

I don't believe the two will ever mix comfortably. It pains me that people would view our world in terms of economic outcome let alone judgement of ones fellows by their net worth.

Irrespective of the fluctuation of a notional currency or economic deficit, we still have the capacity to sustain ourselves at life without the necessity of commoditization.

Is greed and power lust that ingrained in us by Madison Avenue?

Gosh I hope not.

Come round for a coffee, say hi. Both are free

We Love the King

2010-11-29T00:32:00.003+07:00

Much has been written, photographed and video'd recently about the struggles of the Thai populace as it comes to grips with the information age and the emerging perception of rights for its working class.

The press and indeed most commentators resident or otherwise focus or are focused (by whom we should ask) on the contrasts of the internecine oligarch wars and the general person on the farm and how iniquitous his/her life is by comparison with the rich elite. The perception that its this inequity that fuels this "class" war stoked by warring elite faction leaders, is perhaps a ruse being promulgated by the media to polarise those that are within the debate, and to boor those of us who stand without such that we give it the usual 3 day outrageous indignation treatment then move on.

You see, Sompong on the farm is willing to be as rich as anyone else in the district. He has no problems with the consumer society. This is hardly a communist/workers unite scenario at all. Thailand has never really been that way inclined.

The real issue is all about the I am more worthy than you syndrome, distinctive in all societies royal (lower case intended).

What the heathen peasant underclass fail to accept is that Thailand is owned by a guy who tells everyone he is the King and hence above them and their rightful master. He is one of the richest men in the world, certainly the richest ruler. And his blood, so the fairy story goes, is different from yours and mine. His is blue. Stop laughing, Thai's believe it, why shouldn't you?

For his blueness, he gets to control vast amounts of land and to get everything for free and he also controls what you can say or not say about him and his royal court. Speak your mind and you end up in Gaol. Toe the line and he lets you pay taxes. Winner eh?

So what is a King (or Queen for that matter)? Why do they have this power to command us? They are not elected, they don't really contribute anything to our society, in fact they really don't even make good TV. They do monopolise land and create social structures which polarise us into courts royal and the general peasantry. They do pass their blue blood down to their kids and the fairy tale seems to perpetuate itself down the generations. Their eliteness is aided by their appointment of courtiers who are almost as elite as the king. Generals, clergy, judiciary, serious other land owners. They in turn promote this bluebloodedness on so that they have some clear societal differentiation. In other words, they are on top and you clean their streets (and their kids streets and their kids streets).

Maybe the Thai people have a need for an overlord. The Red Shirts may not agree with that. Cant say I do either. The king seems to think its warranted though as the advertising on TV, cinema and roadside hordings all to tell us how wonderful he is costs taxpayers a fortune.

Parasites.

Can we draw a few parallels here to other command and control structures? Appropriate land for the exclusive use of the elite on a higher force basis? Control the serfs, get them scared and in debt?

These people can only "lead" us if we let them. This scares the wits out of the so called elite. Given the massive information availability nowadays called the internet, their sham begins to lose its gloss and we see them dressed in our clothes, no blue blood, just people who take a dump in the morning like we do.

So whats the justification for the class polarisation? Yep, thats right, nothing.

Same message to the god boys. Your time is well passed, stop sucking the people dry and go do something useful.

Maybe the new rulers of the world might give the king of thailand a job if he ever gets honest and distributes all his billions to the real Thai people. MacDonalds has a good seniors program. Its an honest days work. The catholics could seriously decrease world poverty by giving up all their treasures they've snuck off with over the centuries.

Time for revolt. Don't accept that anyone anywhere is better than you are. Help your brothers and sisters understand. Don't be afraid, thats what the king needs, your fear to keep you loyal. Stand up. Think about it.

We love the king

StrayLya

2010-03-01T19:01:00.003+07:00

Mate.

Lets have another go at that spelling, Ozzztraeleeya. Yep thats better.

20 years later. A quadrillion frequent flyer points on the worlds shittiest airlines. I am deposited, like an empty bottle for recycling, back in my "birth" country. Woo, awesome, good food, nice air, civility and weather. That strange phenomena that makes the temperature fluctuate and the wind actually blow. And rain of course, not some massive 5 minute tropical dump of water then mega hot and sweaty, but cooling gentle rain. Cute eh?

So whats changed in my absence?

Let me digress a little bit (its my blog, and eventually you will get it).

A group of 12 year old boys would meet on a Friday night. After school, dinner etc. The evening would be spent watching early music videos (the show was called In Focus if my memory is still functioning), then the real entertainment of surf movies. Early the next morning, as in still dark, we would walk to the nearest railway (about 5 km) to catch the first train to the city. Then a ferry to Manly the closest beach.

All day we would surf, even if there wasn't any, we would still paddle out into the slop dodging the old sewer pipes (heritage listed now) and arguing with the lifesavers who always stuck their bloody flags where the surf was good. They would try and move us off, we would take great delight in tear arsing through the motley crowd of swimmers (lesser creatures in a surfers mind) until they either moved the flags or the swell direction/tide changed. Evil bastards life savers.

Then home, via the ferry, train and walk. A quick sleep, then Sunday, the same trip. Every weekend.

Dedicated? We were normal for the time. The concept of walking and long public transport hikes wasn't really something we ever complained about. Ya just did it. There wasn't really an option anyway.

Sustenance was easy. From stealing milk left at doorsteps (sorry yeah it was us) to great australian foods like fresh bread and devon, milk, hamburgers (not american style at all, even remotely), sandwiches, fish and chips. We would each have about $2 in todays terms. Quite often, we would accumulate change.

You would just leave your towel and thongs (sandals) on the beach. Go surf, come back and everything was exactly where ya left it. Mind you, we were not angels.

We drank water from a tap. Plenty of them around the city.

As we got older, we got mobile and weekends or weeks (school holidays) were spent tramping the coast. We would hitch hike our way north or south and live encamped on a beach, surf, eat, sleep, surf eat sleep. It was a wonderful lifestyle.

At age 15, a mate and I travelled all the way to Queensland on a hitch hiking road trip which saw us away from home for 6 weeks. We lived where we could. Caravan parks, camping grounds, in schools when it was raining. Our creature comforts were a spare t shirt, a sleeping bag, wax and a kerosene lamp (my Mum insisted that we take it, god bless her).

My name was (and still is) Mike and I was pleased to meet ya. The whole world was a wondrous place.

No mobile phones, no internet, no TV, no deadlines, no fear.

So do I see any changes?

Would you let your 12 year olds go wandering on weekends? Would you drink the water? Can you have a day out without spending over $50 per head? How about walking 5 km to the nearest transport hub? Leave your stuff unlocked/unguarded?

Get my drift? I could go on and include the fast food invasion and the whole lifestyle convenience thing, but really what's the difference between the Australia I left and the one I just returned to?

Simple. Fear.

The beaches are still there, not many axe murderers catch the train and water is free. Half a loaf of bread and 250 g of Devon is still so cheap. You can eat and drink what ya like so long as ya keep moving.

TV paralyses us into thinking the world is a nasty place. It rarely is any such thing.

Take a hat, walk out the door and off down the road, no need for the phone plenty of others have them if you really need them. Enjoy the sun and trust people. What a difference you will make.

I love youse all (unless your a lifesaver)

Islanders

2010-01-16T15:34:00.000+07:00

A gentle breeze wanders sideways through my afternoon
I gaze abstractedly at the sea lapping below me dreaming where it might take me.

Another island day, punctuated with the change of tides and strength of wind, time itself seems irrelevant.

Islanders.

They come from everywhere and between them have done most things. None of it means a great deal in their present mindset. Nothing is rushed, no force, genuine people abound. Some work, some don't need to, all are accepted, religion, colour, sexual preference, ethnicity all celebrated, everyone welcome. All are coloured with a self reliance and a timeless spirit eager to share without any competitive thought. The vortex they create is magnetic, easily capable of overpowering.

Clothing is functional, shoes are for formal occasions. The goal of the day is to appreciate what surrounds.

I find myself finally unwinding and learning to celebrate the silences between conversations without any self consciousness. No longer a pregnant pause or a negative space to be filled by some form of entertainment such as music or TV. Now a chance to listen simply to the wind. Feel the rain on my face. Appreciate the suns warmth and the nights cool.

Manyana, tomorrow. Maybe I will find my shoes.

Treasure Island

2010-01-11T22:20:00.005+07:00

An eagle glides majestically across the verdant jungle, rising to its eerie on the cliffs of the island.

My boat lies at anchor, 40 metres from the line of the shore.

I hear the play of monkeys in the forest, birdsong and the soft susurrus of the sea lapping at my side and breaking in small waves on the beach.

This is Langkawi. Malaysia’s paradise in the Andaman.

Two months ago, almost to the day, I flew in for the first time ever to finally join my new boat (well new for me anyway). I knew no one, and had not so great knowledge (other than books and conversations) of boats but a dream.

A strong dream, nurtured since I was about 10 years old and was walking down a wharf with my Dad where we found an old abandoned fishing boat. I could see its charms immediately, but Dad didn’t quite see how we could get it home.

Long years have passed and when I arrived in Langkawi, it was like walking into that dream.

My first impressions of the place on jetting in from fast paced Singapore were not great.

A bit grubby? Not much infrastructure, hellish hot. Maybe I had made a mistake.

Several weeks passed and my love for the boat I had bought increased daily. I was busy as a one armed wallpaper hanger learning and commissioning navigation systems, power and light, engine and batteries and of course learning about sails.

The camaraderie in marinas amongst cruising sailors is deservedly legendary. Here are people who have lifted themselves from the mundane and struck out on extraordinary journeys of self and world discovery. All of them help me. From parts to advice, from sail cleats to yoghurt recipes. I am amongst some of the friendliest people I have known to date. A striking characteristic of all these people is their lack of commerciality and their acceptance of all races. Quite remarkable. Considering I knew no one when I arrived, I now have family whose exploits on the sea I keenly listen to.

As I move around town and interact with the locals, buying fittings, engine parts, even food, I meet some of the loveliest unassuming people to add to this family. I spend hours just pleasantly chatting, something I cant ever recall doing.

Days fly by, and it dawns on me that Langkawi is not about the towns and main island, its truly the people that make this place special.

Today, nearly 2 months after arriving as a novice, me and my boat lie at anchor in one of the most scenically picturesque islands I have ever seen. No one is around. Earlier I walked the beach, listened to the monkeys play, watched as eagles soared above and the hornbills flapped noisily squawking around the forest.

Only tracks left of humanity were my footmarks in the white sand.

Paradise found

For Pete, cause he did deserve to be here.

Honestly

2009-12-08T21:50:00.001+07:00

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

2009-11-04T20:30:00.000+07:00

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

2009-08-23T18:12:00.007+07:00

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

2009-08-21T10:19:00.009+07:00

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

2009-07-06T15:18:00.008+07:00

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

2009-06-14T04:22:00.008+07:00

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

2009-06-14T03:43:00.004+07:00

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

2009-06-07T05:34:00.005+07:00

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

2009-05-07T22:54:00.005+07:00

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?

2009-04-14T18:03:00.004+07:00

The Great Moscow Circus

2009-04-01T12:13:00.005+07:00

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.

2009-03-30T16:42:00.003+07:00

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

2009-03-20T20:16:00.003+07:00

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

2009-02-22T22:40:00.003+07:00

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

2009-02-20T02:51:00.008+07:00

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.

Supply & Demand

2008-12-19T19:59:00.003+07:00

One day from Jubail to Al Khobar……………thoughts drifting

Riding down the highway
Heavy Metal Thunder
Looking for adventure
And whatever comes my way

Yeah yeah, enough of that shite. My little Honda Accord is out of gas, so I slide into a gas station and off the engine (mentally switching off the Harley as well).

Fill please, and 50 litres later, 20 Riyals. Whew, a bank breaker. The Saudi Riyal is linked to the US Dollar at a rate of $1 equal to 3.75 SR. That’s a whopping $5.33 to FILL the tank. Yep full as in brimming, from empty as in “damn I need gas quick”.

When oil reached $140 a barrel, I was amazed. Working in the oil industry and knowing the true cost of a barrel of oil, I wondered where the rest of the cost came from for the extra $135 each barrel was fetching.

Figure that all “goods”, which oil is, are comprised of a labour and materials cost on which the “honest” trader affixes his/her margin (read profit) to arrive at a price that the market should think is good value.

The costs never rose with any significance. Labour fluctuated about 10% over the period and machinery of extraction and refining has stayed pretty much stable.

Someone told me supply and demand was to blame. Demand far outstripped supply. And that’s what made it so expensive. Boo hoo. Put your hand up if you didn’t get your oil? Deafening silence there eh? EVERYONE got oil.

So a funny thing happened when financial markets crashed. Oil prices dropped to $45 a barrel. Excuse me? So supply now overwhelms demand? That’s a staggering 65% of prior heavy metal users who said “er, no thanks, don’t need ANY oil at the moment, but thanks for asking”. I wonder where these people live?

Keynesian economics and its fundamental use of supply/demand theory is of little use in manipulated markets.

The real question we should be asking is not what caused the price to fluctuate, but what have the oil companies done with all the money? Yes the Money honey.

This should be followed swiftly, before those who really have the money start flying out on corporate jets to “meetings”, with a “who the fuck, as in governments, allowed this manipulation to happen?”

When you start to add up all the bloated (no other word for it really) profits pirated from oil over the last 2 years, is it any surprise that some poor unfortunate who struggles to pay an over extended mortgage is blamed for a financial world crisis? Mortgage meltdowns?

Sure I believe it, just like Iraq had WMD and Iran is full of bogeymen.

Several things we should consider in order to remain civilisations:

We are societies not economies.

Corporations should be banned outright, they have no purpose to be, other than to add cost to your labour and consolidate this “extra value” into the hands of a very small number of people. Just because you “own” stock doesn’t mean it has value or that you get to say how the corporation conducts itself.

Energy in all its forms needs to be taken away from corporations and put back into the hands of democratically elected governments. Get off your ass, take an ACTIVE political stance.

The same amount of money that was in circulation is still in circulation. Credit Crunch? What a giggle.

If you think a CEO is a hero and worth more money than the janitor, ask yourself the same question when the toilets need cleaning.

The only thing in this world that has true value is YOU. Everything between YOU and a buyer adds zero real value.

Piracy is still punishable by death in most places.

An Encounter

2008-12-16T00:33:00.004+07:00

Picture this.

A gleaming white limo pulls up onto the busy sidewalk scattering shoppers in all directions.

Out jump 3 guys in dark suits and sun glasses one hand in suit pockets. An all white suited guy emerges, dappa, unaware of the commotion. I suppress a giggle, surely this is a film scene being enacted before me. No cameras and here come the Police. Tokyo’s finest shuffle down the street, take one look at the white suited figure and run, yes run, in the other direction.

Royalty?

The car stays parked on the sidewalk, its in front of Tokyo’s most up market café in the Omotosando district near Harajuku, at which I am sitting with an American Photographer friend of mine (drinking espresso of course, did you need to ask?).

“Oh oh, it’s Mori san standby” says my American friend, I suppress a giggle at the entourage looking like all time bad actors in a D grade gangster movie, Mori san in white at the center. They sit at the table next to us and nod in our direction. I focus the camera and then think better of it as I ask my friend “who are these guys and who is the clown dressed in the all white suit?”

Yakuza.

My friend turns round and smilingly says “Hey Mori san, come say hi to my Australian photographer friend”

Oh no, now we are in for it. Mori stands, the black suits look uneasy, he casually strolls over and in good enough English says “You are friend of Randy? Welcome to my city”. He sits down. Waitresses appear, falling over themselves to get whatever he wants, the café owner appears, sweating, nervous, fluttering.

He asks me a few banal questions then asks to see my photos at which I pull out the trusty Mac, fire up and our real conversation begins.

He’s a talkative yet authoritative character. We drink espresso and smoke cigars (Cohiba Siglo’s my favourite). When he needs a light he flicks his fingers and one of the black suits snaps to attention with a lighter, bowing formally as he lights the Bosses cigar ever so ritually. We talk about photos, photography, the world, coffee, cigars and after an hour or so, we are “mates”, regular buddies just doing coffee on a Sunday afternoon, except for the getups and the ever present mobsters hovering, plus the obsequious fans who keep coming over to formally bow, not to mention the big limo parked across the sidewalk.

Eventually, he rises to leave. There is no bill for the afternoon. He reaches into his jacket and hands me a business card. Not just any card but hand made paper with his name and clan written in calligraphy and chopped with his personal seal. The phone number is on the back. “Miko san, you may go anywhere in my city, show this card and you will be made welcome”.

“Thanks Mori my friend, here’s mine, and you are welcome in my city whenever the mood strikes you to visit me in Bangkok.”

The entourage departs, frankly I don’t quite understand what I have just witnessed and still find it a little comical.

It’s not till later that I understand when I get a very strange reaction as I show a waiter the card and ask for a translation. The waiter goes white, disappears very quickly and is extremely reverent for the rest of the night.

Weeks later I discuss the incident (for wont of a better word) with a media friend of mine who has lived in Tokyo for over 20 years.

“Ahh the Yakuza” he says, the real Japan. Mobsters who not only do crime, prostitution and drugs as the least, but they “know” people and are the oil between the gears, the advisors and fixers for big industry. Need some dirt on a rival, Yakuza are the boys to help out. Need some girls for a little soiree? Something else not quite legal? Yep Yakuza to the rescue.

Employ their labor? Yakuza control most of the labor unions and this is why Japan has so few labor strikes.

These are the guys who do all the dirty work for industry. They are the modern day Ninja, an indispensible part of Japan. Their clans and code of honour are legendary and on subsequent meetings with Mori san I learn of an older more formal strata of society, bound by deep rituals and respect for hierarchy to the point of self destruction if that’s what it takes.

Mori is a killer, I can see it in his eyes, i have no doubt he wouldn't hesitate. He is also the number 3 man for Tokyo, and I never treat him lightly nowadays no matter how he dresses.

He is good conversation over coffee though.

I carry his card with me everywhere to this day. Well, you just never know eh?

Toki-o!!!

2008-11-21T00:12:00.017+07:00

Ah.................... So.

Japan

I blame TV really. Hours upon hours of it. Nowadays a cult series. The Samurai starring Shintaro.

The Samurai was produced by the Senkoska Film Company. It was a black and white show about Shintaro, an heroic Samurai warrior and his never-ending battles with black pyjama-wearing Ninja assassins, who would throw stars at him and yell out ‘Shintaro - you die", but Shintaro always defeated his enemies with his sword. The Ninjas' were martial arts experts; could move in the blink of an eye, leap 10 metres into the air into trees backwards to escape attack and could stick to ceilings like flies, where they would hide when Shintaro entered his house.

Shintaro was assisted by ‘Tombei The Mist’ and together they fought against the bad Black Ninjas and their arch enemies including ‘Kongo of Koga’ and ‘Garidoshi’ with his assistant ‘Onime the Bat’. Shintaro also had a boy companion named ‘Shusaku’.

The series was set in 17th century Japan and was a combination of pantomime, violent action, brilliant sword play and magicianship. Part of its popularity was due to the poor dubbing of English voices over the Japanese soundtrack. Shintaro often moved his mouth for long speeches and the English audio would deliver one or two words. Similarly, fearsome Ninja would often move their lips for short words and the English audio would gush out complete sentences.

What more could a young boy want? Gone were the military toys bought by Dad and Uncles and Grandma and Santa (that fat bastard who dresses as a Coca Cola can) was soon delivering black ninja outfits replete with plastic samurai swords and throwing stars. What a hit. Gangs of violent youth dressed in black battling with the goofy kids swathed in the goodies white across acres of neighbourhood lawns, yelling battle cries in some form of TV language, Shintaro you die.

No wonder its a fucked up world eh? We all grew up with an expectation that Shintaro (or Batman or Superman or Santa) would always win no matter the odds. And the guys in black were always the bad dudes. We learnt to respect violence as a righteous tool. Such a naive attitude we walked forward with.

My youth carried on with the study of Judo, all driven by my early conditioning, all driven by a boys want of adventure. All sanctioned by righteous societal violence.

Ah..................So

Japan.

By the time I got there, I couldnt save it. Where was Shintaro's castle and the forests and streams? How could such an ugly formless drab olive grey city have taken its place? Where were the Samurai and their creed of Budo that drove the feudal Japan I had prepared for. Only over time would I come to understand. Meanwhile, in my usual fashion I stumbled forward.

The first thing that perplexes you is the automation. It sneaks up on you, soon becoming a major part of your day. You walk to a shop. A solar powered electric door opens and a robot will greet you with a bow and an "ohaiyo gozaimast" or good morning. No wait, its not a robot but a kid dressed in some bizarre coloured uniform ritually greeting you. You nod back, they bow twice more, you nod again, they bow again and wait a minute, wait a minute......... stop nodding, the mission is to buy cigarettes, at this rate its gonna take some time. Fix the kid with a steely glint and curtly say "Marl borr oh", the kid spins off shouting "Marl Borr Ohhhhhh" and deftly flicks the cigarettes into a plastic bag, neatly ties it closed and then bowing, presents it to you. Be careful here. Never nod in acknowledgement, one bow or nod from you, means two back, it can take hours to break the cycle. Leave the shop, marvel at the electric door and the solar power unit crammed in above it. Note that you have more coins in your pocket than you did when you walked in. Appreciate that you dont know how, accept that Japan needs coins for anything below a 1000 Y denomination. Then introduce yourself to the automated coffee vending machine. Damn, never seem to have enough coins. Machines have no sense of humour.

The second thing you notice is that everything is soooooo compact. As in sardine can packed, as in live on top of each other in tiny tiny rooms packed. As in I have never seen so many people crammed on a train packed, packed, trust me, packed. Whoa its packed. Tokyo has an official population circa 12,000,000. However, most stats forget to mention that Yokohama also has roughly the same amount of people as do other old city gates of Tokyo nee Edo and combined the real population is around 35,000,000. Thats a lots of train rides each day. Thats a lot of solar powered electric doors opening and closing, and thats one hell of a lot of neighbours. Its kinda hard to be different when you are competing against 34,999,999 others. You really have to have a good act.

I observe a lot of people same dressed, same facing, same housing, same same. Bleak rows of apartment blocks all the same olive grey. Shop fronts which are mirror images of the previous suburb. Everything is automated, faceless, there to serve. The society itself is punctual, ritualised and forever trying to be more gracious. Always queued at a vending machine.

There is comfort in conformity. It doesnt challenge. Its my opinion that its a form of servitude. Some may say humble, others lazy even more might say its a hopelessness. In Tokyo, it belongs.

I observe pockets of resistance in the form of colour and music. Bizarre colour. Bizarre music. Localised outbursts of individualism. Extreme to the point of shock. Gothic clockwork like replica women competing for attention with bizarre theatre performances, struggling rock quartets and wannabee rockabilly's. Such is the circus of Tokyo. Where a thousand villages join to make one of the worlds oddest cities.

Remarkably, at the end of this protest, everyone catches the train home. Back to the clockworx.

Its not until I find a dusty copy of Hagakure - The Book of the Samurai (well an old internet copy anyway), that I begin to make sense of this place and rediscover the path of Shintaro and Tombei. You see, they never left. Just a curving of the path. Its from Hagakure that i steal the following excerpt from chapter 1.

We all want to live. And in large part we make our logic according to what we like. But not having attained our aim
and continuing to live is cowardice. This is a thin dangerous line. To die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death
and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this. This is the substance of the Way of the Samurai. If by setting one's heart
right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the
Way. His whole life will be without blame, and he will succeed in his calling.

A man is a good retainer to the extent that he earnestly places importance in his master. This is the highest sort of
retainer. If one is born into a prominent family that goes back for generations, it is sufficient to deeply consider the
matter of obligation to one's ancestors, to lay down one's body and mind, and to earnestly esteem one's master. It is
further good fortune if, more than this, one has wisdom and talent and can use them appropriately. But even a person
who is good for nothing and exceedingly clumsy will be a reliable retainer if only he has the determination to think
earnestly of his master. Having only wisdom and talent is the lowest tier of usefulness.

Woo. Heavy. Time to relook at Shintaro the selfless who with righteousness lived as though his body was already dead fearlessly facing down his masters foes (oddly his master was never revealed on the program although he definitely did serve a force of good, I was a kid but i remember this, and by the way, who is your master?). He was nimbly aided by the lesser righteous and athletically clever Tombei. The theme was, on reflection, servitude. Packaged nicely with the spirit of adventure to get the attention of any young boy. If one did service, one was meritorius, pure, white. The guys in the nasty black suits were the misfits, the outcasts the individuals who simply couldnt shut up.

I look around again at the crowded street. Everywhere I look I see Shintaros and Tombeis (and whatever their sisters names were) wandering the streets to work dressed in the same selfless gracious uniforms, themselves selfless and gracious. The art of the sword is a ritual thing. There is also an art of the bus driver, an art of the convenience shop attendent all of which are based on selflessness.

The nasty black Koga Ninja types hang in corraled areas such as Shibuya, Ebisu and Harajuku. Gothic in their clockwork.

Me personally? I always wore black.

For an extensive photo collection on Tokyo, go here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157607405259245/ and also here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157605580785757/

Return to the Kingdom

2008-10-19T00:31:00.007+07:00

Hello, how much is this bag?
Sorry I don’t know I am a customer like you
Sorry forgive my assumptions,
Its OK, are you from Australia,
Did my accent give me away?
Yes I thought I recognised it.
Have you been there,
Yes many times, though a long while ago, nice place, interesting people, the only city I haven’t done yet is Sydney,
Oh you should check it, its where I am from and probably the best place visually.
Hmmm I have a plan to go back early next year and stay around the the harbour, it looks great.
Yeah it is and has some great restaurants there too with great views of the opera house, you should enjoy it. Fascinating place to wander around the streets there.
My only worry is Is it safe?
Safe? Yes yes of course it is.
He smiles infectiously
I am sorry, but i have heard stories about safety of tourists there, i was just wondering
Its Ok, be comfortable, you will be fine
Are you Saudi?
Yep born and bred in this area,
Where you working,
Oh up at Jubail,
SABIC or ARAMCO?
SABIC
Interesting.
Shaking hands, very nice to meet you,
Yes you too I wish you well,
Thanks be well.

There it is again. Eye to eye with a terrorist. In fact, just a plain individual like me out to buy a bag in a little souk (market) in a city called Al Khobar in the heart of darkness, Saudi Arabia.

The streets teem with people literally bustling on the Friday afternoon, the one day off a week, the Saudi Sunday. Its hot and sweaty but I don’t notice as I stare wide eyed at the quantity of boutiques and small shops selling anything and everything. I sip an espresso. The Mullah calls, the street stops literally as the faithful go to prayer, everyone else just sits where they are and waits. All the shops are shuttered closed whilst the shoppers wait for the faithful to return so the orgy of buying can restart.

The melody of the Mullahs song is slightly incongruent with the fashionable streets, one suffers the other I guess. I am searching for the old Saudi I knew from years ago. It’s a struggle. I am confounded with alley after alley of “modern” concrete shop houses. It looks just like India, nah not really its cleaner, but all the shopkeepers talk with a wobble to the head and grin at the mention of cricket, allowing me to escape with outrageous bargains whilst we debate the worlds best batsmen and the worlds worst bowlers. I am beginning to wonder if modernism has overtaken the humble Bedouin trader until……. Hello how much is this bag?

Ahead of myself I get. It’s a week ago, and I am interrupted from a quaint little Italian restaurant (for which someone else is kindly picking up the check) to be asked to pack and ride over the border to the Kingdom, but!!!!…… I exclaim, I am doing dinner, no problem, we will wait, erm…. OK, its gonna be kinda late when I arrive isn’t it? No problem take it easy in the morning. I acquiesce, I am Saudi bound.

Propaganda is an amazing thing. Simple things like a border entry become major stressors when you consider all the things I have been warned could go wrong. Its as though the well wishers and advisors have become soothsayers of doom, and as I am speeding towards what will be my certain death, the “border”, knowing that its all nonsense, my heart starts to speed up and in my mind I start to rehearse my answers to the inevitable Saudi police interrogation. With my failure to provide correct answers, I further rehearse who I can call to get me out of some nasty Saudi gaol. This is plain silly.

Kathump kathump, here we go.

Immigration Official: Hi. First entry to Saudi.
Me: Yes.
Immigration Official: Go to the Police station over there for fingerprinting.
Me: Yes Sir.

Overhead strip lights bleed onto a desk around which an argument is developing about some poor soul standing rather shamefaced at a window facing a small camera and a small glass fingerprint capturing device. They look over at me and sneer, then frown, then argue some more. The place looks like it was recently bombed. I am alone.

The officer (I know he is the officer because he is sitting at the desk), approaches me. I trepidate.
Hi, just one moment, everyone is changing shift, you know what its like.
Oh yes no problem quavers me. I am not in a hurry. Its OK,
I will do this, he says as he fumbles to turn on the camera, I help, we are friends. He guides me through the fingerprints. Thank you and welcome to Saudi Arabia. Please go now to customs.

Back to the car, we (my Indian driver whose head wobbles alarmingly and whose English is limited only to cricket commentary) head through to the customs section. We are directed to park. I am still nervous, what do I have that can be used to make bombs or worse still, could be found offensive to Islam in my bag. The customs guy looks in the trunk, waves hi and then lights a cigarette while shooing us away. He returns to his banter with the next customs official and we quickly disappear into the night.

I calm. I am in Saudi. The drive across the causeway to the Kingdom from Bahrain has only taken 30 minutes. What was it I was concerned about again?

One hour later, I am safely deposited in the hotel.

So I strike up a casual conversation with a guy in a bag shop. The concern in his voice when he asked me if my hometown was safe was real. What propaganda had he heard I wonder. And what really is the purpose of such disinformation. I was a little bemused and quite surprised by his question. I cant think why anyone would consider that we in the liberated free world of the west would live in other than absolutely safe conditions or why we would not welcome visitors to our proud shores. Can you?

I picture my new friend from the souk standing shamefaced at the immigration desk in Sydney airport. I wish him well.

The Isle of the Dead

2008-10-10T19:24:00.003+07:00

Heathrow. Six in the morning. I am freezing and hurry through check in to the warmth of the inner hearth known quaintly as the departure lounge.

What seems like aeons later, I sit in a metal tube facing a cotton clad seat for nearly seven hours, dozing, being jolted awake by violent winds, before returning to shallow sleep.

I awaken, and step from the tube onto the bright sands of the desert. The heat is welcomed. It rolls in waves beckoning me to lighten my English morning (mourning) clothes.

This is the Isle of the Dead, so named from Sumarian times as the place of burial for their nobility.

Bahrain as its called nowadays is an intriguing little place joined at the navel with Saudi Arabia to the west by a road causeway.

It is touted as a swish financial hub and its reason de etre is as a safe money haven for the Saudi Elite.

Little could be further from the truth.

When it was the Isle of the Dead it was a tropical paradise. A jewel like island in an azure sea surrounded by brilliant reefs of coral. No longer.

With the oil riches of the Saudi's gaining ridiculous proportions throughout the last and this century, Bahrain has become more of a vassal state to its western neighbours unfulfilled appetites constrained at home by the feverish swirl of Islam.

What started as a handful of sleepy banks, and the odd tourist hotel catering to the sex trade mostly, has become a full blown testament to an excessive worship of consumerism.

It rivals the world in boutiques per square kilometre. Five star hotels abound and one can find drink and loose women without much search. All this interspersed with the occasional mosque.

So what do I hear you all say? So what indeed. But here is the problem.

Its a small island. The traffic crossing the border grows and grows. The greed of the people grows and grows to match the appetites from the consumptive set. The wannabe consumer kings and queens. The island grows and grows. The coral reefs shrink and shrink as land reclamation projects and more glass towers are deemed necessary. Who needs reefs when gold is king?

Well, as it happens, idyllic jewel like tropical garden islands do. As this is what gave the islands interior it source of fresh water in the form of a ground aquifer filtered by the reefs from the aforementioned azure sea.

I stand now in a flat and featureless desert. All I see is sand and Chanel Boutiques.

If I was one of the Sumarian dead who paid in advance for the heavenly resting place, I would be looking to get a refund.

Maybe It's Because I am not a Londoner

2008-10-03T03:20:00.011+07:00

I stand in a men's toilet. The plumbing is straight and gleams. It doesn't smell. It hits me, I am not in Asia anymore.

I emerge into a sunny street scene, there are many people, black, white, brown, yellow, all bustling with unknown purpose. Bright coloured shop facades watched over by authoritarian architecture brim with all manner of goods and people. Cafes abound and are well patronised by the urban set. Could be any major city in the world, except there is a conservativeness, tradition and restraint evident in each direction.

I am in London.

A city of great history. The repository of the vast British Empire of old. Its Military underpinnings evident in its statues and monuments. The stoic never give in attitude of its people and long entrenched social strata are betrayed by its outward appearance no matter which street or park I wander. Whilst it is enchantingly manicured, the city reeks of omniscient power, obvious is its military heritage and colonial achievements. Imposing is a word which springs to mind whilst sitting on the banks of the Serpentine watching its human ebb.

Its people are a curious mix. From centuries of conquest, the streets flow with the conquered of all colours and demeanour. Its original denizens range from the educated gentrified upper and middle classes to the under world like average working man, all stratified, all bearing different badges of their societal rank.

Three tribes become obvious

The tops of the trees are populated with a well mannered and quiet spoken group, who are unfailingly polite and gracious in demeanour both appearance wise and actual. The dress code is conservative, yet conversations are politically metro. Quite an obvious disparity considering the avant guard nature of the society in popular (especially music) culture and its proximity to the haute fashion worlds a simple channel crossing away. And yet, everyone looks like they aspire to be an old aunt or a cardigan clad uncle. The High Street fashion windows reflect an old maiden outlook, slightly sterile, definitely nothing riske.

It's when you interact with this group that you realise the connection between the words polite and political. The intrigue of the court comes to the fore, never outwardly expressed yet always behind the smile and polite nods. One feels as though speaking in a straight line would expose one's lack of educated gentility, standing one apart from the ruling classes. And so friendly banter seems to take on a circular bureaucracy after which the non astute player (me) is left to ponder and strain at the limits of perception.

This group once (maybe still does) ruled the world. And yet, they are so self sufficient as only an island country can be, that I am left to wonder why they ever bothered to leave for foreign shores.

Maybe the weather?

I land in great sunshine and wander and photograph the streets in what can only be described as a glorious climate. Two days later I am wet, shivering and now have a full understanding of the term "a bitter wind blows".

Maybe the food?

Outside of the pub roasts and fish and chips, there is nothing, repeat nothing of consequence to offer world cuisine. Maybe all the conquering over the centuries was a crusade for spice.

The second grouping of the classes is most obvious at the "football match". Cages separate each teams supporters. Yes cages, to prevent violence during the game. It is chilling to watch one race of people divided only by a bus line hurl the most foul abuse at each other over a game of football. Lucky the cages are in place.

The violence then overflows to the many pubs and streets around the original arena, causing large numbers of Police to be in attendance in full riot gear.

And these are not testosterone over dosed kids gone errant making all the noise, but men and women of all ages. Bewilderment as to why is an understatement from my end.

Maybe this was a more true reason why the English have been involved in most of the intra planetary wars, I mean, what exactly should one do with these people? Unleash them on someone else's football team of course. And if said intended war partner was "sans" a football team then is this not just cause for a good conquering?

Group three is invisible to the average Londoner. When I point them out, the average Londoner replies politely with an "oh I never noticed". Indeed.

To me this group stands out for two reasons.

First thing I notice is Chinese, Indian and African people whom I have met in their home countries, speaking to me in broad cockney (London) accents. At first I try not to giggle as its really not congruent. A bit like me speaking in a cockney accent, its all too theatrical.

The second reason I notice them is perhaps the most bewildering. They are happy. They smile and say hi and seem to have all of the good food and best fashion sense.

And yet they are ruled by the court intrigue brigade and rash violent lager louts are ever hovering. They are still the most socially happy grouping despite not having football teams at home and dominate the streets of central London on any weekend. This is where London gets it colour and vibrance as a city.

Despite the bleak and powerful outreach of the English exterior, the streets are filled with trappings of empire in the form of slick and red colourful Chinese restaurants, Indian take aways and wonderful African art in dance and music leaving one to wonder who conquered who?

For all who aspire to a taste of tradition served with a dash of the fruits of empire, London is THE place.

Avoid all the chicken shops and make sure you take an umbrella though.

Desert Prequel

2008-09-22T13:36:00.007+07:00

Picture this. Sand. Red sand. As far as the eye can see. In the distance is a column of smoke doing its best to emulate Tolkiens Mount Doom. It leaves a smoke trail which drifts across...... the sand.

Its 1999, and I have arrived in Saudi Arabia. The mysterious desert kingdom. I am here to fix the local refinery in Riyadh (Al Riyadh - The Garden...... someone has comedy here). And yes that Mt Doom emulator in the distance IS my sick refinery.

Riyadh is a modern city built by American contractors around the time of the major oil expansion projects of the 70's and 80's. It has modern high rise, banks, shops, MacDonalds and all other necessities of life for modern existence.

The only remaining part of the old city, which the new one bulldozed into the red sands (piles of the ensuing trash are still there on the outskirts of the city), is the Old Souk. A market of great character, full of spice sellers, carpet shops and piles and piles of old "junk" left by either the Crusaders or the Saracens (no no not the football teams, the real ones from the Fairy Stories). Chain mail shirts, swords, genie lamps, you know, that kind of junk.

Its in this Souk that I meet Abdullah the carpet trader and am awakened to the Muslim world of Arabia.

Abdullah is a simple guy. His Grandfather used to buy carpets from village artisans in Afghanistan and travel overland by camel to sell them in this very souk in which we now stand. He greets me always with the obligatory kiss on the cheek and sends his boys running for Mint Tea. My comfort is always his first concern, I am always his guest and his questions as to my well being and happiness are always real. I see it in his eyes. Eyes never lie.

The Souk is driven by songs of offers (literally sung by old men dressed in robes walking the little alleys) and the wonderful smell of spice, frankincense and Mir. Sandalwood (the real stuff not the little spray bottles) is sold by the kilogram as an air freshener. Transactions happen by the second. Bargaining is furious and poetic as hardships of the day are parleyed into deals by swaying motions of the body and head by robe swathed men sitting on deep cushions.

Five times a day The Mullah calls. The Souk grinds to a halt whilst the faithful duly trot off to wash and pray, and then within seconds, again, on opening, the sway, the nod, the handshakes, the smiles...... cash flows, goods come and go. Centuries pass like this.

My first meeting with Abdullah is basically me browsing his shop. I do this often over the next month until I finally buy one. A small one. Its Afghan, tribal, a little rare. I look at it now as I write, still fascinated by its warmth. He had kept this carpet for me. It was the last of only 10 made and he felt that I should be the owner. I didnt know this at the time, only months later did he reveal. There was never any push from him. When i first saw it, it was love at first sight. He knew it, bundled it up and put it at the back of the shop with my name on it, unbeknownst to me. The day I decided to look again, I asked him if I could buy it by putting a deposit down and pay it off. He gave me the carpet on the spot, wouldn't take any money down. You see, in the Souk, your word and your handshake is your contract and bond. He trusted me. I am not Moslem.

My team grows at Mount Doom. We are a mixed bunch. Nasty boys from Newcastle and the odd (mostly me) Australian. We live in the same complex, work hard by day to impossible deadlines and party hard at night in the various hidden and very very illegal bars and clubs. Not even cinema is allowed in Saudi Arabia. Funny, Cable TV is everywhere and its Johnny Walkers fifth largest consumer for Black Label.

One night, we buy our first bottle of Siddihki ("My Friend" is the literal translation from the Bedouin). Siddhiki is almost neat alcohol distilled by the Bedouin (you remember them, the guys who ride camels and live in funky tents in the desert, the real Saudi people). It had been a long day and tomorrow was off. We were supposed to cut it with water (water it down). But....... it was a long day and the party that night was snappy, lots of bring your own food and good music however woefully under-catered for in terms of Jeddah Gin or the Home Brew Beer, but we did have a bucket-load of coke. So who needs to water it down? Perhaps I should mention here that Riyadh is renown for having the worlds biggest camel market.

The week before on a visit to the carpet shop in the Souk, we all picked up the obligatory white robes and head dress of the fashionable Arab male. The dish dash, the scarf/head dress and the camel hobbling tie (yes thats what the black circlet on the head dress is really for). Like a group tattoo sort of thing, we all had to have the same as our uniform marking our time together in the Kingdom. Too many of us wanted to change the colour of the headscarf from the red/white Saudi standard. We did. Democratic debate ensued settled by violence as is the norm in the west and we chose a grey and white check pattern with a slight orange cast to the edges. very fetching,

This particular party night was fancy dress.

All started well. Convivial. Food. Jeddah Gin. Music. Food. Home Brew. Shit no food. Coke is discovered in a huge vending machine. Siddikhi. Siddhiki. Turn that damn music down its 2 AM, Siddhiki. Who needs coke anyway, Siddhiiiiikkkiiii. What time is it and why is the damn sun rising?

Did I mention that Riyadh has the biggest camel market in the world? It opens at 5 AM, just as the sun rises.

The red sand. Camels as far as the eye can see. Big ugly ones. Small ugly ones. Brown, Grey, White and Dappled ones. Fat ones and thin. The market trades. It hustles. The Wall Street of camels. Mint tea is everywhere against the backdrop of the theatre of the bargaining.

A commotion. A car pulls up and 7 huge and sweaty wild eyed robe covered head dress wearing unshaven suicide bomber lookalikes issue from its side. They take a defensive field position demonstrating to all their military origins. A ripple passes through the thronged market. The suicide bombers march in formation from camel stall to camel stall interrogating the owners in question of the chattel on offer in broken (very very broken) Arabic. Their leader is relentless in bargaining and sways to the ritual dance of the old desert. He is obviously the veteran of many carpet purchases and soon has an audience of camel traders involved in a group self heal on advanced pricing negotiations.

Who are these people disturbing the throb of our markets, upsetting its ancient rhythmic flow. They wear the head scarf of the Jordanian Freedom Fighters Movement and march like a military squad. Their commander barks orders and frowns at his subordinates who are seemingly edgy, very edgy. They smile infrequently. Their language, guttural and terse, spoken loudly, is so strange.

A small white camel. A price is agreed, a deal is struck. Looking eye to eye, with a handshake the values are exchanged. Camel for Money, Money for Camel. The theatre of the bargaining appreciated by both sides, its actors all take bows over Mint Tea.

Sand. Red sand. The desert. Add now the sun. Its mid morning and I am standing in the middle of this really foul smelling camel market holding onto the reigns of this equally (compared to me) silly looking white camel. The Siddhiki really isnt my friend I am rapidly discovering, and nowhere in sight is a hangover clinic. My boys have all passed out in the truck. Cept me and this stupid looking camel. Ever heard of the term Post Decisional Dissidence? It hits me like a cruise missile, strikes me unawares physically like a Naval bombardment from some far off flotilla.

Hmmmm, hello, excuse me, "wanna buy a camel"? This goes on for what seems like a year. During which, I meet interested buyers from Afghanistan (Taliban no less), Iraq, Jordan, and the ever present Yemeni's. I trade and trade. I drink lots of Mint Tea but have forgotten now how to sweat its so hot. Finally I have a deal. But he has no money. Can he secure the camel with a down-payment and bring me the money later? I look him in the eyes, he has no sly intent, I shake his hand and give him the reigns. Somebody brings me Mint tea and welcomes me yet again. Within 20 minutes my man appears and with a smile and the obligatory blessing from his god hands me the money.

Time to escape. Yet another 30 minutes throbs past as everyone in the market, entertained by our cultural stumblings wants to shake hands with the troop commander. No one has other than a smile or quick laugh in their eyes. We depart for the nearest dispensary, self medicate, and retire from camel trading permanently.

Two weeks later somebody asked us why we chose the head scarf of the Jordanian Freedom Fighters Movement. Did we? Stumble in good faith and you will never fall. Kind people will always catch you before you hit the ground and indulge you.

September the 11th 2001. I cant reconcile the people I met eye to eye with the picture painted by the media. Just cant. Still cant. Did the entire population of the Kingdom get replaced after I left? My mind cannot see Abdullah with a backpack of bombs attached. Nor can i envision the camel market erupting in a gun battle or metal detectors placed in strategic, corralled entry points at the Souk.

Abdullah, we looked eye to eye and I promised one day I would return. Its 2008 and I am inbound. I hope you all are still there.

Limena Per favor

2008-09-21T16:56:00.010+07:00

Contradictions.

Societal, visual and commercial.

Its these anthropological head on crashes that can make life entertaining for some and entirely bewildering and frustrating for others. Sometimes we can see both sides, other times we rage against the black or the white depending on our stance of the day, week, month.

Let me explain.

A long flight in the cocoon of the modern airline wormholes brings me to ........... South America. Finally..... light, fragrance and well..... generally cha cha cha. Just what I expected. Except.

Picked up, shipped downtown, sound, colour, light, aroma, yes real aroma of wonderful food, spice and the sea. Oh yes and noise..... the ever present dance of Machismo and La Chica moves by me in a blaze of fashion and twirl.

Days pass and I awaken from that slumber called jet-lag. I am surrounded by some of the most eloquent trappings of civilisation. Lima, capital city of Peru. Buildings designed by artists stand on every street. Some are so interesting and curious as to cause 30 minute pauses in my wanderings while i just try and take in all the subtleties that the artist envisioned. The shapes, the colours, the flourishes none are block built all are unique. What an architectural jewel by the sea. Except.

I cant speak Spanish unfortunately. Most Limenas cant speak English. Especially taxi drivers and shop keepers. Its through this common ignorance that we learn just how friendly and substantial people can be. I have had some very interesting conversations (I cant think what else to call them) with total strangers in very odd places from street wanderings to plain old taxi rides all in odd language combinations and hand movements with lots of nodding and smiling. Never, ever did I feel awkward or threatened, in fact I must say that the hospitality of the average Limena is just so comfortable. You are assumed to be part of their family until YOU prove otherwise. My kinda people. Except.

The Costa Verde, the Bay of Lima, pinioned on a christian cross and a shopping mall built into a cliff (two religions side by side competing or an alliance?). By day the shopping mall beckons with the allure of slick advertising and coffee smells, by night the beacon of the lit cross shines on you to ensure that you dont sin. Meanwhile, Limenas dance, and dance, and dance. Except.

What should be a wonderful place, a city of light and deep culture, a gateway to a magical place has a major issue.

Fear.

Small word, big impact on everyday life.

Security guards are everywhere. Taxis lock their doors when you get in to keep you safe. Beautiful buildings are constrained with barbed wire and 9 foot high fences, most of which are electrified. The longer I stayed, the more infectious this virus became.

My 30 minute stops of architectural wonder became muted by the possibility of electric crucifixion, Conversations became terse as I held closely to my bag to keep would be snatchers away. Simple taxi rides became stressful in coping with the machismo persistence of the drivers and the near miss traffic always guarded should they turn down a dark street. Ahhhh....... I should have left after the first month, before the wonder inoculation wore off.

The Inca's used to not have locks on their doors. They had no concept of theft. They used gold for the creation of art due to its enduring nature as opposed to its value as a precious metal. They also placed high value on people instead of things. Their families were huge, many times many extended. And surprisingly peaceful. They actually knew each other. A very interesting culture to explore in both its traditions and amazingly artistic architecture. And today its called Peru. The food still exists, the music is so varied you cant help but dance, the art of life still observable and the people so warm and emotionally expressive. Incas still live here.

So where did the fear come from?

Some could say Spain brought it, others that its part of 21st century life. More people would say its the recent (20 years ago now) terrorists of the Shining Path (most of whom now run large mining corporations and drive Mercedes Benz automobiles).

Personally, I am unconvinced by all of these explainations. I base this on my warm experience of the people i met and shared with and their irrational belief in this urban myth of danger which is very pervasive in their day to day life. Its confirmed by church missives and the other church missives of advertising and TV Media. For what? I did wander the streets, with a $2500 dollar camera in my hand wearing a Rolex watch. Dark streets too, late at night. All the wrong places. My Limena friends were horrified, constantly warning me of the danger to life and limb.

I retook the wonder pills, the ones that help you realise that 99.99999999% of everyone you meet is just a normal person going about their normal business with no intent of harm whatsoever.

I evaded all of the assassins. Was this luck? I had some wonderful conversations again. And my camera got mucho work.

Limenas I am still your fan.

Meanwhile, that Cross shines down on the bay every night pointing at the non righteous.

Oh, one last thing plagues me. In a land of such machismo (sure its a legacy of Spanish invasion), why are all the Traffic Police women?

The entire Lima and Andes photo set is here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157605581850831/

Where Do the Children Play

2008-09-20T14:39:00.005+07:00

Sometime in 2008

Cambodia - A Border Crossing

So, I have been asked to submit a photo essay by a European magazine on the subject of Asian cross border trade. No problem. Grab Camera, mount the horse, and head straight for Cambodia.

First, just a little background history for the young (although many of the elders could do with a refresher as Cambodia was one of those significant events that was neatly washed away by the media).

Cambodia was the original centre of the Ankor Kingdom. Most people have heard of Ankor Wat (The Angkor Temple) but few are aware of the vast city which to this day is still discernible "off the tourist path" overrun by jungle. Wikipedia has some very cool information on this place at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angkor

The significance of this city, its fall and the subsequent total demise of its people is in itself a crime of humanity equivalent at least to the fall of the great Inca empire. Although, as its not in our backyard and they dont speak English, who after all gives a toss? Care to name 3 cities in Cambodia for me?

Lets roll forward to the 60's and 70's of last century. Vietnam. America's war. Too much lost by Americans to be covered in this little blog. Lots gained by the industrial military complex, but thats also another story which has been well covered in depth by many.

So here is little Cambodia. A sleepy little place of rice and elephants, all of a sudden thrust into the view of the "Great" Powers, namely America, Russia and China. Money flows. Excesses abound. All the time the average Cambodians life is not so remarkably different from the days of the Great Khmer empire. The money created great polarities of political "direction". Money begets arms begets tragedy. Cambodia becomes of strategic value, unfortunately that value was considered far greater than the value of Cambodians generally and the resulting civil wars and period of darkness under the

vicious Khmer Rouge rule are truly a blight on human history and our callous ability to turn a blind eye for some obscure diplomatic reasoning and once again leave the average Cambodian to the sword. Watch the Killing Fields for a reality check, and be aware that this movie was substantially toned down to what the average Cambodian faced.

So having turned our backs on them, when the Vietnamese "intervened" to stop the Khmer Rouge, we were of course "outraged" at the nasty Vietnamese invading another sovereign nation, .... see we told you the dominoes would fall, didnt we?

Vietnam however prevailed, and the ensuing "tragedy" of the Khmer Rouge being holed up on the Thai borders in refugee camps became a charitable cause for many in the west. Save the refugees!!!! The true facts were a little different though. Across the border came teak and gems in quite horrifyingly vast quantities and through the kindness of the various humanitarian oriented regional and world governments came...........land mines. Yes, land mines in similiarly vast and horrifying quantities. We didnt want anymore dominoes to fall did we? Of course not.

Cambodia has one of the highest statistics for laid land mines. If you are a simple rice farmer tending your fields, what do you know? If you are "lucky" you just donate a hand or a leg to the legacy of the Domino Theory. Unlucky? No Dad to keep you fed. Who reads statistics anyway?

So here I stand at the border market. Its shabby and temporary like all regional border markets. I see and photograph smiles and colour.

But what is it thats really there?

I see kids begging and hauling. I see men without bits they should have. I am both sad and happy for them. They are the lucky ones and against all the odds thrown at Cambodia, they survive.

My sadness stems from two questions:

1. Why do we allow people to exploit children? Are we not all Human?

2. Why are land mines allowed to exist at all?

Can anyone help me with the answers?

The full photo set titled The Elephant Kingdom can be found here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikonokuro/sets/72157606959910464/

First

2008-09-19T01:19:00.000+07:00

I want to use the net to capture my minds eye as I wander and photograph verbally.

Hopefully, I have something to say

Miko

Bangkok