In a village, far from memory,
In this half-truth fantasy,
An elder said to She,
'A place exists, across the sea
Free from war and tyranny.
Here they show mercy,
You will have your freedom,
And your dignity.'
So She forsook that life for something more
She sought the land across the shore.
She walked and walked,
She seldom talked.
Mingling with smugglers of flesh
And dealers of death,
Weeping with those who lost their homes
To eyeless drones,
She joined the host of ghosts on boats.
Her eyes saw horrors unfold
Stories forever to remain untold.
Lest we forget?
Best we forget.
At last the white walls of Utopia loomed,
She arrived in the land of peace,
Of hopes and dreams and opportunity.
She did not know that she was doomed.
It was a lie.
Theirs was a different hostility.
Unpitying, unyielding,
This green land
Had lost its feeling.
Stony, bald, white faces,
Stared with indifferent contempt.
They would not rest
Until She went.
Anywhere but here!
Screamed the hatred and the fear.
They cast her back from whence she came.
Nobody ever asked her name.
From the story of She, what have we learned?
I fear We learn nothing until the tables are turned.
Wednesday, 24 June 2015
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Proud To Be British!
I am so proud to live in Britain. I am proud of our multiculturalism, our tolerance, (some of) our history and our fish and chips. I am not, however, proud of our current football team or (most of) our politicians. It is the latter bunch of snobs parading around Westminster that have caused me to write this blog.
With an election around the corner and immigration a hot topic as always, Robot Overlord Cameron (aka our Prime Minister) and his weasel chums constantly espouse something they call 'British values.' Miliband does it too, and Nigel Farage of UKIP is arguably the best at making this nebulous concept sound credible. It is a tagline that panders to unthinking idiots.
We, as Britons, they want us to think, (white Britons only in the case of Farage) share an innate core value system. Cameron and his Tory elite, in their Downton Abbey fantasy version of England, think the poor know their place and everything has a natural order. Regardless of birthplace (as long as it is on this sceptered isle apparently) class or religion we Britons all feel the same about such disparate things as family...blah blah blah.
What a load of old smelly bollocks. There are no exclusively British values. Farage prances around sinking pints and shouting about family values, not-so-subtley insinuating that over the channel the French all eat their offspring and Britain is the last bastion of civilisation in a world where in 'foreign parts' terrorists lurk, cackling and doing evil.
My point is this: what politicians call 'British values' are actually universal values. I have been lucky enough to travel extensively and have witnessed firsthand the following: Everybody loves their family, the vast majority of people want to work hard to improve their lot in life, everybody who is fortunate enough to live in a democratic country likes it. Being British has nothing to do with these global values. What separates us as Brits is the idiosyncrasies. If politicians had any sense, they would latch onto the quirks, not values, that make Britain Great:
1: Queuing. We love a good queue. We have the best queue etiquette I have ever seen. Have you been to a country where they don't queue. Carnage. I once saw a queue form in Reading and the people didn't even know what they were waiting for! They just saw a line and stood in it, like human Tetris blocks. That makes me surge with pride.
2: Royalty. Love 'em or hate 'em, if you feel something towards our Queen and her fam, you are definitely British. Foreigners tend to think it's cute that we have a royal family. Some Americans I have met genuinely believe the Queen is still in power and makes laws.
3: Sense of humour. This is the big one. The thing I think that defines us as Brits. Our ability to take the piss out of any situation, to mock ourselves, our friends and our enemies relentlessly. To view the world through a sarcastic lens that helps you realise and cope with the absurdity of it all. We are a nation of towering comedy talent, and I don't mean professional comedians. Every Briton has at least half a dozen mates who are hilarious. Britain is without doubt the funniest country I have been to, and it is a defining feature.
4: Apologising. We excel at apologising. Sorry is likely one of the most uttered words on this island in any given day. What do you do if someone walks into you on the Tube. Say sorry. A lady gave me change the other day, a jumble of coins and no notes. She said sorry - and it was a sincere apology, as if she'd just run over my cat - before adding, 'at least now you possess every coin in the realm.' Magnificent.
A bloke was buying his train ticket and I was behind him in the queue (only in Britain). When he had finished his transaction, he turned to me, apologised and scurried away. Why did he apologise? Because he's British.
I live in Egham, a village in Surrey that in the last twenty years has grown to such an extent that it now could be considered a small town. It is the site of Holloway University and is 30 minutes by train to central London. As such it is home to many young students and professionals. Many of these people are foreign, and meeting them makes me realise they too display these quirks that make us British. When people say immigrants are changing Britain they may be right. But people forget that Britain changes them. This - tolerance and interchange - is what makes me proud to be British.
Maybe if our politicians mentioned some of these traits of ours they would seem a little more human, and British, come election day.
With an election around the corner and immigration a hot topic as always, Robot Overlord Cameron (aka our Prime Minister) and his weasel chums constantly espouse something they call 'British values.' Miliband does it too, and Nigel Farage of UKIP is arguably the best at making this nebulous concept sound credible. It is a tagline that panders to unthinking idiots.
We, as Britons, they want us to think, (white Britons only in the case of Farage) share an innate core value system. Cameron and his Tory elite, in their Downton Abbey fantasy version of England, think the poor know their place and everything has a natural order. Regardless of birthplace (as long as it is on this sceptered isle apparently) class or religion we Britons all feel the same about such disparate things as family...blah blah blah.
What a load of old smelly bollocks. There are no exclusively British values. Farage prances around sinking pints and shouting about family values, not-so-subtley insinuating that over the channel the French all eat their offspring and Britain is the last bastion of civilisation in a world where in 'foreign parts' terrorists lurk, cackling and doing evil.
My point is this: what politicians call 'British values' are actually universal values. I have been lucky enough to travel extensively and have witnessed firsthand the following: Everybody loves their family, the vast majority of people want to work hard to improve their lot in life, everybody who is fortunate enough to live in a democratic country likes it. Being British has nothing to do with these global values. What separates us as Brits is the idiosyncrasies. If politicians had any sense, they would latch onto the quirks, not values, that make Britain Great:
1: Queuing. We love a good queue. We have the best queue etiquette I have ever seen. Have you been to a country where they don't queue. Carnage. I once saw a queue form in Reading and the people didn't even know what they were waiting for! They just saw a line and stood in it, like human Tetris blocks. That makes me surge with pride.
2: Royalty. Love 'em or hate 'em, if you feel something towards our Queen and her fam, you are definitely British. Foreigners tend to think it's cute that we have a royal family. Some Americans I have met genuinely believe the Queen is still in power and makes laws.
3: Sense of humour. This is the big one. The thing I think that defines us as Brits. Our ability to take the piss out of any situation, to mock ourselves, our friends and our enemies relentlessly. To view the world through a sarcastic lens that helps you realise and cope with the absurdity of it all. We are a nation of towering comedy talent, and I don't mean professional comedians. Every Briton has at least half a dozen mates who are hilarious. Britain is without doubt the funniest country I have been to, and it is a defining feature.
4: Apologising. We excel at apologising. Sorry is likely one of the most uttered words on this island in any given day. What do you do if someone walks into you on the Tube. Say sorry. A lady gave me change the other day, a jumble of coins and no notes. She said sorry - and it was a sincere apology, as if she'd just run over my cat - before adding, 'at least now you possess every coin in the realm.' Magnificent.
A bloke was buying his train ticket and I was behind him in the queue (only in Britain). When he had finished his transaction, he turned to me, apologised and scurried away. Why did he apologise? Because he's British.
I live in Egham, a village in Surrey that in the last twenty years has grown to such an extent that it now could be considered a small town. It is the site of Holloway University and is 30 minutes by train to central London. As such it is home to many young students and professionals. Many of these people are foreign, and meeting them makes me realise they too display these quirks that make us British. When people say immigrants are changing Britain they may be right. But people forget that Britain changes them. This - tolerance and interchange - is what makes me proud to be British.
Maybe if our politicians mentioned some of these traits of ours they would seem a little more human, and British, come election day.
Tuesday, 24 February 2015
Excuse me, waiter...
It is inevitable in the industry I work in that people complain. Food is important, and expensive, and people are increasingly particular about both the meals they eat and the service they receive in pubs and restaurants across the country. This, for the record, is a good thing.
As a chef every time a meal is sent back, or a customer is dissatisfied, it hurts. You see, with cookery you get immediate feedback for the work you do. There is no angry email to send or evade, no bureaucracy to soak up the rage. Just the cold fact that you just fed someone something you made, and they didn't like it. It is hard not to take these criticisms personally, and as a result many chefs (maybe the vast majority) are very defensive, and are adamant that it is not their fault. Ever. The flipside of the coin is that if you do your job well, people tell you immediately. I still feel a surge of pride if someone has said compliments to the chef. It is the best part of the job.
Even the most exclusive, high-end eateries receive complaints. Perhaps given their clientele and the sums of money being spent they actually get more disgruntled customers. Whatever the case, the poor soul usually caught in the crossfire when a customer complains is the innocent waiter. They are the ones who have to inform the kitchen (chefs definitely are guilty of shooting the messenger) and then translate the chef's barrage of swearwords into 'I'm sorry sir, the chef apologises and regrets he overcooked your steak, we will replace it immediately' to an increasingly testy table. Being a skilled waiter is a job that is grossly underappreciated.
Sometimes the complaints are absolutely justified, sometimes they are absurd, and often people are fishing for freebies. Below is a list of my all time favouritecomplaints.
1- That's lamb's liver, not calve's liver
This was enraging. Liver and bacon was on our menu, and it was calves liver. Even when shown the packaging from the butcher, and a liver that is actually bigger than a lamb, the customer was adamant. Of course, the customer is always right.
2- This bacon is too bacony.
What??? I remember when the waiter came back with this information my head chef at the time almost had a nervous breakdown. How do you deal with a complaint like this?
3- 'It was too much food.'
Well don't eat it all then! Indian restaurants must get this all the time.
4- 'I wanted it rare with no blood.'
There are no words. I'm a chef, not a magician.
5- 'My food is cold.'
A pertinent remark, you may think. After all, you expect your food to be hot. Well, it was hot when the customer received it a whole hour previous to making this complaint.
6- Serial complainers.
A peculiar breed, these people have frequented every restaurant, cafe, pub and hotel I have ever worked in and cause the staff misery on a regular basis.They come in so often they must enjoy it, (or suffer from a strange form of masochism) yet they moan and complain on every visit. When your job is to give people a good time, these people make life very difficult. If the food and service is flawless they will find some minute detail to whine about (the plate isn't hot enough. It's a salad.) Part of me thinks perhaps such people enjoy demeaning those who serve them, or think that spending their money gives them carte blanche to behave like tools, but who could be that cruel or moronic?
7 -Anybody who doesn't eat gluten.
Not strictly a complaint, but I wanted to put this out there. Now people who have a gluten intolerance get a free pass and my utmost sympathy, as physically not being able to enjoy pizza or scones or sandwiches or cake is a tragedy.
These other anti glutenites and their bandwagon jumpers however, make chefs lives a living hell. 'Do you have gluten free cake?' No. No we don't. I dont understand why bread, which is an art in itself, has fed us for millenia and comes in myriad, awesome forms - from soda to pitta, foccacia to bloomer - is suddenly touted as a bad thing amongst foodies, health nuts and ladies who lunch. It is madness. Gluten is good! Rant over.
8- Anybody who tries to substitute salad or vegetables on a dish for more meat.
It doesn't work like that! You can't compare lettuce to chicken. It makes a mockery of the food chain and basic principals of business! Again, this isn't strictly a complaint, so as this post is in danger of becoming a chef's and restaurateur's edition of the panel show Room 101, I'll call it a day
As a chef every time a meal is sent back, or a customer is dissatisfied, it hurts. You see, with cookery you get immediate feedback for the work you do. There is no angry email to send or evade, no bureaucracy to soak up the rage. Just the cold fact that you just fed someone something you made, and they didn't like it. It is hard not to take these criticisms personally, and as a result many chefs (maybe the vast majority) are very defensive, and are adamant that it is not their fault. Ever. The flipside of the coin is that if you do your job well, people tell you immediately. I still feel a surge of pride if someone has said compliments to the chef. It is the best part of the job.
Even the most exclusive, high-end eateries receive complaints. Perhaps given their clientele and the sums of money being spent they actually get more disgruntled customers. Whatever the case, the poor soul usually caught in the crossfire when a customer complains is the innocent waiter. They are the ones who have to inform the kitchen (chefs definitely are guilty of shooting the messenger) and then translate the chef's barrage of swearwords into 'I'm sorry sir, the chef apologises and regrets he overcooked your steak, we will replace it immediately' to an increasingly testy table. Being a skilled waiter is a job that is grossly underappreciated.
Sometimes the complaints are absolutely justified, sometimes they are absurd, and often people are fishing for freebies. Below is a list of my all time favouritecomplaints.
1- That's lamb's liver, not calve's liver
This was enraging. Liver and bacon was on our menu, and it was calves liver. Even when shown the packaging from the butcher, and a liver that is actually bigger than a lamb, the customer was adamant. Of course, the customer is always right.
2- This bacon is too bacony.
What??? I remember when the waiter came back with this information my head chef at the time almost had a nervous breakdown. How do you deal with a complaint like this?
3- 'It was too much food.'
Well don't eat it all then! Indian restaurants must get this all the time.
4- 'I wanted it rare with no blood.'
There are no words. I'm a chef, not a magician.
5- 'My food is cold.'
A pertinent remark, you may think. After all, you expect your food to be hot. Well, it was hot when the customer received it a whole hour previous to making this complaint.
6- Serial complainers.
A peculiar breed, these people have frequented every restaurant, cafe, pub and hotel I have ever worked in and cause the staff misery on a regular basis.They come in so often they must enjoy it, (or suffer from a strange form of masochism) yet they moan and complain on every visit. When your job is to give people a good time, these people make life very difficult. If the food and service is flawless they will find some minute detail to whine about (the plate isn't hot enough. It's a salad.) Part of me thinks perhaps such people enjoy demeaning those who serve them, or think that spending their money gives them carte blanche to behave like tools, but who could be that cruel or moronic?
7 -Anybody who doesn't eat gluten.
Not strictly a complaint, but I wanted to put this out there. Now people who have a gluten intolerance get a free pass and my utmost sympathy, as physically not being able to enjoy pizza or scones or sandwiches or cake is a tragedy.
These other anti glutenites and their bandwagon jumpers however, make chefs lives a living hell. 'Do you have gluten free cake?' No. No we don't. I dont understand why bread, which is an art in itself, has fed us for millenia and comes in myriad, awesome forms - from soda to pitta, foccacia to bloomer - is suddenly touted as a bad thing amongst foodies, health nuts and ladies who lunch. It is madness. Gluten is good! Rant over.
8- Anybody who tries to substitute salad or vegetables on a dish for more meat.
It doesn't work like that! You can't compare lettuce to chicken. It makes a mockery of the food chain and basic principals of business! Again, this isn't strictly a complaint, so as this post is in danger of becoming a chef's and restaurateur's edition of the panel show Room 101, I'll call it a day
Friday, 13 February 2015
In memoriam: Neil Connelly.
On 31st January of this year my brother in law Neil passed away. His loss is a tragedy from which my family may never fully recover.
Neil was a man who believed in the power of words for good or evil, and would always correct my grammar or argue with me over semantics. His vovabulary was such that I often had to reach for the dictionary! He could speak so eloquently he would run rings around most in any debate, or captivate an audience at any dinner table. As such, I thought putting something into words would be the most fitting tribute to him. This poem is for Neil. I loved him like a brother, and I will miss him dearly evermore.
IN MEMORIAM NEIL CONNELLY.
He was the enigma with a thousand faces,
He bore a stigma that time erases.
Sit and talk, listen and walk
With this sage among men, and he could take you to places
You never knew were there.
He was a husband and father,
Devoted beyond compare,
He blessed his kids with
His own brand of
Compassionate intelligence,
Wisdom that betrays their years.
He raised them with
His own hand, and
With his presence
He allayed their fears,
Wiped away their tears.
He would sing rhymes of nonsense
To fill his home with the
Laughter of love.
Now they have lost it all.
He was a brother,
A young grandad,
A son and an uncle,
And now we have lost it all.
And until the end
He was my brother
And my friend
And now I have lost him.
Neil was a man who believed in the power of words for good or evil, and would always correct my grammar or argue with me over semantics. His vovabulary was such that I often had to reach for the dictionary! He could speak so eloquently he would run rings around most in any debate, or captivate an audience at any dinner table. As such, I thought putting something into words would be the most fitting tribute to him. This poem is for Neil. I loved him like a brother, and I will miss him dearly evermore.
IN MEMORIAM NEIL CONNELLY.
He was the enigma with a thousand faces,
He bore a stigma that time erases.
Sit and talk, listen and walk
With this sage among men, and he could take you to places
You never knew were there.
He was a husband and father,
Devoted beyond compare,
He blessed his kids with
His own brand of
Compassionate intelligence,
Wisdom that betrays their years.
He raised them with
His own hand, and
With his presence
He allayed their fears,
Wiped away their tears.
He would sing rhymes of nonsense
To fill his home with the
Laughter of love.
Now they have lost it all.
He was a brother,
A young grandad,
A son and an uncle,
And now we have lost it all.
And until the end
He was my brother
And my friend
And now I have lost him.
Wednesday, 11 February 2015
Centerparcs!
In 2013 I went on an adventure with my family. Alongside my wife Natasha, there was my sister Samantha, my brother-in-law Neil, my niece Jessie and my nephew Haden. It was to be a week-long trip of badminton, woodland battles, aquatic madness, impossibly cute red squirrels and (for the adults) utter exhaustion. It was a trip to Centerparcs in the Lake District, and it was awesome.
This post will detail some of the highs and lows of that fun filled week, without trying to sound like an advertisement for Centerparcs!
After unpacking in our new home - a luxurious chalet - we said goodbye to our cars. This was a simple, blissful pleasure. To get around the site, which is essentially a large village, everyone uses bicycles. There is no distant roar of engines to be heard. The toot of horns was replaced by the chiming of bells, and the bicycle traffic gave the place a tranquil, utopian vibe.
There was, however, one small problem. My bike was fundamentally broken. The brakes didnt work. Not ideal on hilly terrain. The chain also had a habit of falling off if I completed one full revolution of the pedals. The result was that I either tagged along at the back of our group, jerking awkwardly on my crippled contraption whilst going uphill, or sped off at high velocity and out of control if going downhill. My family of course found this hilarious. Bystanders would peer as I slowly passed by, making a godawful racket as the chain clunked and whirred, shattering the woodland idyll. But I, being Mild Discomfort Boy (see previous post) persevered. I am happy to say I have since parted ways with that bike. I donated it to a homeless Albanian man. True story.
The week consisted therefore of cycling from one event to the next. I was not in peak physical condition, and the activities slowly took their toll on my flabby excuse of a body. The most embarrassing moment came during the rock climbing. We had to scale a 30 metre wall. Needless to say my athletic young niece and my trim wife both zoomed up the thing like a pair of spider monkeys, whilst I did well at first and then sputtered to a halt. Clinging on for dear life, my muscles were shaking and I was sweating profusely. In my mind I looked like Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger, but really I was a fat man hanging 5 metres above the ground unable to ascend a wall that (literally) an 8 year old just climbed. It dawned on me suddenly how much my body had deteriorated over the years, and then, from somewhere, adrenaline fired me up the wall. I got to the top, almost collapsed, then abseiled down like an absolute boss.
Following the ritual humiliation of the wall, we then had to do the Leap Of Faith. This involved climbing a telegraph pole, then standing on top of it and jumping for a trapeze suspended in midair. Jessie went first, and put on a typically fearless, virtuoso display. I was clumsy by comparison, and almost missed the trapeze, managing to grab on with one hand. There is video evidence of all these endeavours somewhere. Im sure my sister will use said videos to shame her little brother when the time comes!
Luckily my ego was restored when I later bullseyed a wild boar with a bow and arrow during woodland archery. It was a pretend boar, but hey, small victories.
Other highlights included a family boat trip on the lake. This started off as a very enjoyable and exciting communal experience - the harmony and unity of rowing as one, gliding through the water - and quickly descended into competetive chaos. 'Why can't we go as fast as them?' 'How do you turn left?' 'Don't run over that duck!'
Perhaps inevitably, the boat trip hit a climax when I somehow clouted my dear wife Natasha right on the head with my oar. Tears and shouting ensued as our vessel wended its woeful way back to the pier. The weirdest part of that whole afternoon though was the response of the young man in charge of the boats. 'Ah, yes' he said, when told of Natasha's unfortunate injury, before adding, both laconically and mysteriously, 'There's always disputes on the lake.' Sinister.
My favourite part of the trip was the laser battle. We journeyed into the woods, and were met by a group of families who all temporarily became warriors. A guide gave us guns and split us into 2 teams. Then battle commenced. Now, even simulated combat gives you a sense of who people really are. One young lad was dressed in full camouflage gear and his Dad, a growling Scot, stood on the sidelines barking orders like a ham-acted general in a cheap sci-fi. My nephew Haden was far too small to carry his gun properly, but loved it nonetheless. Jessie my niece wandered around like cannon fodder, oblivious to the carnage! Two older ladies on our team looked harmless but had camouflage like Predator (they literally disappeared at the start of every round) and were crack shots I regressed to my childhood, and was reprimanded for doing a power slide, then jumping headfirst over a barricade. The guide said something about 'health and safety,' and I overheard two opponents muttering about 'the long haired nutter who takes it too seriously.'
I had a stroke of luck at one point that played out like a Hollywood movie. I was in a wooden dugout shooting at the enemy when a voice behind me said, 'Freeze.' I turned round and there was the lad in camouflage, his gun levelled at me. He could have shot me and taken me out of the game there and then, but I guess like all good villains he loved a bit of drama. He stepped forward (did he want to take me prisoner?) and his headset announced he was dead and out. The fool had stood on a clearly marked landmine. His dad was not impressed.
My absolute favourite memory, though, is crawling next to my sister. She was carrying a bomb (our objective was to blow up the enemy base), writhing around in a patch of mud, and both of us were laughing hysterically. Then, our referee announced my sister had been shot and killed. I, instinctively, took cover behind her body! That's war. You weren't there, man. It was hilarious.
So, after a week of mayhem, we returned to Surrey weary but happy. And the verdict on Centerparcs? Brilliant. Just dont expect to relax, and book a holiday afterwards to recover!
This post will detail some of the highs and lows of that fun filled week, without trying to sound like an advertisement for Centerparcs!
After unpacking in our new home - a luxurious chalet - we said goodbye to our cars. This was a simple, blissful pleasure. To get around the site, which is essentially a large village, everyone uses bicycles. There is no distant roar of engines to be heard. The toot of horns was replaced by the chiming of bells, and the bicycle traffic gave the place a tranquil, utopian vibe.
There was, however, one small problem. My bike was fundamentally broken. The brakes didnt work. Not ideal on hilly terrain. The chain also had a habit of falling off if I completed one full revolution of the pedals. The result was that I either tagged along at the back of our group, jerking awkwardly on my crippled contraption whilst going uphill, or sped off at high velocity and out of control if going downhill. My family of course found this hilarious. Bystanders would peer as I slowly passed by, making a godawful racket as the chain clunked and whirred, shattering the woodland idyll. But I, being Mild Discomfort Boy (see previous post) persevered. I am happy to say I have since parted ways with that bike. I donated it to a homeless Albanian man. True story.
The week consisted therefore of cycling from one event to the next. I was not in peak physical condition, and the activities slowly took their toll on my flabby excuse of a body. The most embarrassing moment came during the rock climbing. We had to scale a 30 metre wall. Needless to say my athletic young niece and my trim wife both zoomed up the thing like a pair of spider monkeys, whilst I did well at first and then sputtered to a halt. Clinging on for dear life, my muscles were shaking and I was sweating profusely. In my mind I looked like Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger, but really I was a fat man hanging 5 metres above the ground unable to ascend a wall that (literally) an 8 year old just climbed. It dawned on me suddenly how much my body had deteriorated over the years, and then, from somewhere, adrenaline fired me up the wall. I got to the top, almost collapsed, then abseiled down like an absolute boss.
Following the ritual humiliation of the wall, we then had to do the Leap Of Faith. This involved climbing a telegraph pole, then standing on top of it and jumping for a trapeze suspended in midair. Jessie went first, and put on a typically fearless, virtuoso display. I was clumsy by comparison, and almost missed the trapeze, managing to grab on with one hand. There is video evidence of all these endeavours somewhere. Im sure my sister will use said videos to shame her little brother when the time comes!
Luckily my ego was restored when I later bullseyed a wild boar with a bow and arrow during woodland archery. It was a pretend boar, but hey, small victories.
Other highlights included a family boat trip on the lake. This started off as a very enjoyable and exciting communal experience - the harmony and unity of rowing as one, gliding through the water - and quickly descended into competetive chaos. 'Why can't we go as fast as them?' 'How do you turn left?' 'Don't run over that duck!'
Perhaps inevitably, the boat trip hit a climax when I somehow clouted my dear wife Natasha right on the head with my oar. Tears and shouting ensued as our vessel wended its woeful way back to the pier. The weirdest part of that whole afternoon though was the response of the young man in charge of the boats. 'Ah, yes' he said, when told of Natasha's unfortunate injury, before adding, both laconically and mysteriously, 'There's always disputes on the lake.' Sinister.
My favourite part of the trip was the laser battle. We journeyed into the woods, and were met by a group of families who all temporarily became warriors. A guide gave us guns and split us into 2 teams. Then battle commenced. Now, even simulated combat gives you a sense of who people really are. One young lad was dressed in full camouflage gear and his Dad, a growling Scot, stood on the sidelines barking orders like a ham-acted general in a cheap sci-fi. My nephew Haden was far too small to carry his gun properly, but loved it nonetheless. Jessie my niece wandered around like cannon fodder, oblivious to the carnage! Two older ladies on our team looked harmless but had camouflage like Predator (they literally disappeared at the start of every round) and were crack shots I regressed to my childhood, and was reprimanded for doing a power slide, then jumping headfirst over a barricade. The guide said something about 'health and safety,' and I overheard two opponents muttering about 'the long haired nutter who takes it too seriously.'
I had a stroke of luck at one point that played out like a Hollywood movie. I was in a wooden dugout shooting at the enemy when a voice behind me said, 'Freeze.' I turned round and there was the lad in camouflage, his gun levelled at me. He could have shot me and taken me out of the game there and then, but I guess like all good villains he loved a bit of drama. He stepped forward (did he want to take me prisoner?) and his headset announced he was dead and out. The fool had stood on a clearly marked landmine. His dad was not impressed.
My absolute favourite memory, though, is crawling next to my sister. She was carrying a bomb (our objective was to blow up the enemy base), writhing around in a patch of mud, and both of us were laughing hysterically. Then, our referee announced my sister had been shot and killed. I, instinctively, took cover behind her body! That's war. You weren't there, man. It was hilarious.
So, after a week of mayhem, we returned to Surrey weary but happy. And the verdict on Centerparcs? Brilliant. Just dont expect to relax, and book a holiday afterwards to recover!
My (not very) Superpower
There is a superhero living among you. Do not be alarmed, for it is I! Yes, I have a dual identity. No, I dont wear a cape. Yes, I use my powers for good. No, I dont look good in spandex. Move over Spiderman, stand aside Batman, for I am Mild Discomfort Boy!
Perhaps not the catchiest title, and my powers won't be making millions for Marvel Studios any time soon, but in todays crazy world, my abilities come in very handy. Allow me to explain.
If you need a climbing frame/horse/swing/slide for your children, call Mild Discomfort Boy. He will tolerate being clambered on, having his nose squeezed, his head stood on, and all manner of minor injuries in the name of entertaining little ones.
Going hiking? Off on holiday but have too much luggage? Take Mild Discomfort Boy. He will happily be your packhorse. Although he's not much of a sprinter, he can plod on and on for days.
Need help in the kitchen? Too much to do for Christmas or that party? Mild Discomfort Boy is here to help. He will work 14 hours a day, 6 days a week and always smile! He is also burnproof and resistant to cuts.
Need to change the lightbulb? Not with Mild Discomfort Boy around. He will happily sit in the dark. For ever.
Mild Discomfort Boy has a host of other attributes too, including the power to sit or sleep practically anywhere (including on rocks or in bushes), the power to endure bus journeys of up to 3 days without saying 'are we nearly there yet', the power to open bottles with his teeth at any social occasion (including bahmitzvahs) and the power to converse with the elderly for what seems like eternity.
Perhaps not the catchiest title, and my powers won't be making millions for Marvel Studios any time soon, but in todays crazy world, my abilities come in very handy. Allow me to explain.
If you need a climbing frame/horse/swing/slide for your children, call Mild Discomfort Boy. He will tolerate being clambered on, having his nose squeezed, his head stood on, and all manner of minor injuries in the name of entertaining little ones.
Going hiking? Off on holiday but have too much luggage? Take Mild Discomfort Boy. He will happily be your packhorse. Although he's not much of a sprinter, he can plod on and on for days.
Need help in the kitchen? Too much to do for Christmas or that party? Mild Discomfort Boy is here to help. He will work 14 hours a day, 6 days a week and always smile! He is also burnproof and resistant to cuts.
Need to change the lightbulb? Not with Mild Discomfort Boy around. He will happily sit in the dark. For ever.
Mild Discomfort Boy has a host of other attributes too, including the power to sit or sleep practically anywhere (including on rocks or in bushes), the power to endure bus journeys of up to 3 days without saying 'are we nearly there yet', the power to open bottles with his teeth at any social occasion (including bahmitzvahs) and the power to converse with the elderly for what seems like eternity.
Friday, 30 January 2015
The Grand Bazaar
A cacophony of noise, aromas and colour bombards the senses as you wander aimlessly through labyrinthine streets. Merchants shout impossible deals as you walk past to get your attention and reel you in. Make eye contact and you're doomed to make a purchase. Waiters Buzz past with trays full of glasses of Turkish chai - tea - that seem to defy gravity as they weave between the crowds not spilling a drop. Small mountains of spices can be purchased around every corner and their smell is intoxicating. Rugs and carpets of all shapes and sizes - each one a masterfully woven unique piece of artistry - decorate the walls and floors. Antique trinkets and temptations lurk around every corner, and one gets the feeling that you have stepped from modernity into the world of Scheherezade and the Arabian Nights.
This, of course, is Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. Once a major hub on the Silk Road, it is place where business has been done for centuries and the act of selling has been honed into something of an art. In recent years, tourists have been irresistibly drawn into this wondrous place, looking for bargains, entertainment and a glimpse of the past. As I was to find, however, this place is not without its pitfalls.
We had come here to purchase a backgammon board, and immediately upon entering the place were overwhelmed. Statistics put the scope of the Bazaar into context: over 3000 shops spread over 60 streets, catering for almost half a million customers per day. This is one of the busiest venues in the entire world, and you can buy almost anything. Lamps, furniture, designer clothes, fake designer clothes, fake fake designer clothes, Turkish delight, toys, jewellry, books, hummous! Imagine if Amazon.com was pulled out of the internet and its contents dumped in a giant maze, and you have some idea of the chaotic brilliance of the place.
Anyhoo, I digress. We were hunting for backgammon boards. Backgammon is wildly popular in Turkey and the rest of the Middle-East, and with good reason. Sat at a cafe with a friend, playing this ancient game (50% luck, 50% skill) and supping tea whilst watching the world go by is a great way to pass the time. Thus, what better place to buy a decent board than the infamous Bazaar?
It wasn't long before we were lured into a cramped shop stuffed with treasures by a typically charismatic Turk. He gave us a glass of chai each whilst making small talk and showing us various backgammon boards. No mention of a price. I, being English, was too polite to ask. He, being a merchant well versed in this ritual, was softening us up. Alarm bells!
Eventually we got on to the subject of payment. It is a kind of ritual in Turkey that when a seller names his price, it is too high. It is the part of the buyer in this pantomime to then act shocked and state a price that is too low. If all goes well both parties will meet somewhere in the middle. However, if the merchant knows you covet something you are in trouble. It is, however, incredibly difficult to act like you don't desire something that you really want. In these circumstances, the most powerful weapon in the buyer's arsenal is what I call the 'disinterested eyebrow flick and walk away.' My mother-in-law is a master of this, and often barters merchants down to prices I can only dream of. Unfortunately she was not present and I possess none of the aforementioned skills.
Needless to say, we agreed a price for a beautiful Syrian board that was reasonable, when things took a turn for the bizarre. I was challenged to a game of backgammon. If I won, the board would be heavily discounted (he would still make a profit im sure). If he won, I had to buy something else. Moron that I am, I accepted. More tea was brought out and the game began.
He was a skilled salesman but a poor backgammon player. I felt my confidence rising. I was playing well and the dice were on my side. Sensing defeat (and monetary loss) my opponent played his trump card. His son, who had been watching the shopfront, was summoned and became his advisor. He was good. Suddenly the tables were turned, and as so often happens in backgammon, the dice seemed to turn on me too. A stream of 1s and 2s. I tried to enlist the help of my advisor Natasha, but the merchant quickly snapped that that was cheating. He had the home advantage, and I realised I was playing a game I was never going to win.
Upon my defeat we purchased a tea set. 6 glass tea cups decorated with blue and gold. 'Good price, good price,' we were told. We said our goodbyes and stumbled back into the hubbub of the Bazaar. 5 minutes later we walked past a store that had an identical teaset for a fraction of the price. We had been well and truly swindled! Red-faced with indignation we tried to backtrack to the store and give this Turkish Del-Boy a piece of our mind. It was a hopeless endeavour. The Grand Bazaar is a maze, and we would never find him again.
I still have the tea-set, gathering dust in a cupboard, and whenever I see it I recall my folly with a grimace. The backgammon board, however, has pride of place in the living room and has hosted many a game in which I did emerge the victor.
This, of course, is Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. Once a major hub on the Silk Road, it is place where business has been done for centuries and the act of selling has been honed into something of an art. In recent years, tourists have been irresistibly drawn into this wondrous place, looking for bargains, entertainment and a glimpse of the past. As I was to find, however, this place is not without its pitfalls.
We had come here to purchase a backgammon board, and immediately upon entering the place were overwhelmed. Statistics put the scope of the Bazaar into context: over 3000 shops spread over 60 streets, catering for almost half a million customers per day. This is one of the busiest venues in the entire world, and you can buy almost anything. Lamps, furniture, designer clothes, fake designer clothes, fake fake designer clothes, Turkish delight, toys, jewellry, books, hummous! Imagine if Amazon.com was pulled out of the internet and its contents dumped in a giant maze, and you have some idea of the chaotic brilliance of the place.
Anyhoo, I digress. We were hunting for backgammon boards. Backgammon is wildly popular in Turkey and the rest of the Middle-East, and with good reason. Sat at a cafe with a friend, playing this ancient game (50% luck, 50% skill) and supping tea whilst watching the world go by is a great way to pass the time. Thus, what better place to buy a decent board than the infamous Bazaar?
It wasn't long before we were lured into a cramped shop stuffed with treasures by a typically charismatic Turk. He gave us a glass of chai each whilst making small talk and showing us various backgammon boards. No mention of a price. I, being English, was too polite to ask. He, being a merchant well versed in this ritual, was softening us up. Alarm bells!
Eventually we got on to the subject of payment. It is a kind of ritual in Turkey that when a seller names his price, it is too high. It is the part of the buyer in this pantomime to then act shocked and state a price that is too low. If all goes well both parties will meet somewhere in the middle. However, if the merchant knows you covet something you are in trouble. It is, however, incredibly difficult to act like you don't desire something that you really want. In these circumstances, the most powerful weapon in the buyer's arsenal is what I call the 'disinterested eyebrow flick and walk away.' My mother-in-law is a master of this, and often barters merchants down to prices I can only dream of. Unfortunately she was not present and I possess none of the aforementioned skills.
Needless to say, we agreed a price for a beautiful Syrian board that was reasonable, when things took a turn for the bizarre. I was challenged to a game of backgammon. If I won, the board would be heavily discounted (he would still make a profit im sure). If he won, I had to buy something else. Moron that I am, I accepted. More tea was brought out and the game began.
He was a skilled salesman but a poor backgammon player. I felt my confidence rising. I was playing well and the dice were on my side. Sensing defeat (and monetary loss) my opponent played his trump card. His son, who had been watching the shopfront, was summoned and became his advisor. He was good. Suddenly the tables were turned, and as so often happens in backgammon, the dice seemed to turn on me too. A stream of 1s and 2s. I tried to enlist the help of my advisor Natasha, but the merchant quickly snapped that that was cheating. He had the home advantage, and I realised I was playing a game I was never going to win.
Upon my defeat we purchased a tea set. 6 glass tea cups decorated with blue and gold. 'Good price, good price,' we were told. We said our goodbyes and stumbled back into the hubbub of the Bazaar. 5 minutes later we walked past a store that had an identical teaset for a fraction of the price. We had been well and truly swindled! Red-faced with indignation we tried to backtrack to the store and give this Turkish Del-Boy a piece of our mind. It was a hopeless endeavour. The Grand Bazaar is a maze, and we would never find him again.
I still have the tea-set, gathering dust in a cupboard, and whenever I see it I recall my folly with a grimace. The backgammon board, however, has pride of place in the living room and has hosted many a game in which I did emerge the victor.
Wednesday, 28 January 2015
Turkish Bath
Turkish bath:
Upon leaving a sauna, sweating copiously, and adorned only in a modestly sized towel, I am summoned to a steam filled chamber. Here I am subject to a thorough rinsing before undergoing the following ritual:
A hairy man rubbing, slapping and essentially tickling me whilst I am
covered in suds. There are four of us victims on a square slab enduring this invigorating,
revitalising, altogether weird experience. We are arranged so that if I look to
the right I cop an eyeful. I keep my eyes closed and fight back tears and laughter in equal amount. I enjoy it.
Alternative Turkish bath: Me in a shoddy hotel room. The
plug doesn’t work so the tub slowly leaks until I resemble a hippo in the dry
season, thrashing around in my own filth. I do not enjoy it.
I'm back!
So! After several years of indolence and wanton avoidance, I have
taken it upon myself to continue writing my blog. For those of you
(un)fortunate enough to stumble upon these musings, you will not find a
coherent stream of witty thought or provocative discussions about this economic
crisis or that political upheaval.
Mainly you will find a sometimes messy distillation of what
I think and do during my existence. Poems, thoughts, anecdotes of funny
happenings around this bizarre planet. A diary of drivel to some, no doubt,
but, as I say, after years of sitting dormant, absorbing what is now horribly
called content, I thought I would
fling some of my own content back into the world.
PS Upon reading this, my wife asked why I had been avoiding wantons! Lovely.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Street Meat
We have dined in many restaurants in the last eight months...succulent, impossibly juicy steaks in Buenos Aires, fresh ceviche in Peru - made with fish caught mere hours before - so spicy it nearly made me cry. Chicken and rice in Bolivia every day! But the true taste of South America is to be found on the streets. In every village, and every city, in every country on the continent, on most streets, the evening brings out ladies with grills, fryers, barbeques or juicers, and they cook and sell their delicious food to hungry customers.
In Bolivia, 60 pence gets you a home made hamburger with fries, made by my friend the Burger Lady. I visited her every night I was in La Paz. In Peru, skewers of cow's heart, surprisingly tender, sizzle away as a crowd of people salivate. In Chile, they spoon unhealthy amounts of guacamole on your hot dog. In Argentina, choripan - chorizo hot dog with chimichurri - is the order of the day. In Huanchaco we ate street food practically every day. Walking down the beach to the pier where the ladies with their carts congregate became a ritual in our lazy beach days. Everything was fried. Except the corn. Chips, chicken, strange things made from pumpkin drizzled with fig honey. A full menu on the pavement. As you wait for your food you chat with your chef, and, more often than not, as you sit on the kerb, munching away, when you finish you go back for more. This is true dining.
In Bolivia, 60 pence gets you a home made hamburger with fries, made by my friend the Burger Lady. I visited her every night I was in La Paz. In Peru, skewers of cow's heart, surprisingly tender, sizzle away as a crowd of people salivate. In Chile, they spoon unhealthy amounts of guacamole on your hot dog. In Argentina, choripan - chorizo hot dog with chimichurri - is the order of the day. In Huanchaco we ate street food practically every day. Walking down the beach to the pier where the ladies with their carts congregate became a ritual in our lazy beach days. Everything was fried. Except the corn. Chips, chicken, strange things made from pumpkin drizzled with fig honey. A full menu on the pavement. As you wait for your food you chat with your chef, and, more often than not, as you sit on the kerb, munching away, when you finish you go back for more. This is true dining.
Impressions Of Ecuador
We got stuck in Huanchaco. After trekking in Huaraz, we decided to relax on the beach for a few days before heading north to Ecuador. But, as they say, The best laid laid plans oft go awry. One or two days revisiting the sleepy fishing village, lounging on the beach, eating fresh fruit, drinking rum punch and hanging around with our old friend Veronica and our new friend Edgar turned into a week of eating fresh fruit and drinking rum punch and swinging in hammocks. Then two weeks had passed by. Then, our anniversary approached, so we might as well stay a few more days, and celebrate one year of wedded bliss (and the nuptials of our future King) somewhere we know and like. So, a two day detour turned into a three week vacation.
Sadly, staying in Huanchaco for so long meant we had to make up time by speeding through Ecuador, to spend our last few days in Colombia, on the Carribean coast. You can't see it all! So, we spent three days in the country in the middle of the world, mostly seeing said country through bus windows. But, even three days in a place can give you a sketch, a flimsy impression, of what that place is like. And these are my impressions of Ecuador:
Chicken. South Americans are fond of their poultry, but Ecuadorians LOVE chicken. Our feathered friends have no chance of survival here! Every street, every corner has a restaurant (I use that word loosely) selling chicken. KFC is ubiquitous, and you can even get chicken, rice and beans in KFC, but asides from that there are thousands of other chicken outlets. some examples: Senor Pollo (Mr. Chicken), Mas que Pollo (More Than Chicken), Super Pollo (super chicken), Mundo de Pollo (world of chicken), and so on ad nauseam.
Bananas. For hours on a bus in the South of the country, gazing out of the window, banana trees stretch to the horizon, on both sides, the road cutting a swathe through this man made jungle of fruit. A true banana Republic, the scale of which has to be seen to be believed. It is more bizarre because this happens almost as soon as you cross the border with Peru. the North of Peru is a stark, dusty desert, and suddenly Ecuador is a verdant green, fertile paradise.
The Equator. The country takes its name from the invisible line that bisects it, and visiting the Equator, the centre of the world, was a strange experience. Like a child I leapt over the line, that by the Mitad Del Mundo (centre of the world) monument is not invisible. Jumping from one hemisphere to the other, bounding from winter to summer and back again. Silly, but fun!
So, that's what I know about Ecuador. I would have known much more, and had more stories to tell, if I hadn't got stuck in Huanchaco. But, as Edith Piaf sang, je ne regrettais rien!
Sadly, staying in Huanchaco for so long meant we had to make up time by speeding through Ecuador, to spend our last few days in Colombia, on the Carribean coast. You can't see it all! So, we spent three days in the country in the middle of the world, mostly seeing said country through bus windows. But, even three days in a place can give you a sketch, a flimsy impression, of what that place is like. And these are my impressions of Ecuador:
Chicken. South Americans are fond of their poultry, but Ecuadorians LOVE chicken. Our feathered friends have no chance of survival here! Every street, every corner has a restaurant (I use that word loosely) selling chicken. KFC is ubiquitous, and you can even get chicken, rice and beans in KFC, but asides from that there are thousands of other chicken outlets. some examples: Senor Pollo (Mr. Chicken), Mas que Pollo (More Than Chicken), Super Pollo (super chicken), Mundo de Pollo (world of chicken), and so on ad nauseam.
Bananas. For hours on a bus in the South of the country, gazing out of the window, banana trees stretch to the horizon, on both sides, the road cutting a swathe through this man made jungle of fruit. A true banana Republic, the scale of which has to be seen to be believed. It is more bizarre because this happens almost as soon as you cross the border with Peru. the North of Peru is a stark, dusty desert, and suddenly Ecuador is a verdant green, fertile paradise.
The Equator. The country takes its name from the invisible line that bisects it, and visiting the Equator, the centre of the world, was a strange experience. Like a child I leapt over the line, that by the Mitad Del Mundo (centre of the world) monument is not invisible. Jumping from one hemisphere to the other, bounding from winter to summer and back again. Silly, but fun!
So, that's what I know about Ecuador. I would have known much more, and had more stories to tell, if I hadn't got stuck in Huanchaco. But, as Edith Piaf sang, je ne regrettais rien!
Wednesday, 27 April 2011
James Vs. The Pacific
"Let´s go for a swim," I said to my newfound friends Edgar the Norweigan Viking, and Drew. Sat around our campsite in Huanchaco, lazing in hammocks, the roar of the Pacific is audible, and we can see the sunlight glinting on the waves less than 100 metres away. A swim would be refreshing and fun.
So, we wandered down to the beach, and in we went. After 5 minutes of being rolled around in the waves, we had swum out quite a distance. It was exhausting but entertaining stuff. As the waves approached, some 2 metres in height, we swam under them for a salty rush!
But suddenly, I looked behind me and couldn´t see Tash or any of our other friends who we had left on the beach. Then I spotted them, specks in the distance. We had floated down the beach at Huanchaco some 300 metres in a couple of minutes. Where we entered the water was smooth sand. Now directly behind us were jagged rocks. I started to swim back to shore, away from the rocks. Drew followed, but Edgar was nowhere to be seen. Then I panicked, as the realisation dawned that I was swimming with all my strength and not moving.
I tried to calm down, gather my strength, and swim out again. It was hopeless. We were less than 10 metres from the shore, getting dragged around, completely at the mercy of the waves. To any spectators on the beach it looked like we were having a good time. I was getting tired, and scared. Spluttering salty water, I turned to Drew and shouted "I can´t get out." He too was struggling. Then, just when I think I was about to have a "life flashes before your eyes" moment, an almighty wave crashed over the pair of us. I was thrown around like a rag doll, but then, suddenly, felt stones under my feet, and before I knew it was on the beach, coughing, with Drew next to me looking bedraggled.
As we were catching our breath, another enormous wave was breaking behind us, so we got up and ran up the beach. So strong was the water though, that as it passed us, only at knee height, it knocked us over like bowling pins. then, as if the ocean hadn´t humiliated me enough, the current actually pulled my swimming shorts down, so I was led on the pebbles, butt naked for the whole world to see. Embarrassed, exhausted and dejected, I walked back to Tash, thankful to see her, and collapsed on my beach towel. She was building a sandcastle with some friends, laughing and joking. they had seen us, but been blissfully unaware of our peril. For a minute I had thought I was done for; the scariest moment of my whole trip.
Edgar, who had swam out the furthest, made it out of the water about five minutes after us, and looked like a broken man. But we all lived to tell the tale!
So, after that encounter, I won´t be so much as dipping a toe in the Pacific Ocean for quite some time. We are really to blame, though, because stupidly, we hadn´t seen the flag that said, quite clearly, No Swimming.
So, we wandered down to the beach, and in we went. After 5 minutes of being rolled around in the waves, we had swum out quite a distance. It was exhausting but entertaining stuff. As the waves approached, some 2 metres in height, we swam under them for a salty rush!
But suddenly, I looked behind me and couldn´t see Tash or any of our other friends who we had left on the beach. Then I spotted them, specks in the distance. We had floated down the beach at Huanchaco some 300 metres in a couple of minutes. Where we entered the water was smooth sand. Now directly behind us were jagged rocks. I started to swim back to shore, away from the rocks. Drew followed, but Edgar was nowhere to be seen. Then I panicked, as the realisation dawned that I was swimming with all my strength and not moving.
I tried to calm down, gather my strength, and swim out again. It was hopeless. We were less than 10 metres from the shore, getting dragged around, completely at the mercy of the waves. To any spectators on the beach it looked like we were having a good time. I was getting tired, and scared. Spluttering salty water, I turned to Drew and shouted "I can´t get out." He too was struggling. Then, just when I think I was about to have a "life flashes before your eyes" moment, an almighty wave crashed over the pair of us. I was thrown around like a rag doll, but then, suddenly, felt stones under my feet, and before I knew it was on the beach, coughing, with Drew next to me looking bedraggled.
As we were catching our breath, another enormous wave was breaking behind us, so we got up and ran up the beach. So strong was the water though, that as it passed us, only at knee height, it knocked us over like bowling pins. then, as if the ocean hadn´t humiliated me enough, the current actually pulled my swimming shorts down, so I was led on the pebbles, butt naked for the whole world to see. Embarrassed, exhausted and dejected, I walked back to Tash, thankful to see her, and collapsed on my beach towel. She was building a sandcastle with some friends, laughing and joking. they had seen us, but been blissfully unaware of our peril. For a minute I had thought I was done for; the scariest moment of my whole trip.
Edgar, who had swam out the furthest, made it out of the water about five minutes after us, and looked like a broken man. But we all lived to tell the tale!
So, after that encounter, I won´t be so much as dipping a toe in the Pacific Ocean for quite some time. We are really to blame, though, because stupidly, we hadn´t seen the flag that said, quite clearly, No Swimming.
Thursday, 21 April 2011
The Santa Cruz Trek
"How hard can it be?" I said to Tash as our bus slowly wound its way up the steep sides of the Central Andes, on our way to the town of Huaraz. I was trying to persuade her to come on a 4 day trek through some of the most breathtaking terrain in Peru. The problem is that the trek - known as Santa Cruz - involves scaling a mountain pass 4750 metres above sea level. Being keen walkers, but not mountaineers, Tash at last (grudgingly) agreed.
One reason I was so keen to do this trek is that I tried it 6 years ago, and failed. On the very first day my head was punding, every step was agony, and then, facing a steep incline, I threw up and collapsed. Crushed, I let my friends continue, and a very kind Peruvian farmer guided me back to the main road, semi conscious on the back of a very grumpy burro (donkey)
Now, 6 years later, I want to finish what I started. So, with our backpacks suitably packed with nuts, biscuits, fruit, noodles and other essential sustenance, we set off on our way.
To arrive at the trail head, we had to take a cramped combi (minibus) over a snow topped mountain. In Peru, minibuses are: 1 - Never full. There is always room for one more person, bag of chickens etc.
2 - Too small for gringos, even average height gringos such as myself.
3 - Driven by maniacs who are not in the least perturbed when driving 60mph on a road with a
200 metre drop mere inches to the right of the (nearly bald) tyre.
Then, arriving at the small town of Vaqueria in one piece, we turned left off the highway and struck out into the Peruvian countryside, for 4 days of pleasant strolling. Or so we thought.
Day 1 - The walk was easy enough, ambling between farmhouses that became more and more sparse, until we left all signs of human civilization behind. Clouds obscured the view beyond the lush green valley we were walking up. We had just passed a young campesina (peasant girl) when she told us, ominously, that rain was on the way. We picked up our pace.
Unfortunately, we were still hours from the campsite when the downpour came. It was a torrential mess, and despite our backpacks having rain covers, the contents were drenched within minutes. We marched through paths and fields that had become quagmires of mud, feeling cold and depressed. My shoulders ached and I wanted a burro again!
Then, 10 minutes from camp, two horsemen rounded a corner behind us and kindly gave us each a draught of Pisco, a strong Peruvian grape brandy. Warmed up and energised, we set off on our way, and mercifully the rain stopped just long enough for us to pitch our tent.
The night was cold, and after an unsatisfying supper of noodles, we went to sleep, shivering and wondering what the next day, the hardest by far of the trek, would bring.
Day 2 - Up at 6am, and on the road by 6:30. The dreary drenching of the day before was forgotten as we slipped into fresh, dry socks and clothes, and were greeted to a view of the enormous peaks that surrounded our camp, wreathed in cloud and glowing a fiery red in the cold dawn sun. We set off along the trail, which soon, at the head of the valley, swung left and began to climb. I stuffed my cheeks with coca leaves but the ascent was still tough, and every 5 minutes or so I had to stop to regain my breath.At about midday, we thought we were making excellent progress, when we rounded a bend and saw our destination towering above us. Punta Union - 4750 metres high, a gap in a jagged snow topped ridge like a missing tooth. It was at least another 2 hours away, all uphill, and a daunting prospect.
We had no guide on this trek. The trail was well worn and well marked, but in some places was dubious, and we had to pick a path and hope for the best. However, earlier that morning a group of trekkers who were blessed with mules and guides overtook us, unladen with backpacks as they were.
We tried our best to keep them in sight and so follow the best path up to the pass. However, when we were about 300 metres below, we found ourselves on a large expanse of rock, with no footprints to follow. Knowing the general direction, we headed that way, climbing over rock faces, when the fog came down and the hail stone began. It was a disaster. Tash fell and hurt her back, and I started to panic. She was in incredible pain, but we had to get over the pass. I shouldered what I could of her pack, but she still struggled, every step a labour, every breath a fight.
Thankfully, fortune smiled on us that day. The hail subsided after 10 very worrying minutes, and Tash, by some force of inner strength that she summoned from God knows where, forced herself to take step after agonising step until we were at Punta Union. Situated at the tip where two valleys meet, we stepped through the gash in the rock and came out on the other side to meet...the most spectacular view of our lives.
To our right was a wall of ice, a glacier groaning some kilometres away, and below it a teardrop lake of turquoise. To our left stood three spire like peaks, unhidden by cloud for mere moments, as though our arrival was cosmically timed. Straight ahead was our path; a meandering trail down a valley splashed with the blue of lakes.Tash wept with a bittersweet mixture of tears: relief at having climbed the path, awe at the beauty of the scene before us, and anger at me for dragging her up the bloody mountain! We could see our campsite, we just had to get down.
2 hours after reaching the pass we arrived at camp, exhausted but satisfied. The trip down was obviously much easier, and for the last few hundred metres we were practically sprinting. We did 9 hours of walking that day, and from now on climbing passes is something I will restrict to doing in the Lake District, where you can always breathe and are always within walking distance of a good pub!
Day 3 - We struck our tent and were out for 6:30 again, and as today was all downhill, we felt certain we would make good progress. Straight down the valley, past one campsite, to a second camp, leaving a mere 4 hours of walking for the final day.
Well, the best laid plans oft go awry! Within two hours of setting off we stumbled upon two trekkers who had overtaken us the day before. They had lost their guide! We were discussing what to do when he came around the corner, looking none too pleased. We decided to tag along with these trekkers, which was a very fortuitous decision, for all of a sudden the guide turned from the path when we reached a flat plain between the valley sides. "The bridge is out if you carry on that way," he said cheerily.
We finally reached the river that was thundering down the plain, when our adopted guide began to take his shoes off. "We cross here," he said, "The bridge is out!" So, after much deliberation, I took the plunge, and icy water swirled around my booted feet as I waded across. I kept my boots on because I needed balance. The last thing I wanted was for my backpack to go in the river, tent and all. I´d rather have wet shoes! So we got to the other side, and then abandoned our guide. We were lucky to meet him, as later on we bumped into a few people who were not aware the bridge was out, and walked futilely in circles for hours.
The trouble was we had crossed from the path into wild land, and next stumbled into a dense patch of thorny bushes. This is where calamity befell us again. Like the graceless bull I am, I was charging through the trees when I heard Tash scream. Like in a comedy film, a branch had snapped back and caught her right in the eye. Unlike in a comedy film, it wasn´t funny. Once again, I was miles from help with an injured wife. Well, I married a woman with an immense amount of fuerza (strength). Sporting sunglasses and a walking pole, she hobbled down the valley, winking all the way.
Worried about Tash´s eye, we summoned the last of our strength and by the end of the third day had not only reached the second campsite, but the end of the valley itself. We got a bus back to Huaraz, and our lovely hostel owner tended to Tash´s poorly eye. It was a long, fast-paced march through beautiful scenery, but when you´ve been rained on, hailed on, attacked by branches, slept in wet clothes, waded across ice cold rivers and got lost in a marsh, sometimes you just want a nice warm bed.
One reason I was so keen to do this trek is that I tried it 6 years ago, and failed. On the very first day my head was punding, every step was agony, and then, facing a steep incline, I threw up and collapsed. Crushed, I let my friends continue, and a very kind Peruvian farmer guided me back to the main road, semi conscious on the back of a very grumpy burro (donkey)
Now, 6 years later, I want to finish what I started. So, with our backpacks suitably packed with nuts, biscuits, fruit, noodles and other essential sustenance, we set off on our way.
To arrive at the trail head, we had to take a cramped combi (minibus) over a snow topped mountain. In Peru, minibuses are: 1 - Never full. There is always room for one more person, bag of chickens etc.
2 - Too small for gringos, even average height gringos such as myself.
3 - Driven by maniacs who are not in the least perturbed when driving 60mph on a road with a
200 metre drop mere inches to the right of the (nearly bald) tyre.
Then, arriving at the small town of Vaqueria in one piece, we turned left off the highway and struck out into the Peruvian countryside, for 4 days of pleasant strolling. Or so we thought.
Day 1 - The walk was easy enough, ambling between farmhouses that became more and more sparse, until we left all signs of human civilization behind. Clouds obscured the view beyond the lush green valley we were walking up. We had just passed a young campesina (peasant girl) when she told us, ominously, that rain was on the way. We picked up our pace.
Unfortunately, we were still hours from the campsite when the downpour came. It was a torrential mess, and despite our backpacks having rain covers, the contents were drenched within minutes. We marched through paths and fields that had become quagmires of mud, feeling cold and depressed. My shoulders ached and I wanted a burro again!
Then, 10 minutes from camp, two horsemen rounded a corner behind us and kindly gave us each a draught of Pisco, a strong Peruvian grape brandy. Warmed up and energised, we set off on our way, and mercifully the rain stopped just long enough for us to pitch our tent.
The night was cold, and after an unsatisfying supper of noodles, we went to sleep, shivering and wondering what the next day, the hardest by far of the trek, would bring.
Day 2 - Up at 6am, and on the road by 6:30. The dreary drenching of the day before was forgotten as we slipped into fresh, dry socks and clothes, and were greeted to a view of the enormous peaks that surrounded our camp, wreathed in cloud and glowing a fiery red in the cold dawn sun. We set off along the trail, which soon, at the head of the valley, swung left and began to climb. I stuffed my cheeks with coca leaves but the ascent was still tough, and every 5 minutes or so I had to stop to regain my breath.At about midday, we thought we were making excellent progress, when we rounded a bend and saw our destination towering above us. Punta Union - 4750 metres high, a gap in a jagged snow topped ridge like a missing tooth. It was at least another 2 hours away, all uphill, and a daunting prospect.
We had no guide on this trek. The trail was well worn and well marked, but in some places was dubious, and we had to pick a path and hope for the best. However, earlier that morning a group of trekkers who were blessed with mules and guides overtook us, unladen with backpacks as they were.
We tried our best to keep them in sight and so follow the best path up to the pass. However, when we were about 300 metres below, we found ourselves on a large expanse of rock, with no footprints to follow. Knowing the general direction, we headed that way, climbing over rock faces, when the fog came down and the hail stone began. It was a disaster. Tash fell and hurt her back, and I started to panic. She was in incredible pain, but we had to get over the pass. I shouldered what I could of her pack, but she still struggled, every step a labour, every breath a fight.
Thankfully, fortune smiled on us that day. The hail subsided after 10 very worrying minutes, and Tash, by some force of inner strength that she summoned from God knows where, forced herself to take step after agonising step until we were at Punta Union. Situated at the tip where two valleys meet, we stepped through the gash in the rock and came out on the other side to meet...the most spectacular view of our lives.
To our right was a wall of ice, a glacier groaning some kilometres away, and below it a teardrop lake of turquoise. To our left stood three spire like peaks, unhidden by cloud for mere moments, as though our arrival was cosmically timed. Straight ahead was our path; a meandering trail down a valley splashed with the blue of lakes.Tash wept with a bittersweet mixture of tears: relief at having climbed the path, awe at the beauty of the scene before us, and anger at me for dragging her up the bloody mountain! We could see our campsite, we just had to get down.
2 hours after reaching the pass we arrived at camp, exhausted but satisfied. The trip down was obviously much easier, and for the last few hundred metres we were practically sprinting. We did 9 hours of walking that day, and from now on climbing passes is something I will restrict to doing in the Lake District, where you can always breathe and are always within walking distance of a good pub!
Day 3 - We struck our tent and were out for 6:30 again, and as today was all downhill, we felt certain we would make good progress. Straight down the valley, past one campsite, to a second camp, leaving a mere 4 hours of walking for the final day.
Well, the best laid plans oft go awry! Within two hours of setting off we stumbled upon two trekkers who had overtaken us the day before. They had lost their guide! We were discussing what to do when he came around the corner, looking none too pleased. We decided to tag along with these trekkers, which was a very fortuitous decision, for all of a sudden the guide turned from the path when we reached a flat plain between the valley sides. "The bridge is out if you carry on that way," he said cheerily.
We finally reached the river that was thundering down the plain, when our adopted guide began to take his shoes off. "We cross here," he said, "The bridge is out!" So, after much deliberation, I took the plunge, and icy water swirled around my booted feet as I waded across. I kept my boots on because I needed balance. The last thing I wanted was for my backpack to go in the river, tent and all. I´d rather have wet shoes! So we got to the other side, and then abandoned our guide. We were lucky to meet him, as later on we bumped into a few people who were not aware the bridge was out, and walked futilely in circles for hours.
The trouble was we had crossed from the path into wild land, and next stumbled into a dense patch of thorny bushes. This is where calamity befell us again. Like the graceless bull I am, I was charging through the trees when I heard Tash scream. Like in a comedy film, a branch had snapped back and caught her right in the eye. Unlike in a comedy film, it wasn´t funny. Once again, I was miles from help with an injured wife. Well, I married a woman with an immense amount of fuerza (strength). Sporting sunglasses and a walking pole, she hobbled down the valley, winking all the way.
Worried about Tash´s eye, we summoned the last of our strength and by the end of the third day had not only reached the second campsite, but the end of the valley itself. We got a bus back to Huaraz, and our lovely hostel owner tended to Tash´s poorly eye. It was a long, fast-paced march through beautiful scenery, but when you´ve been rained on, hailed on, attacked by branches, slept in wet clothes, waded across ice cold rivers and got lost in a marsh, sometimes you just want a nice warm bed.
Tuesday, 12 April 2011
The Sacred Leaf
"La Hoja De Coca No Es Droga!"
this slogan can be seen throughout the Peruvian and Bolivian highlands, daubed on the walls of poor rural shacks, and on buses in the cities of the Andes. It means "the coca leaf is not a drug." for the coca leaf, bane of the West, is sacred in these parts. When chewed, it staves off hunger and fatigue, and prevents altitude sickness. handy when a daily stroll can take you 4000 metres above sea level.
Unfortunately, we think of the coca leaf as the mainstay ingredient in the creation of the fiendish drug cocaine. for this reason, it is illegal for Peru and Bolivia to export the leaf, and crops are regular destroyed as part of the "War On Drugs", with little regard for the farmers that grow the leaf, or the culture of the region that the leaf is grown.
Having spent months in the mountains, I have come to realise that the coca leaf is special, maybe sacred. We did a trek a week ago where we had to climb 4750 metres above sea level. If I did not have that bitter, disgusting tasting leaf packed into a ball in my cheeks like a hamster, I would not have made it.
On the same trek, Tash hurt her eye badly in a tree related incident. If we did not have coca leaves to put in boiling water and bathe her eye, the injury would have been worse.
Chewing coca predates the Incas in Peru. It is ingrained in their culture, and is as far removed from cocaine as digestive biscuits. Therefore, now I know, and say to any ignorant Westerners "La hoja de coca no es droga!"
this slogan can be seen throughout the Peruvian and Bolivian highlands, daubed on the walls of poor rural shacks, and on buses in the cities of the Andes. It means "the coca leaf is not a drug." for the coca leaf, bane of the West, is sacred in these parts. When chewed, it staves off hunger and fatigue, and prevents altitude sickness. handy when a daily stroll can take you 4000 metres above sea level.
Unfortunately, we think of the coca leaf as the mainstay ingredient in the creation of the fiendish drug cocaine. for this reason, it is illegal for Peru and Bolivia to export the leaf, and crops are regular destroyed as part of the "War On Drugs", with little regard for the farmers that grow the leaf, or the culture of the region that the leaf is grown.
Having spent months in the mountains, I have come to realise that the coca leaf is special, maybe sacred. We did a trek a week ago where we had to climb 4750 metres above sea level. If I did not have that bitter, disgusting tasting leaf packed into a ball in my cheeks like a hamster, I would not have made it.
On the same trek, Tash hurt her eye badly in a tree related incident. If we did not have coca leaves to put in boiling water and bathe her eye, the injury would have been worse.
Chewing coca predates the Incas in Peru. It is ingrained in their culture, and is as far removed from cocaine as digestive biscuits. Therefore, now I know, and say to any ignorant Westerners "La hoja de coca no es droga!"
Surfboards & Sandboards
What do you think if you hear the word Peru? Inca ruins perched atop mountains wreathed in cloud? Boats cruising lazily down rivers in the sweltering jungle? Perhaps. What about prisitine beaches, perfect for surfing, or enormous sand dunes rearing out of vast deserts, again perfect, but for the less known sport of sandboarding? Thought not!
We have spent about a month on Peru´s scorching desert coast, being beach bums in the fishing village of Huanchaco, and lazing around the desert oasis of Huacachina. It has been a very chilled, slow-paced, rum-soaked time, and we enjoyed it so much that after a month in the mountains, we are now back in Huanchaco, doing it all over again!
But first, let me tell you about the sandboarding. Imagine snowboarding, but on sand, and there you have it. It is a fun way to kill a few afternoons, but it kills your legs, and sand gets everywhere! Weeks after leaving the oasis town of Huacachina I was finding sand in places I best not mention.
Renting a sandboard costs about 1 pound for 2 or 3 hours, but the majority of that time is spent traipsing up dunes at a snail´s pace. After two days of unsuccessfully trying to descend a dune without falling, I abandoned my board and just decided to run down the dune as fast as possible. Lo and behold, it was more fun than with the board! Granted, I face planted at high speed, winded myself, ate buckets of sand and ripped my trousers, but these are the experience we cross oceans for!
After sandboarding, we had a taste for adventure, and went surfing in Huanchaco. Well, Tash went surfing. I laid down on a big plastic board and paddled around a bit. I surfed 6 years ago in Huanchaco, and was determined to do it again, as standing on the board, riding bodacious waves is an experience like no other. however, after paying for my lesson, squeezing painfully into my wetsuit and paddling into the big blue Pacific, something gave in my back. I tried to stand on my board, but it felt like an elastic band had snapped on my spine and I couldn´t stand up. No matter how hard I tried my back just twinged, refused to straighten, thus leaving me bent over like a puppet with no master, into I fell in the water, and wanted to drown from embarrassment. A 7 year old kid in my class was practically tap dancing on her board.
Tash had much more success. Not exactly like a fish in the water, I was shocked she even tried, but when she got going, she didn´t want to leave! She is now a budding surfer chick, and keeps using words like "gnarly", "radical", and "awesome".
So, Peru, surf mecca. It gave me great pleasure to know that whilst I was sat on a beach licking my ice cream, everyone back home was dreadfully cold, enduring a lovely British winter. Hahahahaha!!!
We have spent about a month on Peru´s scorching desert coast, being beach bums in the fishing village of Huanchaco, and lazing around the desert oasis of Huacachina. It has been a very chilled, slow-paced, rum-soaked time, and we enjoyed it so much that after a month in the mountains, we are now back in Huanchaco, doing it all over again!
But first, let me tell you about the sandboarding. Imagine snowboarding, but on sand, and there you have it. It is a fun way to kill a few afternoons, but it kills your legs, and sand gets everywhere! Weeks after leaving the oasis town of Huacachina I was finding sand in places I best not mention.
Renting a sandboard costs about 1 pound for 2 or 3 hours, but the majority of that time is spent traipsing up dunes at a snail´s pace. After two days of unsuccessfully trying to descend a dune without falling, I abandoned my board and just decided to run down the dune as fast as possible. Lo and behold, it was more fun than with the board! Granted, I face planted at high speed, winded myself, ate buckets of sand and ripped my trousers, but these are the experience we cross oceans for!
After sandboarding, we had a taste for adventure, and went surfing in Huanchaco. Well, Tash went surfing. I laid down on a big plastic board and paddled around a bit. I surfed 6 years ago in Huanchaco, and was determined to do it again, as standing on the board, riding bodacious waves is an experience like no other. however, after paying for my lesson, squeezing painfully into my wetsuit and paddling into the big blue Pacific, something gave in my back. I tried to stand on my board, but it felt like an elastic band had snapped on my spine and I couldn´t stand up. No matter how hard I tried my back just twinged, refused to straighten, thus leaving me bent over like a puppet with no master, into I fell in the water, and wanted to drown from embarrassment. A 7 year old kid in my class was practically tap dancing on her board.
Tash had much more success. Not exactly like a fish in the water, I was shocked she even tried, but when she got going, she didn´t want to leave! She is now a budding surfer chick, and keeps using words like "gnarly", "radical", and "awesome".
So, Peru, surf mecca. It gave me great pleasure to know that whilst I was sat on a beach licking my ice cream, everyone back home was dreadfully cold, enduring a lovely British winter. Hahahahaha!!!
Monday, 11 April 2011
The Pub Toilet
This poem is about the two pubs where I worked during my years at university. It describes what went on in these rough drinking dens, and what I witnessed, not what I did! However, it is a rude, vulgar poem and so my family may want to give it a miss! You have been warned mother!
The Pub Toilet.
Coke snorted, pills popped, joints rolled,
Coins dropped,
Condoms in the toilet bowl.
Sticky floor mopped with piss,
Urinals adorned with fag butts,
A pimply teen sneaks in a mag
And looks at the sluts.
Thew gambler, the drunkard,
The unemplyed, the old and the bored,
The students and the dealers
Drink pint after pint,
Night after night.
They have all placed their arses
On the cold plastic that is never cleaned,
And underneath the johnny machine
Are hardened chunks of collective vomit.
As the crowds pour in and drink
With greed, not thirst,
Local feuds burst, and things are measured
As only best or worst,
And as the men, side by side converse,
They bitch more than housewives at teatime,
And blind eyes are turned to this tiled office
Of small crime.
Weekends mean profits and bad dancing, and
Cloned stories echo of macho
Conquests to be, and conquests had,
Told by every dashing lad,
Who considers himself a bit of a cad.
There are locked cubicles for cocaine and fucking,
Once someone cooked up some heroin
In a MilkyBar wrapper,
And often there´s poo outside of the crapper.
The graffitti is crude, predictable shite,
You can see if Dazzer, or Dust was here last night.
The odour lingers on your fingers, a veneer
On the cracked tiles, polluting your nostrils,
As you stand with your cock out,
Looking straight down.
This is where I work.
The Pub Toilet.
Coke snorted, pills popped, joints rolled,
Coins dropped,
Condoms in the toilet bowl.
Sticky floor mopped with piss,
Urinals adorned with fag butts,
A pimply teen sneaks in a mag
And looks at the sluts.
Thew gambler, the drunkard,
The unemplyed, the old and the bored,
The students and the dealers
Drink pint after pint,
Night after night.
They have all placed their arses
On the cold plastic that is never cleaned,
And underneath the johnny machine
Are hardened chunks of collective vomit.
As the crowds pour in and drink
With greed, not thirst,
Local feuds burst, and things are measured
As only best or worst,
And as the men, side by side converse,
They bitch more than housewives at teatime,
And blind eyes are turned to this tiled office
Of small crime.
Weekends mean profits and bad dancing, and
Cloned stories echo of macho
Conquests to be, and conquests had,
Told by every dashing lad,
Who considers himself a bit of a cad.
There are locked cubicles for cocaine and fucking,
Once someone cooked up some heroin
In a MilkyBar wrapper,
And often there´s poo outside of the crapper.
The graffitti is crude, predictable shite,
You can see if Dazzer, or Dust was here last night.
The odour lingers on your fingers, a veneer
On the cracked tiles, polluting your nostrils,
As you stand with your cock out,
Looking straight down.
This is where I work.
Cuzco
Valley of myth,
Where an empire died,
Where stories are still alive,
Whispered by the grass
You tread, histories divulged by
The living dead.
Golden, visible rays of Sun
Ignite the day and shine a path
Where priests and freaks and shamans run,
To give meaning to this cosmic laugh.
Exploding in a culture clash,
Here stones can speak and their speech is old,
And alone, under stars that see, on streets so cold,
One converses with ghosts, and secrets are told,
And you keep them or spread them, and sell them for gold,
Or turn them to places where tickets are sold.
Cuzco, ancient navel,
Where I am able to see.
Qo´osco, fountain of harmony,
Sing me your songs
Enrapture me.
Where an empire died,
Where stories are still alive,
Whispered by the grass
You tread, histories divulged by
The living dead.
Golden, visible rays of Sun
Ignite the day and shine a path
Where priests and freaks and shamans run,
To give meaning to this cosmic laugh.
Exploding in a culture clash,
Here stones can speak and their speech is old,
And alone, under stars that see, on streets so cold,
One converses with ghosts, and secrets are told,
And you keep them or spread them, and sell them for gold,
Or turn them to places where tickets are sold.
Cuzco, ancient navel,
Where I am able to see.
Qo´osco, fountain of harmony,
Sing me your songs
Enrapture me.
Peruvian Girl
She has the sharp eyes of one
Versed in commerce, but
The girl has dirty clothes.
She peers through the window
Into the other world,
They speak words she doesn´t know
And have infinite precious dollars
To pay for the food she will never taste.
She just wants one for the doll
She is trying to sell.
The man on the other side has a pale face,
And every day eats gourmet food.
He never sees the little Peruvian girls,
They don´t exist in his world.
Versed in commerce, but
The girl has dirty clothes.
She peers through the window
Into the other world,
They speak words she doesn´t know
And have infinite precious dollars
To pay for the food she will never taste.
She just wants one for the doll
She is trying to sell.
The man on the other side has a pale face,
And every day eats gourmet food.
He never sees the little Peruvian girls,
They don´t exist in his world.
Santiago Hangover (October 2010)
The strange yet familiar crescendo of drunkenness,
A dizzying spiral I climb, then stumble
And try to maintain.
Any pillow will do
To end this nonsense.
The next day, a return to
Lucidity via egg and liquids,
Arbitrary words fired off
With no thought.
Sun, Yellow Face!
Fries the synapses
As I lie in parks with fresh grass
And creaky swings.
I have no home for now.
A few bars of music stops
All worrying, and I lie
Content. nothing to be proud of,
And nothing to repent..
A dizzying spiral I climb, then stumble
And try to maintain.
Any pillow will do
To end this nonsense.
The next day, a return to
Lucidity via egg and liquids,
Arbitrary words fired off
With no thought.
Sun, Yellow Face!
Fries the synapses
As I lie in parks with fresh grass
And creaky swings.
I have no home for now.
A few bars of music stops
All worrying, and I lie
Content. nothing to be proud of,
And nothing to repent..
Fate
The loaded dice somebody else rolls for you.
The web of steel shimmering in moonlight
That no blade can cut, no force tear asunder.
Stormclouds as menacing as menacing as a rough sea
That you walk towards, eyes wide with wonder.
Cages we build ourselves, and the ill-fitting key
We throw away before punching out.
Many believe, and still more doubt.
Blessings or curses of ancestral Gods
On dusty pages,
Young and old, more than gold,
The plight of all, and obsession of ages,
Fate. The wild plain we wish to tame,
The uncharted land we desire
To understand.
The web of steel shimmering in moonlight
That no blade can cut, no force tear asunder.
Stormclouds as menacing as menacing as a rough sea
That you walk towards, eyes wide with wonder.
Cages we build ourselves, and the ill-fitting key
We throw away before punching out.
Many believe, and still more doubt.
Blessings or curses of ancestral Gods
On dusty pages,
Young and old, more than gold,
The plight of all, and obsession of ages,
Fate. The wild plain we wish to tame,
The uncharted land we desire
To understand.
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