My last post was pretty damn dark, but cathartic and necessary I feel to set some things straight. Its been a while, now I'm away again in India, studying a couple of IT courses, ready to face the big bad world again. I thought I'd have a sort of round up of the connections and happy coincidences that came my way, the good bits that made it all worthwhile :) here goes:
When deciding to go away, a good six months before, it felt like dark times were ahead. I spent a lot of time in meetings on issues of sustainability with concerned people:- Welsh Assembly members, Climate Change groups, University of Glamorgan and others working towards a Sustainability Collage of the Valleys while completing my studies at the Centre for Alternative Technology. Fuel, food and airline prices were shooting through the roof. The FTSE was falling by hundreds of points daily and gold was being bought up at ridiculous prices. My housemate feared that if petrol prices continued to rise as expected it would not be economic to get to work, even in his fuel efficient little Peugeot.
Personally the time of wandering and traveling was coming to a close, I wanted to settle in one place, and move towards build a resilient home using the design knowledge from CAT, but with no strong commitments and round the world tickets still bucking the trend of short haul price increases I could not resist having a last look see.
Round The World tickets come in a number of flavours, but usually mean you have to travel in one direction around the world, set dates of departure and the limit of a year. I did not like the idea of being tied to a route, and would have preferred to buy single tickets, but that is too expensive, some countries like Australia need proof of onward travel, and maddeningly its often cheaper to buy a return than one-way. There is usually the option to alter flight times cheaply and alter routes at greater expense.
Wireless networks, social networking sites and initiatives like Couch Surfing, Liftshare and Craigslist had reached a level of general awareness, even if few people outside the traveler or young urbanite used them. This to me suggested a new way to travel, I would vagabond about making use of these resources, my own skills of computer fixing, cookery, yoga and massage and see where it would take me. The route was set, but in between I'd no fixed plans, to be open to whatever presented itself, live cheaply, and never book accommodation in advance.
When like a pool game, life seems to offer no obvious shot, there is something to be said for cannoning the ball as hard as you can, so long as you can avoid snookering yourself. Its a gamble, but sometimes you get a feeling that the shot will come off - and saving a few scrapes it did. In nine months of drinking tap water, eating the weirdest things, wandering through dodgy areas, sleeping where I choose - the worst I suffered was culture shock, a sore throat and occasional hiraeth.
Back in Swansea I could not help thinking of Bob Dylan's Hard Rain falling as I recalled some of the many encountered on the trail.
I'd met women and men lost after the break up of marriages, putting on a brave face.
A drunk woman injecting food into the stomach of her cleft pelleted child.
Talked with a stabber, and the stabbed.
A psychiatric nurse who talked of angels.
Advocates of drugs, growers and campaigners against.
Been questioned accusingly by Daoists and Muslims on the same day
Cycled, driven cars, trucks and vans, sailed, motorcycled, hitched, walked long distances in the sun and rain, turned down lifts and been glad of them.
Slept in jungles and forests, palatial and grubby hotel rooms, sofas, floors, beside paths and fires on countless beaches.
Cooked meals in well stocked kitchens, on television and on discrete fires in the hearths of abandoned houses.
Met men with families in the past, or past family making age smoking their lives away in Asian fleapits.
People traumatized seeking solace in expensive therapies.
Met women and children for sale
Men who loved bought women, some worked out after all.
Sites of genocide and gazed upon confounding complex architecture.
Met up with friends from other travels, friends from home, and when people said to look me up if I was in their country I actually did!
Niels Bohr, the great Danish physicist of the Manhattan project said the "The opposite of a trivial truth is false, the opposite of a great truth is also true" and so it seemed with the people I met, as soon as I entertained a prejudice its counter example would present itself within at most a day. I cannot in good heart make any sweeping statements - The travelers view is at best through a cracked looking glass.
As jarring as this may seem I also experienced incredible generosity and truly baffling life affirming coincidences, in every county I visited, I met someone connected with home.
Cambodia - I traveled with my former housemate, and met an outdoor education teacher who knew the staff from the University of Glamorgan. I met an Aberystwyth Graduate who had lived in the same Student Village house I had lived in two years after me!
Vietnam - traveled with a guy from Humboldt State
Malaysia - caught up with my Humboldt pal
Australia - stayed my first night with a CouchSurfer who had stayed with me in Swansea, caught a ride with her fella to Byron Bay, found work on an organic farm. Her architect knew CAT and was visiting Crystal Waters from Brisbane where I'd left my rucksac with my couch surfing pal. The lady whose farm I was staying at was travelling up to Brisbane on just the right day. Visited old family friends in Bundaberg.
I met a lady into partner yoga and permaculture online, and stayed with her, and met some of my heroes. Caught up with two travel buddy from Cambodia, bumped into someone from Nimbin in Melbourne.
Stayed with a colleague in Newcastle, dinned with the director of Celtic Studies, and met someone lovely.
New Zealand - Travelled with the lovely person, visited an old Uni friend, a guy who had been camping in my same spot in Three Cliffs Bay, found an antique shop selling a few items, but significantly the same wedgewood, doulton figures and a soapdish I knew from my grandmothers. A bookshop with five titles on display my authors I had met!
Cook Islands - stayed at a tiny resort, met a guy whose parents lived at Southgate Gower, and frequently wandered the Three Cliffs. Met a lady who invited me to stay at her cabin in the wilds.
US West Coast - Met up with friends from CAT in San Francisco, Stayed in the same hostel in the same bed, quite by chance.
Stayed in the Cabin near lake Tahoe, the girls uncle had met my ex in California through his work.
Stayed in a the room in the same hostel in Portland.
Caught up with friends made two years previously for a wild week of jeeping, sturgeon fishing and target practice in the woods.
In Canada, met up and stayed with the family of a guy I met in Cambodia. Most baffling of all was hitching outside of Merrit, Canada's Country Music Capitol. I had slept in the spare room of a couple who had arrived there after hitching also. After a long and boring walk in the sun I was picket Peter, who had worked not 5 minutes walk from my house in Romsey, new the same landlord, quoted the Autobiography of a Supertramp, a book which has been following me around like a shadow and many other coincidences you would not believe if I told you :)
I met a dear friend in Indiana, an old friend from Swansea flew out to meet me in New York. In New York He and I met Janelle to see a gig, we had met in Cambodia and again in Brisbane, with many stories to share.
What an amazingly small world it can be, the thank yous deserve a post all of their own, but I'll not begin at this hour - as I'll be up all night, have school in the morning and do not want to get all misty eyed and sentimental.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Old Swansea town once more....
Its been six strange weeks since I returned to Swansea, almost daily Facebook, emails and texts prod me to finish the damned blog. So here it is up to date apart from the photos which I've been sorting through.
Returning, it can seem that very little has changed, most friends are living in the same places. Reassuringly they prop up the same bars, a few new businesses have opened or relocated. Though I have a few more grey sparkles nobody else seems to have aged appreciably.
A few little people have arrived, some close friends are now engaged. A recent observation from my lovely Aussie friend after a year in London rings true for me also:-
"Its weird how on the surface nothing has changed, but on a slower deeper level, peoples lives have kept moving forward, sometimes it feels like the traveler is the one standing still."
Rediscovering my books, bikes and driving my truck were new and exciting experiences. Thanks to accommodating friends, I continued the couchsurfing theme, sleeping on 3 couches, 2 beds and my hammock in the first week back. I still have a pack with me most of the time, though much smaller. The habit is so hard to break, and I still keep feeling for my wallet as I get up. I was encouraged to wear shoes, rather than the boots I had worn, almost daily for the whole trip. It was not long before I regretted it, as I was soon in the mud again.
I was fortunate to be able to work a few days after returning, it was a youth group in a woodland setting with another instructor, Rik. A gentle reintroduction with perfect weather, good kids and enthusiastic youth workers. I hope they did not notice my slightly shell shocked appearance, it was odd to be in a position of responsibility again after looking out only for myself and traveling partner all this while. Riks many stories shared around the campfire contained people I knew from my sailing youth.
Packing my kit for work was so easy with all the practice of getting comfortable out of doors, choosing items from my inventory of out door kit. At home, no worries about avoiding police or park wardens, bears, mountain lions, poisonous snakes and spiders, not even mosquitos to bother me as I slept.
Cooking at the Welsh Bushcraft gathering at Margam Country Park was a great success with all the good folk of Dryad together in one place. With help from recently roped in volunteers I cooked self smoked trout and mackerel pate with laverbread bannock, spit roast lamb and saws bara lawr, smoked garlic mash, veggies and apple crumble. We made sure everyone spirits held up despite the weather, even in rain over 1100 people came through the gates.
Now the novelty of being back has worn off I took time to reflect on the adventure. For those not familiar with British understatement, taking time to reflect translated as hearing a silent scream of "What the fuck just happened?" looping constantly through my head, wolfing my meals down like I could not get the blood sugar spike quick enough, waking up at 0417 (why that time exactly?) totally alert, and running a resting heart rate of around 120 instead of the usual 60 bpm as I am now.
In all, I visited eleven countries over nine months, the only certainty in my travel plans was knowing I had to be at the airport at the right time to connect with my departing flight. Over the time, I never booked accommodation in advance. For a larger part of the trip, when I woke up, I had no idea where I would be going to sleep, I just trusted that something would work out, be it an overnight bus, a quiet corner of a city park, an abandoned house, a strangers floor, another couchsurfers home, or a hostel. Now I'm in the bedroom I had as a child, and I totally appreciative of my supportive folks, a comfy bed, free of both parasites AND rodents, it is you will appreciate, also a massive comedown and dent to my pride.
It is so true, that if you move back in with your folks, even temporarily, you do revert to being a child. I've felt really embarrassed at the frankly teenage whining my dear mother has had to put up with, which she has, amazingly well. She is such a star, and now as eldest, the head of what was is sadly now a small family.
My cousin Stephen visited for a long weekend shortly after I returned. His sister Mel, chose to end her life during a religious retreat shortly before my departure, after years of mental anguish, which included a frantic burst of independent travel, periods of hospitalisation, and the last time I saw her, a few weeks before, apparent recovery. Nobody really knows what the trigger was, we think about her daily.
During Steve's stay in Swansea visit we walked, swam and cycled together, and shared long conversations, it was such a relief when we finally got to talk in person after exchanging many emails and online conversations while I was away. He had written a blog about his ongoing process of adapting to his loss, a very courageous thing to do - I'm so proud of him.
He and I have grown closer through the experience, I'm sure it will come as a shock to some readers to learn that I lost my own father in similar circumstances during University. At the same time I lost my remaining Grandparents, a few friends and the mother of one of Jon, one of my dearest and oldest friends. Of the crew of four I sailed with during the long academic holidays I was the only one alive by graduation. Unlike my more emotionally aware cousin and friend I kept pretty quiet about it, preferring obsessive exercise, heavy drinking and solitary walks like a veteran of war. How I got my honours I do not know.
Its so true, you really do not know what something like that feels like unless you experience it for yourself. No amount of words can describe what that feeling is like, and I'm glad, because if words had such power, we would be too terrified to open a book.
Just as I listened to Stephen, he listened to me, our very different experiences of family life, about the other side of travel, that I never thought to put on the this blog. He could not understand the disparity between the posts he was reading and what was coming out in our private conversations. He thought I should post something of the real experience, not just the highlights or the good times but the difficult times also.
He felt I needed to spell things out for people. He said that the impression I gave was of being very self assured, and that to people at home I was ostensibly having a great time, he imagined people were probably a bit jealous, and that they felt a bit silly leaving comments, which is why it seemed like so few people were taking an interest.
This was revelation to me! Every post, I hoped, would be responded to with news from home. In an I'll show you mine if you show me yours kinda thing. "Jealous?" I asked incredulously. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I did it, and I had some real highlights, confounding coincidences, and wonderful people. But a moment please....
How would you expect to feel, going around the world alone trying to bury your fathers ghost?
For the most part if I'm totally honest it was as you would expect - lonely, boring, frustrating, confronting, isolating.... But of course I'm not going to post that on a blog to depress or concern everyone. Least of all my closest family, who were worried for me anyway and had so recently lost one of the other Grandchildren. Do you make holiday movies of rows with your partner? or fill photograph albums with your toddlers tantrums?
I went to the pub last night and met Jon who is enough of a friend to tell me something straight out. We finally got a chance to speak alone and he said a few things that echoed Steve's observations.
Jon felt that I had offended friends at home, and turned people against me by suggesting they lived in a bubble, he conceded it had some truth in it, but added that I was in a traveler's bubble. My bubble was the blog audience of fellow travelers and new friends I had made on the trail. I thought I'd avoided playing the worldly traveler pretty well and was shocked to hear he felt so strongly that way. I truly regret any offence caused.
I have always missed having brothers and sisters, while siblings may get really angry at one another, there will always be a stronger blood connection. I have always envied the security that must come with that. If you get on the wrong side of a clique, you may find yourself entirely alone. My home friends I had thought of as a surrogate family. I feel I give a lot, and maybe unrealistically expect a lot in return.
Specifically I expect people to think I'm a generally a nice bloke, and to be given a bit of leeway considering what I was attempting and what I had experienced . I assumed that the underlying connection was there, but perhaps it wasn't. Looking over the emails I received in response to blog posts, its significant that most were from people who had traveled a lot themselves, relatives or ex-girlfriends.
Jon could not understand why I did not write that I missed my friends and my home town. Well I can only apologise for not posting online in a large font- I thought about you all the time, I had thought that was a given - but I'll say it now
I MISSED YOU !!!!
Every spectacular sunset, I wished someone from home could remember it to recall on overcast days outside the Tav.
How many times in a cafe nursing cold coffee and a dogeared book did I wish I was with the gang in the Uplands Dinner the morning after the night before?
How many bowls of entrail based soups would I swap for a Swansea batch?
Didn't I feel hollow, congratulating school friends on their getting married, buying houses or having children while being the oldest bloke in the hostel, missing my lover, burned out, trying to sleep, with people shagging in the bunk below?
But when people did not respond to posts I made here, send a quick email or the occasional text it was clear I did not have that connection I had always assumed I did, and that really did hurt. Friends I knew would be sending upwards of 10 texts in a typical day, but did not send one my way - I have had that same number for six years and displayed it on my fb profile. I could see wall to wall conversations that people were regularly communicating with one another with even greater frequently as time went on. Like discussing favorite biscuits*
I had been to the site of genocide and interrogation for a paranoid regime, sometimes insanity is collective. I saw people missing faces, dried blood on walls, on ceilings, descriptions of people having their liver eaten while still alive. (When the thought of eating a dead human liver is more acceptable than another option, you know you are somewhere you really oughtn't be) I saw the wooden frame where people were hoisted by their wrists by ropes till they lost consciousness, revived in buckets of shitty water and hoisted again, it was polished smooth! I saw rebar fashioned into shackles thinner than my wrists designed for the ankles of children. I was filled with disgust and pure sympathy, how many people were perpetrators? how many victims? all of them really. Stoned, missing a girl from home, wondering if I should come home early, wondering why she had not responded, then accosted by a child prostitute who made a dive into the room. Out and proud as they come, not the innocent kids I'd naively assumed. In fluent English he threatened to tell the police I had drugs when told him to go away. At the beach, kids with legs blown off by a landmine, what a waste! One nerve calming beer later, a six year old pointed a long firework into a lit candle on the table, and threatened to tell the police I'd felt him up if I did not give him money. I was pretty sure he was bluffing, but who knows here? Could I really be extortable by this kid? What happens if you are seen giving money to that child rather than the one who stepped on the toe-popper, a further set up, more bribes?. Damn that weed was strong. In Cambodia I can well believe you can pay to shoot someone as sport, because the family need the money that badly. I cannot believe I threatened a six year old with a glass. The look in his eyes showed the capacity for such cruelty was in me as well, if only in make believe.
I'd only seen what was now a museum, and had a minor hassle from some street smart kids, but the forces that produced them both were among us, and within us, the atmosphere was so heavy, the pain so deep, it touched me in a way that pushed really primal self preservation buttons. Here I was confronted with unscripted horror, the great unknown, and about to embark on another eight months of it.
Days later, escaping the sun baked insanity outside, to the relative calm of a slow internet connection and noisy air conditioning. I logged in expectantly, at that point, all I hoped to read was a simple hello, simply anything from back home, a few words like how Friday night at the pub went, but nothing! Perhaps I should have just stated my case for milk chocolate hobnobs as best biscuit.
*It wasn't actually biscuits it was something else, I don't want anyone to feel targeted by this.
If anyone feels that reading Steve's blog could in some way help them with a similar tragedy it can be found here www.stevesthoughts.blog.co.uk
Returning, it can seem that very little has changed, most friends are living in the same places. Reassuringly they prop up the same bars, a few new businesses have opened or relocated. Though I have a few more grey sparkles nobody else seems to have aged appreciably.
A few little people have arrived, some close friends are now engaged. A recent observation from my lovely Aussie friend after a year in London rings true for me also:-
"Its weird how on the surface nothing has changed, but on a slower deeper level, peoples lives have kept moving forward, sometimes it feels like the traveler is the one standing still."
Rediscovering my books, bikes and driving my truck were new and exciting experiences. Thanks to accommodating friends, I continued the couchsurfing theme, sleeping on 3 couches, 2 beds and my hammock in the first week back. I still have a pack with me most of the time, though much smaller. The habit is so hard to break, and I still keep feeling for my wallet as I get up. I was encouraged to wear shoes, rather than the boots I had worn, almost daily for the whole trip. It was not long before I regretted it, as I was soon in the mud again.
I was fortunate to be able to work a few days after returning, it was a youth group in a woodland setting with another instructor, Rik. A gentle reintroduction with perfect weather, good kids and enthusiastic youth workers. I hope they did not notice my slightly shell shocked appearance, it was odd to be in a position of responsibility again after looking out only for myself and traveling partner all this while. Riks many stories shared around the campfire contained people I knew from my sailing youth.
Packing my kit for work was so easy with all the practice of getting comfortable out of doors, choosing items from my inventory of out door kit. At home, no worries about avoiding police or park wardens, bears, mountain lions, poisonous snakes and spiders, not even mosquitos to bother me as I slept.
Cooking at the Welsh Bushcraft gathering at Margam Country Park was a great success with all the good folk of Dryad together in one place. With help from recently roped in volunteers I cooked self smoked trout and mackerel pate with laverbread bannock, spit roast lamb and saws bara lawr, smoked garlic mash, veggies and apple crumble. We made sure everyone spirits held up despite the weather, even in rain over 1100 people came through the gates.
Now the novelty of being back has worn off I took time to reflect on the adventure. For those not familiar with British understatement, taking time to reflect translated as hearing a silent scream of "What the fuck just happened?" looping constantly through my head, wolfing my meals down like I could not get the blood sugar spike quick enough, waking up at 0417 (why that time exactly?) totally alert, and running a resting heart rate of around 120 instead of the usual 60 bpm as I am now.
In all, I visited eleven countries over nine months, the only certainty in my travel plans was knowing I had to be at the airport at the right time to connect with my departing flight. Over the time, I never booked accommodation in advance. For a larger part of the trip, when I woke up, I had no idea where I would be going to sleep, I just trusted that something would work out, be it an overnight bus, a quiet corner of a city park, an abandoned house, a strangers floor, another couchsurfers home, or a hostel. Now I'm in the bedroom I had as a child, and I totally appreciative of my supportive folks, a comfy bed, free of both parasites AND rodents, it is you will appreciate, also a massive comedown and dent to my pride.
It is so true, that if you move back in with your folks, even temporarily, you do revert to being a child. I've felt really embarrassed at the frankly teenage whining my dear mother has had to put up with, which she has, amazingly well. She is such a star, and now as eldest, the head of what was is sadly now a small family.
My cousin Stephen visited for a long weekend shortly after I returned. His sister Mel, chose to end her life during a religious retreat shortly before my departure, after years of mental anguish, which included a frantic burst of independent travel, periods of hospitalisation, and the last time I saw her, a few weeks before, apparent recovery. Nobody really knows what the trigger was, we think about her daily.
During Steve's stay in Swansea visit we walked, swam and cycled together, and shared long conversations, it was such a relief when we finally got to talk in person after exchanging many emails and online conversations while I was away. He had written a blog about his ongoing process of adapting to his loss, a very courageous thing to do - I'm so proud of him.
He and I have grown closer through the experience, I'm sure it will come as a shock to some readers to learn that I lost my own father in similar circumstances during University. At the same time I lost my remaining Grandparents, a few friends and the mother of one of Jon, one of my dearest and oldest friends. Of the crew of four I sailed with during the long academic holidays I was the only one alive by graduation. Unlike my more emotionally aware cousin and friend I kept pretty quiet about it, preferring obsessive exercise, heavy drinking and solitary walks like a veteran of war. How I got my honours I do not know.
Its so true, you really do not know what something like that feels like unless you experience it for yourself. No amount of words can describe what that feeling is like, and I'm glad, because if words had such power, we would be too terrified to open a book.
Just as I listened to Stephen, he listened to me, our very different experiences of family life, about the other side of travel, that I never thought to put on the this blog. He could not understand the disparity between the posts he was reading and what was coming out in our private conversations. He thought I should post something of the real experience, not just the highlights or the good times but the difficult times also.
He felt I needed to spell things out for people. He said that the impression I gave was of being very self assured, and that to people at home I was ostensibly having a great time, he imagined people were probably a bit jealous, and that they felt a bit silly leaving comments, which is why it seemed like so few people were taking an interest.
This was revelation to me! Every post, I hoped, would be responded to with news from home. In an I'll show you mine if you show me yours kinda thing. "Jealous?" I asked incredulously. Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I did it, and I had some real highlights, confounding coincidences, and wonderful people. But a moment please....
How would you expect to feel, going around the world alone trying to bury your fathers ghost?
For the most part if I'm totally honest it was as you would expect - lonely, boring, frustrating, confronting, isolating.... But of course I'm not going to post that on a blog to depress or concern everyone. Least of all my closest family, who were worried for me anyway and had so recently lost one of the other Grandchildren. Do you make holiday movies of rows with your partner? or fill photograph albums with your toddlers tantrums?
I went to the pub last night and met Jon who is enough of a friend to tell me something straight out. We finally got a chance to speak alone and he said a few things that echoed Steve's observations.
Jon felt that I had offended friends at home, and turned people against me by suggesting they lived in a bubble, he conceded it had some truth in it, but added that I was in a traveler's bubble. My bubble was the blog audience of fellow travelers and new friends I had made on the trail. I thought I'd avoided playing the worldly traveler pretty well and was shocked to hear he felt so strongly that way. I truly regret any offence caused.
I have always missed having brothers and sisters, while siblings may get really angry at one another, there will always be a stronger blood connection. I have always envied the security that must come with that. If you get on the wrong side of a clique, you may find yourself entirely alone. My home friends I had thought of as a surrogate family. I feel I give a lot, and maybe unrealistically expect a lot in return.
Specifically I expect people to think I'm a generally a nice bloke, and to be given a bit of leeway considering what I was attempting and what I had experienced . I assumed that the underlying connection was there, but perhaps it wasn't. Looking over the emails I received in response to blog posts, its significant that most were from people who had traveled a lot themselves, relatives or ex-girlfriends.
Jon could not understand why I did not write that I missed my friends and my home town. Well I can only apologise for not posting online in a large font- I thought about you all the time, I had thought that was a given - but I'll say it now
I MISSED YOU !!!!
Every spectacular sunset, I wished someone from home could remember it to recall on overcast days outside the Tav.
How many times in a cafe nursing cold coffee and a dogeared book did I wish I was with the gang in the Uplands Dinner the morning after the night before?
How many bowls of entrail based soups would I swap for a Swansea batch?
Didn't I feel hollow, congratulating school friends on their getting married, buying houses or having children while being the oldest bloke in the hostel, missing my lover, burned out, trying to sleep, with people shagging in the bunk below?
But when people did not respond to posts I made here, send a quick email or the occasional text it was clear I did not have that connection I had always assumed I did, and that really did hurt. Friends I knew would be sending upwards of 10 texts in a typical day, but did not send one my way - I have had that same number for six years and displayed it on my fb profile. I could see wall to wall conversations that people were regularly communicating with one another with even greater frequently as time went on. Like discussing favorite biscuits*
I had been to the site of genocide and interrogation for a paranoid regime, sometimes insanity is collective. I saw people missing faces, dried blood on walls, on ceilings, descriptions of people having their liver eaten while still alive. (When the thought of eating a dead human liver is more acceptable than another option, you know you are somewhere you really oughtn't be) I saw the wooden frame where people were hoisted by their wrists by ropes till they lost consciousness, revived in buckets of shitty water and hoisted again, it was polished smooth! I saw rebar fashioned into shackles thinner than my wrists designed for the ankles of children. I was filled with disgust and pure sympathy, how many people were perpetrators? how many victims? all of them really. Stoned, missing a girl from home, wondering if I should come home early, wondering why she had not responded, then accosted by a child prostitute who made a dive into the room. Out and proud as they come, not the innocent kids I'd naively assumed. In fluent English he threatened to tell the police I had drugs when told him to go away. At the beach, kids with legs blown off by a landmine, what a waste! One nerve calming beer later, a six year old pointed a long firework into a lit candle on the table, and threatened to tell the police I'd felt him up if I did not give him money. I was pretty sure he was bluffing, but who knows here? Could I really be extortable by this kid? What happens if you are seen giving money to that child rather than the one who stepped on the toe-popper, a further set up, more bribes?. Damn that weed was strong. In Cambodia I can well believe you can pay to shoot someone as sport, because the family need the money that badly. I cannot believe I threatened a six year old with a glass. The look in his eyes showed the capacity for such cruelty was in me as well, if only in make believe.
I'd only seen what was now a museum, and had a minor hassle from some street smart kids, but the forces that produced them both were among us, and within us, the atmosphere was so heavy, the pain so deep, it touched me in a way that pushed really primal self preservation buttons. Here I was confronted with unscripted horror, the great unknown, and about to embark on another eight months of it.
Days later, escaping the sun baked insanity outside, to the relative calm of a slow internet connection and noisy air conditioning. I logged in expectantly, at that point, all I hoped to read was a simple hello, simply anything from back home, a few words like how Friday night at the pub went, but nothing! Perhaps I should have just stated my case for milk chocolate hobnobs as best biscuit.
*It wasn't actually biscuits it was something else, I don't want anyone to feel targeted by this.
If anyone feels that reading Steve's blog could in some way help them with a similar tragedy it can be found here www.stevesthoughts.blog.co.uk
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
New York
New York is very compact, and felt like a very livable city, nobody drives in New York, there is too much traffic! (Futurama quote) I bought a seven day pass for both busses and subway for $23 dollars, which has to be the biggest bargain in town. Just as well, as the accommodation was the most expensive so far. Hugh did not like the idea of couch surfing or bivouacking in Central Park, which had a certain appeal for me.
Thanks to facebook I learned that my friend Janelle, who I had met in Cambodia, who showed me the sights of Sydney, was now in New York. She was on her second holiday, while I had still me been moving, not knowing where I was staying from one night to the next. The three of us went to a gig, explored Times Square and had a pretty awful meal. It seemed the area of town was devoid of good eating spots at that time, but walking back we realized we were only a few streets away from the mother-lode.
My friend from home had been tee-total for about four years, I had been looking forward to his company especially as I do not drink much anymore. It was a surprise therefore when the pair of us left a lock-in at 5am, drunk as skunks!
By anybody's standards New York is a beautiful city, though there were so many attractions, just wandering around and gawping at the toned and tanned and the architecture was entertainment enough. We both enjoyed Greenwich Village and Little Italy the most, the eating was excellent, but an included 20% service charge seemed excessive. I was glad to be headed to a place where tipping in bars is the exception, rather than the norm, and the glasses are bigger!
Thanks to facebook I learned that my friend Janelle, who I had met in Cambodia, who showed me the sights of Sydney, was now in New York. She was on her second holiday, while I had still me been moving, not knowing where I was staying from one night to the next. The three of us went to a gig, explored Times Square and had a pretty awful meal. It seemed the area of town was devoid of good eating spots at that time, but walking back we realized we were only a few streets away from the mother-lode.
My friend from home had been tee-total for about four years, I had been looking forward to his company especially as I do not drink much anymore. It was a surprise therefore when the pair of us left a lock-in at 5am, drunk as skunks!
By anybody's standards New York is a beautiful city, though there were so many attractions, just wandering around and gawping at the toned and tanned and the architecture was entertainment enough. We both enjoyed Greenwich Village and Little Italy the most, the eating was excellent, but an included 20% service charge seemed excessive. I was glad to be headed to a place where tipping in bars is the exception, rather than the norm, and the glasses are bigger!
Indiana
Peter had driven me all the way to Montreal, from where I was due to fly to Indiana, to meet Michelle. We had been friends since my last US adventure, and regularly emailed from opposite sides of the Atlantic. A fascinating time of correspondence, during which the worlds financial systems came unstuck, the change as the US administration switched to one of hope - and she left the hippy ecotopia of a liberal arts college amongst the giant redwoods of Northern California for Purdue, her highly respected grad school surrounded by endless plains of soybeans and Indian corn.
Taking in the cost of flights vs. bus journeys, and the various people I wanted to see, the cheapest and quickest option was to fly from Montreal though it meant doubling back. I had long hoped to visit the city, the famous Jazz festival was on soon, and I would loved to have caught up with an ex-girlfriend who had returned to her home there.
Besides the University, Indiana is famous for motor racing, farming and religiosity. People looked at me like I was special, in the short bus sense, when I told them of my plans to go there. One friend said to me, if you want to to see real America, then there it is. So far it felt I had only seen the beautiful bits. For many more, this flat land of parking lots, strip malls and monocultures was more representative. The sky seems bigger there, the clouds are fluffy, and the distances vast. This was the suburbia of The End of Suburbia, where every journey began not with a single footstep, but reaching for the keys to a pickup truck.
With such huge distanced between places I find it hard to imagine a real sense of community. I felt the loss for my friend who had won a scholarship to study here. After a six hour drive to her home, during which we picked up a speeding ticket (Minutes after remarking on the lack of cops! ) I was pleased to see she had found a really nice house she had bought for a song. Her research interests will encourage greater use of biogas in the region. Such technologies and the ideologies that support them are common on the West Coast, but have yet to make an impact in this area of TV dinners and televangelists. It could not possibly be as bad as everyone thought, the university was founded in 1869 but classes did not begin in 1874, Aberystwyth, my own university was founded in 1872.
We explored the National Park with its huge nettles and lost world feel I doubt many believe actually exist in those parts. The nettles were bigger than my hand span. It was wonderful to see my friend, enjoy her cooking, and her enthusiasm for her work and new lifestyle.
Michelle drove me to the airport, I slept on the way, I was sorry it had been such a fleeting visit, and I had not managed to stay conscious for the last of it. I was also excited to see New York, choosing the flight to get me in the Big Apple in the late afternoon. My good friend, Hugh from Swansea was due to join me for the last leg. I was looking forward to getting my bearings before he arrived, but I did not touch down until nearer 23:00. Still carrying out my plan of not booking accommodation in advance I was expecting to sleep at the airport.
Nothing unites like a crisis, and this delay did get the passengers talking, I met a guy who owned an IT training company who had run for elections to the Indian Congress party who showed me youtube videos of his rally attended by 25,000, who asked for my CV.
I sat next to Sebastian, a trombonist and member of a conservatory in the city we chatted for most of the flight about all kinds of things especially I remember listening rapt as he talked about improvisation in composition. When I told him tales of all the generosity I had received, he was as amazed as I had been, and joined the chain of other wonderful folk, by putting me up. He was moving out the next day and I offered to help in return. His housemates (roomies) were nervous about a a stranger staying, so I ended up crashing on Seb's floor on my Thermarest, people like him really do make a difference.
Thankyou all
Taking in the cost of flights vs. bus journeys, and the various people I wanted to see, the cheapest and quickest option was to fly from Montreal though it meant doubling back. I had long hoped to visit the city, the famous Jazz festival was on soon, and I would loved to have caught up with an ex-girlfriend who had returned to her home there.
Besides the University, Indiana is famous for motor racing, farming and religiosity. People looked at me like I was special, in the short bus sense, when I told them of my plans to go there. One friend said to me, if you want to to see real America, then there it is. So far it felt I had only seen the beautiful bits. For many more, this flat land of parking lots, strip malls and monocultures was more representative. The sky seems bigger there, the clouds are fluffy, and the distances vast. This was the suburbia of The End of Suburbia, where every journey began not with a single footstep, but reaching for the keys to a pickup truck.
With such huge distanced between places I find it hard to imagine a real sense of community. I felt the loss for my friend who had won a scholarship to study here. After a six hour drive to her home, during which we picked up a speeding ticket (Minutes after remarking on the lack of cops! ) I was pleased to see she had found a really nice house she had bought for a song. Her research interests will encourage greater use of biogas in the region. Such technologies and the ideologies that support them are common on the West Coast, but have yet to make an impact in this area of TV dinners and televangelists. It could not possibly be as bad as everyone thought, the university was founded in 1869 but classes did not begin in 1874, Aberystwyth, my own university was founded in 1872.
We explored the National Park with its huge nettles and lost world feel I doubt many believe actually exist in those parts. The nettles were bigger than my hand span. It was wonderful to see my friend, enjoy her cooking, and her enthusiasm for her work and new lifestyle.
Michelle drove me to the airport, I slept on the way, I was sorry it had been such a fleeting visit, and I had not managed to stay conscious for the last of it. I was also excited to see New York, choosing the flight to get me in the Big Apple in the late afternoon. My good friend, Hugh from Swansea was due to join me for the last leg. I was looking forward to getting my bearings before he arrived, but I did not touch down until nearer 23:00. Still carrying out my plan of not booking accommodation in advance I was expecting to sleep at the airport.
Nothing unites like a crisis, and this delay did get the passengers talking, I met a guy who owned an IT training company who had run for elections to the Indian Congress party who showed me youtube videos of his rally attended by 25,000, who asked for my CV.
I sat next to Sebastian, a trombonist and member of a conservatory in the city we chatted for most of the flight about all kinds of things especially I remember listening rapt as he talked about improvisation in composition. When I told him tales of all the generosity I had received, he was as amazed as I had been, and joined the chain of other wonderful folk, by putting me up. He was moving out the next day and I offered to help in return. His housemates (roomies) were nervous about a a stranger staying, so I ended up crashing on Seb's floor on my Thermarest, people like him really do make a difference.
Thankyou all
Winnipeg
Was where which I caught up with Justin, a massage therapist I had met in Cambodia. People had wondered why I had wanted to go that town in the middle of North America, I have learned to be selective in whose advice I take. What I call colourful others call sketchy. People had warned me that the place had the highest murder rate in Canada, and was also full of witches!
I had also heard, that the town was a hotbed social activism. Justin had found it very difficult to adjust back into life in Canada after his three month adventure in Cambodia. He loved Bodhi Villa so much he returned to sell his services at that cool riverside chillout spot. Crossing into Thailand the police stole his earnings, and even distributed his duty free cigarettes around the other uniformed thieves.
I talked his ear off from 10 am till 13:30 straight, till he brought me to his place, Oikos is a Greek word for a house run as a family, a housing cooperative, that had been running since the 1970s, the nine housemates were able to share a fantastic space, with plenty of room for instruments including pianos, a drum kit and a huge choice of sofas to crash on. I had a lovely time, saw a puppet show, received massage and reiki at the same time from two different people and many healthy veggie meals.
I had also heard, that the town was a hotbed social activism. Justin had found it very difficult to adjust back into life in Canada after his three month adventure in Cambodia. He loved Bodhi Villa so much he returned to sell his services at that cool riverside chillout spot. Crossing into Thailand the police stole his earnings, and even distributed his duty free cigarettes around the other uniformed thieves.
I talked his ear off from 10 am till 13:30 straight, till he brought me to his place, Oikos is a Greek word for a house run as a family, a housing cooperative, that had been running since the 1970s, the nine housemates were able to share a fantastic space, with plenty of room for instruments including pianos, a drum kit and a huge choice of sofas to crash on. I had a lovely time, saw a puppet show, received massage and reiki at the same time from two different people and many healthy veggie meals.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Hitching across Canada....
Following the advice from the Craigslist guy, I caught a bus to the last stop at the edge of town the next morning, where a lady with bags overflowing with groceries gave me a bunch of bananas, grapes, an apple, and even cut me a chunk from her huge block of Tillamook cheese. She said she had children who had gone traveling, who had always been looked after on the road, and thought she would pay it forward. Over and over on this trip I have experienced such random acts of kindness. I was proud to tell the tale of my folks picking up hitchhikers in Tescos in Swansea, they brought them back to the house, to pitch their tent in the back garden, and served them a great meal which included crumbed monkfish and crab claws.
Hitching is illegal on the main highways in Canada, positioning is critical, but more accepted here than in the US. It is the same case between NZ and Austrailia. In the UK I have often picked up hitch hikers, many of whom have been service men. Probably because they are unafraid, used to mucking in with strangers, and often find themselves in different locations without transport, on not much money.
Hitching is always an adventure, and touch wood, all my experiences have been good. The last time I attempted to hitch in the UK was from Hillend Campsite in Llangenith back to the town centre. I had a punnet of strawberries, and held them prominently instead of the universal thumb sign. This was on a busy, summer day, where traffic was at a crawl or stopped giving plenty of time for folk to make a judgement call. Friends! Though I have a beard, and often wear stained trousers, I am hardly a scary looking character.
I was eventually picked up by someone I knew who was able to drop me in Gorseinon. Now on a bus route I was able to get into town, but no bugger would stop as I walked along eating the strawberries – they were big Gower ones too! The filthy looks you get, especially from that same demographic who complain about how things were better in their day, and decry the youth of today. To whom I say:-
"You were young then and you are the generation that raised them, how dare you write off the young as hooligans? Your prejudice and fearfulness is every bit as much of the problem as their perceived aggression."
I really believe the stranger danger message drummed into us has kids has helped make the UK one of the most fearful places I have ever been
Interestingly the people who have showed such genorosity and trust, by inviting me into their homes and giving rides do not generally live with televisions. Perhaps this is why they are less fearful, or maybe they are a select goup who really enjoy conversation. Of the many couches I have surfed on this trip, only a handful had sets, and of those we only watched selectively. Almost all however had internet connections, large book collections and cooked very well.
I want to be picked up by the sort of people who pick up hitch hikers. They are generally nice folk, who have hitchhiked themselves, they know what its like to walk with a heavy pack in the sun, while huge air conditioned trucks pass with just one person in them, for hour after hour.
Thankfully Canada is a country known for its niceness, it is the only country I decided to visit because of the good experiences I have had with their stock. Four rides in quick succession got me to Merritt, Canada's Country music capitol. Thankfully I arrived just after the festival, and stretched out on a log by the river to snooze. I could not imagine much luck hitching onward from this ghost town in darkness, and was waiting for the few people around to depart before setting up my shelter.
A young couple approached, realising I was a hitchhiker – they had also arrived at the town by hitchhiking but had decided to stay. We swam in the river, which was refreshing, the wide, empty concrete streets shimmered in heat even now, as dusk was approaching.
Mark and his girlfriend invited me to stay with them, a very interesting chap – he and a friend had discovered dinosaur footprints in his home town of Tumbler Ridge, causing a media storm. The ex-mining town, only on the bones of its arse was now thriving.
We shared an enjoyable time, a meal of moose steak, ate the truffles then sang along to The Lion King and played with his tarantula.
Once again, I had met friendly people, who took me in, and looked after me. I would have enjoyed taking up their offer to go rock jumping, but time was pressing, I still had a lot of country to cover.
Getting out of Merrit was easy enough, but once outside the town, the traffic slowed right down. Hitching on highway 1 was illegal, but 1a – the older, and quieter road was ok. I watched a constant steam on the first, but only a few every ten minutes or so bypassed me. Many of the vehicles had couples, who rarely stop, cars full of camping gear with no space, and trade vehicles who are often not allowed to offer rides.
As I was cursing humanity for their lack of trust, and wastefulness a Volvo pulled into the layby. I used to have one, in conversation we found out we had both had to replace the headlamp. A lot of the early stages of conversation, is unconciously establishing whether we are from the same tribe. It was not long therefore that I discovered he had worked at a vineyard no more than 5 mins from a house I lived in, and frequented the same pubs. Over the next few hours other coincidences kept popping up.
Peter, the driver had a wealth of stories, gathered over 40 years of travel as a road surveyor and other jobs. Originally from Scotland, he had lived and worked in Austrailia, NZ, Canada, USA, been arrested in Argentina in the 1970s as an extemist, and had a lucky escape. He had lived in India with barely more than a loin cloth and bedding roll. It was a pleasure to sit back and hear his tales, rather than telling my own.
A self described christian-romantic-existentialist he was on a nostalgic jour
ney across the country. We watched the scenery unfold as we discussed Walt Whitman, road construction, the Beat poets, his experiences with shamans and of course existentialism.We broke our journey in a wood, where he brought out a salmon risotto and a beer, I unrolled my bivi bag and blanket, while he made up his usual bed in the back of the big volvo. Every sound I imagined to be a grizzly or mountian lion, but managed to sleep well, feeling refreshed and waking early as I always do, when I sleep outside.
Spoiled rotten in Seattle, Vancouver and Victoria
Washington had been a blast, with so 
many experiences to file away, I was content to muse over as I rode the Amtrack North to Seattle. On a long warm evening I met up with Natalia, a friend from Humboldt who had moved to study her Masters in Physical Therapy. She took me to her lectures to the gym and for dinner and easy conversation. What a contrast to the previous weeks excesses. We spent an enjoyable time sharing photographs and healthy meals.
I rode the greyhound from Seattle, uneventful save that one Sikh guy was peeing with the door open. One lady shouted out, you are not in India now, and threatened to punch him! If she had been there, she would not be shocked, and think twice about abusing members of an ancient warrior caste.
Vancouver has been described as Vansterdam for its excellent BC Bud, and liberal views. I wondered what the laws on entheogenic plants was, and entered a head shop. I got talking to one of the staff, who offered me some truffle chocolates. She made them herself and suggested I drop by if I wanted to buy any. Her apartment was again televisonless and stacked with books, plants and art. We drank many cups of tea as we shared photographs. A little later, bowls were filled with salmon chowder, caught by a friend. Later a fresh leafy salad and homemade cake emerged.
I was so well looked after, once again warm-hearted folk had invited me in, and made me feel totally welcome. What a run of good fortune, this had been my experience the whole distance as I traveled up the West Coast. By the evening I had accepted the housemates invitation to stay for the upcoming Salmon BBQ, an annual event to raise money for the fire fighters. The organization of this event at the farmers market fell to my host - who made up the sofa bed. Described as an interesting anti-cultural experience, I was taken to watch the Ultimate Fighting Contest by her boyfriend. I could not believe what I was really watching these pituitary retards beat their skulls together, stirring the crowd to near frenzy. I went to yet another party, then returned to the house. The preparations kept my hosts up late, nobody got more than a few hours sleep.
Despite the early start, we remained in good humor, the BBQ being a huge success. The Salmon tasted even better for the anticipation, and shifting heavy tables.
The girl's flat had was in a big pink 1980s apartment complex, with a pool, floating on my back, letting the strains evapourate I felt especially lucky. This was my first experience of Canadian hospitality, what a treasure these folks are.
I searched Craigslist for a ride across Canada, one offer sounded promising, 58 hours straight driving in a van with a guy and his dog, from Vancouver to the East coast.
Before leaving I decided to visit Mark and his family in Victoria, standing inline I one of the passengers offered me a ride to the ferry terminal, what a friendly place. Mark, and his daughter Kate were staying in the same accommodation in Cambodia before picking up their motorcycles to rode through Vietnam. I stayed for dinner during which Kate shared tales of Indian bus journeys which included peeing in a zip lock bag, when the driver refused to stop. She told a chilling tale of a stalker, which is sadly not the first one I have heard. Such a luxury to sleep in a real bed, for the first time in weeks, then spent the next day at the Royal museum. A fine lunch by the sea with Mark's wife, then dinner in town before we rode on his Harley Davidson to reach the ferry.
The ferry operated a reduced schedule, I had been lucky to catch the last ferry. I was a bit nervous as I had not yet managed to contact the man with the dog. I stocked up on food for the journey, and bought some exotic fruits to share with the girls who had not only put me up on their sofa, but even made me breakfast in bed with a pot of tea! Eventually the guy rang to apologize that his vehicle could not make it, but gave me lots of hitch hiking tips.
many experiences to file away, I was content to muse over as I rode the Amtrack North to Seattle. On a long warm evening I met up with Natalia, a friend from Humboldt who had moved to study her Masters in Physical Therapy. She took me to her lectures to the gym and for dinner and easy conversation. What a contrast to the previous weeks excesses. We spent an enjoyable time sharing photographs and healthy meals.I rode the greyhound from Seattle, uneventful save that one Sikh guy was peeing with the door open. One lady shouted out, you are not in India now, and threatened to punch him! If she had been there, she would not be shocked, and think twice about abusing members of an ancient warrior caste.
Vancouver has been described as Vansterdam for its excellent BC Bud, and liberal views. I wondered what the laws on entheogenic plants was, and entered a head shop. I got talking to one of the staff, who offered me some truffle chocolates. She made them herself and suggested I drop by if I wanted to buy any. Her apartment was again televisonless and stacked with books, plants and art. We drank many cups of tea as we shared photographs. A little later, bowls were filled with salmon chowder, caught by a friend. Later a fresh leafy salad and homemade cake emerged.
I was so well looked after, once again warm-hearted folk had invited me in, and made me feel totally welcome. What a run of good fortune, this had been my experience the whole distance as I traveled up the West Coast. By the evening I had accepted the housemates invitation to stay for the upcoming Salmon BBQ, an annual event to raise money for the fire fighters. The organization of this event at the farmers market fell to my host - who made up the sofa bed. Described as an interesting anti-cultural experience, I was taken to watch the Ultimate Fighting Contest by her boyfriend. I could not believe what I was really watching these pituitary retards beat their skulls together, stirring the crowd to near frenzy. I went to yet another party, then returned to the house. The preparations kept my hosts up late, nobody got more than a few hours sleep.
Despite the early start, we remained in good humor, the BBQ being a huge success. The Salmon tasted even better for the anticipation, and shifting heavy tables.
The girl's flat had was in a big pink 1980s apartment complex, with a pool, floating on my back, letting the strains evapourate I felt especially lucky. This was my first experience of Canadian hospitality, what a treasure these folks are.
I searched Craigslist for a ride across Canada, one offer sounded promising, 58 hours straight driving in a van with a guy and his dog, from Vancouver to the East coast.
Before leaving I decided to visit Mark and his family in Victoria, standing inline I one of the passengers offered me a ride to the ferry terminal, what a friendly place. Mark, and his daughter Kate were staying in the same accommodation in Cambodia before picking up their motorcycles to rode through Vietnam. I stayed for dinner during which Kate shared tales of Indian bus journeys which included peeing in a zip lock bag, when the driver refused to stop. She told a chilling tale of a stalker, which is sadly not the first one I have heard. Such a luxury to sleep in a real bed, for the first time in weeks, then spent the next day at the Royal museum. A fine lunch by the sea with Mark's wife, then dinner in town before we rode on his Harley Davidson to reach the ferry.
The ferry operated a reduced schedule, I had been lucky to catch the last ferry. I was a bit nervous as I had not yet managed to contact the man with the dog. I stocked up on food for the journey, and bought some exotic fruits to share with the girls who had not only put me up on their sofa, but even made me breakfast in bed with a pot of tea! Eventually the guy rang to apologize that his vehicle could not make it, but gave me lots of hitch hiking tips.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Portland and beyond
I was sorry to leave fallen leaf, well aware the city would seem a shock after a full week in the mountains. We said our goodbyes over lunch in the nearest town, even this felt a little alien after the peace of the cabin. I rode the amtrak to Portland eager to spend a few days in Powells, the worlds largest bookstore – it occupies a whole city block, 600 x 600 feet, on four floors.
For nostlgias sake I chose to stay in the same hippy hostel on Hawthorne.
I was placed in the same room, again quite by chance – though this time in the bed my comanion had slept in on the last trip.
There was to be a book reading on Powells top floor, a romance novel about entheogenic plants, a subject I have always been fascinted by. I asked if there were any questions she would like asked, it is often reassuring to know at least one person in the audience will ask something you can speak at length about. Though I doubt silence ever follows a reading, it is a fear the debut novelist could do without.
She read aloud a description of the production on sensimelia, a potent type of marijuana produced by mistreating the plant, and keeping males far from her, so in frustration her colitas engorge and become sticky with trichomes in the hope of receiving pollen. I had tingles hearing it, I had always considered MJ is a very feminine herb in every sense, but never thought to use such racy verbage to describe the herbage.
She signed a copy of her book for my lovely writer friend from Oz and gave me her email to post some of my own experiences....
Powells is a great resource, particularly for my writings on improvisation, after two full days there I came away with 25lbs of books that eventually got posted home. It is hard to beleive the post office was closed on a saturday.
Readers will know I am not much of a fan of hostels, prefering to stay with locals or camping out. I tend to use them on the first day in a new city, or if I have spent a long time staying with someone and fancy a fairly anonymous time. It is nice to feel one is not in somebody elses space, and free to roll in late. In the West they are an expensive option, I do not know how people manage to afford long trips staying in them exclusively.
I have not been traveling on an absolute shoestring, a bottle of wine, a jar of preserve and picking up the occasional lunch tab or grocery bill for someone kind enough to offer sofa or floor space is something I am pleased to do, and still costs less than a night in a dorm bed and queue for the shower.
The people I have couchsurfed with are a self selected group of people who share similar values, I wonder if that will continue as the phenomenon becomes more widespread. Most of these people buck the dominant trend in not having a television, they love cooking and have travelled widely themselves. We have all it seems spent a large amount of time sleeping on friends sofas long before the www.couchsurfing.com network was created.
From the hostels now free internet service I sent out a number of requests, and got a prompt response from one member living within walking distance of the hostel. She was very busy, working 12 hour shifts and moving house, but very kindly offered me a place to roll out my sleeping mat and left the door open for me!
On my last trip to Portland my travelling companion remarked that they must have but Prozac in the water as everyone seemed so cheerful. There are towns that seem to get things right, and this is one of them – they are places where people have chosen to relocate, are easily accessable on foot or by bicycle and have many locally run enterprises.
I felt a bit funny entering a strangers empty home. It was tastefully decorated with my hosts own paintings and wall hangings from India; looking over her extensive bookshelves I recognised so many familiar titles we were sure to have a lot in common. She did not have a mobile, so I answered the telephone, wondering if she was trying to contact me. It was one of her friends, when I explined I was a couchsurfer, his fond description of her made me feel even more at ease. He was ringing to invite her for an art walk I had heard about.
Though it sounded fascinating it felt rude to arrive late at night so I rolled out my mat on the floor and began reading one of my many purchases from Powells. I awoke as she came through the door, greeting me with such warmth, quick wit and infectious love of life I felt charged – and understood how she could juggle so many comitments. The next evening as we packed her belongings up, we sang folk songs, a friend turned up to play guitar as she tackled the kitchen, who says moving has to be one of the most stressful times of life?
Last time in Portland I spent a wild time with folks who Andy from Dryad had met on an internet forum. He had asked for reccommendations for places to camp out, and potentially run bushcraft courses overseas. The majority had recommended Oregon, one larger than life character from Portland kindly offered to put us up on his floor and even to drive us way out into the woods.
We were both amazed by the friendship and generosity extended by him and his family. We had a blast drinking bourbon, eating deer and salmon he had caught, target shooting and camping out in pristene wilderness. The children were not at all like we had been led to beleive American youth were like – being courteous, interested, and unfazed by the arrival of two strange Welsh folk in their home.
I called Sean, hoping to catch him for a beer before heading north. Since we had last met he had not had a great deal of work, but had used the time to spend with the children, hunt and soup up his already rediculously powerful Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. We visited a number of dive bars in the area of town where he grew up, drinking strong black porter with bourbon chasers, and talking up a storm.
Despite the nights excesses he arrived at Leo's house in good shape ready for a days wheeling around the forests near Tilamook. In the company of a Mormon rock musician with a Toyota Landcruiser retrofitted with a powerful diesel and 39” tyres we tacked Airplane Hill. A steep ascent through trees over huge boulders, no photograph could do justice to the seeming impassability of the trail. Driving over the boulders required planning and great communication, I was glad to be able to enjoy the ride without that responsibility. When he let me have a go, driving the overeager beast between the trees and over potential diff hangers I understood his description “Terrifying at two miles an hour”!
We called in on one of our hosts oldest buddies and his familyAndy and I had met on out last trip. Dave's family had been in the Washington area for generations, a knowledge of which he shared as we retraced the cruising spots of his youth in his fathers 1957 fuel injected Corvettle, several shots of bourbon inside me, without seatbelts of course.
Though well educated and knowledgable in many fields my host has an uashamed redneck streak. We certainly undulged that side, changing the
His suburban – a huge 1980s family beast, the last of the metal dashed cars was now a $500 dollar truck he lamented.
“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 transmission in it. You know what you got?”
Answer “A $500 truck!”
“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 worth of tyres on it. You know what you got?”
.......
Sean and Dave worked under floodlights getting the huge transmission, power converter and shaft re-fitted in a spirit of affable companionship, while I worked the jack, found wrentches (spanners) and fetched cold beers.
The coming Forth of July weekend was set to be a scorcher, 90 plus farenheight in the city. The transmission fitted successfully we headed to the coast hoping to catch some sturgeon.
We caught three, I say three – I mostly slept, montion on the sea does funny things to people – to the extent that I beleive there is only one way to cure seasickness – and that is to sit under a tree. I have known people, who were totally comorttable in the worst rollers, wind against tide around landshead, loose all desire for survial evaporate on a right swell in the mediteranian. Clearly the motion, helmsmanship and conditions were perfect, I fell asleep soundly for much of the day.
Sean baited the trace with an anchovy, and whipped a live shimp to it. At anchor we ledged in the deeper holes, though fishing relatively
shallow at thirty feet. Our target, the sturgeon is a royal fish in Britain, meaning any caught in UK waters have to be offered to the Queen. This one happened in Swansea, Wales.
The fisherman caught the huge fish, and telephones Buckingham Palace. A fax by return allowed the fisherman to keep his catch. The fish is a protected, and there was talk of a case being made against the fisherman. The valuable fish dissappeared before proceedings can begin. An interesting constitutional point, I wonder who got to eat it.
We were rewarded with three good sized specimens and a dungeoness crab. I had heard of these crabs, and had lond wanted to try one.
We only had one pot to boil the crab in, so we washed out the pee can we had been using for the week and set him on the barbeque. We took the grill out, upturned the flame speader and made a good seal with wet carboard and a breezeblocks. We put him on the last of the ice and looked forward to breakfast....
For nostlgias sake I chose to stay in the same hippy hostel on Hawthorne.
I was placed in the same room, again quite by chance – though this time in the bed my comanion had slept in on the last trip.
There was to be a book reading on Powells top floor, a romance novel about entheogenic plants, a subject I have always been fascinted by. I asked if there were any questions she would like asked, it is often reassuring to know at least one person in the audience will ask something you can speak at length about. Though I doubt silence ever follows a reading, it is a fear the debut novelist could do without.
She read aloud a description of the production on sensimelia, a potent type of marijuana produced by mistreating the plant, and keeping males far from her, so in frustration her colitas engorge and become sticky with trichomes in the hope of receiving pollen. I had tingles hearing it, I had always considered MJ is a very feminine herb in every sense, but never thought to use such racy verbage to describe the herbage.
She signed a copy of her book for my lovely writer friend from Oz and gave me her email to post some of my own experiences....
Powells is a great resource, particularly for my writings on improvisation, after two full days there I came away with 25lbs of books that eventually got posted home. It is hard to beleive the post office was closed on a saturday.
Readers will know I am not much of a fan of hostels, prefering to stay with locals or camping out. I tend to use them on the first day in a new city, or if I have spent a long time staying with someone and fancy a fairly anonymous time. It is nice to feel one is not in somebody elses space, and free to roll in late. In the West they are an expensive option, I do not know how people manage to afford long trips staying in them exclusively.
I have not been traveling on an absolute shoestring, a bottle of wine, a jar of preserve and picking up the occasional lunch tab or grocery bill for someone kind enough to offer sofa or floor space is something I am pleased to do, and still costs less than a night in a dorm bed and queue for the shower.
The people I have couchsurfed with are a self selected group of people who share similar values, I wonder if that will continue as the phenomenon becomes more widespread. Most of these people buck the dominant trend in not having a television, they love cooking and have travelled widely themselves. We have all it seems spent a large amount of time sleeping on friends sofas long before the www.couchsurfing.com network was created.
From the hostels now free internet service I sent out a number of requests, and got a prompt response from one member living within walking distance of the hostel. She was very busy, working 12 hour shifts and moving house, but very kindly offered me a place to roll out my sleeping mat and left the door open for me!
On my last trip to Portland my travelling companion remarked that they must have but Prozac in the water as everyone seemed so cheerful. There are towns that seem to get things right, and this is one of them – they are places where people have chosen to relocate, are easily accessable on foot or by bicycle and have many locally run enterprises.
I felt a bit funny entering a strangers empty home. It was tastefully decorated with my hosts own paintings and wall hangings from India; looking over her extensive bookshelves I recognised so many familiar titles we were sure to have a lot in common. She did not have a mobile, so I answered the telephone, wondering if she was trying to contact me. It was one of her friends, when I explined I was a couchsurfer, his fond description of her made me feel even more at ease. He was ringing to invite her for an art walk I had heard about.
Though it sounded fascinating it felt rude to arrive late at night so I rolled out my mat on the floor and began reading one of my many purchases from Powells. I awoke as she came through the door, greeting me with such warmth, quick wit and infectious love of life I felt charged – and understood how she could juggle so many comitments. The next evening as we packed her belongings up, we sang folk songs, a friend turned up to play guitar as she tackled the kitchen, who says moving has to be one of the most stressful times of life?
Last time in Portland I spent a wild time with folks who Andy from Dryad had met on an internet forum. He had asked for reccommendations for places to camp out, and potentially run bushcraft courses overseas. The majority had recommended Oregon, one larger than life character from Portland kindly offered to put us up on his floor and even to drive us way out into the woods.
We were both amazed by the friendship and generosity extended by him and his family. We had a blast drinking bourbon, eating deer and salmon he had caught, target shooting and camping out in pristene wilderness. The children were not at all like we had been led to beleive American youth were like – being courteous, interested, and unfazed by the arrival of two strange Welsh folk in their home.
I called Sean, hoping to catch him for a beer before heading north. Since we had last met he had not had a great deal of work, but had used the time to spend with the children, hunt and soup up his already rediculously powerful Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. We visited a number of dive bars in the area of town where he grew up, drinking strong black porter with bourbon chasers, and talking up a storm.
Despite the nights excesses he arrived at Leo's house in good shape ready for a days wheeling around the forests near Tilamook. In the company of a Mormon rock musician with a Toyota Landcruiser retrofitted with a powerful diesel and 39” tyres we tacked Airplane Hill. A steep ascent through trees over huge boulders, no photograph could do justice to the seeming impassability of the trail. Driving over the boulders required planning and great communication, I was glad to be able to enjoy the ride without that responsibility. When he let me have a go, driving the overeager beast between the trees and over potential diff hangers I understood his description “Terrifying at two miles an hour”!
We called in on one of our hosts oldest buddies and his familyAndy and I had met on out last trip. Dave's family had been in the Washington area for generations, a knowledge of which he shared as we retraced the cruising spots of his youth in his fathers 1957 fuel injected Corvettle, several shots of bourbon inside me, without seatbelts of course.
Though well educated and knowledgable in many fields my host has an uashamed redneck streak. We certainly undulged that side, changing the
His suburban – a huge 1980s family beast, the last of the metal dashed cars was now a $500 dollar truck he lamented.
“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 transmission in it. You know what you got?”
Answer “A $500 truck!”
“You take a $500 truck, and put a $1000 worth of tyres on it. You know what you got?”
.......
Sean and Dave worked under floodlights getting the huge transmission, power converter and shaft re-fitted in a spirit of affable companionship, while I worked the jack, found wrentches (spanners) and fetched cold beers.
The coming Forth of July weekend was set to be a scorcher, 90 plus farenheight in the city. The transmission fitted successfully we headed to the coast hoping to catch some sturgeon.
We caught three, I say three – I mostly slept, montion on the sea does funny things to people – to the extent that I beleive there is only one way to cure seasickness – and that is to sit under a tree. I have known people, who were totally comorttable in the worst rollers, wind against tide around landshead, loose all desire for survial evaporate on a right swell in the mediteranian. Clearly the motion, helmsmanship and conditions were perfect, I fell asleep soundly for much of the day.
Sean baited the trace with an anchovy, and whipped a live shimp to it. At anchor we ledged in the deeper holes, though fishing relatively
shallow at thirty feet. Our target, the sturgeon is a royal fish in Britain, meaning any caught in UK waters have to be offered to the Queen. This one happened in Swansea, Wales.The fisherman caught the huge fish, and telephones Buckingham Palace. A fax by return allowed the fisherman to keep his catch. The fish is a protected, and there was talk of a case being made against the fisherman. The valuable fish dissappeared before proceedings can begin. An interesting constitutional point, I wonder who got to eat it.
We were rewarded with three good sized specimens and a dungeoness crab. I had heard of these crabs, and had lond wanted to try one.
We only had one pot to boil the crab in, so we washed out the pee can we had been using for the week and set him on the barbeque. We took the grill out, upturned the flame speader and made a good seal with wet carboard and a breezeblocks. We put him on the last of the ice and looked forward to breakfast....
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Moon on the Porch
Though San Francisco is my favorite city, after a few days I was looking forward to natural beauty, and natural landscapes. I could not imagine spending ones whole life in a city without the woods to run to. I had been invited to stay in a beautiful family cabin of a Megan, the lady I met in the Cook Islands who had given my the lift to San Fran with her friend.
The cabin was in two parts – the first, built in the 1890s, and filled with the tools used in its construction and a dear little bedroom with an ensuite commode. Highly neccesary in this valley where bears room, it can be bittery cold at night and early morning even now when they days are long and waterholes just about swimmable.
The kitchen in the old cabin had remained untouched when habitation moved to the newer section built in the 1930s. It was quite eerie, seeing the old tins and food packets, preserved surprisingly well by the thin dry mountain air. The dryness
The newer section was very cosy, and though we arrived with a trolley full of shopping it had recently been stocked by other family members only a week or so before.
Thankfully the preparations against further bear attacks had held. Black bears are common in the area, on one occasion the family returned to find one had come into the kitchen, got into the deep freeze and was sitting in the sun eating a frozen chicken, he had even shut the freezer door behind him!
Along with the other males, I peed around the cabin in different spots, the testosterone is supposed to discourage them; it must have worked as they left us alone, though the recent repairs to the back door and claw mark on the fridge were strong reminders never to leave food out, and to wash up and wipe down surfaces regularly.
I was warmly welcomed by a group of friends working the summer at Fallen Leaf lake before returning to college or starting their careers. Bruce lived in a beautiful wooden house crafted by his parents. By no means a cabin, the house had one of the best equipped domestic kitchens I had ever cooked in.
With all the surplus food we had brought we cooked some fantastic meals eaten together at the long table overlooking the lake. His folks continued a tradition they picked up on their travels in Europe, I would love to adopt it. Each new dinner guest had their name and the evenings date written on a wooden clothes peg, this was used as in place of a napkin ring. The others were able to work out when they first ate at the lakeside table.
When the plates were cleared away and the domino set brought out, the pegs were clipped on top of the others on a thick string suspended from the ceiling, by this expedient one could work out who was due another dinner invitation. Such a welcoming home, it looked like another string would soon be needed.
Throughout the week we ate together between the houses, in most cases we fellas did the cooking while the women drank gin and tonics. Though to be fair this excused us from the washing up for the most part, allowing me to work on my game of dominoes. It is a totally different game when playing with math majors!
Thankyou all for inviting me into your community, and the bears also, for choosing to dine elsewhere.
Jim
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Friday night San Franciso
The title is also the name of one of my dessert island albums by guitarists Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Paco de Lucía. The B sides' Egberto Gismonti piece - Frevo Rasgado recorded in the year of my birth gave me rushes long before I ever heard of MDMA and still does.
I caught a ride up from Glendales to San Fran with Megan and Genevieve, friends I had made whilst waiting out the tropic storms in the Cook Islands. After a late start, frustrated further by incomplete directions that did not account for the one way system, meant we arrived later than planned. So far on this whole adventure I had not booked accommodation in advance, preferring to be spontaneous and having trust that it will work out. So far I have only had to sleep in city parks twice, and even then it was dry and I had my thermarest and a green bivibag to hide amongst the bushes in.
Friday night at eleven pm in the summer was pushing it a bit, but after wandering a few miles in the familiar city I found a cramped but friendly place in Chinatown – the biggest one in the US.
My Mum was very concerned that I had called my last blog entry “Swansea, do I judge thee to harshly”, somehow missing out the extra “o”, insisting I correct the mistake ASAP. I remembered while enthroned in the hostel restroom, I hate to sit down without something to read, at a push, I will read the ingredients of shampoo bottles. I had kept this compact laptop in my daysac along with other things of value, and attempted to correct the error.
The latch did not align properly with the door, and I was surprised by a girl who burst in. I heard her giggling up the hall - “He was sat there typing on his computer..” I cannot be the only one who gets inspired to creativity in these private moments. Fear not dear readers I am now typing from more salubrious surroundings.
The last time I was in San Fran, eighteen months ago I had stayed in a hostel between Union Square and the Tenderloin. The Tenderloin got its name for the cut of steak given at the end of a shift to police officers who were prepared to patrol this notorious downtown area. Here it is not in the least bit unusual to see a seventy year old transvestite arguing with a one legged prostitute, blatant drug deals or an old black man passed out in an alley wearing a full Father Christmas costume.
I called in to the same hostel and was warmly recognized by Nicola, the receptionist who had greated me on my last visit in mock sarcastic cockney “I suppose you want a room do ya?”
“How wonderful to hear some good British surliness” I replied, and asked where she was from. It transpired that we not only been at a party at the Center for Alternative Technology at the same time, but had mutual friends recently moved to the city. She had been the third person to suggest I visited Arcata in Northern California, a magically little town amongst the great redwoods where I left a large part of my heart.
By now you will not be surprised to hear it was that night I met two girls and a guy driving back to their homes there, who kindly gave me a ride, and put me up on their respective sofas. There began a whole other story, I could not help dwelling over, as I lay in the same bed I coincidentally been assigned on my last visit. Spooky huh!
On this occasion, Nicola had that previous night been at the same party as our mutual friends Jon and Amanda from the “Crusty Quarry” as CAT is affectionately called. Being part of the largest MSc course in the UK has its advantages, one being a network of hippy friends all over.
Since I saw them last John and Amanda had married and set up home in the Mission, or the Gaybourhood as it is known, in a recent survey 30 percent of its inhabitants had identified themselves as gay, bi or transgender, compared with 13 percent in San Fran as a whole.
I learned this little factoid on a walking tour the three of us joined, learning how to date the various architectural styles of the area and visiting sites connected with Harvey Milk, the free speech movement, and labour rights demonstrations. This being Sunday we passed a church whose largely male congregation walked hand in had to the stirring voices of Thomas Tallis motet Spem in Aelium - (Sing and Glorify)
I continued my walk to Haight Ashbury, the epicenter of the sixties counterculture, past the house where the Grateful Dead lived communally. Called into the Anarchist bookstore to pick up some zines and to ask after further references from the owner I had met on my previous visit. It was the occasion of the Haight Street fair, the atmosphere was electric, previously the staff and I were the only ones in the shop, drinking tea in the rain. He directed me to the next bookshop for titles I love, right on 1970's counterculture how to books. He warned me that the owner was a weirdo - too right! I sign inside read "no cameras - you will be asked to leave", and beneath in equally angry white letter "if you ask why you will be asked to leave"!
I continued along Grand, past Union square, through China gate, pausing at Ferlinghetti's' infamous City Lights bookstore next to the street renamed Jack Kerouac, through the museum of the beats, Through Chinatown to North Beach. I committed to memory the lines from the end of Kerouac's On the road, describing Neal Cassady hoping to be able to recite it my mind, when I reach New York and look back:-
"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it, and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land where they let the children cry, and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear? the evening star must be drooping and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie, which is just before the coming of complete night that blesses the earth, darkens all the rivers, cups the peaks and folds the final shore in, and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old, I think of Dean Moriarty, I even think of Old Dean Moriarty the father we never found, I think of Dean Moriarty...."
Santa Barbara - couchsurfing again
From my last posts you will know I decided to spend no time in LA, and headed straight to Santa Barbara. I was keen to be Couch Surfing again after the resort in the Cook Islands.
While in the Cooks I had been fortunate to get to know the mainly Fijian staff who were running the resort. They too of course were outsiders, though they showed me incredible hospitality, sharing food and kava in their homes.
Again and again I have been touched by the kindness of strangers. During my last few days in Rarotonga, recovering from a nasty throat infection I was was walking back from town when a guy car turned his car around to ask if I needed a lift. After spending the previous day in bed I was glad to be walking, but I knew he would be upset if I turned down the offer. While we chatted I learned he was a pastor who had recently returned from a meeting in California. I commented how strange it was that mopeds were so much cheaper to rent than bicycles. Given the choice I prefer to cycle, its so much more peaceful and you see more wildlife.
At this he turned of to his house to lend me his bicycle, asking only that I dropped it back when I left, no sermon just a good neighbor.
One might assume such hospitality was the preserve of a safe little island community, but this was not so. Through couch surfing I contacted Wes who had recently moved into a shared house after a year of motor cyling around South America.
---Rant Alert---
Lloyds TSB once again stopped my card, this has happened in almost every country I have visited, despite telling them over and over of my plans. It is generally only a quick phone call to get service again, but does cause a lot of worry. The worst is when the ATM swallowed the card after too many denials. One may have intended to pass through the town, so cannot wait till the branch opens to pick it up. Worse, is having to find an address to get a replacement sent to by an uncertain date, and somehow getting there without funds.
It is for this reason I have got into the habit of traveling with at five cards, and keep some cash in reserve. The banks are convinced such behavior is indicative of money laundering so will not allow me to open any more accounts. I have met other travelers who had the same issues with LloydsTSB. We both tried to transfer funds between our own accounts to ones that do not charge such extortionate rates to get at your own money. We both found our cards stopped,then had to wait days for the transfer to occur once it was finally sorted out, all the time collecting precious interest. Grrrr
---Rant over---
I had just finished a yin yoga class at the Santa Barbara yoga centre, and was feeling totally relaxed, and looking forward to choosing a bottle of wine and some honey to take to my couch surfing host.
He lived a little way out of town, and agreed to meet me along the road between downtown Santa Barbara and his place.I would have felt very bad if I had to borrow his phone to call the bank, and have to owe my contribution to the grocery bill before even getting to know one another. Thankfully I had enough to buy a calling card, and inbetween his calls to find out where I was, and to the call centre in South Wales, managed to get the thing working again.
My host was joined by another couchsurfer from Russia and quickly made us feel welcome. He introduced us to the pleasures of barbequed tri-tip steak, his freshy made piquant salsa and the local tramp fuel – Simpler times lager at 6 percent, and 2.99 USD for a six pack. One could imagine the advertising the product, a bum happily pissed reminiscing;- I used to have, a wife, a house and a car, now its Simpler Times...
Uni Santa Barbara, like many I have visited the university has a very open access policy, allowing me free internet access in the library. I was able to photocopy some great material for my book research and update the blog with the last seven weeks of adventures. Not easy to concentrate, as it seems hot pants never went out of fashion here, I wondered how much time the students had for lectures with all the effort they must have put into their fine physiques.
One diner nearby observed that Santa Barbara was at that sweet spot on the globe where the folks put in an great deal of effort in their appearance like those in LA, but were not completely vacuous. I was entertained by his misadventures as a ladies tennis coach in a nearby obscenely wealthy suburb nearby. This is the land of bored silicone filled trophy wives, botox mishaps, duodenal ulcers, thrombosis and erectile dysfunction...
Back at the house, We took turns in cooking, and enjoyed great conversation over wine, before crashing out on the sofa with in the large lounge shared with a lab, retriever and an old but spirited sausage dog – who was convinced he was bigger than the other two put together. Yet another great couchsurfing experience, a new friend, I really hope to return the favour should he or his housemates find themselves in Wales.
When I later sat in an organic wholefood cafe, and overheard two guys drinking herbal tea, discussing cleanses and their mens groups, I knew I was back in California for sure. These groups have become very popular here, with adverts all over for places to “be still with fellow men and discover your inner warrior”. Call me unevolved if you like, but whats wrong with the Pig and Whistle and real ale?
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Swansea – do I judge thee too harshly?
Now in Santa Barbara, near LA
Back in the world of fast free internet I caught up with friends online, and enjoyed catching up on the gossip from home. A good friend thought, for those who do not know me well, it might seem that I have a downer on my home town, and the UK in general.
My friend, like me, is one who likes to play characters in jest, trusting that those around can see through those facades to the real person beneath. I recently discovered, it is a form of social play particularly developed in only children, like us. I have also learned that not everybody gets, or appreciates it – with some folks, what you see is really all you get.
I thought to write about home, from this sticky hot room in Santa Barbara some things to even the balance.
There is a Russian word I have heard, but cannot spell, which means “I love you, but I hate you right now”, just one word! It somes up feelings many people have towards their hometowns. One cannot live in any small town all ones life, without seeing both sides. I can see now, looking back how strangers may not know the love I do feel for the place.
Swansea's most famous son, Dylan Thomas - the fat poet with slim volumes, called it an ugly lovely town. He wrote some his most stirring poems of the town without getting overly sentimental, yet was known in temper to say “Land of my father's?, my fathers can keep it!”, and at the time I believe he meant it.
The UK is at least on a human scale, and the old town, Swansea is more human than most. If I wanted to reduce myself to a blubbing mess, there are two pieces that get me by yur every time. One is a quote from the fabulous Hunter S. Thompson describing San Fransisco in the middle sixties:-
"There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .
And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . ."
Though I was too young to experience the cultural ferment of those heady days, I have always been drawn to the movements and ideas that came out of the West Coast in that era, and hoped to refine its essential values.
They say the British have no idea of distance, and the Americans no idea of history. I did not stop in Los Angeles, I got on the first bus following the same 101 highway South, gazed in horror at the six lanes of traffic in either direction, the sprawling, smoggy, inhumanness. Though that first wave has long rolled back, new places are going through the same phases, so much of our modern world is the result of those inspired energetic people – who used the emerging technology to develop their beautiful visions.
The internet owes a massive debt to those countercultural luminaries, who saw the potential for switched networks to share tools necessary to implement those visions as books like the Whole Earth Catalogue had done in paper form.
The other piece that gets me "by yur" every time is Dylan's Return Journey, I have a crackly copy on tape, read aloud by a Richard Burton, his Welsh tones lilting defiantly over his trained BBC English. After touring America, Dylan comes home to hunt the ghost of his youth. He takes the listener on a walk through the city from the bombed out shops that are not there anymore, Ben Evans, down flat Gower street, the Kardoma cafe– then on High Street, the Three Lamps, and into some pubs I used to frequent, winding up to park bench in Cwmdonkin.
I cannot be the only one who called it Donkey Park as a little un?
Like the Russian word, there is one in Welsh that captures a feeling like no other. More than longing for homeland, more than nostalgia or yearning is hiraeth.
It describes a feeling I have not experienced so strongly since I heard a recording of Morrison Opheous choir singing appropriately “Swansea Town” in a tea shop in Gaiman, a small Welsh colony in the pampas of Patagonia.
On a sentimental mental journey from this stuffy downtown room full of sleep talkers and drunken Germans I have:-
Walked through Clyne Gardens in Spring,
Sat on the steps joining King Edward Road with Eaton Crescent, where post pub confidences are shared over secret smokes.
Re-climbed each of the Three Cliffs, Britains first area of outstanding natural beauty and first sight of special scientific interest. I maintain Gower has beautiful beaches to rival any I have seen in the world.
Mused that I can walk into any pub between Uplands Tav and the Queens hotel by the docks with its moth eaten bear and be sure of seeing somone I know, even if only to say “Orright!”
Visited The Grand theatre – the majesty of its boxes, set off by the reassuring dullness of their schedule.
Watched Shakespere by the rep theatre infront of Oystermouth Castle in the summer, blankets on knees with fish and chips from Covellis and wine
Flown, near sleep over the pointy self similar rows of houses Brynmill and the old friends living in them
I am not a nationalist, the whole world and stars are as much mine as anybody elses. Though given the scale I am more theirs than they are mine....
Like every county there are things I like and dislike about the UK. But I have ranted enough in other posts of things I dislike, so
Things I do like about Britain -
Sense of humour, the taboo against taking anything too seriously – which I am sure goes some way to keeping our society so peaceful.
Police brutality still shocks most people
Britain is far more tolerant of other cultures that anywhere else I have been
The BBC, especially Radio 4
Curry is available in the smallest of towns until very late
We do not go in for flag waiving much
No experience is legally required to put to sea on a boat
Good range of cheeses
ummm......
Cook Island Adventure
I had really got used to having a constant companion, so it felt strange sitting next to people on the plane who did not want to talk much. I was not much for talking either as these notes written soon after arriving show:-Feeling a little like Jack Torrence in the Shining – the Stephen King film, in which a writer struggling with his alcoholic past seeks isolation overwintering a grand old hotel to complete his novel. Disastrous consequences for his young family and himself result when the spirits of the place are upset. The outside shots were filmed at the Timberline Hotel near Mount Hood in Oregon in the Pacific North West.
I had camped in the same National park two winters ago. The heavy snows of the weeks before had frozen to a hard packed crust. The low sun had melted the slight impressions our boots had made, but a heavy fall was forecast. The window afforded a beautiful soundless vista, the dark native conifers had a strangely computer generated feel. One of the early difficulties of creating believable virtual images of the natural world was giving distant objects a far away feel. Simulated mists or clouds would be added to the scene to give depth. Out here, the high air pressure clean air made the landscape seem almost too real to be real.
In the South Wales Valleys, the monotonous straight rows of forestry commission are as offensive to my eye as opencast, blotting out the light below, impoverishing the soil and burning fast with a spiting flame to acrid smoke.
In their native setting of dwarfing peaks and volcanic lakes, hanging heavily with old mans beard, these trees had the ethereal air of a painting by Thomas Kincaid. Unlike the paintings of that American master of light, I sensed a darkness there. In times of strife I have found great comfort in lowland British woodlands, surrounded by life one feels more alive, more at home here than a house, the plants like familiar faces. Out here in the boonies, nature felt harder, indifferent to our concerns, it just is.
Our typical explorers meal of hot smoked steelhead and grits was washed down with hot coffee and icy Laphroig whisky. The greasy plates wiped with more old mans beard and tossed into the frozen creek bed fire – for a few moments animating strange shapes deep in forest. The pair of us slept in our well used hammocks amongst the native conifers, just inside the forest, a little distance from where we had hung our food from bears, fifty miles from the nearest building which at that time of year would have been empty.
Like most of Stephen King's novels and films the Shining uses a supernatural mysterious force, the wendigo or a soured burial ground to draw the characters dark side towards expression. The terrifying aspects of denied subconscious forces, that may unwind their own narrative beneath the surface.
Socially unacceptable, personally undesirable leftover aspects of the personality that surface when the guard is let down, like the friendly old bachelor who becomes bitter and lecherous in drink, an argument with a loved one that cuts deeper than a stranger's ever could.
.........
Funny how after getting ill, one often feels better than one did before. I had a very nasty throat infection, possibly from the shared coconut cup. More likely I felt, that after truly relaxing the bugs took their chance to catch me. After four days where every swallow hurt, and my lips swelled up I finally admitted defeat and bought some amoxycillin, vit C and echinacia which licked it in a few days. Tea tree can only do so much!
The place I am writing from now could not be more different. I am looking upon banana palms barely moving, framing a postcard scene of a turquoise sea meeting a powder blue early morning sky. A few long thin strips of cloud, perfectly parallel the ship less horizon. Six or seven puffs of cloud have hugged the same quarter of the sky since my last cup of coffee.
Rarotonga is at the same latitude as two places I have still have a yearning to visit, Madagascar, the Chilean dessert and the Great Barrier Reef. The Islands occupy a sea area of over 2 million square kilometers, though Cook never set foot here on this largest of the Archipelago. Unlike other places on this global wander the island is as hassle free as one could imagine a tropical New Zealand dependent in the South Pacific could be. There are no poisonous snakes, sharks, or dangerous mammals, the people friendly and laid back. The dogs that roam around the island bark half heartedly a menace only to to moped drivers.
The hillstation where I was to spend the two weeks was like the rest of t island in this current crisis almost totally empty. In a place which could easily accomodate thirty five, there were three of us. The big kitchen still had plenty of food left over from other guests, just as well, as the prices in the shops were pretty high. I had wrongly put the remains of my NZ Manuka honey in the amnesty box at the airport grrr.
The other guests were an Irish chap and an older guy from Middlesborough. He had visited the Islands two years before, and had helped the maid escape from a landlord who was expecting her to clean and cook for him besides paying rent.
She invided the older guy and myself to drink kava with them at the house she was now living in. Kava is a bre native to Fiji. It is the ground root of the plant piper methsycum, which is drunk from coconut shells in rounds. I was unexpectedly given the speak of honour, next to the server, who stirred the fine powder through a cloth in a large bowl to made the muddy tasting liquid.
It is drunk in one go, otherwise the tongue goes numb and very slowly, very gently produces a pleasant lucid, relaxing state. In no way intoxicating, though we drank it steadily through the evening the effect was similar in effect to camomile tea. The gentle and friendly manner of these Fijian emigrees touched us greatly. We were encouraged to drink a beer at the end to wash the kava away. Though we had brought several cans with us, they gave us beer and a delicious chicken, taro and cocoanut curry to take away. They did warn us however, that the next day we would be more than lazy.
Fourteen hours sleep lazy infact – I awoke, aware I had been dreaming a lot, but felt very well rested. I eased myself into a gentle yoga practice. This spot seemed the perfect place to rest, write and plan the next stage of the trip.
I took this time to get back into yoga practice, it is a lot easier to do when somewhere warm. Yoga on the deck beside the pool is always preferable to a cramped hotel room, glad of the extra warmth of the possum hair blanket I picked up in NZ.
Over the two weeks I met a couple from the UK, Ant and Pavela who regularly visted Threecliffs having relations in Linkside, and enjoyed singalongs with the guitar. Ant was another ex-IT person, taking time out, and a great musician, composing a song about the beef curry I was making with the few ingrediants we could find left by previous guests!
I could not resist wandering into the university, and after mentioning my intrest in improvisation, and local ingenuity I was introduced to the director who showed a keen interest, and helpfuly pointed me in the direction of some appropriate literature.
Too soon, Ant and Pavela were to leave, we went out for a few drinks and met Ralph, at 6'7” the smallest of seven brothers. His sister at 6'5” holds the current olympic gold for shot put. Though he claimed to be getting drunk for the second time that day, he gave me a fascinating account of the migration routes, and navigation methods of his forebears. He described a coconut shell, filled with oil, and having very acurrately bored holes to get a transit line from the southern cross.
The hillstation was now home to three of us, two younger lads on their first big trip. So nice to meet people of that age who are not getting drunk every night on their parents money. The food available in the supermarkets was not great, but we shared making some great meals from the abundant coconuts, star fruit, bananas growing nearby and canned tuna. My little axe was a great help getting through the tough fibrous shells of the coconuts, and the juice delicious. The guys were amateur boxers and really took to yoga, joining me for sessions every day, I am looking forward to hearing how they find home, when they make it back in a few short weeks.
I decided to look up the titles I had been recommended by Ralph and the director of the university. I fell into conversation with the owner of the bookshop who recommended one title. He thought it was totally appropriate to my endevour to live the principles of improvisation I had been exploring. He doubted I would find a copy though, as it was long out of print, and not well known.
The title was “Confessions of a Supertramp by W.H. Davies”, published in 1908 describing six years intermittently working, and begging across America and Canada by a poetic soul yearning for peace and struggling for self-expression. He was from Pill Newport, South Wales.
I had that very title in my backpack! My lovely writing friend had bought me a copy in a booksale in a one horse town back in New Zealand! It was right next to the biography of Margaret Meads I had bought for her.
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