All of the below is from my round the world 2006/7 travel blog. Google won't let me back into the original one and it seemed a shame just to leave all the writing that I enjoyed doing at the time floating lost in the Internet. So here it is in its original order. Some of it is a bit corny but that's how I wrote at the time so I've resisted the urge to edit.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Goodbye To All That
All good things must come to an end. So a journey that has taken me from the
manicured zen gardens of Koyoto to the wilderness of Patagonia, from the neon
billboards (and courtesy flushing toilets) of Shibuya to the favelas of Rio,
the dessication of the Outback to the spectacular waterfalls of Iguazu (more
water per second than Severn Trent wastes in a summer and a roar almost
loud enough to drown out the chattering chavales) is over. Having
survived Tokyo commuting, volcanoes, crocs, gap year backpackers and a diet
dangerously high in cheese, after 9 months, 8 countries, 66 beds, 41 buses and
36 species of wildlife, I'm coming home. Shortly to be seen sweating and
shouting in a Barcelona classroom near you. I can honestly say it's been a
blast. There are some things I won't miss of course. Living at such close
proximity to others that you can hear your neighbours scratching their behinds,
being looked at as if you have three heads when ordering dinner, shouting as a
national sport......hmm, hang on a minute....
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Nice To Pichu, To
Pichu....Nice
Ever been to one of those places so famous, whose pictures you've seen so often
that the reality is a tiny bit of a letdown? Well, Machu Picchu isn't
one of them. Finally witnessing this archeologist's wet dream sitting prettily
and precipitously among steaming Andean peaks can only be described (to borrow
a nice expression from the Spanish) as 'the whore mother'. An experience that
even the hordes of camera toting yanks cant spoil (although the day tripping families have a good go).
After some deliberation (and the recent memory of the feeling that every
nocturnal trip to the bathroom should be preceded by Scott's last words) I
elected to give The Stinka Trail a miss and got the bus. Seeing the state of
those exiting the trail, it proved to be wise choice, allowing me to spend a
full sweet-smelling twelve hours roaming the ruins before being reluctantly
ejected at closing time. Despite the precipitous nature of it's situation, the
Peruvian state fortunately feels no need to clutter up the view with protective
barriers, leaving you free to wander up and down slippery, vertical cliff edges
with only the meagerest of handrails to cling to. No nannying here.
Interestingly the only recent fatality featured, wait for it.... a German!!
struck by lightning after ignoring warnings and scaling the mountain in a
thunderstorm. Nuff said.
Swamp Thing
A dream fulfilled, I began to think (with dread) about the (long and poorly
maintained) road home, so from Cusco (one of the prettier, more developed
cities in South America while still managing to retain that all important,
defining smell of wee) it was back across Bolivia and into Brazil for the joys
of returning to the linguistic level of a two year old ("me understand
no. English you speaking?") and a spot of wildlife bothering. The Pantanal
is the worlds largest inland swamp, half the size of France but with much
pleasanter residents. Armadillo (crunchy on the outside), alligators, capibara,
the worlds biggest rodents and so obviously designed as prey that they might as
well have 'eat me' tatooed on their oversized asses, as well as anacondas and
diverse winged showoffs.
The Girl From Ipanema
'Tall and tanned and young and lovely'
After 31 hours on the bus it definitely isn't me that Frank was referring to but
even the palest of big-panted (thong=wrong!) gringas are touched by the glamour
of caiparinhias on Copacbana in the world's most beautiful city under the gaze
of the Big J.C himself. In Rio you can experience it all, nightlife, white
sand, colonial architecture, rain forest, and gunpoint robbery whilst admiring
it all. Ironically the least likely place to meet with trouble is (properly
escorted) inside the favelas themselves. These days no trip to Rio is complete
without proving you kept it real on holiday by getting deep in the rat warrens
of Rio's slums and showing how street you are by not soiling your pants
the sight of A.K toting pre-teens. It seems a little weird that splashing
through an open sewer for the chance of witnessing abject poverty should now be
a box to tick alongside a visit to Sugar Loaf but there you have the state of
modern tourism. If nothing else it allows you to go away thankful you are not
the aforementioned young dealer and have a little more than an average life
expectancy of 23 years in which to earn enough cash to impress your girlfriend.
Next and finally; tango and wine in Buenos Aires. Guess which I'll not
be doing.
High Plains Drifter
When your imagination packed it's bags and left for South America, Bolivia is
where it sent you the postcards from. Rasin-faced old peasant women wrapped
multi-layered skirts, sporting a natty bowler and bridging the fashion divide
between a Russian doll and a transvestite Mr Ben as they trudge the (dust,
anyone? dust) streets and fields, bent double under a hundred weight of cargo
(or snot-nosed offspring) wrapped in acid-striped blankets. A country where
Nature dropped a couple of microdots and came down to find She'd created the
Altiplano where flamingos feed in high-altitude frozen desert oasis, cactus
sprout from former coral reefs in a blinding white lake of salt and canyon
walls defy gravity in the wild west style badlands that served as a second home
to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. A country witness to the rise and fall
of fabulous pre-Hispanic, virgin sacrificing, mother Earth worshipping
civilisations etc yawn.
And the home of the world's highest capital and biggest misnomer. La Paz is
anything but peaceful. Stepping from my hostel I found myself verbally accosted
by a woman half falling out of a minibus and babbling in tongues. After this
had occurred twelve times in as many seconds I realised I was witness not to the
local window-lickers outing but the public transport system. Nose to tail
micros clog the steep streets, manned by rent-a-crones sporting enough gold
dentistry to put Flava Flav to shame and spitting destinations fast enough to
make the wickidest gangsta rapper look like a tired old cruise ship crooner.
The only thing that stops the traffic is the daily demonstration ("What do
we want?", "Better roads/health/pensions/rights for llamas/delete as
appropriate", "When do we want it?", "NOW").
Take My Breath Away
In a country where it's possible to go from snow covered peaks to the steaming
jungle of the Amazon Basin in a day (I'm telling you now) trekking at 5000
meters offers a unique opportunity to get in touch with your inner child. Not
the one that wonders wide-eyed at the joys of nature but the one that shits
itself, projectile vomits and wakes up wanting it's mummy five times a night.
Altitude sickness does not, as I had romantically imagined, involve lying wanly
sipping brandy on a bed of llama skins but rather an unwelcome flash forward to
wheezing old age while a techno rave pulses in your head and your stomach
helpfully decides you'll travel lighter without this morning's breakfast. When
I got my head from between my knees however, the view was incredible.
Next: A long held dream made real. The Lost City Of Thousand Tourists calls.
I made up the bit about shitting myself by the way. Or did I...?
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Don't Cry For Me
"Las Malvinas are Argentinian" proclaims a sign at the border
crossing. They certainly should be, but it does prove you can't always beat the
English by pulling a fast one, doesn't it. I prepared for hostilities as I
opened my passport but the officials were far more preoccupied (they always are)
with giving the large group (it always is) of Israelis a hard time. In fact,
despite the recent anniversary of the start of the war, the only people to take
the matter up with me have been a couple of Uruguayan pensioners wishing to
pass the time whilst waiting for the bus. More pertinent for many Argentinians
is the ongoing struggle for acknowledgement of atrocities committed by their
own government during seven years of dictatorship. Posters calling for the
re-appearance of long-vanished individuals and demands to know the fate of
30,000 (certainly dead) desaparacidos are not uncommon. Maggie would
have done it too if she could've got away with it.
Ice Cubed
With the social commentary out of the way, back to all the fun of the fair in a
land where folk scoff steaks bigger that their own heads and insist on
addressing you in the plural form (sadly, replying with the royal 'we' is not
done). If New Zealand is a continent shrunk in the wash, Patagonia is a bicycle
tyre that has ignored the warnings and blown itself up using the high pressure
line at the car wash. Everything, including the empty space between, is enormous!
Arriving at the Perito Moreno glacier you are hit by a wall of cold air as if
God had left the freezer open. On sighting it, you realise that the old fool
has let the ice box get out of control again too. 250 sq km out of control. The
sound of gawping silence is broken only by the lickety split of gigantic
pillars crashing off the 60m high face as glacier is forced to finally concede
that gravity's dad is harder.
I Don't Get My Kicks
Want to appear ten years younger? Take gale force winds, allow to pick up speed
unimpeded over 787,000 sq km of nothingess, mix well with unsealed gravel
roads and apply liberally to exposed skin. The Patagonia Peeling, all the stars
swear by it. NB; no claims for loss of sight will be accepted.
Patagonia tests the soul. The emptiness in yours yawns in direct proportion to
the vacant landscape. Tourists cling to the mountains and coast like awkward
teenagers skirting the edges of an empty dance floor, afraid to be the first to
venture out. I'm ashamed to say I ran away from its' bleakness, the very thing
that makes it what it is. Having worn myself two inches shorter from walking,
and before the 45ยบ bend in my back became permanent, the only way was up, via
the spine-spindling Route 40 which spans the entire nation from north to south.
Covering approx half an inch on the map, we jolted for two days through a
varied landscape of pampas desert, pampas desert and pampas desert where the
vista (interrupted only by the odd seething metropolis of three shacks and a
sheep) mirrors the lumpy sky above and you become intimately acquainted with the
odours of your fellow travellers. Ah but she is "a hard mistress"
indeed. She torments you and drives you away but no sooner are you comfortably
ensconced with your fine wines and your fluffy pillows then you're already
thinking of begging her to take you back...
Next time; some mountains. For a change.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Chile-ing Out
After haring round NZ like a rabbit out of a trap it was time for a bit of
R&R. Rest and Re-tox that is. After a week getting Pisco Soured in Santiago
(a much nicer city than it ever gets credit for and brown is the new
black after all), re-acquainting myself with the extensive vegetarian options of
the Iberian diet ("I can't eat that do you have anything else?"
"This?" "Sorry not that either. No, nor that. Or that"
"This then?" "Isn´t that what you offered me the first
time?") I was once again ready to take on the beautiful nature.
Conehead
Another day another volcano, this time a relaxing, full day stroll up the
vertical, snowy slopes of Mt Villarica. If the altitude gain of over a thousand
meters and the stunning views don't take your breath away, the acrid fumes
belching from the summit like B&H from a betting shop window will. During
our all too brief break I inhaled the equivalent of my duty free allowance and
pondered life's eternal questions (why is there always some bint who's hire
gear fits and looks great while I get the oven mitts and pants from Help The
Aged Clown?). Then we were initiated into the sport of Esliding (that's
'sliding' to those of you unfamiliar with the niceties of Spanish
pronunciation) for the fast track home. This is basically tobogganing with your
arse and a plastic bag at 1000 feet. We've all done it, none of us were sharp
enough to think of convincing tourists to pay for it.
The End Of The World Is Nigh
Or it will be after another 18 hours of straight-to-video and scurvy. By which
time your arse will have passed peacefully into the next life with it's family
around it. Patagonia, where men are men and so are a fair percentage of the
women. Where brutal winds whip through the Plaza De Armas (one in every tinpot
town, like the horse), waiting round corners like a gang of tooled-up teenagers
to relieve you of your reason, cash and any important documents not stapled to
your person. Where the street dogs wear a permanent grin more often seen on
their car-borne cousins. Where the magnificent, corkscrew columns and vertical
granite pillars of Torres Del Paine national park reflect in duck-egg blue
glacial lakes. Where even the most annoying been-there-done-that's have had
their jaws wired open. A land of brooding, untamed beauty (and that's just the
chaps who staff the refuges) where you can watch condors floating over glaciers
and lamas lunching on a peaceful Patagonian plain then sleep so soundly that
even the brick lobbed through the next window by disaffected yout' will fail to
wake you. Patagonia where Nature
Right, I'm popping next door now to have a word about some islands and a certain
football match. The hand of God beckons...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Fiord Fiesta
Well it rocked my little world and I should know Lord, I've followed a few. The
only way to describe the beauty of the Milford track and Sound would be to
employ various hackneyed adjectives an a good few expletives. So I won't try. A
mixture of temperate rain forest, glacial alpine slopes and turquoise waters, the
walk terminates after three days at the Sound itself. It could be the
combination of slog and blood loss to winged irritants (sand flies) but the
experience of viewing the improbably angled walls of the Sound for the first
time is enough to have you down the nearest gospel church. "Praise the
Laaaahd. Ah believe!!". After drinking in so much beauty you're ready to
take the floor at an A.A meeting. The walk is obviously not without it's
dangers. Mainly to your lunch from the keen-eyed keas (alpine parrots not black
dogs). There is definitely no sight more incongruous than a large green bird
trying to have your sarnies away against a backdrop of snowfields. Pining for
the fiords no doubt.
Ice Ice Baby
After that I headed back up north to see the glaciers. One nobly named after
some Austrian emperor, the other after a sweet popular among O.A.Ps. The Fox
Glacier is an impressively sized if rather unexpectedly dirty river of ice,
peopled by chains of shivering human ants yomping cautiously up and down the
face. I suppose your face might look a bit grubby too if two hundred plus
people a day wiped their boots on it.
Twitching The Night Away
Spare a thought for NZ's native bird life. Milena of peaceful, mammalian
predator-free existence allowing evolution to get really carried away, all
suddenly shattered. They're pretty good these days at conserving what's left
here (if only because, like the Aussies, they've fucked it right up in the
first place) but for once it's not all the white man's fault. The Maori got the
ball rolling with the introduction of rats, dogs and overeating (picture giant
moa morphing into a roast dinner before their hungry eyes). Then we took over
and showed them how it's really done. It has to be said that the birds aren't
doing themselves any favours either though. After laying an egg a third her own
weight, endangered ma kiwi turns it over to dad who sits on it for a ridiculous
length of time. By the time hatching occurs both parents are understandably
naffed off with their offspring and turf straight it out at which point the
stoats (chavs of the animal world who will happily impregnate their own young
for the chance of a free council house) eat it.
Shooting yourself in the foot wasn't just for the birds either. The Maori were
so warlike that all the colonists had to do was introduce them to guns, light
fuse and retire to a safe distance as they started on each other. One chief,
returning laden with gifts after a visit to the King of England, stopped off en
route to exchange bling for bullets, arriving home in the mood to strut and
wasted no time in popping some caps in some asses.
Well now it's time to bid farewell to our linguistically challenged cousins. A
delightful land where bus drivers sport white knee socks and have failed to
realise they're not compering the Saga charity gala dinner. Tomorrow I fly
forward into my own past, arriving in Chile two hours before I leave NZ and
experiencing Friday afternoon twice. It's enough to make your head expl
Thursday, February 08, 2007
One Ring To Rule Them....
The outdoors truly are great in New Zealand. This is a good thing for the towns
boast all the sophistication of a row of Bournemouth beach huts circa 1976,
notable exceptions so far being the Ben Sherman-shirted hell that is
Christchurch and the stately Scottish grandeur of Dunedin. That certain hamlets
in the north are famous for their welly boots and carrots should tell you we
ain't in Kansas anymore Dorothy.
But stuff that, that's not why any of us came. My quest began with a visit to
the aptly named Hell's Gate in the pastures of The Shire. Hell's Arsehole might
be a better name for this delightful collection of foully flatulent flats, home
to the world's only mud volcano (I go to all the top spots so you don't have
to). After hanging out with some dodgy geysers I saddled up my hobbit and made
for Weather Top pausing only to haul my fiery ring up the slopes of Mt Doom
(aka Tongariro). Anyone for a stroll amongst active volcanoes, emerald coloured
lakes and gently farting lunar landscape? Oh yes.
P, P, P, Pick Up A Large
Flightless Seabird
For such a small country NZ is a great place to add to the list of 'cool
creatures I have seen'. Several types of dolphin, for instance. No-one ever
tells you this, but swimming with them is one of the most terrifying
experiences ever. Think floundering in murky water wearing an extra strength
(like those ones Mike has to have to stop him... you know)full-body condom and
waiting for a huge fish to hurl itself at you out of the indistinct darkness.
Sadly Flipper and friends were more interested in showing off at the back of
the boat and declined to communicate spiritually with us. I bought a few cans
of dolphin unfriendly tuna after. That'll teach the capricious little fuckers.
The world's largest carnivore, the Sperm Whale can also be seen daily off the
east coast. They are truly awesome (in the biblical not the annoying surfer boy
sense of the word). An even better sight, however, is the controlled riot that
occurs when one is sighted and sixty passengers attempt to politely elbow each
other into the sea in the rush to photograph 15% of the bobbing blubber before
it dives down to scoff its own body weight in ancient mariners and oil drums.
Dry land offers penguins and the world's largest bird, the albatross. These
humvees of the sky weigh in with a massive three meter wingspan .In the words
of David Attenborough; 'Albatross rock!'. Ok he didn't say that but he could
have made a much shorter film if he had. I've picked up so much new knowledge
that I feel must share it. I'll start with the best for your edification; Sea
lions are gay. Not gay as in a bit effeminate but gay as in the big 'bears'
like to surround themselves with a posse of young 'rent boys' and get jiggy
with it while there are no laydeez around. They also sport tight leather shorts
and migrate to Sydney every February.
Right that's enough pink power for one day. The 'world's best walk' awaits
tomorrow. The Kiwis call hiking 'tramping' so I'm of to get kitted out with a
couple of Scottish punks, A crate of Stella and a park bench. Roads? Where
we're going we don't need...roads.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
You'll Never Leave
Australia is a land of choices. Take your pick from the following; Land Death,
Sea Death or Sky Death. Living here is somewhat like owning an exotic and very
dangerous pet. It looks pretty but at any given moment it could have your hand
off. Like mothers overprotecting their A.D.D. angel the Aussies get all huffy
when you start what they consider to be scaremongering by asking questions
like; 'so how many people have actually died here this year?', but
there's no getting away from it. Even in the safe (and shabby) environs of
Bondi you could end up looking like a walking sultana, ankles under constant
threat of crushing by legions of yummy mummies and rad dads learner driving 4WD
strollers. So here is the What-A-Way-To-Go Top Eight Chart Rundown;
1. The world's ten (not ten of the) deadliest snakes including the Tiapan,
Death Adder (prefix says it all) and the helpfully coloured Brown Snake.
2. The Salty Croc- named for it's endearing habit of popping to the beach for a
quick bite. Something which is on the increase due to destruction of their
river habitat.
3. The Cassowary- the Begbie of the bush. The world's only helmeted bird nuts
it's way through the bush and eats... plums.
4. Several nasty tempered arachnids including the Sydney lawn dwelling
Funnelweb.
5. The Great White and friends- needs no introduction, we've all seen Jaws.
Capable of sensing a drop of human blood or sweat from miles away.
6. The Box Jellyfish- a virtually transparent, floating, fiery cat o nine
tails. Eats...plankton.
7. The Gimpy- doesn't actually kill you but this innocent green leaved plant
will gift you pain equivalent to a cigarette burn a thousand fold every time
you get a bit adrenaline going for up to nine months.
8. A shell-dwelling chav of a crab which has you as soon as you threaten to
relocate it's abode.
Nobody knows why so many of Australia's creatures have evolved to be so
unnecessarily deadly. Perhaps growing up in a climate as hostile as this has
left the natives in a permanent teenage moody. On the other side of the coin it
boasts by far the cutest and most ridiculous creatures including living spacehoppers
and an animal mistakenly thought of a bears but which are, in fact, grumpy old
men asleep in trees. Only seen awake on pension day in the bookies.
Had the early settlers had a choice, I wonder whether they would have
persevered. But the opportunity to royally fuck up this playground was too
great so persevere they did. Hence their overwhelming confidence. If you can
survive this lot you have nothing to fear from a bunch of butter-fingered poms.
Right, now I'm off to get fitted up with a black steed and cloak. It's Hobbit
season!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Jungle Boogie
Never been much of a beach girl (too white, too impatient). But a beach where
dipping a pinky in the water can result in hospitalisation if not loss of the
entire pinky and a fair bit more besides, Now That's What I Call Music.
So I headed up to the Daintree in tropical North Queensland 'where the
rainforest meets the reef' creating an uninterrupted Zone Of Potential Death.
The world's oldest rainforest dates from when there was one super continent
(called, apparently, 'Gonwandaland' proving that all scientists share a common
ancestor with Dungeons and Dragons gamers. Peopled by Orcs too no doubt). The
forest is home to some unique and endangered species including the Cassowary
(an endangered relative of the emu sporting the novel feature of a razor sharp
claw for chibbing unwary tourists) and is, of course, under threat. The state
government is currently engaged in a scheme to persuade local landowners who
have begun clear cutting and development to resell to the park. One can only
hope the persuasion is of the variety that involves heads and toilets and an
edgy cassowary sitting in the corner.
Foxy Lady
I passed a relaxing few days looking out for crocs, bobbing my pants at the
sound of fist sized jungle fowl, charging about in the dark looking for snakes
with Botany's answer to Indiana Jones (fact; by weight there are more termites
in the world than people. Thank God only we know this!) and hanging about (ooh,
my wife, my wife) with Sunshine the fruit bat (likes; apples, flapping, pooing
seeds. Dislikes; barbed wire, farmers) at the rehab centre. I was hoping she'd
score me some crack. She was holding out for a council house. I also got
talking to the resident ecologist, who is (seemingly singlehandedly) replanting
the forest, about mankind's impending doom. Key factors being population growth
and air travel. I told him not to worry. We've got all the bases covered
between us.
The Underwater World Of Inspector Clouseau
Then it was off back to fantastically tacky Cairns (the only seaside town to
opt for a mudflat instead of a beach ensuring that the only birds you can watch
preening are the pelicans bedding in for the night) and a spot of diving on the
reef. My submarine grace left a little to be desired but it was all worth it to
see the oceanographic equivalent of kittens in a basket; clownfish nestling in
coral polyps. Bless their little orange and white fins.
I'll leave you with this heartwarming fact; every year crocs eat more Germans
here than any other nationality. Answers on a postcard. New slogan for the
tourist board; 'North Queensland, menacing tourists since 48000 BC'.
Love, Flipper.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
A Town Like Alice
A little knowledge is often a dangerous thing, George Bush, Sun readers for
example, and if your most recognisable cultural icons include Steve Irwin and
Crocodile Dundee then the unwary traveller is bound to be occasionally
disappointed. Having soaked up Sydney sophistication (more later) I felt it was high time I
got into a bit of bush (insert joke here) so I added my contribution to
Australias' other well known feature, the ozone hole, and jetted up to Alice
Springs. Being neither 'young' nor 'enthusiastic' I eschewed the delights of dining
amongst the similarly described residents of my hostel and headed into town.
Frankly I was disappointed. Where are the one horses, the dirt roads, the
casual violence and rednecks crashing through windows onto (pedestrianised!)
streets? Perhaps the outback would deliver....
Journey To The Center Of The Earth
The Aussies. You've gotta love 'em they call a spade a spade. No trades
descriptions infringements in the Red Centre. It's both those things. Miles and
miles and miles of it. As far as the eye can squint. Unchanging for hours. And
hours. And hours. Just the occasional etch-a-sketch road connecting nowhere to
nowhere. Dry as a camels mudflaps but harbouring a surprising amount of tough,
scrubby life. After many years of struggle the world's hardest people (show me
a yakuza running around naked spearing 'roos), the Aborigines have finally
begun to recognise the white man's right to practise his ancient art of bagging
the modern day equivalent of the trophy head (photos) and no longer practise
their pesky centuries old rituals at Uluru (the rock) and other sacred sights.
Sadly the Aborigonies are rapidly losing their traditions in the face of
growing indifference from the yout dem ('oh dad not ritual scaring again').
After all what would you do? Hike for three weeks in the buff to dig up some
whichety grubs or pop down to Maccy D's in the yute? So the world's oldest and
only continuous oral culture will soon have to be written down or lost forever.
Notch up another success for western cultural imperialism.
A Rock And A Hard Place
It's red and it's pretty geologically unique and impressive and I'm not
going to say it's overrated (it is very big and, as we all know, size matters)
but.... The Olgas! Five minutes down the road, just as impressive, a quarter
the people, more of them for your money (quantity counts too) and you can walk
round them without recreating the egg-on-a-hot-pavement effect with your head.
Into this lush prehistoric landscape we descended, feeling like Indiana Jones
and keeping an eye out for any stray Pterodactyls. Two hours later, feeling
more like Paula Radcliffe, we were spat out and went in search of the travellers
other favourite sight. A cold tinny.
A new slogan for the Northern Territories Tourist Board I think. "The
Outback, it's a good place to remind yourself how insignificant you are".
Next; Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Here I Go Again On My Own
Take a hundredweight of rigid social conventions stewed in a thick broth of
honour and isolation over several thousand years. Add two litres of U.S culture
and a heaped tablespoon of rapid industrialisation. Stir well and simmer for
half a century. Result; Japan. Aisa Lite. High in fun, reliability and work
ethics. Low in danger, poverty and personal space.
So the sun sets for the last time on the land of the rising sun leaving so many
questions unanswered. Such as;
Why is it polite to slurp your noodles but not to blow your nose?
Since when has velvet hot pants and silver knee socks been acceptable attire for
the 8.30am bus to the office?
Who thought it would be a good idea not to bother with street names?
Why do all manga characters have such big eyes?
And unfeasible tits?
Why can't you just say 'no' if that's what you mean?
Would one ever cease to be 'Outside People' (gaijin)?
Will more strangers come?
Why is every sentence backward giving the constant impression that you are
talking to Yoda?
Kiki~o this is goodbye saying time being for. Blog checking please be doing as
down under a few shrimp on barbie to throw go I. xx
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Mind The Gap
Japan is frequently (and clichedly) described as 'a land of contrasts'. And
some. Edo era kimonos jostle with hot pants on the Yamanote line, the serenity
and beauty of a zen garden is overlooked by deafening video billboards and a
nation obsessed with consideration for others eats up game shows whose central
premise appears to be the utter humiliation of the hapless contestants.
Burger Flipping As A Spectator Sport
During the short period in which it is possible to sustain interest in t.v you
can't understand I managed to discern one fact central, I believe, to
understanding the national psyche; the Japanese are mad as hatters. My first
televisual treat featured a businessman being pursued at speed down a long
corridor by a large polystyrene boulder. 'Indiana Jones and the Last Train
Home' perhaps? The next foray was no less rewarding and involved what appeared
to be a cooking competition for children in which everything hinged on the
young contestants ability to flip various food stuffs. Charmingly, the host and
camera would home in not on the winners but the distraught faces of the less
than successful and their ruined offerings. Perhaps less a game show than
preparation for the harsh realities of life in a culture in which coming second
best used to mean a hot date with a sharp blade. I didn't watch long enough to find out if this was the consolation
prize.
Pachinko
Descending the seven levels of hell the soul passes through various torments
(Groundhog Day at 6.45am in Shinjuku station, an orientation session for all
eternity) the utterly wretched (kiddie fiddlers, dog kickers and bag snatchers)
coming to rest in the Pachinko hall. Condemmed to spend all eternity stuffing
handfuls of ball bearings into a vertical pinball game requiring no
discernible skill to the accompaniment of manga visuals and a noise comparable
to the bombing of Dresden until at last they win a giant teddy bear and
exchange it with Satan for money in an attempt to get round Japanese gambling
laws. To describe the Pachinko hall as an assault on the senses would be like
describing a yakuza heavy as 'a weedy little nance'. I stood three minutes
before I was forced back onto the zen like tranquility of the rush hour
streets.
The Maid Cafe
Ah Akihabara. Home to cut price electicals, pornographic clip~together manga
dolls (for the discerning hobbyist) 'A Boys' and the place they all go when
drooling over a scantily clad, wide eyed cartoon just ain't enough; the Maid
Cafe. In this haven for the socially skilless young girls with poker faces
dressed in frilly skirts and cats ears ineptly serve overpriced fare while
another of their underage number writhes on video (in a disturbingly childish
fashion) on a bed or coyly takes bites out of a potato.
Little Pigs, little pigs
Japan is a hotbed (sorry) of volcanic activity. Dig deep enough and scalding,
stinky water comes bubbling up and into the giant bathtubs of it's many spas.
The Onsen experience is a nightmare of potential social gaffes for the
uninitiated. DO check first which doorway hieroglyphic indicates your single sex
hot tub. DO shower before getting in. DON'T be embarrassed about having
to do this on a pygmy sized stool in front of total strangers or your mates. DO
add some cold to avoid striping your skin off and, whatever you do, DON'T sip
too much Suntory (for relaxing times) in the bath and give yourself a funny turn.
That's it for the culture rundown. Sadly, having had no 'love', I am
unqualified to comment on the delights of the ubiquitous Love Hotels (varying
prices for 'stay' or 'rest') and capsule hotels (though the Leopalace might
count at a push). I have failed you in my quest for enlightenment and must now
horizontally extend my navel with a sushi knife for SHAAAAAAAAME!
Tune in for next week's instalment from beyond the grave.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Those Boots Weren`t Made For Walkin`
Image is everything in Japan so style matters. A unkempt Japanese is
like an honest U.S president. A rare sight indeed. A recent straw poll in the
classroom revealed that your average young Japanese would no more be seen as
unfashionable or scruffy that they would a Kim Jong Ill sympathiser. Our survey
said `It`s important to be fashionable` only one out of forty students said
`yes but having a personality is more important`.
And what fashion it is. The `fashionistas` (does that word make you want to
murder people too?) of downtown Tokyo gobble up yer Pradas, Guccis and Ralphs
like hot sake. The most romantic present a boy can give is a Louis Vuiton bag
apparently. There`s also plenty of room for the `completely out there` though,
such as the kids that hang out by Harajuku station on weekends dressed as
robots, French maids, goths and all manner of vaguely disturbing outfits that
defy explanation.
For a nation so conservative by nature your average Japanese young lady about
Shibuya displays none of the usual coyness dresswise. Those too old to compete
for the 'Indecent Shortness of Underage Skirt' award (schoolgirls really do go
about like Gogo Yubari by the way) do a passable impression of naive upmarket
hookers. To get an picture of the `look` imagine a head on collision between
your granny's wardrobe and that of a gangsta rappers moll. Missy Elliot meets
Maggie Thatcher. And offs her scrawny ass. There follows a transcript of from
the Shinjuku Finishing School For Young Ladies;
"0600 hours kit inspection. All present and correct?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Is your hair bleached an unnatural ginger shade?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Do you have a bizarrely patterned jersey/blouse that would not look out
of place in a nursing home or on an old rerun of Dynasty?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Have you teamed said jersey/blouse with a cropped fluffy or other jacket
and over sized costume jewelry achieving a surprisingly stylish effect from
items that should really never be seen together?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Are your boots knee high, spike heeled and worn over sparkly stockings
for a disturbingly cute whilst sexual effect?"
Sir yes sir"
"Are the velvet hotpants/denim miniskirt so short as to threaten a display
of wares?"
"Sir yes sir"
"Very good maggots. Now go....Wait a minute what's this? Private do I see
a pair of jeans before me?"
"Sir I was cold sir. Sir it's the middle of December sir"
"GODDAMMIT PRIVATE ARE YOU IN THIS ARMY TO DISPLAY INDEPENDENT
THOUGHT?"
"Sir no sir"
"Private get changed immediately and report for toilet cleaning duty"
"Sir yes sir"
"I can't hear you private"
"SIR YES SIR"
Next time; French Maids, gambling and 'four in a bath' shocker. No word of a
lie.
Monday, November 27, 2006
The Invisible Woman
Along with your visa, something you are provided with as a foreign female arriving
at Narita airport is a cloak of invisibility (I did ask if I could swap for a
bullet proof one but they were out). It is regulation to wear this cloak at all
times in order to guard oneself against the possibility of foreign
intervention. After years of ''Hi wha's your name where you from whasa matter
why you don' wanna talk to me?'' anonymity is a breath of fresh air (I'm told
it remains so for about six months after which you start to wonder if what your
mother told you about not making faces in a changing wind was true).
Obviously, as with anything gender related, double standards exist. A mutation
occurs on the journey over, the plane acting as chrysalis to it`s male cargo so
that on arrival former mutants with questionable ethics emerge to find
themselves Charles Atlas in a land where living with your mum in Rotherham at
the age of 32 does not prejudice your changes of coping off. Blinking in the
new dawn of their existence they proceed to exercise their new found appeal in
the time honoured manner of all rock stars. By turning into arseholes. Haven't
worked out what the attraction is yet. Perhaps the Japanese girls think those
nice G.Is have come back with that Green Card. The boys are back in town ladies
and they have some candy for you.
On our first foray into the wilds of Shibuya (which engendered some interesting
'pub or knocking shop' dilemmas) we met an some elderly Japanese businessmen who
were courteous to a fault and not at all overbearing in the way that many can
be to unaccompanied females. The only slightly suspect enquiry was 'are you
Russian'. This being slang it seems for 'are you a prostitute'. Those Russian
girls, they'll do owt for a couple of potatoes and some vodka.
Tokyo is a very safe place to be both in general and as a lady. Leave your
wallet on the cafe table and you will most likely return to find it still there
with contents intact. The streets are safe to walk at night. In fact there is
only one type of theft prevalent enough for our captors, sorry employers to warn
us about. It seems unattended laundry of the female persuasion walks the `G`
(yes I mean you Gareth) string of risk. Well, those vending machines have got
to be refilled from somewhere.
Until next time. Get your mits off my pants Mr Kobiashi.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Ain't Getting On No train Fool
The Tokyo underground and overground (wombling free though any womble round
here'd swiftly find itself gutted and its nostrils served to the gaigin) is
legendary and I'm here to tell you it's all true. There really is a little grey
suited man sporting white gloves whose job it is to greet you with a hearty
'Ohayo gozaimas' and gently 'aid' those alighting particularly crowded trains.
Another dapper fellow has the job of leaning out of the window to make sure the
doors line up exactly with the lines painted on the platform behind which
commuters wait obediently in lines. It gets pretty damn crowded too. People
spilling out when the doors open. I swear I once saw a lady doing the 'wide
mouthed frog' against the window. Consider that Tokyo not only has both an
underground system larger than the Tube but also an equally sizable overground
network both with trains running three minutes apart ata all but the quietest
times. Now consider that both are rammed for several hours of the day and you
start to get some idea of the scale of it's dedicated workforce. Despite the
logistics of transporting so many people to their destination the system
functions perfectly. Proving once and for all that Richard Branson and Railtrack
are a bunch of shiteing cunts. The only thing to disturb the harmony is when
some poor 'salaryman', faced with a lifetime of this daily soul sapping, opts
for a swift exit in front of the incoming 7.35. This appears to happen on a
daily basis judging from the on-train information screens broadcasting delays
due to 'accidents'.
What makes this crush bearable is the knowledge that some greasy cunt isn't
going to have your bag as soon as your back's turned. The Japanese are
incredibly law abiding (one of Cath's students thought that westerners think an
abandoned bag in the street is a gift to them from God) and it makes a very
welcome change, if being taken to the point of bloody mindedness at times. This
is how we do it, this is how we've always done it and no it can't be changed
even if it makes no sense and no-one can remember why we started doing it this
way in the first place and what are you doing asking questions about it anyway?
They are also unfailingly polite (even through gritted teeth at rush hour). The
theory is that Japanese society has a lot of social codes because so much of
the land is uninhabitable and everyone has to rub a along together in a very
small space and it's better not to kick up a fuss by questioning things. A well
known motto is 'The nail that sticks up gets hammered down'. Indeed.
Gotta go. The office won't run itself you know.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
20 Seconds To Arrive
A timely break this week from the daily bump n grind saw us in Kyoto,
one-time capital of Japan, home to over 2000 temples and the last of the
Geisha. Unable to face catching the overnight leg cramper I splashed the cash
for the Shinkansen bullet train and was there before I'd got out of bed (not
for the first time did I wish I'd invested in some respectable P.J's). An eight
hour journey condensed into three. No excuses about no maple leaves on no line
neither. En route I managed to spot the famous Mt Fuji coyly peeking its head
out from behind some rather picturesque cloud cover.
Zen'd Out
Kyoto made a nice change from the asylum that is Tokyo. We let the meaning
(and the cash) unfold in a series of zen gardens (my that's a nice rock) and
temples which preened like glamour models for the barrage of paparazzi.
Against the background of tinny tannoys and clicking shutters we attempted to
achieve nirvana but the overall effect was more like listening to Courtney
Love. Very pretty though. You can't fail to appreciate the simple organisation
of a Japanese garden though I am left with the nagging feeling that there may
be something wrong with your soul if the your overriding impulse on
contemplating raked sand is to jump in and make snow angels in it.
Girls With Film
It only takes a short while in Japan to realise why the Japanese go camera
mad when they hit Europe. Everything must seem so different. And slow, like how
a fly sees us moving into slow motion (geedaaaaa spooooon). At the plaza near
my station I count four giant t.v screens with the volume turned right up. It's
fortunate that the Japanese themselves are so well mannered and quiet or the
extreme noise terror would be unbearable. It's like a living fun fair every day
(scream if you want to go faster). Unlike a fun fair however the low pikey
count means you can enjoy it without fear of flashing too much bling. You can
see why they feel it's permissible to walk around with a Nikkon that cost half a
South American country's GDP and not have it taken off you.
Livin' Doll
I was also lucky enough to see a few real live Geisha in Kyoto. Glimpsed
through teahouse windows laughing politely at the jokes of suited businessmen,
moving as fast as their restricted little legs could carry them to their next
appointment. The effect of painted faces and glittering robes suddenly
appearing out of the darkness in front of you is quite ghostly. There are
apparently less than 1000 Geisha in the country inhabiting a closed world
somewhere between Japan's present and its past.
That's all folks. Next week; What Not To Wear.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Don't Get Sake With Me Sunshine
In a tightly regimented society it's necessary to have a few pressure
gauges. Reading porn on the metro, getting in the bath butt naked with your
work colleagues, making an arse of yourself with a microphone, and of course my
favourite, getting utterly mortalled. The Japanese love their booze and can often
be seen collapsed over a handy wall of a Friday night. 'Biru' (beer) is the
nation's favourite and comes in big Deutchland style tankards (none of your
wooftie continental canyas for us) with the more traditional sake close behind.
Sake is so beloved of the Japanese that it is given in great quantities as
offerings at temples. Never mind your cash-for-questions get the barrels in for
the baldy lads. There is much debate as to which is better, hot or cold. The
key seems to be, as with all alcohol, the more expensive the better. And don't
overdo it. Take it from me.
Something fishy this way comes
Call me naive but I hadn't realised Japanese cuisine was based quite so
heavily on 'sea chicken'. Veggies in Spain will recognise the frustration of
managing to successfully convey your preference for not snacking on something
that once had a face only to later receive something suspect floating in a
whiffy sauce. Or perfectly kosher and 'dericious' looking but with bits of
shaved gill curling up on top. It should be pointed out that the Japanese are
unfailingly polite and helpful (never will they be heard to moan that slicing a
few tomatoes is 'mucho trabajo') and take a great deal of care over the
preparation of any food (which always looks beautiful) and sushi chefs are
total artists.
There are, of course, times when salad eaters can find themselves grateful.
Such as when the bar snacks contain what can only have been somethings'
nostril. Yum. Limited eating out opportunity is improving my cooking skills. I
made some killer veg sushi which many wasted years rolling spliff have stood me
in good stead for. Fastest fingers in the east me. I have to say I'm not too
down with seaweed. Can't seems to shake the mental image of brown foam bobbing
in Scarborough rock pools.
Something that makes being a faddy eater easier in Japan is the displays of
each restaurant's fare lovingly modelled in plastic and displayed in the outside
window. Just look past the overly shiny exterior and drag the waiter outside to
point at what you want then sit back and enjoy.
Until next time; I'll have the Styrofoam one in the corner please.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
And now a word from our sponsor...
Ha ha come back Steve Norman all is forgiven. We were expecting things to be a
little more rigorous in the workplace but my lordy. 'Eastfence' (see I'm even
scared to badmouth them on a private email) has some strict rules to say the
least. No leaning on the desk whilst teaching. No public eating or smoking,
formal dress at all times. No leaving the campus. And instant dismissal for
bringing the company into disrepute through drunkenmasterness (actually that
clause wasn't in anyone else's contract...) . A far cry from the Head of Kids
Dept falling down the metro stairs onto....some kids after last years Xmas
bash. Initial training was the weirdest thing I've ever sat through (and that
includes that GM where some of the news items was pooey stains on the bathroom
towels and the existence of the new tissue holder in the kitchen.
In a brief Sliding Doors style moment I saw my life as it could have gone. A
bit like the end of Flash Gordon where the two worlds nearly collide, the other
me squinted back from the front seat of her Ford Probe in the car park of the
Wellin Garden City conference centre, looked unfooled by my poor imitation of
somebody professional in my cheap Zara suit, and then was gone.
Management style seems to comprise the most jarring of U.S and Japanese
management style. There we sat feeling like a bunch of badly suited insurance
salesmen as our compere (we'll call him 'Tard') kicked things off gently by
informing us we were being 'watched'. Nice people skills 'Tard. Perhaps you
meant to say 'observed' or 'evaluated' but what the hell, now we're all feeling
relaxed, lets get acquainted.
Big Brother is watching us and I don't mean a load of chavs in a prefab.
Lacking Internet at my campus I have to sign in and out every day with, get
this, GPS SATALITE PHONE. They know where I am!!!! Think on all you Cambridge
whingers trying to sneak in half an hour late to seminars. Wait till Steve
hears about this. Not to mention when I send him the algebra style student
assessment forms. Oh no, hang on I could get sacked for that.
Next time; electronically tagging your workers. And keeping their families
hostage.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Quake Me Up Before You Go Go
The earth moved for me last Saturday morning. At approx 6.30am we were woken up
to our very first earthquake. Fortunately it wasn't 'The Big One', in fact for
a while I wasn't sure if it wasn't just Cath squeezing one out on the floor
above. 5.3 on the Richter scale I'm told. The city wreckers are 7s or 8s. The
tremors were just on the right side of exciting though I did wonder at what
point it might become strong enough for it to stop feeling amusing and start
panicking. The experience raised the interesting point that none of us had a
clue what to do in the event of a major one. Our keepers having neglected to
provide us with any guidance in the face of this (lets face it pretty high)
probability. Shoes by the bed seems to be the key. Oh and dried food. I'll be
reet, I've got loads of seaweed in.
If that wasn't exciting enough we experienced the tail end of a typhoon too. I
could tell this by the old ladies in rocking chairs and small dogs (''Toto'')
flying past me as I was on my way to work. Also by the large number of umbrella
carcases cast aside on the road. It rained for forty hours and forty minutes
the like of which I've never seen even in Manchester. We went to the pub with
plastic bags in our shoes a la Glastonbury 1998. The next day it was too hot to
wear a t-shirt. Kerazy.
We Don't Need No Education
Had my first every go on Karaoke last weekend (cut to scene with the mad
professor in his castle rearing back in horror as lightning splits the sky.
''It lives''). Oh yes. Everyone's reticent at first but a few beers in, there
we were blasting out 'Eye of the Tiger' like pro's. I was careful not to solo
and to stick to mainly rap tunes or backing 'vocals' (tip; never do anything by
The Sugar Hill Gang, they don't take a breath). There surely is no finer sight
than a group of English instructors squeaking "hey teacher, leave those
kids alone". High point of the night was a splendid Walk Like An Egyptian
and an innovative call-and-response style version of Kung Fu Fighting and yes,
everybody was kung fu fighting (in front of a room full of Japanese dinners).
Those cats were certainly fast as lightning to tell us they were closing not
long after. The bill was a little bit frightening too.
Next up: Shrine-ing and Dining.
Livin' in a box (I'm a livin'
in a cardboard box)
I suppose a word about where I'm residing would be appropriate now. My
totally ridiculous address is: LEOPALACE, PRA TERRIER 207, 1-546-2,
Maebaranishi, Funabashi City, Chiba (somebody say cheeeeba, everybody say....),
274-0825, Tokyo. Great eh? Japanese addresses have no street names, only
numbers. Ever the Japanese find it confusing. Fly on the wall at that city
planning meeting would have been interesting, 'I've got a great idea. Let's only
use numbers, no, really, it'll be easy....'.
The 'Palace' as it is referred to by the 22 teachers (it's a bit like living in
a hall of residence) is indeed that. A palace. For terriers. A family of small
foxhounds could live quite nicely in the compact and bijou single room with
bathroomkitchenwardrobestoragespace crammed into one end. The bed is located up
some step ladders on a shelf above all that lot. Bag End eat your heart out. I
wonder now if my avocation of the dog as the most noble of God's creatures has
now come back to haunt me. Perhaps I have in fact died and now live in a
kennel.
Seriously though, I am loving living on my own. Walking around not fully
clothed. Opening the curtains to behold....the next set of Leopalaces under
construction next door. Closing the curtains again. By the way, even Japanese
builders work at the speed of snails who can't be arsed. Perhaps I have hit
early middle age and this is preparation for the time when I can truly no
longer stomach the company of other beings and retire to a life of
spinsterhood. With my terriers.
It has to be said there isn't a lot 'fun' about Funabashi. The local town
centre does a nice line in old lady clothing, some top sushi and a 100 yen
store (the chav in all of has taken the 'pound shop' to our hearts and filled
our spartan homes with poorly manufactured products laden with toxic chemicals
and designed to fall apart in three months) but not much else. It's a grim 90
minute train ride into central Tokyo and the nearest 'cool' fun although we did
find some top quality fun on our own doorstep of which more later. However
since I have landed with the Caths every night is a fun night and we want not
for good company.
Next time; Working for the man. Mr Oodigowa to be precise.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Big in Japan
Apocalypse right here, right now. The word 'hectic' was invented for Tokyo.
Imagine Piccadilly Circus, Times Square or the centre of any major city complete
with traffic jams and nine storey neon. Cut to the same city at peak rush hour
full of swarming worker bees. Then imagine that this is the NOT in fact the
centre but a fairly standard suburb. Where I live. The end of the world is NOT
nigh, it's happening NOW! This is what happens when too many people decide it's
a good idea to live in the same place. And they're knackered. Get on the metro
at any time of day and you'll see 4 to 5 nodding commuters catching up on the 7
and a half hours they deny themselves in order to flay themselves on the altar
of the 'asian tiger economy' (and you can't offer your seat to any little old
ladies either. If it's not done in exactly the right way they have to get off
at the next stop and commit ritual suicide so great is the shame. And then
their Yakuza grandsons come for ya ass). On the return leg of my 90 min commute
(I don't want to talk about it ok) I decided to follow suit receiving many 'big
ups' for my head bobbing style from my fellow commuters.
Gonna Rock Down To Electric Avenue
So devoted to consumer culture is Tokyo that there is an entire zone dedicated
solely to the sale of electrical goods. You name it, it's here. And in
miniature. Advertised, as always, by giant neon. If Tokyo is every forced to cut
its energy consumption the bottom's going to drop out of the neon tube
industry. Think Bladerunner meets Blackpool Pier. Meanwhile, we laugh in the
middle class face of your low energy bulbs. And incinerate the wrapping from
our individually packaged kiwi fruit along with the rest of our 'burnable
waste'. Your puny efforts to save the planet cannot stop us. No small irony
that a global emissions agreement was signed here. Anyway that's enough for now.
Next time: The glory that is Japanese game shows. Simon Cowell, come and have a
go...
