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.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Saturday, June 11, 2011
A Cheese Sandwich
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.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
The Hat
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
Monday, April 18, 2011
My Home
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
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
Monday, November 29, 2010
We Love the King
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.
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.
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
Monday, March 1, 2010
StrayLya
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)
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)
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Islanders
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.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Treasure Island
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.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Honestly
Or was that Honesty.
First, let me mention how hot it is. As in ice cream just isn't an option here hot.
OK, 100 miles north or north east of where i sit now, this would NOT have happened.
As you do from time to time, I needed to buy bread, so into 7/11 (convenience store chain) I go and take a loaf of bread off the shelf, proceed to the check out counter with cash in hand, wait in queue and then my turn, pass the money, get some water as well and wait....... the check out clerk, looks at the use by tag on the bread and then replaces the loaf with a fresher one.
I didnt ask him. No legislation requires him to do it. He didn't make a big deal of it either. To him it was just important to be fair.
I am in a Malaysia. Langkawi actually. Kuah if you really want to know. Email me for the longitude and latitude :-)
North and North East of me is Thailand.
There, I would be charged extra because of my white face (well slightly sunburnt face, did I mention the heat?).
In Thailand, the rip off is an art form. Practiced from an early age. From the moment you arrive at the slightly new airport and are harassed all the way from the point of baggage collection to rent a taxi, until you leave by the same portal, the smiling faces always seem to want to sell you something. Always more expensive than it should be, but what the heck you're on holiday eh?
Having based there for quite some time, one gets guarded whenever approached on the street by a stranger (no not in that kind of way). My hand automatically covers my wallet. Thailand, land of a thousand smiles.
Back to Malaysia. The melody of the Mullah drifts through the heavy humid air. Languid. Oh yes, here the state religion is Islam.
I am approached on the street by a stranger. He says hi and asks where I come from. My hand flexes and covers. Guardedly I respond. Turns out he's a tourist like me, and just wants to chat. Nice guy, nothing to sell.
All over town, people say hi to each other, even old tourists like me. No one yet has tried to sell me anything. No one yet has been anything other than very polite and friendly in a genuine way. 100 miles to Thailand. 20,000 miles of cultural change.
I blame Islam for this, or maybe its the heat.
Salam Malam
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
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Singapore 4
Noodles, noodles, rice or noodles, chicken, pork or seafood, too many
options. She senses my indecision and drifts away lips pursed in amusement
at another's folly.
A seemingly endless myriad of corridors and alleys wind my eye and
eventually feet away from the lunchtime aromas of the central hall where a
score of small stalls labor over lunch for the army which lives above.
This is Peoples Park.
The center of the housing development boards public
housing project in Singapore. A venture first promulgated in the 60's to
house Singapore's ever burgeoning population of workers in the island city.
A success story by any measure, its now aging denizens have a secure life
in a comfortable environment. Everything one could ever need is within a
short walk
Its easy to lose your way in the Parks sprawling commercial areas, as paths lead to shops lead to food stalls lead
to money changers lead to public transport lead to massage clinics, ever
winding and more confusing as only a grand Chinese puzzle could ever be.
Hoardings struggle for recognition amongst lucky symbols and lantern
shapes. Red is everywhere.
The afternoon buzzes with the serious chatter of Uncles and Aunties,
gathered in so many tea shops, all engaged in their favorite hobby. Gossip.
The tea choice is enough to cause comment, only the finest of what
China can muster is expected and its preparation is a serious matter.
Alone, I am mesmerized by the animation of these mostly octogenarians whose
banter and laughter electrify the surrounding air with mirth and sparkle.
An elderly gent walks to the middle of the main square, sets a small
speaker down and begins to sing Chinese Opera.
From the moment he begins to
intonate and croon out the characters of his performance, the crowd stops.
Onlookers quickly gather, even children visiting Grandma are hushed.
Total reverence. Dignity in his every move. Remarkable that we can sit quietly
over tea and watch.
And so daily, the populace dances from the serious business of food, to
tea, to thoughtful art, surrounded by cheerfulness in a setting of peace.
Peoples Park. Yes I can see that.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Singapore Three
OK you guys, quit with the antics la!!
I have trouble enough sleeping without the doors closing noisily and the creaking stuff. Give me a break eh?
Plus, I need those socks that got lost in the laundry back thank you, and I would prefer that you dont break anymore of my appliances.
Whew. Thats a lot to ask I guess, but i am an expat and we do quite press the point. What exactly do I have to give or do to create a bit of peace around here?
Probably easier to answer that, than why exactly do the Chinese consider the gates of hell open for this month? As in once a year the gates of hell open. And it's this month. Hmmmm, loose ghosts, pandemonium.
I'm serious. No one buys a car or a house during this month. No swimming at rivers or beaches and other adventurous activities whatsoever during this month.
No big business decisions either. Singapore, whilst not exactly grinding to a halt, takes on an air of caution. Consider that the general populace here is urbane and well educated this kind of creeps up as a bit of a surprise.
So, whats the story?
Evidently its a bunch of Hungry Ghosts.
Hungry Ghosts appear from Chinese ancestor worship. 鬼法界, 鬼界 is "the realm of the hungry ghosts". Some Chinese believe that the ghosts of their ancestors return to their houses at a certain time of the year, hungry and ready to eat. A festival is held to honor the hungry ancestor ghosts and food and drink is put out to satisfy their needs. Honor of ancestors is a big thing amongst Chinese. Might be a useful attribute methinks. Even the Buddhists get in on the act. The temple next door to me has been working overtime with chanting and horn blowing all weekend.
So little bins have started appearing across the neighborhood. A fire burns in the bottom and into this goes food, clothing (probably my socks) and anything else which could make the dead ancestor happier for the year ahead. They are never forgotten, and angered at ones peril.
Oh and money. Hell is not cheap la. It has its demigods and gate openers all of whom need to be "well oiled" for a comfortable existence.
Now, if you don't get with the swing of this, then certain little prompts start to help you appreciate the situation.
First it was the socks. Then the doors mysteriously opening and closing when i wasn't looking. Creaking sounds have woken me up in the last few nights. Now my appliances have started malfunctioning. Yesterday was the washing machine. Today the espresso machine.
The thing about superstition is you can say all you like about how silly it is, ill-educated nonsense, but......
Its been a superstition for thousands of years. Skepticism has only been a "science" for around 20 years. Its just a pup.
Me?
I pride myself on rational explanations and an understanding of natural laws rather than pseudoscience. Animistic beliefs I respect, they are born of long cultural experience. Skepticism only lasts until you are looking for that missing sock.
I am out tonight to make an offering of food to my local ghosts, and to also sling a few dollars for all my departed ancestors. I wonder what the exchange rate is and do they take Visa. Of course they must, hell is well populated with bankers hehe.
Just call me ill-educated :)
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 :)
Friday, August 21, 2009
Singapore Two
No problems lah! Dont be so Money Face Lah! Aeyo can lah!
Today I am so blur blur, I wonder how I can write this and put sense to the language known as Singlish.
4 cultures (maybe 5 considering the english expat in addition to Malay, Chinese, Indian, European) have intertwined to form this modern day republic, each with its own diametrically opposite language structures, cuisines and fashions to make Singapore one of the most eclectic places on the planet. Vaguely reminiscent or familiar of all of the homes of the cultures it combines yet somehow blended to a new level to make a Singaporean no matter what their ancestry or ethnic heritage stand out in a crowd when returned to their mother place.
It really becomes obvious when you sit in on a discussion amongst its denizens, white skinned chinese, darker skinned malay, dark skinned indians all of whose cultural homes are obvious and yet when you hear them speak, the colour distinction is the only difference you can notice. (The lower case use for the ethnic origins is intentional, they are now Singaporeans)
Close your eyes
Listen
Its English, but its not. It blends Malay, "you makan already?" with Chinese "Hey Ah Beng makan already?" with Hindi/Urdu "Hey Ah Beng makan roti already?" with the parent English (I say parent, as English is what Singaporeans mainly speak) to come out with "Hey ah beng you wan do makan roti prata already lah?"
What the hell does this mean?
How the hell do I know, I am just a visitor lah
No lah makan liao lah. Tze tze, terimah kaseh
Now I go play play cause I am a little slow slow
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
Monday, July 6, 2009
Singapore One
With a nod and a swaying of his head (as only an Indian can do and interpret) Waiter Number 136 acknowledges my order of Roti Prata and Teh Tarik.
I sit back in the plastic chair at the cheap laminex table, savoring the moistness of the tropical evening as Singapore traffic rushes by oblivious of the ritual through which they drive like the possessed.
Roti prata is the Singaporean evolution of the Pakistani and Indian paratha, a pancake bread made of dough composed of fat, egg, flour and water. Roti means bread in Hindi, Urdu, most other North Indian languages and Malay, while Prata means flat. It is traditionally served with curry or, more rarely, with sugar or condensed milk. In addition, although consumed at any time of the day by some locals, the vast majority tend to consume it as a late night or early morning dish, particularly at 24-hour outlets.
There are two main types of the dish - the smaller but crispy version (made famous by the Jalan Kayu chains) and the flatter and more fluffy version common elsewhere. Both versions are prepared in similar fashion - by flipping the dough into a large thin layer before heating it on a hot plate.
Teh tarik (literally pulled tea or 拉茶 in Mandarin) is a hot tea beverage which can be commonly found in restaurants, outdoor stalls and kopi tiams in Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei. Its name is derived from the pouring process of "pulling" the drink during preparation. It is made from black tea and condensed milk.
The mixture is poured back and forth repeatedly between two vessels over a height, giving it a thick frothy top. This process is said to cool the tea to drinking temperatures, and helps mix the tea with the condensed milk more thoroughly.
Thanks Wikipedia.
Now back to the show.
The Prata cook and the Tarek maker seem to be in a competition as to who can perform the most flourishes per step all the while acknowledging each others simple magic with a wobbling motion of the head. Quite amazing to watch the geometry of this as nothing is spilt or misplaced during the dance.
Up swirls the Prata in the air before landing perfectly square on the large flat cooking surface the cook dives on it with a large spatula turning and prodding it into its fluffy end product, the Teh spirals back and forth between the large metal jug and the cup, a continual cascade seeming to flow with no end between both vessels.
Its pure India where dramatics and inferred magic may make the difference between a sale or no sale/no eat, although the affluence surrounding the demo (modern day Singapore) belies its rural roots. The transportation to the old markets of Delhi nearly works.
In its simplest form, exposed by the preparation of food, thousands of years of culture and migration lay bare. All for $2.20.
Within minutes I have old India served on a plate with a watery lamb curry, the teh (tea) is frothy and sweet. The smell can only be described as sensuous. The taste? Ahh Singapore, forget your expensive nightlife, this is truly part of you.
And Waiter Number 136 gives me a wide smile and an appreciative nod to acknowledge that this Ang Moh recognised the show.
Ah Beng Lah
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
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Aperture
London grows on you. The more you poke your lens into its numerous crannies the more its uniqueness reveals itself.
Of special mention here is the Aperture Photgraphers Cafe on Museum Street.
In addition to serving Lavazza espresso (of course its my favourite, isnt it yours?) They have an amazing array of very hard to get cameras, all second hand, but in great working order. The ambience is interesting with a mix of amateurs and working pro's either midway or just back from some of the most interesting places.
The camaraderie is brilliant and the sales staff very interactive. The shop looks like a rubbish dump though, be warned, although most working photographers seem to have an appetite for things boheme. The place just reeks of funk.
Also worthy of special mention is Classic Cameras in Pied Bull Lane, just round the corner. Its the best Leica Shop I have ever been to and the staff are great. Its nice to buy things from people who truly believe in what they sell, no hype, just honest input.
For a more thorough look at Londons nooks try here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikefrancisphoto/
I am starting to really like this town.
Of special mention here is the Aperture Photgraphers Cafe on Museum Street.
In addition to serving Lavazza espresso (of course its my favourite, isnt it yours?) They have an amazing array of very hard to get cameras, all second hand, but in great working order. The ambience is interesting with a mix of amateurs and working pro's either midway or just back from some of the most interesting places.
The camaraderie is brilliant and the sales staff very interactive. The shop looks like a rubbish dump though, be warned, although most working photographers seem to have an appetite for things boheme. The place just reeks of funk.
Also worthy of special mention is Classic Cameras in Pied Bull Lane, just round the corner. Its the best Leica Shop I have ever been to and the staff are great. Its nice to buy things from people who truly believe in what they sell, no hype, just honest input.
For a more thorough look at Londons nooks try here http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikefrancisphoto/
I am starting to really like this town.
Jesus Saves
I am in San Diego.
The phone shatters the darkness (thank whatever god invented black out curtains).
I roll over in no fit state to deal with whoever is inflicting this pain and notice its 8 AM.
I have a vague recollection of having to do something at 8 AM. Answering the phone, my comrade tells me he is waiting downstairs for our big Sunday trip to Mexico. Politely I decline begging off due to my poor state of health (and confusion) on a bad dose of something I ate. Or was it something I drank until 5 AM?
Its amazing how you can lie when pressed.
I try to go back to sleep but the throbbing behind my temples is reminding me that I should never again drink vodka in such large quantities.
I decide to try and stay awake and here I make the second mistake of the morning (waking up was a bad enough move). I switch on the TV.
No matter which channel I surf to I am assailed by the jesus channels. As in every channel I flick to has a god botherer in action.
I settle on a woman with large breasts who is, in her best pitch, telling the world that jesus is the answer. “put your hand on the part that hurts” she wails. “Let jesus cure your ills”.
I am exhorted to action. How can I refuse such an offer from such a well-endowed lady who obviously has jesus's private cell number.
So here I am, standing in front of the TV in my underpants with my hand on my forehead listening to her wailing how if I truly believe, all my hurts and ills will now be gone.
With a hangover like this, trust me I believe.
Sadly, jesus has no sense of humour about vodka.
Tylenol, however has a much better sense of humour. After a handful of these, normality returned, sleep ensued and in the very late afternoon, I had Mexican for dinner.
Might start a new religion.
The 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.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
The Tea Dance
Manila is not the nicest place I’ve been to for many reasons. The poverty, the lack of decent food, and the overwhelmingly cloying Catholicism get to me after about 3 hours of landing.
I do however have an affinity for Philippinos. I have worked with them all over the world and some are lifelong friends. And there lies an interesting fact about the Philippines. A large proportion of its exports are people. Balikbayan is the word for the men and women who leave the sanctuary of home to head out and break the poverty cycle they face in the barrio.
For the guys, most are well trained and work hardened before they leave Manila. Those that aren’t quickly get adopted by their new working brothers and are able to cope with indescribable hardships by dint of this pseudo family structure.
The women however (outside of the nursing profession) fare not so kindly.
Let me first explain that the majority of Asia’s maids are Philipinas.
They work a 3-year contract cycle during which they will endure long working days and very limited contact with the outside world or family.
In the first contractual year, it’s generally a 7-day week. It’s not until the subsequent years that they start to get Sunday off, and some even get Saturday afternoon.
Singapore has an interesting phenomenon that occurs every Sunday. It’s known as The Tea Dance. And it is an entirely Pilipino affair.
Sunday starts with a visit to the local Catholic church for early morning mass. After this it’s a visit to the Post Office (Singapore Post opens early for them on this day) to send letters away followed by meeting anyone they know from home or just generally taking the afternoon off during which they wander local shopping malls, which in turn cater to them as a market.
This is a tradition that has continued for many years. Ever since I can remember.
Not much dancing gets done nor tea drunk. Instead, shopping malls and park benches get filled with maids on parade doing their best to get some form of social interaction or normalcy to their otherwise confined life of servitude. The whole area takes on a carnival flavour.
So on any steamy Sunday in Singapore, take a walk down the Orchard Road. Drink some Tea and enjoy the view.
No problems lah!!!!
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!!!!
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Koh Chang - a photographic adventure
Once upon a time, in a far away place, there was a fabled island known only to locals and shaped like an elephant, referred to in hushed whispers as the paradise Koh Chang (Elephant Island).
Near vertical, tropically swathed, misty mountains surrounded by white sandy beaches with crystal waters. Palm fringed, coral reefs on the seaward side. An island that actually did look like the photograph in the brochure.
I remember this place. I slept on its beaches and conversed with the fishermen who used to pull in with their small catches to sell. An old lady and her husband would cook.
So with a week to spare between assignments, I hook up with Martin the dancing bear and we sashe (or was it tango) our way down the coast looking to capture the heart of the quaint sea villages and island charm of Thailand's eastern seaboard.
From Pattaya we head east towards Cambodia looking to stop at each little town along the way and to "grow" a life as it is here essay by camera.
Inwardly I cringe a little as I write this.
It appears that the worlds (or at the very least Thailand's) entire plastic bag stock has been dumped in every place we stop to shoot. Scenes of graceful fishing fleets nestling on the low tide sands are totally eviscerated by what in my estimate were at least a tonne of plastic. Everywhere the lens looked.
When we get to the island, it actually gets worse. My wonderful little island no longer looks the picture of paradise.
Its been plasticized. And not just with plastic bag garbage. To add insult to injury, its been overbuilt with some of the ugliest buildings ever built (no way will I use the word architecture cause that implies art which this place sadly now needs).
Water has suffered a bit as well. Its brown. Cant see my feet at knee level brown.
The entire foreshore is now overbuilt with 4 star and 5 star hotels. You cant get to the beach anymore unless you stay at one of these places. I wonder where their sewage discharges to? And with all this trampling by construction crews and the odd suckered tourist, its just a mud quagmire and its hasn't started to rain yet.
I could rave on about the greed of the Thai people who did this or the apathy of the Thai people who let this happen in a listed National Park. Instead I go home, photoless and deeply saddened.
I am not accepting plastic bags anymore. They kill islands.
Mai Pen Rai eh?
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?
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
The Great Moscow Circus
Can you recall it? The dimming of the lights, an electric air? The hush, then the roar of applause? The excitement at the entrance of the ringmaster, theatre resplendent. Lit by a big spot of crisp white light?
Hundreds of thousands of children world over, clutching crisps/popcorn/grass derived snack, entertained by an exotic mix of animals, garishly painted sets, daring do feats and simple slapstick comedy by some of the worlds most talented athletes all under one roof. A Big Top no less.
The Great Moscow Circus.
From the USSR it sprang forth to entertain generations. Itself an icon of perfection in the circus industry. Who can ever forget its most famous assets Yuri Vladimirovich Nikulinor or Oleg Konstantinovich Popov.
Perhaps better remembered as Nikulin and Popov the clowns.
Definers of the clowning medium on the world stage and both Heroes of the Soviet Union.
On the Metro between Mendeleyevskaya and Chekhovskaya lies Tsvetnoy Bulvar, the station from which I have just exited to stand in the warm twilight of a lovely Moscow evening.
I cant find words to describe just how purple the sky is.
My destination is………yes you guessed it, the Great Moscow Circus.
I wander along the boulevard, past facades of Italian drawn houses with cute boutiques on the ground floor to arrive at a rather unimposing and artless building with a faded and part broken sign and…
Its closed.
All this way from Sheremetyevo, via the Bolshoi Ballet, Lenin’s Library, The Arborium, St Basils cathedral, GUM department store on Red Square, Comrade Lenin’s mausoleum, the Kremlin with the changing of the guards at the eternal flame (women old and young weeping while the guards march to a mechanical doll precision goose step), the Arbats Old and New, Gorky’s house, the Lubyanka and Gastronom Number One with its amazing ceilings.
And damn. It’s closed.
Might as well have stayed home.
I amble over to a guy dressed in rather old fashioned and badly tailored military garb sitting in a small guardhouse and casually enquire as to when it will be open.
His English is great, he tells me to “piss off”.
Maybe he was a also a Hero of the Soviet Union and is offended at the fact that I failed to recognise such a high status.
My mistake, Russians are not generally so offensive but they do have a certain officiousness about them given a uniform. However they also have an inbuilt rebelliousness to authority.
Its hard to imagine how those two traits combine, but once you’ve got it, there my friend, is Russia. No wonder hardly anyone smiles. Its as though the world owes them a favour, and life is an unfolding drama ever increasing in hardship.
The sorrow. Makes for great literature over the centuries.
And yet, the world can rightly thank them for some great contribution to Art and Science and of course the Circus.
A circus is commonly a traveling company of performers that may include acrobats, clowns, trained animals, trapeze acts, hoopers, tightrope walkers, jugglers, unicyclists and other stunt-oriented artists. The word also describes the performance that they give, which is usually a series of acts that are choreographed to music.
A circus is held in an oval or circular arena with tiered seating around its edge.
Moscow is built in three rings. The Sadovayer ring road surrounds the center of the arena. Its within this loop that one sees the true circus which Moscow always was and very much still is.
Anyone who is anyone lives in the inner ring. It was built by mainly Italian masons several hundred years ago and looks very very Milan like.
The heathen others live outside of the purple circle (that’s the colour of the tram signage).
And from the Purple Circle to the next ring is well…….ummm, very soviet. As in startlingly lacking any form of art in architecture and more than a little rundown/seedy looking. Except for the amazing sculptures exhorting the masses to work harder in the struggle (against what I think no one really has any firm idea).
So given 200 years, what has the inner facades of downtown Moscow witnessed?
First was the Boyer. The merchants surrounding the court of the Kremlin.
Second was the KGB. The merchants surrounding the court of the Kremlin.
Third is the Biznizmen or “new” Russians, merchants surrounding the court of the Kremlin.
Most of these Biznizmen are from old Boyer families and ex KGB.
Remarkable. A Circus by any definition.
So the act never stopped, the jugglers continued to juggle and there is no shortage of acrobats or conjurors in the new Souvenirgrad. It’s business as usual.
Except old people don’t get pensions anymore.
Capitalism was always a much better proposition for the Boyer, how many communists drove Mercedes Benz’s?
Who the hell wants to read Bulgakov or Gorky or Pushkin when Fox TV is at hand?
I sigh, and get back onto the Metro and head to Gastronom, at least it serves a decent espresso.
The original Great Moscow Circus moved to the “West” years ago, its now a franchise. Perhaps its owners read the writing on the wall. They were Heroes of the Soviet Union after all.
A crisp white light shines on the Kremlin as I goose step past heading up Tverskaya, the music is martial.
"Engineering is my lawful wife," he once said, "and photography is my mistress." And with that, Gorky rolls over.
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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
What is it with Foreigners in Thailand.
Conversation overheard number one
I am in subway (no no not the train station, the sandwich shop), a guy with his demure Thai girlfriend strolls in and asks “how long is the six inch sub? I tell my girlfriend its six inches but its only this big“ (thumb and forefinger held aloft for all to see).
Conversation overheard number two
A guy walks into a Seven Eleven (convenience shop for you outsiders) and asks the female cashier for a box of condoms. He then proceeds to expose himself to her and says “big enough for this”.
EEWWWWW. What is it with foreigners visiting this country?
I have never seen a booth at Bangkok international airport that hands out licences to be a total asshole. Maybe I am not looking in the right places.
What I do see though are males, typically Anglo-Saxon in ethnic origin, acting like primitives, and with the special ignition properties of alcohol, primitives with astounding amounts of ignorance and cultural insensitivity.
One should always listen to ones surroundings. One should never bludgeon an opinion or racial bias, or think in a superior or holier way to those one walks with when travelling.
The Thais know this. There should be a booth at the new airport that holds mandatory entrance courses to every single or unaccompanied white male entering the country.
Imagine the reactions if they behaved so badly at home.
Mai pen rai eh? Farang ting tong.
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.
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