My friend, Duncan Wales, who lives in Accra, Ghana, snapped this pic; the jeep was one of the images from my exhibition in KL in 2009.
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Art Theft
I have become the victim of art theft. Does this make me a famous artist?
My friend, Duncan Wales, who lives in Accra, Ghana, snapped this pic; the jeep was one of the images from my exhibition in KL in 2009.
My friend, Duncan Wales, who lives in Accra, Ghana, snapped this pic; the jeep was one of the images from my exhibition in KL in 2009.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Recurring nightmare #2
I'm at the psychiatrist.
I tell him that I am being pursued by monsters.
He looks away and says: "You mean like this..."
When he turns back, he is one of them.
I tell him that I am being pursued by monsters.
He looks away and says: "You mean like this..."
When he turns back, he is one of them.
Recurring nightmare #1
I'm in some industrial place - think the deck of cargo ship, or something similar - it's never the same place twice, but always the same in spirit. People unknown are shooting at me. I cannot shoot back; I have no weapon.
Andrew appears and informs me that he has a vehicle secreted nearby, on which we may make good our escape. We go there; sometimes it's a scooter, sometimes a car.
Anyway, a chase ensues. We're heading for a safe place where one of my friends is waiting (never the same friend - always a different person).
Finally we get there. Thinking that we are safe, we disembark, only to find that my friend is now not our friend. He has betrayed us, and is now pointing his pistol directly at me.
Andrew appears and informs me that he has a vehicle secreted nearby, on which we may make good our escape. We go there; sometimes it's a scooter, sometimes a car.
Anyway, a chase ensues. We're heading for a safe place where one of my friends is waiting (never the same friend - always a different person).
Finally we get there. Thinking that we are safe, we disembark, only to find that my friend is now not our friend. He has betrayed us, and is now pointing his pistol directly at me.
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Singapore transit
Ther's a certain civiliz-ed-ness (where the last there syllables are pronounced in an old fashioned manner, by way of emphasising the point).
I'm here at the sunflower garden of Changi Airport (T2) for those who whish more detail - for a snoke and a beer (or two). I can see stars above - not sonmething one sees in KL very often.
On top of all of this, the airport is impeccably clean. Unbelievably so.
God knows why I stay in Kl, when it's clearly the unwiped asshole of the world.
Been travelling for 6 hours now - by means of one form of conveyance or another. Aheasd of me, a two hour wait and the 10 and a half hours in a tin can. Feel a little like major Tom.
This is ground conrtol out.
I'm here at the sunflower garden of Changi Airport (T2) for those who whish more detail - for a snoke and a beer (or two). I can see stars above - not sonmething one sees in KL very often.
On top of all of this, the airport is impeccably clean. Unbelievably so.
God knows why I stay in Kl, when it's clearly the unwiped asshole of the world.
Been travelling for 6 hours now - by means of one form of conveyance or another. Aheasd of me, a two hour wait and the 10 and a half hours in a tin can. Feel a little like major Tom.
This is ground conrtol out.
Monday, March 15, 2010
yesterday was...Pi day
3.14159265358979323846264338327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151160943305727036575959195309218611738193261179310511854807446237996274956735188575272489122793818301194912983367336244065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349042875546873115956286388235378759375...
Thursday, December 31, 2009
No tuk tuk, no sunrise at the temple, no sunset, no postcards, no guide books, no maps, no silly little fucking charms, no cold drinks, no massage. After several days in Siem Reap the milk of human kindness has curdled somewhat. At the temples one is beset by children peddling all manner of crap. They're all over you like rats. One is tempted to swat them off like so many blowflies.
The entire Angkor complex has been taken over by the league of car park re-surfacers and fence-pole-erectors. Bring money; at every turn there's a person with a ticket book waiting take your hard earned cash. You can't fart without a ticket. And it's difficult to take a photograph without 59 other people in the shot.
The irony of the situation is that it's a Vietnamese company profiting from the million or so tourists who grace Angkor's hallowed grounds every day. Not the Kmer. Sad. Our guide speaks in hushed tones of corruption at the highest levels - I think he means the government, not Jayavarman VII. His dad was a victim of Pol Pothead, so I guess he has good reason to distrust the establishment.
Siem Reap itself is a bustling little affair, full of pizza shops and bars. Beer is generally cheaper than water, at 50 US cents at most establishments.
Driving is much the same at is in Viet Nam. There's a vague nod toward the convention of driving on the correct side of the road - but only when absolutely necessary. Vientiene was more disciplined, but not as vibey, frankly.
Anyway, its new year's eve here, and the party down in the French Quarter was beginning to to get quell groovoir last time I checked. I'm off to get sloshed on my 3 dollars and change.
The entire Angkor complex has been taken over by the league of car park re-surfacers and fence-pole-erectors. Bring money; at every turn there's a person with a ticket book waiting take your hard earned cash. You can't fart without a ticket. And it's difficult to take a photograph without 59 other people in the shot.
The irony of the situation is that it's a Vietnamese company profiting from the million or so tourists who grace Angkor's hallowed grounds every day. Not the Kmer. Sad. Our guide speaks in hushed tones of corruption at the highest levels - I think he means the government, not Jayavarman VII. His dad was a victim of Pol Pothead, so I guess he has good reason to distrust the establishment.
Siem Reap itself is a bustling little affair, full of pizza shops and bars. Beer is generally cheaper than water, at 50 US cents at most establishments.
Driving is much the same at is in Viet Nam. There's a vague nod toward the convention of driving on the correct side of the road - but only when absolutely necessary. Vientiene was more disciplined, but not as vibey, frankly.
Anyway, its new year's eve here, and the party down in the French Quarter was beginning to to get quell groovoir last time I checked. I'm off to get sloshed on my 3 dollars and change.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Down in Cambo...
And so now the list of places I thought I'd never get to visit is complete. Cambodia.
Siem Reap, to be exact, in the shadow of the great uncle wat - which I shall visit once Chomaine joins me on the morrow. I'm here with 25 pounds of camera equipment and an open mind. Yesterday I ate something made from pickled fish - a dipping kind of thing - into which I deposited lemon grass, chillies and peanuts, and then dipped (I (I said it was a dipping kind of thing) banana flowers (horrible), long beans, sliced carrot, leaves of varying descriptions (presumable from the surrounding jungle) and fried beef. I've been assured that there is a variety of this dish that contains fried stomach, as well one that has ants in the dip. Hmmm. I'm not sure about that one. I've not seen the fried spiders yet, but I can safely say I won't be trying those either.
A note on the formalities. Getting through customs is a breeze. Visas are available on arrival (same as Laos), but the Cambos have 6 guys to process the thing, licking, sticking, signing, stamping, chopping and taking your money as they breeze through the process at a production line speed that would impress even Henry Ford.
There's none of the stern paranoia of Vietnam, and none of the inefficiency of Laos.
Siem Reap itself is incredibly laid back. In another life I could live here. Of course, having said that, I'm aware of the diabolicalities that have plagued Cambodia's history.
On the other hand there is this:
Internet is quite fast and stable (take note Malaysia) and cell phone towers litter the landscape.
Oh, interestingly, the ATMs dispense USD. And mostly you can get change in the same; unlike Vietnam, where they certainly will accept your dollares, but ten give you back 50 zillion monopoly notes.
The street food is good (what I've had of it, anyway). Contrast this against Vientiene, where greasy, fat-ridden sausages greet the weary traveler at every turn (Anthony Bordain lied when he extolled the virtues of the same). Perhaps more on this later.
------message ends-----
Siem Reap, to be exact, in the shadow of the great uncle wat - which I shall visit once Chomaine joins me on the morrow. I'm here with 25 pounds of camera equipment and an open mind. Yesterday I ate something made from pickled fish - a dipping kind of thing - into which I deposited lemon grass, chillies and peanuts, and then dipped (I (I said it was a dipping kind of thing) banana flowers (horrible), long beans, sliced carrot, leaves of varying descriptions (presumable from the surrounding jungle) and fried beef. I've been assured that there is a variety of this dish that contains fried stomach, as well one that has ants in the dip. Hmmm. I'm not sure about that one. I've not seen the fried spiders yet, but I can safely say I won't be trying those either.
A note on the formalities. Getting through customs is a breeze. Visas are available on arrival (same as Laos), but the Cambos have 6 guys to process the thing, licking, sticking, signing, stamping, chopping and taking your money as they breeze through the process at a production line speed that would impress even Henry Ford.
There's none of the stern paranoia of Vietnam, and none of the inefficiency of Laos.
Siem Reap itself is incredibly laid back. In another life I could live here. Of course, having said that, I'm aware of the diabolicalities that have plagued Cambodia's history.
On the other hand there is this:
Internet is quite fast and stable (take note Malaysia) and cell phone towers litter the landscape.
Oh, interestingly, the ATMs dispense USD. And mostly you can get change in the same; unlike Vietnam, where they certainly will accept your dollares, but ten give you back 50 zillion monopoly notes.
The street food is good (what I've had of it, anyway). Contrast this against Vientiene, where greasy, fat-ridden sausages greet the weary traveler at every turn (Anthony Bordain lied when he extolled the virtues of the same). Perhaps more on this later.
------message ends-----
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Fat people and wide screen TVs
I've just noticed something unfortunate. Wide-screen TVs stretch the image right? It's not a good thing for fat people.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Meritocarcy is a dirty word
There is a culture in this part of the world that views competition as evil, rather than boosting standards and quality. Words like "meritocracy" are debated in parliament, and ultimately swept under the carpet just in time for lunch.
An example here in Malaysia was when the powers that be realised that Malaysian Universities rated badly in comparison to those in other countries around the world, they simply created their own list, rating only those in Malaysia; predictably, Malaysian universities now appear in the top 10.
And so it comes as little surprise to those who have been watching that Indonesia has now officially banned all adverts not actually created in that country (with the exception of tourism ads for the promotion of foreign countries, properties located outside Indonesia, some international games, competition and education, and some large brands where the same actors are used throughout the world).
For the uninitiated, TV commercials are always awarded on the basis of a pitch. Our company, for example, might ask 2 local and one international production house to give a treatment on a piece of work. And indeed, we also find ourselves in the position sometimes of pitching against the international branding houses.
Till now, I believe the case was that one foreign "expert" was always to be accompanied by three locals.
It's a pity. Actually, it's just silly. For the local Indonesian market it spells a dreadful step backwards.
I predict that because of this move standards will go down rapidly. The work will be worth less. Even if it is not, clients will begin to chop budgets. Lower budgets equals less work. Less work equals fewer people working. And eventually, no industry.
Ah well. If they can't see it. Good luck to them.
An example here in Malaysia was when the powers that be realised that Malaysian Universities rated badly in comparison to those in other countries around the world, they simply created their own list, rating only those in Malaysia; predictably, Malaysian universities now appear in the top 10.
And so it comes as little surprise to those who have been watching that Indonesia has now officially banned all adverts not actually created in that country (with the exception of tourism ads for the promotion of foreign countries, properties located outside Indonesia, some international games, competition and education, and some large brands where the same actors are used throughout the world).
For the uninitiated, TV commercials are always awarded on the basis of a pitch. Our company, for example, might ask 2 local and one international production house to give a treatment on a piece of work. And indeed, we also find ourselves in the position sometimes of pitching against the international branding houses.
Till now, I believe the case was that one foreign "expert" was always to be accompanied by three locals.
It's a pity. Actually, it's just silly. For the local Indonesian market it spells a dreadful step backwards.
I predict that because of this move standards will go down rapidly. The work will be worth less. Even if it is not, clients will begin to chop budgets. Lower budgets equals less work. Less work equals fewer people working. And eventually, no industry.
Ah well. If they can't see it. Good luck to them.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Monday, June 02, 2008
37 centigrade
Here's one of my favourite shots from the trip. I was sitting at a little hole in the wall drinking local beer. The little old lady didn't know I was snapping her.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Viet Nam continued
Sunday 25 May
The vehicle was military green. Tick. It was a 4x4. Tick. It was a Toyota Landcruiser from the old skool. Tick. The driver smoked War Horse Brand. Two ticks. That’s where the ticks end.
My quest for inner peace took me through the industrial outskirts of Hanoi. Whe3re I might add, the road manners are no better than the old quarter. A journey of 150kms took all of 4 hours. Anyway, what awaited me on the other end was a veru pleasant surprise. Seems I had signed myself up for a homestay.
It was great. To begin with, it was the first good meal I had had while in Vietnam. A note on food: Vietnam is the world’s second largest net exporter of rice. And yet, to date, I had not seen a grain. Noodle soup, rolled up pork mince, processed meat of some description. But no rice. WTF?
Anyway, here there was rice in abundance. As well as fried bugs. A delicacy, I’m told. Not one to shy away from such things, I tried one. It tasted, not surprisingly, like grass. That was it for me, but I was amused by my hosts’ sorting through the plate and picking out some particularly juicy ones to crunch on. I enquired, as you do, which ones were the best, and they assured my that the big ones were. Well, you can’t fault the logic.
The next thing that stood out for me was the quiet. Like game farm in the Northeren Transvall quiet. Luvly. In fact, the frogs were so loud they sounded like small dogs barking.
Monday 26
Woke up to the faint smell of cow dung and burning grass. Fabulous. It’s really at times like these that I get a little homesick for SA. Nevertheless, I decided I liked the countryside so juch that I would simply push on to Laos. Unfortunately this was not to be. My guide could not find out whether I could get a visa as the border; and at 180US extra for the privilege of going the extra 160kms, I thought better of it. Next time.
Back in the hotel in Hanoi, I tried to book a ticket back to wherever. A shambles. I still couldn’t connect to the Internet with my own computer and the PCs in the foyer were all set to 2002. The airline booking engines were not happy. And they put on the moon. I ask you.
Some negotiation and a hefty commission later, I had an airticket back to Bangkok.
Tuesday 27
And so here I am. Back in Thailand. My original return ticket to KL has been successfully changed to tomorrow afternoon. (Always buy the most expensive ticket you can – that way you can change it, and not have to put up with various arbitrary airline rules.)
I have a few good pics. I’ll post them when I’m in the mood.
The vehicle was military green. Tick. It was a 4x4. Tick. It was a Toyota Landcruiser from the old skool. Tick. The driver smoked War Horse Brand. Two ticks. That’s where the ticks end.
My quest for inner peace took me through the industrial outskirts of Hanoi. Whe3re I might add, the road manners are no better than the old quarter. A journey of 150kms took all of 4 hours. Anyway, what awaited me on the other end was a veru pleasant surprise. Seems I had signed myself up for a homestay.
It was great. To begin with, it was the first good meal I had had while in Vietnam. A note on food: Vietnam is the world’s second largest net exporter of rice. And yet, to date, I had not seen a grain. Noodle soup, rolled up pork mince, processed meat of some description. But no rice. WTF?
Anyway, here there was rice in abundance. As well as fried bugs. A delicacy, I’m told. Not one to shy away from such things, I tried one. It tasted, not surprisingly, like grass. That was it for me, but I was amused by my hosts’ sorting through the plate and picking out some particularly juicy ones to crunch on. I enquired, as you do, which ones were the best, and they assured my that the big ones were. Well, you can’t fault the logic.
The next thing that stood out for me was the quiet. Like game farm in the Northeren Transvall quiet. Luvly. In fact, the frogs were so loud they sounded like small dogs barking.
Monday 26
Woke up to the faint smell of cow dung and burning grass. Fabulous. It’s really at times like these that I get a little homesick for SA. Nevertheless, I decided I liked the countryside so juch that I would simply push on to Laos. Unfortunately this was not to be. My guide could not find out whether I could get a visa as the border; and at 180US extra for the privilege of going the extra 160kms, I thought better of it. Next time.
Back in the hotel in Hanoi, I tried to book a ticket back to wherever. A shambles. I still couldn’t connect to the Internet with my own computer and the PCs in the foyer were all set to 2002. The airline booking engines were not happy. And they put on the moon. I ask you.
Some negotiation and a hefty commission later, I had an airticket back to Bangkok.
Tuesday 27
And so here I am. Back in Thailand. My original return ticket to KL has been successfully changed to tomorrow afternoon. (Always buy the most expensive ticket you can – that way you can change it, and not have to put up with various arbitrary airline rules.)
I have a few good pics. I’ll post them when I’m in the mood.
Ha Noi
Friday 23 May
Good god. First impressions of Vietnam: madness. The journey from the airport to my hotel (if one can call it that – US$20 a night) was like being a passenger in a dodgem car. Motorcycles are everywhere. And I mean everywhere. There seems to be no sense of self preservation among the riders.
The hotel itself is a quaint affair. The foyer looks like a 1950s movie. A ballustraded staircase is the only way up or down to or from the rooms. The furniture in mine is a kind of dark stained cross between Chinese Art Deco and 2 dollar tea house.
The deeper I get into the dark green heart of Asia, the stranger it gets. At least there’s AXN in the TV. And oh, the TV, very small, I think my laptop screen is bigger.
As of now, there is no Internet (the horror, the horror), - a cable, but no connection - but at least I have found one electrical outlet in the bathroom that accepts my universal adapter. And thank god, the electricity seems to be at, or near, 220 V, 50~, or my Dell would be toast by now.
Let me tell you about the money. I have no idea how people actually cope. 1 US equals 16 100 Dong. When I stuck my card in the hole in the wall and saw numbers ranging from 50 000 to 2 000 000, I got a surprise, to say the least.
Saturday 24 May
Ok I’ve figured out this driving thing. It’s quite simple; there are no traffic lights. Well, actually, there may be 3 intersections in old Hanoi with lights. The rest is just a free-for-all. Think ants, all scurrying hither and thither – over around on top to the side this way that way bumping changing directions. Now imagine that the ants all have motorcycles, tri-shaws, cars and busses. And they’re big. And they can hurt you.
Speaking of which, I did see an accident involving 2 motorcycles. Unbelievable. I hadn’t even been here a day. God’s own country man. Gotta love this place.
Still no Internet. Even after pissing around with my computer (along with the hotel’s IT specialist). We’ve installed and uninstalled every driver, protocol and IP monitor the computer will allow us. And still nothing. My boys back at XM are going to have their work cut out for them when it comes to reconnecting me to the company network.
Today was rather fruitful as far as activity was concerned. Awoke to the Hanoi national anthem (car horn, for the uninitiated)
at about 9am. After a quick bath and 2 fried eggs on doorstep toast (the breakfast of champions), I found myself in a tri-shaw, headed out into the … fuck, who am I kidding, it’s a supermarket out there.
3 minutes later I was soaked. Did I mention that the humidity here is about 99 degrees? No, really. It really is.
I had the opportunity to visit a museum – I think it was called hac, hat, num clac, or something. Jokes aside I was very impressed. After having said my hellos to a 10 foot, smiling Mr. Ho (Ho Chi Min – Singapore has Raffles, this place has Ho; oh and I even saw a statue of Lenin), I was in turn greeted by an amazing spectacle involving a 30s French art retrospective, some groovy installation art and the usal assortment of fibreglass tanks, actual correspondence between leaders of they VC, a pair of glasses (evidently used to peruse aforementioned), rubber AK47s, etc.
At about 12:30, my friendly neighbourhood tri-shaw operator pulled into a beer house and refused to go any further until he’d been watered. What could I say? It was hot. He did 3 glasses before I had even drunk the foam off mine. The fellow clearly had a thirst. Then on the pavement, a group of fellows produced a small stash of dope, sniffed it appreciatively, and proceeded to light up in an enormous bamboo bong. Luckily they didn’t offer it around, or I may not be writing this now. The natives were restless, and so was I. So I headed back to the hotel for a nap. Well deserved, I might say, after a morning spent reclining in the luxuriously appointed surrounds of a bicycle with three wheels.
This afternoon I concerned myself with the important business of getting lost in the old quarter.
Having successfully dodged Mr. Tri-shaw, I was attacked by loaves of bread. Everywhere I turned I saw crusty, baguette style frenchy loves being pedalled, delivered and otherwise making their way around town. I thought nothing of it – at least consciously. For it wasn’t long before I had the most powerful hankering for crusty bread, lovingly smothered with pate. Ha! I was dreaming, of course. But wait. Wasn’t this Hanoi? And weren’t the French once here in their droves? It was. And they were. And I did find a small place in which I was able to procure, for a very small fee, some rather rough, but delicious, pork pate and the very same, and by now ubiquitous crusty loaves.
Later I ensconced myself at a beer establishment to take photographs. I think I may have 2 worth publishing. A fine day, all told.
Tomorrow I leave by Jeep (I’m hoping some “American War” style machine with ancient tyres and a dodgy green paint job) towards the interior. Fuck knows where. Should be amusing. Perhaps I’ll see some real Montagnards. I’m looking for a genuine scarf. For protection I’ve purchased a Vietnamese flag (red with yellow star) and same with hammer and sickle. We are, after all, in Cong Territory.
Good god. First impressions of Vietnam: madness. The journey from the airport to my hotel (if one can call it that – US$20 a night) was like being a passenger in a dodgem car. Motorcycles are everywhere. And I mean everywhere. There seems to be no sense of self preservation among the riders.
The hotel itself is a quaint affair. The foyer looks like a 1950s movie. A ballustraded staircase is the only way up or down to or from the rooms. The furniture in mine is a kind of dark stained cross between Chinese Art Deco and 2 dollar tea house.
The deeper I get into the dark green heart of Asia, the stranger it gets. At least there’s AXN in the TV. And oh, the TV, very small, I think my laptop screen is bigger.
As of now, there is no Internet (the horror, the horror), - a cable, but no connection - but at least I have found one electrical outlet in the bathroom that accepts my universal adapter. And thank god, the electricity seems to be at, or near, 220 V, 50~, or my Dell would be toast by now.
Let me tell you about the money. I have no idea how people actually cope. 1 US equals 16 100 Dong. When I stuck my card in the hole in the wall and saw numbers ranging from 50 000 to 2 000 000, I got a surprise, to say the least.
Saturday 24 May
Ok I’ve figured out this driving thing. It’s quite simple; there are no traffic lights. Well, actually, there may be 3 intersections in old Hanoi with lights. The rest is just a free-for-all. Think ants, all scurrying hither and thither – over around on top to the side this way that way bumping changing directions. Now imagine that the ants all have motorcycles, tri-shaws, cars and busses. And they’re big. And they can hurt you.
Speaking of which, I did see an accident involving 2 motorcycles. Unbelievable. I hadn’t even been here a day. God’s own country man. Gotta love this place.
Still no Internet. Even after pissing around with my computer (along with the hotel’s IT specialist). We’ve installed and uninstalled every driver, protocol and IP monitor the computer will allow us. And still nothing. My boys back at XM are going to have their work cut out for them when it comes to reconnecting me to the company network.
Today was rather fruitful as far as activity was concerned. Awoke to the Hanoi national anthem (car horn, for the uninitiated)
at about 9am. After a quick bath and 2 fried eggs on doorstep toast (the breakfast of champions), I found myself in a tri-shaw, headed out into the … fuck, who am I kidding, it’s a supermarket out there.
3 minutes later I was soaked. Did I mention that the humidity here is about 99 degrees? No, really. It really is.
I had the opportunity to visit a museum – I think it was called hac, hat, num clac, or something. Jokes aside I was very impressed. After having said my hellos to a 10 foot, smiling Mr. Ho (Ho Chi Min – Singapore has Raffles, this place has Ho; oh and I even saw a statue of Lenin), I was in turn greeted by an amazing spectacle involving a 30s French art retrospective, some groovy installation art and the usal assortment of fibreglass tanks, actual correspondence between leaders of they VC, a pair of glasses (evidently used to peruse aforementioned), rubber AK47s, etc.
At about 12:30, my friendly neighbourhood tri-shaw operator pulled into a beer house and refused to go any further until he’d been watered. What could I say? It was hot. He did 3 glasses before I had even drunk the foam off mine. The fellow clearly had a thirst. Then on the pavement, a group of fellows produced a small stash of dope, sniffed it appreciatively, and proceeded to light up in an enormous bamboo bong. Luckily they didn’t offer it around, or I may not be writing this now. The natives were restless, and so was I. So I headed back to the hotel for a nap. Well deserved, I might say, after a morning spent reclining in the luxuriously appointed surrounds of a bicycle with three wheels.
This afternoon I concerned myself with the important business of getting lost in the old quarter.
Having successfully dodged Mr. Tri-shaw, I was attacked by loaves of bread. Everywhere I turned I saw crusty, baguette style frenchy loves being pedalled, delivered and otherwise making their way around town. I thought nothing of it – at least consciously. For it wasn’t long before I had the most powerful hankering for crusty bread, lovingly smothered with pate. Ha! I was dreaming, of course. But wait. Wasn’t this Hanoi? And weren’t the French once here in their droves? It was. And they were. And I did find a small place in which I was able to procure, for a very small fee, some rather rough, but delicious, pork pate and the very same, and by now ubiquitous crusty loaves.
Later I ensconced myself at a beer establishment to take photographs. I think I may have 2 worth publishing. A fine day, all told.
Tomorrow I leave by Jeep (I’m hoping some “American War” style machine with ancient tyres and a dodgy green paint job) towards the interior. Fuck knows where. Should be amusing. Perhaps I’ll see some real Montagnards. I’m looking for a genuine scarf. For protection I’ve purchased a Vietnamese flag (red with yellow star) and same with hammer and sickle. We are, after all, in Cong Territory.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Bangkok
It’s raining like a bugger. Chubby, malevolent, monsoon-practised drops with floods on their evil little minds. The kind of raindrops the Matrix creators could only dream of. I mention this simply because I’m due to leave Bangkok for Hanoi in about 5 hours, and at this rate not even Buddha himself is going anywhere.
Here in the dining room of the Woraburi Resort/hotel (a type of outdoor, lanai type affair – a tropical-architecture structure constructed to allow air to circulate, and, assumedly, to cool its patrons), I’m drinking water (???), eating green curry and reading Hunter S Thompson. It is cool now – although no doubt ascribable to this god awful storm, rather than any ingenious design on the part of my hosts.
The place is full of the usual suspects: older European men with their Thai “wives,” girls who accompany these same gents for the period of their stay here in Bangkok, presumably for the purposes of guiding, translating and whatever else goes on behind closed hotel doors; waiters and waitresses rushing about with great steaming plates of rice and other Thai delights; a gang of middle eastern tourists who seem determined to get out and about despite the rain and the obviously curious looks of the locals. Their perseverance is met with success as a lone Tuk Tuk emerges out of the waterfall that is the atmosphere. Clambering in, they disappear into the afternoon mess that characterises this and every other South East Asian city.
The atmosphere here is decidedly cheerful. Dodgy 80s hits are playing on the sound system, and there is a strange kind of buzz. I can’t really put my finger on it, other than to speculate that the potential energy that has been stored up in the raindrops is releasing itself into me and the rest of my fellow diners.
I take this opportunity to remind myself of the purpose of this journey; to take photographs of foreign and otherwise exotic cultural artefacts and post them on my blog. Hmm. So far, not so good. Bangkok is not as photogenic as one might think. It’s well nigh impossible to get around, and the stuff I’ve seen on the Asian Food Channel seems not to actually exist.
And so, on to Hanoi, where I’m sure, I will find much in the ancient French Colonial architecture to record and be interested in.
I have made reservations at a guest house in the old quarter – an area whose name evokes, for me, visions of quaint coffee shops and even quainter locals. We shall see.
Here in the dining room of the Woraburi Resort/hotel (a type of outdoor, lanai type affair – a tropical-architecture structure constructed to allow air to circulate, and, assumedly, to cool its patrons), I’m drinking water (???), eating green curry and reading Hunter S Thompson. It is cool now – although no doubt ascribable to this god awful storm, rather than any ingenious design on the part of my hosts.
The place is full of the usual suspects: older European men with their Thai “wives,” girls who accompany these same gents for the period of their stay here in Bangkok, presumably for the purposes of guiding, translating and whatever else goes on behind closed hotel doors; waiters and waitresses rushing about with great steaming plates of rice and other Thai delights; a gang of middle eastern tourists who seem determined to get out and about despite the rain and the obviously curious looks of the locals. Their perseverance is met with success as a lone Tuk Tuk emerges out of the waterfall that is the atmosphere. Clambering in, they disappear into the afternoon mess that characterises this and every other South East Asian city.
The atmosphere here is decidedly cheerful. Dodgy 80s hits are playing on the sound system, and there is a strange kind of buzz. I can’t really put my finger on it, other than to speculate that the potential energy that has been stored up in the raindrops is releasing itself into me and the rest of my fellow diners.
I take this opportunity to remind myself of the purpose of this journey; to take photographs of foreign and otherwise exotic cultural artefacts and post them on my blog. Hmm. So far, not so good. Bangkok is not as photogenic as one might think. It’s well nigh impossible to get around, and the stuff I’ve seen on the Asian Food Channel seems not to actually exist.
And so, on to Hanoi, where I’m sure, I will find much in the ancient French Colonial architecture to record and be interested in.
I have made reservations at a guest house in the old quarter – an area whose name evokes, for me, visions of quaint coffee shops and even quainter locals. We shall see.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Gritpype replies
Hello Duke
The matter you speak of sounds a little bit too good to be true. After all, as we say here, there is no such thing as a free lunch. However, you have piqued my interest. Before I start to send my particulars to someone unknown, and to parts unknown, I like to understand a bit more about this transaction. And of course, I don't actually know you personally, so I am understandably cautious.
Gritpype
The matter you speak of sounds a little bit too good to be true. After all, as we say here, there is no such thing as a free lunch. However, you have piqued my interest. Before I start to send my particulars to someone unknown, and to parts unknown, I like to understand a bit more about this transaction. And of course, I don't actually know you personally, so I am understandably cautious.
Gritpype
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