Thai Time

The bus conductor is sweet and dweeby looking. He diligently hands all new passengers a damp towellete, sealed cup of waterand a ration pack of chocolate biscuits. After each stop he pours dainty cups of pepsi watered down with ice and served on a tray with a straw. During one of these pepsi breaks I ask him what time we will arrive in Chantaburi and he says six o'clock. Upon looking at his watch and seeing that mickey's hands point to ten minutes past six he smiles and says seven. I once asked Evie if Thai time was like African time. It seems I have my answer.


But it's okay, it's dusk outside, my favourite time of the day and I'm travelling by myself and not stressed, so I turn to look out the window at the country side sliding by. At that moment we pass a fleet of spirit houses sparkling in the dying sun.


I arrive at the River Guest House in Chanthaburi at about 8. I am pretty sure I have been ripped of by the cab driver and the quaint sounding guest house is a shithole. I feel like Leonardo Di Caprio in The Beach, and keep wondering if someone is going to slip me a map to the promised land and then end it all. But where else am I going to go? So I pay my money, catch up with some people online and then head upstairs to my room which is a blessing purely for the aircon and hot water (which I paid extra for). I take a shower, not sure if I am getting cleaner or dirtier, and afterwards sit down on my bed and look out the window at the view of the bridge, festively lit up, cars crossing back and forth. The bridge and their lights however have lost their charm at 3am when I still can't sleep due to the intermitently loud traffic flying over it. Oh well. Cambodia tomorrow.

But alas, no! The minibus drivers who usually ferry to and from the boarder have decided that the four of us who want to cross are not a good enough reason to go, and so we will have to wait and come back tomorrow - sorry what? Another day and night in Chanthaburi, and this overweight white girl with giant red curly hair is now target number one for all tourist scams. Suddenly all my romantic notions of the intrepid traveller are in tattters and all I want is my own bed. I head back to the River Guest House, pop down my backpack and regroup. Comisserations are offered to me by two Swiss men, the one of whom has several long hairs sprouting out of his nose and curling into his mouth which makes it difficult for me to concentrate when he explains alternative border crossing options, however they all require a half days travel and I decide to stay put until tomorrow.

And so I go for a walk in Chanthaburi - it seems the city is a centre for gem trading and every shop twinkles at me with beautifully cut jewels. Ah if only I could go home with a pocketful of rubies, but I am just looking for something that vaguely resembles western food as my tummy is not too happy with me. On my mission I stumble upon a little Thai massage parlour. Foot massage 150 baht. I look down at my poor feet - burnt in a reverse sock tan from my time on the kayak, swollen from all the hours of bussing, one still showing signs of the London cankle - not happy! They deserve this. And so I enter and the experience is much as Evie said it would be - my masseuse chats to her friends, and for the first half of my 90 minute massage watches and sings along with the strange combination of hindi music videos on tv with Thai subtitles. They are all shot in London, all in the 80s - there it it, my home, as seen through the eyes of two different cultures. Someone changes the channel and it's King Kong and it't not been dubbed! English! Not only that but now my masseuse and I share word - King Kong. And so every now and again she looks at me, smiles and says King Kong, and I say King Kong, and we smile and she continues, and my feet are glad for the massage, and I am glad for Adrian Broody and Jack Black and Naomi Watts.

Later I am back in my room and listening to my music and for the first time in years I am just listening, and doing nothing else. As I press the head phones into my skull I really hear the music, and I search for things in the audio I have never heard before and I find them, and I am glad I am stuck in Chantaburi, glad for this strange day in limbo.

When was the last time you said 'I was there'?

Evie and I advertising for buckets :)

Koh Phangan obliterated all of my Koh Samui rejuvination and most of my holiday budget in 3 days of what can only be described as 'end of the world' party madness.

We had secured accommodation in Chaloklum, a sleepy part of the island on the opposite side to Haad Rin. This, in fact, was a blessing because if I hadn't escaped the debauchery for a few hours every day I may well have died. It's a pity that we didnt get to spend more time exploring and soaking in the pristine beaches, and everything else the island had to offer, but it was not to be.

To explain, while it was not full moon, every New Year Koh Phangan hosts a 'full moon' party anyway - this is Haad Rin at its most crazy! 30 000 people gather on the beach to see the clock hit 00:00. Shit seems to start up on the 30th (well that's when we started) and carry on right the way through to the 2nd.

There are a few vital bits of information you need to understand what goes down here:

Uniform: LUMO
It's pretty much your average 80s aerobics class. Lumo is lekker, flourescent is fly, just imagine you made sexy time with highlighters. There is loads on sale, along with UV beads, glow sticks and war paint. The more lumo the better - helps you find your tribe.
Weapon of Mass Destruction: Buckets
Remember those bucket and spade sets from when you were little? Remember the sandcastles, and collecting shells, and filling the moat with water? Well forget all that because these little buckets will fuck you up! On average a bucket contains a half bottle of vodka/whiskey/rum, one can of sprite/coke/fanta, and one potent little bottle of Red Bull (apparently laced with amphetamines and illegal just about everywhere else in the world). Add a scoop of ice and voila, who needs drugs?
Mission: Survival
Yip, pretty much making it til sun up, and if you still have all members of your tribe accounted for when stumbling onto the Song Tao (read bakkie with open canopy) then bonus points.

Round 1
And so we set off on the thirtieth fresh as daisies, and just on a mission to get the lay, and then get an early night ahead of the celebrations - PAH!

At this stage i should tell you that our crew had doubled - Evie and I had been joined by Phia and Chantal, hardened veterans of the Thai party circuit but still Full Moon virgins. Chantal's island cred was doubled by her ownership of a 'koh phangan tattoo' - a large roastie/scab garnered from a motorbike accident. And Phia lumo-ed up from the get go in a fabulous orange dress. And se we were off, sharing a taxi with four more Chaloklum residents - 3 mad Canadians (ey) and a Croatian.

Arriving at the beach things were already falling apart - we defintely had that feeling of arriving late to the party. Shroom shake victims couldn't feel their faces, drunk boys had lost their shoes, and everywhere inebriated people were (literally) playing with fire. And so we bucketed up and entered the fray. The evening flew by in a blur of lumo tattoos, foam, Italians, Aussies, and inappropriate behaviour...It was seven in the morning, the sun was rising and we were climbing into a songthaew with three other South Africans (seven of us in total) and a semi stalker who looked a helluva lot like John Lennon. And there we were, hands clasped against our hearts, singing the national anthem into the phangan wind as we wound our way home.

Round 2
No one felt very smart the next morning, and this was not aided by mine and Evie's choice of breakfast, Macaroni Cheese like you have never witnessed before - 30cm long noodles in a watery tomato sauce with a sprinkling of cheese and an unidentifiable meat - Never Again!

But we had sucked it up by 7 and were headed back for more. We met up with our beloved Aussies, Meddie and Louise, at Mellow Mountain where they had certainly taken a turn for the mellow (and paranoid) but were soon cheered by our vivid presence. We were lumo to the max! And Chantal and Phia were like seeing double in a pink/orange vest and tutu combo. They were soon dubbed the Kardashians, despite the fact that the could not keep up, and we kept losing them.

The Kardashians with Meddie

A blur of buckets and beats led us up to the anticipation of the count down, and as we ended 2010 and entered 2011, our sacred sixsome was so in love with each other, we swore to be back together a year later. The beach then unleashed upon us their fire power and Evie was heard exclaiming "I'm in a dome of fire". We danced and jumped and jammed, and made new 'friends' and lost them again, and ended up bumping and grinding with our Canadian/Croatian crew until morning again. Meddie and Louise left us with tears and promises to reunite, and we lost a Kardashian to the night, so Phia, Evie and I made our way back home. Chantal returned home at lunch time with tales of drowning (she says in the sea, I maintain in a bucket) and we all vowed to never drink again.

Round 3

But come 9pm on the first and we were all ready for one last hurrah. we hooked up with the Canadian/Croatian connection and went to dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant in Haad Rin, where if it is possible the staff were more addled than we were. The post mortem of the previous evening unveiled suprises and gales of laughter, and before you knew it we were drinking again. We headed down to the beach, which looked like a refugee camp for some sort of natural disaster - so many lost souls, a lot of whom were newly tattooed (yikes). A little more dancing, and watching all the party victims and it was four in the morning on the second and time to put us poor kids to bed.

And so was the tale of Koh Phangan. It has taken me 9 days to get that much straight, but I am sure there will always be parts missing - probably washing up on the beach in Haad Rin with hundreds of unclaimed flip flops...

Again, more pics to be added when I can upload them

Aussies in Ang Thong

Picture of the sea taken by Meddie on our way back to Koh Samui, will add more pictures to this post when I can download them off my camera

Our Secret Garden was so beautiful, our beach so restful and secluded, that it was hard to work up the energy to leave it, but we (and by we I mean Lei our wonderful travel agent) booked a day trip to the Angthon National Marine Park. This cluster of 42 islands is about 90 minutes and a world away from Koh Samui, and just about one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

We took an early boat with our tour operator, which was staffed by a host of real characters who handed out breakfast and sea sickness tablets. Evie did not take this as a good sign and so she took her pill and we headed for the upper deck. Thanks to my Dad I was brought up on boats and so am pretty much immune to sea sickness and have me some good, strong sea legs, and so while others lurched and groaned, I dangled my feet over the side and smiled into the sea breeze.

On the upper deck we found ourselves sharing a sun mattress with a pair of Aussies. Now we had already been made aware that the world was ridiculously small - the night before we had met some Northern English lads and discovered one lived around the corner from me in Earlsfield, and the other had recently visited SA to see family in Amanzimtoti (Evie's home town) - but nothing had prepared us for this. Our mattress mates were good naturedly mocking our accents while telling us typical things said by their token SA work mate, Bryce. They were recounting some ridiculous Bryce-isms when I said 'Hang on, Bryce McNamara?' and the said 'YES!' Ah! I know about one person in the whole of Oz and the know him too! And so it is that the universe ordained tht we should meet these insane Aussie beetches and so it was. So I introduce to Maddie and Louise, our island sistas sent to make everything doubly as funny, ridiculous and inappropriate. Maddie (or Meddie) can only be described as the love child of Madonna (Medonna) and DeeDee from Dexter's lab. The godesses blessed her with the most brilliant sense of humour, but to pay for this she was not granted a social filter, and therefore 3 hours with Meddie can be a little like reading a rather intimate medical history or love letter. She had us sharing horror stories in no time. Louise is a land lover. As soon as we were off the boat her green hue receded to reveal Greecian skin and black curls (damn her). Little did we know then, but this glamazon is a man eater of epic proportions. Phangan partiers didnt stand a chance (but this shall be revealed in good time). She also has the most contagious laugh in the world that rippled right across the water, reaching Evie and I in our kayaks.

That's right - kayaks! I haven't been in a kayak since a Spirit of Adventure camp in matric, but here we were maneouvering a giant green beastie about the water. But just in case you thought kayaking was a spot of fun - you are mistaken! Not with Herr Evie at the helm. Urged on by our German guide ('Do not use paddles as veapons') the usually placid Evie took on fuhrer proportions as she barked 'LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT! RIGHT!' and insisted we 'win' - no medals, no trophies, no one noticing, but we won anyway.

It was exhilirating though, and when I fell out of the boat, legs and arms like jelly, I was glad to have done it. After collapsing on the beach for a while we made the trek up a set of treacherous MacGuiver type stairs for ten minutes to reach an amazing view point over looking the island and a gorgeous lagoon. I am a city dweller, and living surrounded by my towers of concrete and wondering at man's Art and Architecture, its so easy to forget that nature had that ability first - the ability to take our breath away. And so we contemplated and marvelled and then headed back to the boat for a simple Thai lunch and a little cruise to our final beach.

The four of us collapsed on the beach for the afternoon, three of us lost in the swaying palm trees, Meddie just fearful of death by coconut. It was an afternoon of laughter and plotting for the reunion and madness that would happen on Koh Phangan...

Kicking back in Koh Samui

To attempt to formulate some sort of narrative out of our time in Koh Samui would be madness. It was too varied and full, and attempting to impose a story structure on it would make it into the blog equivalent of showing someone your holiday snaps - boring! (I will be doing this to some of you when I get home though)

Koh Samui was my first real taste of Thailand, and what a way to start. Evie says it is by far the friendliest island she has been on, and really everyone we met was lovely and helpful. The Secret Garden was on the quietest stretch of beach, fringed by coconut palms leading onto white sandy beaches and blue waters. Our room was simple with a balcony where we could sit and enjoy the sea breeze, and chat away the hours. Our first full day there we swam and sunbathed all morning - the first time I had done that in years. My poor pasty skin got a bit of a shock at the sight of the sun and all my little, long forgotten freckles appeared one by one, like stars in the sky.

We found the most wonderful travel agent lady called Lei, who booked our passage to Koh Phangan and our accommodation there as well (we procrastinators left it to the least minute and thought we might be speed boating to and from the NYE Full Moon Party) which meant we could relax about where to next. SHe also organised us a trip to Angthong National Marine Park - more about that later...

One of the highlights of my time on Koh Samui was our visit to an incredible spa (I will remember the name of it later, but right now the brain is fried). Having heard of the wonders of Thai massage (no happy endings thanks) I was keen to get one, but Evie refused to let me first experience of this wonderful art be from some woman who sat on her stoep screaming 'mahsaaaaase' and who would then continue watching TV and chatting to her friends while you attempted to reach your zen state. So, we choose a fancy shmancy spa, which sent an air conditioned taxi to fetch us, and from the moment we set foot in there we were queens. After choosing our oils (a forest blend) we were led upstairs where our feet were washed in beautiful scented water and we changed into wraps. Our massages took place under a wooden gazabo draped with mosquito netting a few feet from the sea. The massage was a combination of swedish aromatherapy and traditional Thai massage and after the week's travelling toils was precisely what I needed. The setting was so restful and the sound of the waves so calming that I felt everything slip away. It lasted 2 hours and cost 2300B (approximately 50 quid) - well worth it.

And so while the main point of our Samui stay was relaxation and rejuventation, we did have one night of total, debaucherous indulgence. We ventured out from our sheltered beach paradise into the fray of the Samui night life. Chaweng is the hedonistic heart beat of Samui. Picturesque white beaches are lined with tourist filled bars. Music beats and blasts out of each one, blending to create a cacophany added to by the shouts of stall holders and lady boys. The lady boys strut their wears up and down crowded streets, hollering at tourists. The young ones are dresses ala Pretty WOman in tight mini skirts and thigh high boots, but as they age they add head dresses, sequins and sparkles. The older the face the bigger the head dress. The calls melt into the haggling and bartering sounds of the market. We follow a strand of good music, through the thumping base into an Aussie bar called Bondi, where an all Thai band were playing incredible rock covers. Island Rock played everything from Led Zeplin to ACDC, and they played it well. We bopped along for a few hours drinking ice cold Singhas and meeting a rather strange selection of people, until the bar shut ans we were turfed out into the night once more, so sad to leave our new favourite band.

Now if we had been smart at this point we would have headed home with a good night out behind us, but oh no! We poured out of Bondi and into the Chaweng night, keen to keep the party going. This led us to follow the crowd of drunken sheep to the entrance of Sound Club. The beats and lounge furniture outside did nothing to prepare us for what we would find inside - a heaving, sweating beast of a trance party. I was totally floored by the mix of crazy dancing, bumping and grinding, and the hook ups taking place everywhere. There was a host of pretty Thai girls, and an equal number of horny tourists. By this point we were off our faces and trying to aclimatise to the electro thumping out of everywhere, but I am still pretty sure I could figure out what was going on here.

But we closed our eyes and let the beats take us somewhere primal. Perhaps all in preparation for the carnal carnage of Koh Phangan...

One way ticket to Hell and back

Scenery rushing past our train window

I lie awake thinking of Christmas nights passed. In SOuth Africa they are spent floating in a cool swimming pool, drinking with family and friends.In London spent in the warm indoors playing charades and cards, laughing over mulled wine. This Thai one was spent in a 1930s train with the noises of 40 other poor, unfortunate passengers in various states of sleep.

This was not what we had envisaged - we were promised a first class sleeper cabin, know we knew to take this with a pinch of salt but no one had mentioned industrial air con and flourescent lighting, the uncanny resemblance of our bunks to prison cells or the long drop toilet that probably had its last clean when Thailand was still Siam. We were not lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the locomotive, but prevented from it in a cruel form of torture which included screeching, grinding and frequent sudden stops. And so it came to pass that we spent Christmas night eating nachos and haribos, anti bacterialing everything and laughing hysterically at our own misfortune.

In my prison bunk

After finally nodding off in the early hours we were unceremoniously pulled from slumber with shouts of wake up wake upand made aware that we were running 2 hours late... And so we had more time with the cackling staff who were having a party in the seats next to ours.

By the time we got off we were eagerly anticipating our Samui hideaway, the ocean and some clean sheets. But our limbo was to continue for a further 3 hours: Bus, Ferry, Minibus. And so ended the intermeniable journey, with a happy ending like all good fairy tales. Secret Garden is a paradise - palm trees, white sand, a gently rolling ocean. The gardens are humming with butterflies and secret buddahs sit around cool ponds choked with water lilies. We ordered our first real meal since Christmas, a couple of cocktails and everything else dissapeared. Sometimes life is about the destination and you have to do your damndest to forget the journey.

And so later, as we wallowed in the wonderful sea water, our hair spread out about us like mermaids, we saw a plane landing in the distance... Why the fuck didn't we fly?!

All I want for Christmas is this...

Thanks to Mr Gareth Bright for this beautiful photo...Best present!

I arrived in Bangkok on Christmas eve. Days of delays at Heathrow (read third worl ghetto) and dealings with the incompetence of Air India staff had made for frayed nerves and an occasional and slightly off putting twitching in my left eye. Twenty four hours of travel however ended in the most joyous reunion between me and my dearest friend Evie (Aka Tangerine Tree). As she navigated our way home through Bangkok's bustling stations, across its rammed roads, I felt the tolls of the trip leacing me, as I anticipated cracking open a bottle of duty free Baileys and a few bottles of Chilean merlot. After a quick (much needed shower) and change it was off to a Christmas Eve party at Eden's house. Eden lives in the same building as my Tangerine and had decked her house it in much festive spirit. THe evening was a wonderful blend of old and new friends - reconnecting with some people I hadn't seen in years (Gareth and Jamie) and meeting others for the first time (Eden and Chantal). What started off so civilised - we were even served some soup - soon turned into the kind of gathering where every conceivable drink was poured, every drop drunk. We reminisced, fought about music and introduced each other to new stuff (Gareth and Evie thanks for Lissie, Jamie don't forget about Darwin Deez) shouted over each other and went on a midnight booze run and had an argument with a dildo wielding neighbour (rather don't ask). Needless to say none of us were feeling very clever in the morning. But it Christmas! And so we soldiered through our brutal hangovers, put on some Christmas rokkies and headed off to a beautiful buffet style lunch at The World restuarant.

Silly season could not be a more apt description. The four of us - Yvie, Gareth, Eden and myself, were at that point of hangover where it was only possible for us to make sense to each other. The plethora of dishes and delicacies had us stupified, the view of Bangkok held us spellbound. As we fed the legacy of the night before we took advantage of our lack of adult supervision and added totally inappropriate behaviour and toilet humour into the festive mix.

Despite the nausea and inconceivable thirst, Gareth and I were in adventurous spirits and so decided we would try oysters for the first time, Aphrodisiac?! I think not! Nothing turns you OFF faster than a boger that tastes like the ocean's ass! This is one taste I will never acquire. Later we all had a little egg nog for the first time and here was a gamble that paid off. The potent alcohol/egg mix made me a fire breathing dragon and certainly took the edge off. We munched our way through prawns and cheeses, salads and soups, roasts and desserts (including a magical ginger bread house). Spoonerisms were the entertainment of the day, with our muddled brains producing such fine examples as eye braai (a South African eye brow?) and plitter (the love child of poppy seeds and glitter). We left our gastronomical adventure several kgs heavier and full of festive spirits with the need to put our food babies to bed. This was the most unusual and yet merry Christmas, but the traditions were over and Evie and I were about to haul our backpacks across Bangkok and take what from here on shall be known as the Hell Train..,

To be continued...

Roma - EAT, Pray, Love

Why Elizabeth Gilbert found it necessary to visit three countries to Eat Pray and Love I do not know, as I found Rome facilitated all three just fine. I am gonna do three separate posts about Rome, the first entitled EAT...

Our first night in the eternal city my mum and I headed out late and were really only interested in being fed and watered and heading back to bed. We chose a restaturant I had found recommended on the web called Antico Casale. I felt like I was in an Italian film - vespas in the background, checked tableclothes, a coltish alley cat wrapping itself around the table legs in the hopes of a few scraps. Not a tourist in sight, our limited phrase book got good exercise as we tried to italian our way through the menu. Our tongues, loosened by a pleasant 3 Euro caraffe of casa de vino, butchered the names of our dishes, but the waiter listened patiently.

Upon the arrival of our meals I realised how the English speaking world has misinterpreted pasta - instead of being about endless ingredients, spices and herbs, the key here seemed to be simplicity and freshness. My gnocchi (perfection) was served with cherry tomatoes and sticky, creamy tuscan cheese and was a revalation of earthy tastes, while my mum had a hearty portion of spaghetti with prawns and zucchini, both rich flavours harmonising, without being stampeded by a tomato or cream base. Heavenly, and so simple. We finished with a shared scoop of italian gelato - creamy and tasting perfectly of nut truffle.

As we discussed our meals - bowled over by the purity of the food (Oh god, I sound evangelical and we are not even on the PRAY post yet...) - we realised that the combinations were simple enough, it was the quality of the ingredients that we don't have in the rest of the world.

Our other highly notable culinary experience was on day 3. After a tiresome morning of touristing around Rome the mater and I made a beeline for Obika, a bar with a difference. Pointed in this direction by fabulous foodie Jo, Obika is a mozzarella bar - the first of it's kind. It's got a Japanese zen feeling to it, and after the chaos of an infinite number of trattoria it's simple menus of mozzarellas and accompaniment seemed a blessing.

There was a choice of four buffalo mazzarellas, ranging from strong and smoky to creamy and sweet. I opted for the sweet and creamy variety, partnered with basil pesto and beautiful cherry tomatoes, while mum decided on a stronger version with salami and fresh basil. Mine arrived in a riot of the Italian tricolore, beautifully laid out and looking all freshly picked. The best word for this meal would be LUSH. Some divine combination of Italian sun and soil seems to render this sort of produce some sort of platonic ideal. The tomatoes become worthy of Pablo Neruda poetry, the mozzarella conjures up scenes of pastoral bliss and all served with a crisp white wine - I felt certain this was how food was meant to be. I managed to barter some tomatoes and pesto for some salami and was so glad I had. All round it was the most different and best meal I had in Rome. I hear one has opened in London, a hard act to follow but I am going to give it a shot.

And so that ridiculous amount of adjectives brings to a close the EAT post.

Another Place - Day 11, A Photo of You Taken Recently

This picture was taken during my recent trip to Liverpool. I was so caught up with all the Beatles action that I never posted about the fact that I went to see Anthony Gormley's work Another Place. While it may look like I am just crouching behind a rather large rusty guy with his somewhat unimpressive junk on show, he is in fact one of 100 permanently erected figures along 2 miles of Crosby Beach outside of Liverpool. It was a windy day, with sand flying all over the place, and in our boots and layers we were ill prepared for the excursion. The beach was not too well sign posted, and we asked dog walkers, joggers, and shell collecting children along the way to make sure we were going in the right direction. And then suddenly as we came between two sand dunes, we saw them. Lone figures, dotted along the beach, randomly spaced. Some up to their calves in sand, others being lapped by the tide.

It's a strange piece, and yet oddly meaningful. To know that they are always there, in any season, immovable, unchanging, all the same and yet weathering differently.

Global Graffitti - Day 9, A Photo(s) That You Took

Whenever I go away somewhere I always look for the local street art. I love the spontaneity and unexpectedness of it. I love how in some cities it feels natural and blends in with the great architecture and dilapidated buildings, having every right to be there. I love the fact that great street art gets imitated by artists and marketers alike, and that it owns the spaces it fills and reflects the people that live there. And so here are a collection of street art pictures that I have taken here in London and on my travels. Hope you like them:

Rad Stencils off Tottenham Court Road

Poodle found astray in Shoreditch

Space Invader in Covent Garden

Roller Pig in Barcelona

Green Lady Paste Up in Berlin

Graffittied Section of the Berlin Wall

Donkey - a symbol of Barcelona

Femme Fatale stencil in Berlin

Forever - Day 6, Whatever Tickles Your Fancy

Okay so I have already managed to lose a couple of days here, so this thirty day post may take a little longer than planned - oh well! Anyway today I am to blog about whatever tickles my fancy. And today what tickled my fancy was someone else's blog :)

The Slow Track to Everywhere is in fact my auntie's blog, and will be most interesting reading as it develops as her plan is to document her and her husband's seven year circumnavigation of the earth on their 35ft boat, Forever (unbelievably awesome, I know!). I have heard some of her stories, in her emails sent from the high seas, and others around dinner tables at various family functions, but I am looking forward to reading the complete works as she writes them, and hear her tales of her bohemian trip complete with exotic destinations, wonderful people and the odd bit of drama I am sure. The first instalment has me gagging for a trip to Palma already, so this is not a good sign for my travel budget - just hearing the prelude to their Great Trek is enough to make me want to jump up off the couch and run down to my nearest marina.

So if you are an avid blog reader, or just a travel enthusiast, allow my dear Auntie Peggy and Uncle Mike and their intrepid exploits on Forever to inspire you.

All you need is love...and The Beatles

I have finally made the ultimate pop pilgrimage. I spent the weekend in Liverpool paying homage to the Beatles. It was like going on a second honeymoon and falling in love all over again. Being there on the streets that they walked, seeing the things they must have seen, dancing in the Cavern Club – it was all kind of surreal. I have loved them for so long that I kind of forgot why. It’s natural – of course you love the Beatles. But when I was there reading all their history, and imagining what it was like, I began to appreciate their upbeat naivety anew.

Their early music was cheerful and positive and hopeful in such an un-self conscious way, totally unspoiled and pure. It’s strange to try and comprehend how ordinary they were in so many ways, and how extraordinary as well. Walking past their modest homes, seeing Strawberry Fields, and Penny Lane, you desperately look for the key to what set these men apart from their contemporaries…where their sparks of genius came from. But at the end of the day Penny Lane is just a road sign, Strawberry Fields just another wooded area, and the Cavern one of thousands of clubs just like it. Like putting on John’s glasses on - It’s no use, unless you have his eyes. They saw everything differently, and the only way to appreciate that is through their music, where they try to show us what they see.

I find this sort of tourism strange – trying to recapture an age, or walk in someone’s shoes. A life is intangible – you can’t measure it or recreate it. However, Liverpool is very proud of being the birthplace of the Beatles, as proud as the Beatles were to have come from there. 60 000 people visit Liverpool every year in search of the Beatles story. And Liverpool caters to it. But in the understated English way - this is no Graceland. The Cavern club has been restored to its former glory (meaning very little glory – unplastered brick tunnels, merely adorned with photos of the hundreds of acts that have played there, including many of the fab four). Unfortunately it now appears to be frequented by dress wearing stags and tiara totting hens, in various stages of uproar and disarray. However, the club has a very good house band called The Cavemen, who regularly trot out Beatles tunes (much to the endless horror of the staff I’m sure) and with the familiar melodies ringing through my head I couldn’t help but tingle at the thought that this was were it had all started.

Opposite the Cavern club Mathews Street displays a primitive and odd shrine to the ‘Four Boys Who Shook the World’. Mary holding three angels representing the Beatles (the fourth babe, representing Paul, went missing years ago but was recently returned anonymously, by someone who called it a childish prank – it is yet to be returned to the monument.) The memorial is oddly organic, and after the assassination of John Lennon another cherubic figure was added which carries a guitar and is surrounded by a halo with the words, "Lennon Lives".

Further into Cavern Quarter sits dear Eleanor Rigby, a solitary figure on a bench, dedicated eternally to all the lonely people. Her face, which must still be kept ‘in a jar by the door’, is shapeless. She was a labour of love by the sculptor Tommy Steele, who placed a number of objects inside the figure, "so she would be full of magical properties". They were an adventure book (for excitement), a page from the bible (for spiritual guidance), a clover leaf (for good luck), a pair of football boots (for action) and a sonnet (for love).

Feeling in a particularly reflective mood, the trip was tinged with a certain melancholy. The Beatles were ‘just a pop band’ but there is no doubt that they changed the world. Their messages, their style, their causes, still ring as true today. It seems so sad that they are no more. The loss of John Lennon, such a profoundly different pioneer, I felt all over again. To lose him to violence seemed an intolerable cruelty. To lose anyone to violence is intolerable. As our train chugged out of the city I couldn't help hoping that we might all Give Peace a Chance.

Yesterday...and the day before that, and the day before that...and...

Sorry for the silence, dear readers! Have had a nasty bout of the influenza for the last four days, compounded with sneaky little wisdom teeth popping out all over the place. This is just a short post to tell you that exciting posts are on their way, as this weekend I am off to Liverpool to do a bit of a Beatles pilgrimage... So from this little Daytripper, I will soon have a new post for you, With a Little Help From My Friends...

You won't fool the Children of the Revolution

I really enjoy retrospective English films that go to great pains to capture the aesthetics and character of the age they are portraying. There have been a rush of them lately... Nowhere Boy, An Education, and most recently Cemetery Junction.

Cemetery Junction, like the others, explores the psyche of England in its chosen decade ( in this case early seventies) and explores the need for escape. Escape from the rigidity of the older generation, from expected norms, from damaging relationships, from prejudice, from class expectations, etc. Great care is taken to portray the struggle between old values and the expanding horizons of youth, and the film has a distinctly English flavour i.e. its honest. Instead of a glossed over glory days outlook, it instead works to portray an era as it is - the good, the bad the ugly.

Any age is not without its strengths and weaknesses, and any piece that is retrospective will always marvel at the innocence of days gone by. Hindsight is 20 20 as they say, and it is much easier to take a diagnose a societies ills post facto, however it is a shame that more film makers cannot make such incisive films about our own age.

Sometimes it seems as though the world we live in is spiralling out of control. With the media ever more prevelant in our societies the youtth of today live under the shadow of a bevy of big stories that are bandied about in a constant frenzy of fear and disappointment - dramatic financial upheaval, weak leadership, a dragging war, the shadow of terrorism cast across life in large cities, so called Broken Britain, the disengagement of youth from society, etc. I often here people say that our generation missed all the good stuff, we missed the change and we missed the party. Fuck that - the change is here, the party is happening!

With the proliferation of the mass media comes that more many chances to know. You can read mainstream media, or you can read blogs, or other people's tweets, or podcasts - you have an abundance of information you just need to learn how to filter. And if we are so dissatisfied with our leaders and the paths they have led us down in recent years, then do something about it. Register to vote, make yourself heard, discuss politics - we have a very well protected right in this country, to chose our own politicians and to make ourselves heard. The very same people I know who have bitched and moaned through the expenses scandal, the Afghanistan war, the recession, are now telling me they can't be bother to vote. Can't be bothered to register. You want to make a change? Now is the time. Don't wait for someone else to tell you what to do - go out there, read, talk to people, watch the debates...Engage!

And those of you who believe you missed the party... Travel has never been as popular or as possible. With the advent of Facebook, we are all keeping in contact with people we haven't seen for years, all over the world - Show up at their doorstep. There are countries all over the world waiting for you to visit. There are people to be met and things to be seen, and a million lessons to be learned. Go to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, a Full Moon party in Thailand, Hogmanay in Scotland, Carnival in Rio, Oktoberfest in Germany. Go diving in The Bahamas and feel the spray of Victoria Falls soak your skin in Zimbabwe, drink tequila in Mexico and have tea in Morocco. Hike the Inca trail, and see the Sistine Chapel, and have your own revolution... Go get a passport.

Sometimes these things are easier said than done, and there are a great many things from other eras that I wish I had been a part of...But the point is, those things had to happen so I could be here now, doing what I get to do. There is still a party, and we still have a chance to make a change...we just have to grab them both!

Rant over.