tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84296118509379813822024-03-05T11:04:53.445-08:00Beatnik Beatles BlogAn archive of the 'on the road' updates from the Beatnik Beatles as they circumnavigated the globe in a VW camper van, busking The Beatles for UNICEF along the way.Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-45788169203288309142012-10-10T07:01:00.002-07:002012-10-10T07:01:48.091-07:00Behold! A new blog is born!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you enjoyed this blog, you really need to leap forward in time.<br />
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I started a brand new blog, about a brand new crazy idea (which was born out of <i>this</i> blog's crazy idea) and you can find it <a href="http://simcourtie.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">here: Sim's new blog - The Letterman Project</a><br />
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Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-5616077370198526682012-06-30T01:36:00.001-07:002012-06-30T01:52:36.364-07:00Ta daaa!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwr-jDwwax4bixWV4Ow9C2n0AI71_hjOgUFLLCvXD0WveAfQI7kisln6IRujrsksZoQl8x1M31lCBCZgJqxqibV5D58AQkHBRCL4TgVVWK4yRSOjWOPvmzml0QRWXcQD9YczmF_pcxKHOd/s1600/cover+hires.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwr-jDwwax4bixWV4Ow9C2n0AI71_hjOgUFLLCvXD0WveAfQI7kisln6IRujrsksZoQl8x1M31lCBCZgJqxqibV5D58AQkHBRCL4TgVVWK4yRSOjWOPvmzml0QRWXcQD9YczmF_pcxKHOd/s640/cover+hires.jpg" width="417" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The book is out!</span><br />
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I'll be doing various promotional spots around the UK including book signings (I'm at my local Waterstones in Banbury on July 14th - pop in, say hi) and interviews. I'm on a genuine legend's show on Monday 2nd July - Billy Butler on BBC Radio Merseyside! 2.30pm if you can catch it online <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/player/bbc_radio_merseyside" target="_blank">HERE</a>.<br />
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All the details on how to get the book, plus a free excerpt, are at <a href="http://www.beatnikbeatles.com/">www.beatnikbeatles.com</a><br />
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It's available as paperback, on Kindle and the iBook version will appear in the Apple iBook store soon.<br />
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(Just a note - Amazon still has the paperback listed as 'unavailable, but eligible for free postage'. DON'T be tempted! This link will be removed. They can't supply it. You can buy through Amazon market place (from me) but it's cheaper at <a href="http://www.beatnikbeatles.com/">www.beatnikbeatles.com</a>)<br />
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If you enjoy it, please give it a nice review on Amazon. You can do this regardless of where you bought the book. I'll do the same for you one day!<br />
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Enjoy,<br />
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Sim x</div>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-90218947520501244812011-11-10T03:33:00.000-08:002011-11-10T11:43:28.565-08:00Ra.One More Thing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGt0UhTMsgxf-L7f7u3PVCCxjY6zeFNbTU7qsoyedtjsK2oi5JR5U40_lmR2Pw-0qwKrRzVwUurVeFCYdOlgk6OYnv3PMh8mIDY5i99vlZ36mg-HE63Ci0Kv7eakmMzQyNoj4exrMAj-P/s1600/Ra-One.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGt0UhTMsgxf-L7f7u3PVCCxjY6zeFNbTU7qsoyedtjsK2oi5JR5U40_lmR2Pw-0qwKrRzVwUurVeFCYdOlgk6OYnv3PMh8mIDY5i99vlZ36mg-HE63Ci0Kv7eakmMzQyNoj4exrMAj-P/s400/Ra-One.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know I signed off back in July, and this whole crazy tale should be over, but I feel compelled to tie up one loose end. Sit down for two minutes. We need to talk about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ra.One</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yesterday was my wife’s birthday, and because I really know how to show a girl a good time, I took her to the Vue cinema next to Oxford United’s ground to watch my Bollywood film - in 3D, which offered the tantalising prospect of seeing my background role as Barman 2 even more vividly. We had the entire auditorium to ourselves, which made it extra special, and glossing over the fact that it was 2 for 1 Orange Wednesday, I think you’ll agree that I do indeed go the extra mile to make my wife’s life complete. As birthday treats go, it promised to be a huge triumph. Unlike the film.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oh dear. It is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">awful</i>. Apart from one rather glittering nightclub scene, in which the bar staff look particularly jaunty, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ra.One</i> is a pungent pile of Stinking Bishop. Its calamitous failing is its woeful script, closely followed by the most tortuous, buttock-clenching acting since Gary Barlow dabbled with a career-change and played a postman on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Heartbeat. </i>It’s horribly flabby, taking ten minutes to spoon-feed the beleaguered viewer each thirty-second piece of information. So obese is it, in fact, that I must confess that this writer’s opinion is only based on fifty percent<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>of the film. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ra.Half</i>. Like all Indian movies, it paused for an intermission. That was after we’d suffered an hour and twenty minutes, and we decided that the further hour and twenty still to run were probably better spent doing … well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything. </i>My tax return was suddenly inviting.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The film’s plot is that a geeky games-designer dad designs a video game for his son, featuring a mega-baddie (Ra.One) because his son loves villains. The hero in the game (G.One) is modelled on the geek dad, so Khan plays both parts – a handy curly-hair wig alerting us to when he’s the real-world nerd. Due to some never-fully-explained hocus pocus with ‘beams of information’, the baddie breaks out of the game and tries to kill Khan’s son in the real world: cue lots of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Terminator 2</i> shape-shifting and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Matrix</i>-style running and jumping in long black coats.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Worse than its infuriatingly lethargic pace, however, is how horribly wide-of-the-mark it aims its humour at a western audience. Now, before you leap to the defence of Shah Rukh Khan and his merry band of dream-weavers, exclaiming that ‘Bollywood is different’ and ‘you can’t compare the Indian market with that of the west’, just remember this: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ra.One</i> was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">specifically </i>made in an attempt to ‘take on Hollywood’. It was billed as ‘Bollywood’s break-out movie’ and has the price-tag to prove it. How, then, can David Benullo, Kanika Dhillon and ‘King’ Khan himself sleep at night taking the credit for penning such a palette of poo? There really isn’t a moment of dialogue (in the first half) that doesn’t have you clenching your teeth in horror, wincing, “Oh God, make it stop.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Highlights of this master class in ‘script writing as a form of torture’ are almost all in the films (ahem) ‘comedy’ vignettes. The most jaw-slackening of these is the running racist joke about Chinese people. The first time we meet tech-head Akaashi, played by Tom Wu, he is throwing an office colleague to the floor. Shah Rukh comments, “Did someone call him Jackie Chan again?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Akaashi screams back, “Not all Chinese men are Jackie Chan!” to the immense mirth of his office colleagues. This Jackie Chan ‘joke’ just won’t go away, cropping up at least another three times. Earlier, in the film’s opening (immensely tedious) dream sequence, Khan’s heroic alter-ego beats up three Chinese girls referred to as ‘friends of Bruce Lee’, and as he confronts the final villain, he manages to crowbar in a line about food – “Don’t offer me Chinese, I’ve just eaten some.” – which, apart from being wholly inappropriate and not actually making sense, commits the even greater sin: it’s not funny. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Later, the all-powerful super-villain, Ra.One, kills poor Akaashi’s aged mother, delivering the line, “I hate Chinese.” It went from being a bad joke, to feeling like some sort of hostile campaign. Have I missed something? What did China do to India, to justify this battering on such a high profile pedestal?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s Khan’s life-sapping attempts at humour that will do more damage to Bollywood’s reputation than they could imagine. While the film’s special effects are impressive, and the overall ‘look’ of the movie is on a par with Hollywood offerings, there is simply no excuse for Shah Rukh Khan playing Mister Bean. Visual gags that Rowan Atkinson and Richard Curtis would have deemed too poor to line a litter tray, get the big-screen, agonising Khan treatment here. Reversing a car to knock another car (which inexplicably has no handbrake on) into another car – hilarious. ‘A’ plus. Throwing some keys to a friend, but seeing them drop into the cleavage of a buxom girl who, for some reason, doesn’t notice and thinks he’s a pervert for looking at her chest – side-splitting. Solid gold.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And don’t even get me started on how many times they make a hilarious joke about Khan hurting his groin. Well, OK, it was three. But that was just in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first half</i>. Why no one, in the high-stakes world that Khan inhabits, thought it might be a good idea to consult a writer or producer with some Hollywood or Brit-flick clout about this script is a mystery. Especially when they were making such a song and dance (no Bollywood pun intended) about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ra.One</i> being marketed ‘to the west’. Any one of us, you, me, next door’s dog, could have read that script and the wind-erosion of our teeth would have been enough to alert them to some essential re-writes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having said all that, I will be buying the DVD.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, come on, I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in it</i>! There is a fleeting glimpse of what both Jill and I thought was me, doing my barman bit in the opening ten seconds of the ‘video game launch party’ scene. Admittedly, we couldn’t be sure, and as the entire dance spectacular took six days to shoot, I knew after those opening seconds that we were already looking at footage from long after I’d got the bus home (with my stolen bhangra braces). It’s a good scene, though. I’m happy with it. It turns out Shah Rukh is a dab hand at miming to a song while dancing in a line. It’s what Bollywood does best. And I feel genuinely dismayed that, after the rather good <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Guzaarish</i>, which we saw in Jaipur, and also the critical acclaim received internationally for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My Name Is Khan</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ra.One</i> has taken Bollywood so many steps backwards. It’s surely not what they were hoping for, when a viewer comes away from a billion Rupee action movie thinking the best bit was the ‘miming to a song and dancing in a line’ scene. They’ve been doing that for sixty years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then again, I did only see the first half. The second half played to an empty cinema - a dark, soulless chasm, echoing to the abomination of cinema’s most catastrophic dialogue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They should put that on the DVD cover.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>The original account of my experience on the set of Ra.One is <a href="http://beatnikbeatles.blogspot.com/2010/12/getting-down-in-tinsel-town.html" target="_blank">HERE</a></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-66487177111876057922011-07-11T15:14:00.000-07:002011-07-11T15:14:27.656-07:00Abbey Road, track 16<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoZESqHOLmUoUQt-tfRTYDX1ZTZnzts5dwfUkPEgU0efT2vnenD_M7QdruJM7IVZK7SidVNPZXoxoWdiCJKD6edkSgdhC-qd2e8h01pEGkm4h9-PNTUYorlOFh52q0X4DRjbM69PE74sK/s1600/Abbey+Road+back+cover.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJoZESqHOLmUoUQt-tfRTYDX1ZTZnzts5dwfUkPEgU0efT2vnenD_M7QdruJM7IVZK7SidVNPZXoxoWdiCJKD6edkSgdhC-qd2e8h01pEGkm4h9-PNTUYorlOFh52q0X4DRjbM69PE74sK/s400/Abbey+Road+back+cover.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><u><br />
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</u></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><u>The Final Blog</u></span></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">(until the next one)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We landed to find a typical English July day - 15ºC and raining. Our first few hours of 'decompression' were filled with wonder. Getting currency at the airport (you need pound coins to get a luggage trolley) found us like strangers in a strange land.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Look at the 10 pound note! It looks so old fashioned!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"The coins are so thick! They're like pirate dubloons!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then, at our friends Lynne and Jon's house, we watched our first British TV for nearly a year.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Wow, David Cameron's looking a bit podgy."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Aaahhh, the 10 o'clock news. Like a comfy old blanket."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hugh Grant on Question Time!?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Clearly, it was going to take a while to re-adjust.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So, here we are then. The Final Blog. A chance to look back on an incredible year. A chance to thank you for your support and reflect on what we've learned. Or we could just throw out some amazing and pointless stats! OK then, here are the numbers:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Total miles travelled - 38,814</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles driven in Penny - 18,261</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Days on the road - 333</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Countries visited - 17</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Litres of diesel bought - 2,594</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Tents used - 4</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Punctures - 3</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">PC chargers and iPod leads broken - 7</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 16.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 13.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Number of times we've asked "Do you know your wifi key?" - 123</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">*</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Did I say thank you? I meant to. I've really enjoyed writing these blogs and the fact that you've bothered to read them has warmed the cockles of my heart. 26 thousand visitors since last August is about 25 thousand more than I would have dared hope for. Really - thank you.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">By way of giving a proper credit to those people both at home and on the road who've helped us so much throughout the year, I've made a little video, which I'll post at the bottom of this blog.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So, to sum up our year ... where to begin? Let's go to San Francisco. That's as beautiful a place as any. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjV5bQY4EG4c16TiV0r9cmpOF8Q82KCNESRTpZxRG8SQahMaLk9qdZXR30qNXkc8EPoDeS2L1VbesXdNnEhtzCPOUve9Bh6RW0-_Pl-G7ldRLq1L1x5q3f4OUUq1EHFtRUEdQP5CouW1a/s1600/Golden+Gate+cycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirjV5bQY4EG4c16TiV0r9cmpOF8Q82KCNESRTpZxRG8SQahMaLk9qdZXR30qNXkc8EPoDeS2L1VbesXdNnEhtzCPOUve9Bh6RW0-_Pl-G7ldRLq1L1x5q3f4OUUq1EHFtRUEdQP5CouW1a/s400/Golden+Gate+cycle.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">From a comfy apartment in San Francisco, I looked at a street in our North Oxfordshire village. I was reacting to an automated email I'd received informing me of a house that had sold within 500 metres of our own - a free 'nosey parker' service I'd signed up to years ago from which I'd never unsubscribed. After raising my eyebrows at how much the house had fetched, I swung Google Streetview around and looked up the unremarkable, narrow, damp road. I felt a twinge. It wasn't home-sickness, it was angst at the thought of walking up that street again. I'd be back there all too soon, with the grey skies above me and the wonders of the world behind me. People would see me exactly as I pictured myself in that image, the same bloke who'd walked that road a hundred times, dropping kids at school, wandering to the post box, the pub or the park. I couldn't bear the thought that I wouldn't have changed, that this trip wouldn't have changed <i>me</i> ... changed <i>us</i>.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so I decided to make a list. All boys love a list. As I opened Notebook on the Mac, I recalled a novelty record from the late nineties in which movie director Baz Luhrmann read pithy words of advice, borrowed, supposedly, from a 'school leaver's essay'. As well as advising the listener to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTJ7AzBIJoI">wear sunscreen</a>, he summed up a multitude of eternal truths, such as 'Do not read beauty magazines - they will only make you feel ugly' - hardly Neitzsche, but he had a point. I didn't want a whole novelty record's worth of one liners, but I wanted ... <i>something</i> - at best, a declaration of what I'd learned from my adventure. At worst, a list of 'stuff'.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It began like this:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Taps.</b> No one ever thinks about them. During 9 weeks in India I became wedded to plastic water bottles. We watched countless women and children pump muddy water into buckets and carry them to their homes. I vowed never to take our drinking water for granted again. But of course, I do. Bless the tap. It's more valuable than we give it credit for.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTSxknCvKDhwNVJX0oZxApKoQ1lzpOJU_NGZFzwxsa1byhJmsTr6hGlAXrGLjpFVA-B2W-xhKmQ942b8_vOy2hB4L-qSSvTLeMSAzqq8dCf6aL1nnw3CwNwZ3kHGZWQh9moF4-3lT9alI/s1600/Pushkar+lake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVTSxknCvKDhwNVJX0oZxApKoQ1lzpOJU_NGZFzwxsa1byhJmsTr6hGlAXrGLjpFVA-B2W-xhKmQ942b8_vOy2hB4L-qSSvTLeMSAzqq8dCf6aL1nnw3CwNwZ3kHGZWQh9moF4-3lT9alI/s400/Pushkar+lake.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Some problems might be unfixable.</b> I know this sounds defeatist, but really, brace yourself. Australia's white community has about as much in common with its Aboriginal community as I do. In other words, nothing. They share a land mass, but that is all. That 2 such polar ways of living, such opposite mindsets, will ever merge is impossible to comprehend. Also, India is too full. Over 1 billion people live there. That's 1 in 6 people <i>on Earth</i>. Most of the wealth is shared between about 7 of them. Possibly 8 if Shahrukh Khan gives his cousin a job. It's corrupt. These are things I can't fix. Nor can you. If you want to fix something, oil a door hinge. Put up a shelf. If you do find a way to fix them, please tell me. Then come and fix my wobbly shelf.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>No one explores their home.</b> I met lots of Australians, but few who'd been to Ayers Rock. I met lots of Americans, but few who'd been to Yosemite. I would criticise them, but I live half an hour from Shakespeare's birthplace. Never been. When was the last time you went to Stonehenge, The British Museum or visited Parliament? Exactly. Where ever you are, chances are you have some treasures within an hour or 2 that are amazing and that you've never seen. Go. Be a tourist.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdRFGFozxujS1tSm8FrowvYMl8eLAA7rSE1BC680T44d8faCH3hXk14NhmFv79TD2kHPlQgZ-ppi931dBTLNLpq-YBKZ_6G0f0ec0PXpLva3VQhdxukpdO1UJlkahgRvqwicjNSrx96Uu/s1600/Shakespear+birthplace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdRFGFozxujS1tSm8FrowvYMl8eLAA7rSE1BC680T44d8faCH3hXk14NhmFv79TD2kHPlQgZ-ppi931dBTLNLpq-YBKZ_6G0f0ec0PXpLva3VQhdxukpdO1UJlkahgRvqwicjNSrx96Uu/s400/Shakespear+birthplace.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">A playwright was born here, apparently</span></i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>A Volkswagen T25 is a wondrous machine.</b> It oozes charm, turns heads and looks great. So, you might argue, does Keira Knightly. But will Keira carry you around the world in return for nothing more than a regular oil change and some Diesel Kleen? I rest my case.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3vcCRrt9ZMHHKflTzeAMhP3UST59as4lZFdSumBenEhc2CMVDxmmYlDAdbcrM1nXNkyMutdCXaA0TUn7jSfw-mllsJC9XRlWAyK3Ezw_X2CudRsy28jZAXgqKQaEjD2qsxjBILMuvkNP/s1600/Penny+Monument+Valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3vcCRrt9ZMHHKflTzeAMhP3UST59as4lZFdSumBenEhc2CMVDxmmYlDAdbcrM1nXNkyMutdCXaA0TUn7jSfw-mllsJC9XRlWAyK3Ezw_X2CudRsy28jZAXgqKQaEjD2qsxjBILMuvkNP/s400/Penny+Monument+Valley.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Everyone wants the same stuff.</b> And weirdly, it's not money. I've been struck by the similarities I've seen in people from such diverse cultures. The overwhelming friendship and generosity we've received on our journey is humbling, and everywhere we find the same home truths. From Muslims in the Middle East to Hindus in India, people put family first. They want the best for their kids, they want a safe home and they want a happy home. The world really isn't a dark and scary place. It's full of people like me and you. They smile first, ask questions later. They look for friendship rather than barriers. Remember this when the TV news shows protesters chanting in a foreign tongue, crowds in burkas or slum dwellers in Mumbai. We all want the same stuff.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>It's good to do something scary.</b> No one likes being outside their comfort zone. The fear of failure and the fear of the unknown are stifling. But, really, you should take a risk once in a while. I know a woman (because I'm married to her) who would <i>never </i>have considered quitting jobs, schools and a home to travel around the world in a camper van. I still don't know why she agreed. But she'll tell you that doing something scary always reaps rewards. Almost all the memorable, happiest moments of our journey, and the great new friends we made, can be traced directly back to the fact that we chose to 'put ourselves out there' and take a risk. Whether it was busking (which is terrifying), or asking to camp in someone's drive or car park, if we'd have kept ourselves to ourselves and checked into a hotel, none of these brilliant things would have happened. (And we'd have been broke). The point is, doing stuff that scares you always reaps rewards. Fact.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Don't trust an Italian.</b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Well, don't trust an Italian Volkswagen dealership.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Well, don't trust an Italian Volkswagen dealership in Alessandria called Zentrum VW.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">They are bad people.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">All other Italians, to my knowledge, are bella.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Earth is doomed</b>. OK, that's a tad melodramatic. But think back - how old were you when you first heard about 'global warming' or 'the greenhouse effect'? I was 18. Now I'm 41. 23 years after I recall first being aware of environmental issues India pollutes with gay abandon, America <i>still </i>drills for oil (at the cost of Alaska, oh, and let's not forget the Mexican gulf - good work BP) and Australia spends weeks wringing its hands over a 'green' Carbon Tax while, unfettered by conscience, its economy booms selling billions of tons of coal to China, the world's biggest polluter. All I'm saying is, if we want to save the planet for our grandchildren, we've got a long way to go. And if all these issues seem too big, too vast, and too far away to be bothered with, remember what Gandhi said - 'You must be the change you want to see in the world'.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Wise words, Mahatma.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Do not</i> refer back to my message about unfixable problems. I was talking about something else then. This is one we <i>can</i> fix.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Family matters.</b> No, you can't choose them. Yes, they drive you insane. Seeing the importance other cultures put on family has made me aware of how disparate our community has become, especially with regard to our own flesh and blood. A prestigious magazine conducted an international poll last year asking people to define 'integrity'. Western people said it means being honest and straight, especially in business - not being 'two faced'. Whereas in the Middle East 'integrity' means providing for your family, caring for your brother if he's sick or providing for his kids if he dies. Their priorities are completely different. We've been amazed at how well we've all rubbed along as a family for a year, especially in such a small living space, and we're resolute that we can't simply drop back into only having one meal a week together (Sunday lunch) and passing each other like ships in the night. I know that's easy to say, and an idealistic dream, but it's worth the effort. Look after your family. They're the only one you get.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3mL3A4RoeQCCFhKpLpmfaa9BK_eI30tOWpyj8Kux355namvezO5-c8aTp7k-IbzEQC9aipUKbwBFkXmHXrqnYwKe1pcDvEnitwkP2ZXcf3FBRvYxs2-EIb1JH3PpvHMbA3en_mXel2vt/s1600/Osama+and+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY3mL3A4RoeQCCFhKpLpmfaa9BK_eI30tOWpyj8Kux355namvezO5-c8aTp7k-IbzEQC9aipUKbwBFkXmHXrqnYwKe1pcDvEnitwkP2ZXcf3FBRvYxs2-EIb1JH3PpvHMbA3en_mXel2vt/s400/Osama+and+family.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>America doesn't get 'shade'.</b> Australia is so acutely aware of skin cancer that often sunscreen is available free at public pools and beaches, and massive sails are always erected to create shade. A car park without shade is unheard of in Oz. But in the States - nothing. "Park in the shade" we would quip, entering yet another sun-baked barren parking lot. Pink babies cooking in prams, peeling backs on fair-skinned mothers, hoards of 'summer camp' teens char-broiling on campsites with not a hat between them. I can't believe I'm saying this, I'm aghast that my whole year of worldly wisdom might be reduced to these 2 words, but Baz was right all along.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Wear sunscreen.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC4yDMIh94HUiOS5yeFq6hXQlrsn93gjoBGyu7E5rmyH1PbSgKQJl79LETAfMV-HO7YDGynSa6S2mkE_E2IoV1G3BlMS67jK6CYbarvxzrIdUYqbfD76jaZlLI4DR9HMzRB7tVcU5bM06S/s1600/Sunscreen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC4yDMIh94HUiOS5yeFq6hXQlrsn93gjoBGyu7E5rmyH1PbSgKQJl79LETAfMV-HO7YDGynSa6S2mkE_E2IoV1G3BlMS67jK6CYbarvxzrIdUYqbfD76jaZlLI4DR9HMzRB7tVcU5bM06S/s400/Sunscreen.jpg" width="338" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHRfpv3GemU"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">CLICK TO SEE THE BEATNIK BEATLES' END CREDITS</span></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">** Disclaimer **</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>The editing of this video was done over many fraught late nights and early mornings, normally at the only power socket available - standing at a basin in a campsite toilet. I am constantly paranoid that I've left important people out. If you are not featured in this video, and feel you should have been, please send your complaint to Simeon Courtie, Penny The Van, A Road in England ... in fact, forget that - I'll be round soon asking for a cup of sugar. See me then.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So long, reader, and thanks for all the clicks.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Sim xx</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>"A measure of a man is what he does when he has nothing to do." Robert Fulton Jr., (author of One Man Caravan)</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-58514549351248417352011-06-02T21:05:00.000-07:002011-06-02T21:05:42.754-07:00Navajo ho ho<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAoXfbuW2Vc5_NZV8s2i_7GL0bWfcn1LRuWcPsRDFUbIzjzzc_fxb92-7FiD_lDHIfCxV6hcVLcsuLuCZkgrhX2GAtlvcU-adfQf7kQF4AHYZYRfYSshEX8IboamPOcn-W5U-BKuWmJWvz/s1600/Penny+Monument+Valley+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAoXfbuW2Vc5_NZV8s2i_7GL0bWfcn1LRuWcPsRDFUbIzjzzc_fxb92-7FiD_lDHIfCxV6hcVLcsuLuCZkgrhX2GAtlvcU-adfQf7kQF4AHYZYRfYSshEX8IboamPOcn-W5U-BKuWmJWvz/s400/Penny+Monument+Valley+day.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Santa Fe</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles driven - 15,432</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles travelled - 31,993</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Standby!" shouted the director.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Rolling!" shouted the D.O.P.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Background!" shouted the floor manager.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljzuh2jYrUHaebTdCWEasX-Jd7L-PgT2_1Vh6vrh1j7qqudUxSc5DT1qiUitxONSAsVm-ifShqjd4DNtEf8ySdHGuT5Dsk6N8b-L7ihn8Z8On2LneM7kbsT8UA-an91KJRQujx-So2icB/s1600/Santa+Fe+film+set.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiljzuh2jYrUHaebTdCWEasX-Jd7L-PgT2_1Vh6vrh1j7qqudUxSc5DT1qiUitxONSAsVm-ifShqjd4DNtEf8ySdHGuT5Dsk6N8b-L7ihn8Z8On2LneM7kbsT8UA-an91KJRQujx-So2icB/s320/Santa+Fe+film+set.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It took all my strength not to respond to the cue and start juggling a cocktail mixer in the careless and haphazard way that made my Bollywood performance so memorable. But this wasn't north Mumbai and today I wasn't being paid (although, come to think of it, I was barely being paid in Bollywood). We'd stumbled onto a film set in central Santa Fe where the picturesque central plaza was the setting for a key encounter between 3 key players in the forthcoming movie<a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1767354/"> 'Odd Thomas'.</a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The 3 stars on set were Hunky Male In Dark Shirt With Impeccably Tousled Hair, Sexy Female In Denim Shorts With Impeccably Tousled Slightly Longer Hair, and Red Vespa.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlNSvVqCeMsUdSpTERHBk_vK8AvtbbAk4wMe1_GtKY1GcUIIbPM5YZzgPlJ7qwpt8l27hBTf4ekD8826XJhkso3JutRhuReA0QPWLkreZ27ecQNiJaL0Wn5_Q2Qua61TgxevFRUOx8Bsg/s1600/Santa+Fe+actors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlNSvVqCeMsUdSpTERHBk_vK8AvtbbAk4wMe1_GtKY1GcUIIbPM5YZzgPlJ7qwpt8l27hBTf4ekD8826XJhkso3JutRhuReA0QPWLkreZ27ecQNiJaL0Wn5_Q2Qua61TgxevFRUOx8Bsg/s400/Santa+Fe+actors.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>Actor Anton Yelchin knows I'm really photographing the Vespa</i></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We watched the scene (in which H.M. and S.F. cross street, deep in conversation, until S.F. mounts R.V. and scoots off leaving H.M. alone and perplexed) played out several times and the Red Vespa was a complete professional. I think the reason for so many re-takes (using my film-star lingo again) was because the director suspected what all of us onlookers knew from the start: the Red Vespa was stealing the scene every time.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Santa Fe is, as well as the name we'd give our friend Fay if she dressed as Father Christmas, the capital of New Mexico and the USA's highest capital at 7,000 feet. Its Spanish colonial history is obvious in the architecture, especially the many smooth brown Adobe buildings. This doesn't mean they're owned by a software giant, but that they're built using bricks of mud and straw, and rendered with the mud by hand. They look amazing and, given the fairly severe rain storms these mountains produce, it's a wonder they don't simply dissolve into the gutter.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGE3iinuU2aLwjAptjVnYAdBXZoWSM6GZuIll5gXFUS4n3eRKd93c8OLFb5lFPTwMzekw06PnB91l8-B4P0-lEG72xOlW7DHn7FB8d3fOimeEDXCnxFEj6v3nQ08aysXTEzjMYivoyrjgo/s1600/Santa+Fe+Adobe+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGE3iinuU2aLwjAptjVnYAdBXZoWSM6GZuIll5gXFUS4n3eRKd93c8OLFb5lFPTwMzekw06PnB91l8-B4P0-lEG72xOlW7DHn7FB8d3fOimeEDXCnxFEj6v3nQ08aysXTEzjMYivoyrjgo/s400/Santa+Fe+Adobe+house.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The city has become a creative hot-spot, and a promotional video I watched in a tiny cinema (a warm up to a free showing of The Green Hornet - the ticket price reflects the quality of that film) boasted that Santa Fe was home to 14,000 'creatives', be they artists, writers, sculptors, musicians or whatever. I wondered how such a figure was arrived at and whether these people had had to sign a register to say they were 'creative'. Where would the line be drawn? I can play Beatles songs on a ukulele but I doubt that would qualify me to be counted as a shining jewel in the Land of Enchantment. Conversely, I've known accountants who are incredibly creative.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Anyway, the city is now something of a mecca to lovers of art and has more galleries and studios than you can shake a hand-painted-authentic-Apache-cactus-rainstick at. For the less discerning visitor (like me) there is an artistic culinary creation that can be enjoyed for just $4.50. Yes, just under 3 quid will buy you half an hour of bliss devouring the town's renowned lunchtime fave - a Fritos Pie.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">At the local '5 and Dime' a kindly woman in an apron will slice open a packet of Fritos (the original corn chip), smother the contents with beef chilli, beans and grated cheese, hand you the warm packet and a plastic fork, and away you go - the Fritos Pie. Not a pie in any sense of the word, but who cares when it tastes so good? I also chose to add complimentary raw onion - careful to maintain my rigorous 'daily 5' health regime. Yum.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69gJ_qvTq9Ha8gfDrCuDXrbv4rCxhcuq30agE9-AuBslCkG4KO_pqcApC68tH3UVCMf-GpO1ctMDTBXCJLlr-7wpoeRDOn30-SM_vHti0akJt2Xhbw8C4tToJuM98Vdf5W4rDjGQnzr0e/s1600/Fritos+Pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj69gJ_qvTq9Ha8gfDrCuDXrbv4rCxhcuq30agE9-AuBslCkG4KO_pqcApC68tH3UVCMf-GpO1ctMDTBXCJLlr-7wpoeRDOn30-SM_vHti0akJt2Xhbw8C4tToJuM98Vdf5W4rDjGQnzr0e/s320/Fritos+Pie.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We only arrived in Santa Fe because I feared Penny might kill herself crossing The Rocky Mountains getting from 4 Corners to Colorado Springs. The old girl has been complaining a bit recently (I'm still talking about Penny). She's been blowing more smoke than she used to as we climb hills and she's started being grumpy in the morning when she's required to start. It was the cold of The Grand Canyon that did it. We camped in the forest on the southern rim and, thinking we'd stay for a couple of nights, even pitched our tent (the fourth of our tent-wrecking marathon), only to find the temperature dropped to minus 1 at night and it <i>snowed</i>. I consider us hardened campers, I really do, but <i>snow? </i>That's not really on, is it? The next morning having spent the night wrapped in every item of clothing we owned, we re-packed Penny to set off for a hike into the world's most famous ditch, and Penny refused to start.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We all exchanged worried looks. She has <i>never </i>refused to start. Fearing I was going to drain the battery turning the engine over, I suddenly had a thought.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Oh! There's a special lever somewhere for cold starts!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I reached under the dashboard and pulled a plastic handle that had never before been pulled. Edie's face fell.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Blue told you never to touch that," she said earnestly.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It was true. I had once asked our mechanic Blue what it was for and he'd laughed and said something about a cold start choke and not to touch it. Edie had clearly been there, and taken in this vital fact. I turned the key. We held our breath. The engine spluttered.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOyFLAFTTukwIkVQLZEgCUtNUeBAXi6qqcOWGnAYjn_xx8UJymCT3Pxw_3-rOCAAsVlw3ycK9fg1HqqBTYCo5Jx6ct1nBHbsZNnrSgqK8RoNua6-wuUSFJNtaxBHmx-_KNzGbnmz8Pm87X/s1600/Fuel+filter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOyFLAFTTukwIkVQLZEgCUtNUeBAXi6qqcOWGnAYjn_xx8UJymCT3Pxw_3-rOCAAsVlw3ycK9fg1HqqBTYCo5Jx6ct1nBHbsZNnrSgqK8RoNua6-wuUSFJNtaxBHmx-_KNzGbnmz8Pm87X/s320/Fuel+filter.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Soon she was firing on at least 2, then 3 cylinders, until finally in a cloud of smoke she revved her heart out. I pushed the lever back in and recoiled a bit as if prodding away an angry snake. Penny didn't sound happy and I'm not sure the lever helped. Anyway, in case the inner workings of a VW interest you, I suspected the old fuel filter problem we'd encountered in Italy had returned, as she lacked a certain oomph, so bought some Diesel Kleen additive for the tank, put our final new fuel filter on and was slightly reassured to find the old one was visibly full of nasty black gunk. She's running a lot better now. We'll never touch the lever again. Don't tell Blue.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The Grand Canyon was stunning. Of course it was. I'm not going to waste your time by telling you how amazing it is, because you already know it is. It's one of the '7 natural wonders of the world' (along with the Great Barrier Reef - 2 down, 5 to go!) and has been on my tick-list to see since I was about 10. It didn't disappoint. We were driving around the rim when we first saw it. The forest had been hiding it for a few minutes, and I was saying to the kids "It's just on our left, honest," when suddenly the trees opened up ... along with our jaws. Even after 2 days of exploring it, it never lost the 'wow' factor. Well, not for me. Edie's first comment was "It's a big hole" which I think does 6 million years of hard work by the Colorado River something of a disservice. Keen hikers can yomp all the way to the river where the exposed rock is almost 2 billion years old, but Ella, Beth and I took the trail just beyond a lookout point known as 'Ooh Aah' (was I the only person who wanted to say 'Cantona' after that?) where the temperature rose as quickly as the rocks above us.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcG1hf3oOr-bI9Da6EwvAC0wA3Wzku05-CUKy_n84xXs4yb53goa30ZNFMANcv9t3Yc5_yT2BR8xN1IL4LwB3EDtsLuTgXsTEn6DhGuwmBbw3rcdxlIS5QUbZhdwq1YSQz7KijYVvK7BI/s1600/Sim+Ella+Bethan+Grand+Canyon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDcG1hf3oOr-bI9Da6EwvAC0wA3Wzku05-CUKy_n84xXs4yb53goa30ZNFMANcv9t3Yc5_yT2BR8xN1IL4LwB3EDtsLuTgXsTEn6DhGuwmBbw3rcdxlIS5QUbZhdwq1YSQz7KijYVvK7BI/s400/Sim+Ella+Bethan+Grand+Canyon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Even better, though, than the Grand Canyon is Monument Valley. It's better because hardly anyone goes there, and if you arrive after 6pm as we did, no-one charges an entrance fee! Of all the places we've set up camp in the world, can any compare with the sunset views of Monument Valley? We couldn't help remembering all the inferior places where we've paid too much to camp, or places like Petra in Jordan, where they wanted £100 entrance fee. We'd had a week pass to the entire Grand Canyon for $25 (£15.30) - with all its free Ranger talks and shuttle buses thrown in - and then a night in Monument Valley <i>for free</i>.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_w23vR3hf7rh7PbgVzCCU1_Ggc6gNRuwsOFD7w3KSwYkQ7gEVWFdJDNpzOJ4f2yB12a3Dxlj26E_QmmGlB_3HX9t0cS9osiarvXjNGTNG-ACGVj3KQ0mwIqP8K_HVWh6D2xMXr2gekgs/s1600/Penny+camp+Monument+Valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5_w23vR3hf7rh7PbgVzCCU1_Ggc6gNRuwsOFD7w3KSwYkQ7gEVWFdJDNpzOJ4f2yB12a3Dxlj26E_QmmGlB_3HX9t0cS9osiarvXjNGTNG-ACGVj3KQ0mwIqP8K_HVWh6D2xMXr2gekgs/s400/Penny+camp+Monument+Valley.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Depending on your age, you'll either recognise the towering pillars of this Navajo landscape from a John Wayne movie, or a Tom Cruise one. The Duke made 5 films here, including 'Stage Coach' and 'The Searchers'.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqViXD6w1q6flqduxexUo1QieW2-IiNiCqUOUgG6jAs-HZRMqV0a14enhtRuDnyaf4iBxxNwT14lb7IPSh3IB45htR025hb-SrS5pOcJDRlVRH3nPdDzoYLWYAC3kYi2WbwJGaXavG_i8/s1600/John+Wayne+in+The+Searchers+Monument+Valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqViXD6w1q6flqduxexUo1QieW2-IiNiCqUOUgG6jAs-HZRMqV0a14enhtRuDnyaf4iBxxNwT14lb7IPSh3IB45htR025hb-SrS5pOcJDRlVRH3nPdDzoYLWYAC3kYi2WbwJGaXavG_i8/s320/John+Wayne+in+The+Searchers+Monument+Valley.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Tom Cruise was hanging off one at the start of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSInXjOQzdE">Mission Impossible 2</a>, although my request to mimic his stunt was politely declined.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSqi2c-SN6Bx-eQu6diUGPWsJSBVI3lVScLUpXXXVlYMfx4CD1yhHj8MOkBfjmidmvZYpONhcomHTdlMAUDsdPpqDwJEV0FTiMozltlfk6wHbO1IoBlTCoNIER4-cVIuRT5_nDps8QuCD/s1600/Tom+Cruise+rock+climbing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSqi2c-SN6Bx-eQu6diUGPWsJSBVI3lVScLUpXXXVlYMfx4CD1yhHj8MOkBfjmidmvZYpONhcomHTdlMAUDsdPpqDwJEV0FTiMozltlfk6wHbO1IoBlTCoNIER4-cVIuRT5_nDps8QuCD/s320/Tom+Cruise+rock+climbing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We neither stage coached, nor searched, nor took on missions impossible, but drank coffee whilst drinking in a view none of us will forget.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQa61Ygy9qw4HfiTu_ayoc-uVgSHtK78U4m1Emp2O55XAzga8ou2C0libDVPhypYrtkBcGMN2jphx5sfhyphenhyphenA8Ehmn4ZKRvNLECWks_JEL_YQQIgZdzI5tD8iWIjYhAQGHejBL2hh49fHQ_P/s1600/Monument+Valley+coffee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQa61Ygy9qw4HfiTu_ayoc-uVgSHtK78U4m1Emp2O55XAzga8ou2C0libDVPhypYrtkBcGMN2jphx5sfhyphenhyphenA8Ehmn4ZKRvNLECWks_JEL_YQQIgZdzI5tD8iWIjYhAQGHejBL2hh49fHQ_P/s400/Monument+Valley+coffee.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Our next stop is Colorado Springs. We're meeting rellies of some friends back home so are very excited about a few nights of comfort. I know you won't want to hear how tired we are, having the time of our lives out here, but we really are exhausted. None of us want to go home and the countdown is looming ever larger day by day. It's like the slump you feel on the last day of your holiday, but times a hundred.<br />
<br />
Plus of course, it's not a holiday. I may have mentioned that before.<br />
<br />
Anyway, a month to go and right now I have a movie set to infiltrate. Remember to look out for 'Odd Thomas' in a year or so. Look closely. Over there ... beyond the red scooter ... is that guy throwing a cocktail shaker in the air?</div></div>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-5593869937578289222011-02-02T00:44:00.000-08:002011-02-02T00:44:16.796-08:00The calm before the storm<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjd2L3eiTCt5tiJg0xzPahjCbGYPV1XSVVn9_wClsf11jazyEMcPF3Yo5n3bSF-xqooV5TMO6f4dreNr_wGszstky7sy3JAiitEs9nBuHS0YvAXG7UI7WXFxtTDUgu-JEPE36RP1Qsraf9/s1600/yasi-satellite.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjd2L3eiTCt5tiJg0xzPahjCbGYPV1XSVVn9_wClsf11jazyEMcPF3Yo5n3bSF-xqooV5TMO6f4dreNr_wGszstky7sy3JAiitEs9nBuHS0YvAXG7UI7WXFxtTDUgu-JEPE36RP1Qsraf9/s400/yasi-satellite.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Brisbane - 2nd February 2011</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I write this from beautiful, serene, clean Brisbane. A more stark contrast to Chennai would be hard to find. Since we landed late on Sunday night we've been enjoying a gleeful culture shock.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"The roads are so quiet!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Look! Pavements!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I haven't heard a car horn since we landed."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where's the litter?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Can we live here?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You know the sort of thing.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We are being spoiled enormously by our great friends Berners & Leona, and loving spending time with my Godson Ewan and 'new' baby Cara (who's actually 1 year old now!).</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But as you probably know, we've landed in the build up to a major news event. Just weeks after Brisbane suffered its worst flooding in living memory, the Queensland coast further north is about to get battered by Yasi, now officially the biggest tropical cyclone to hit Australia since records began.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So I thought I'd just give you a little insight into what life is like in a world sandwiched between massive and profound weather events. Yasi has been a news item since before we got here. While a smaller cyclone, Anthony, was having its fun on the Queensland coast last week I watched a BBC weather report in Chennai talking, albeit briefly, about a 'major cyclone forming near Fiji'. As it grew, fuelled by the warm Pacific ocean, it travelled west, and by the beginning of this week Australian forecasters were reporting the threat of a category 4 cyclone hitting Queensland.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The number 4 is from the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale. Being the very clever reader you are, you probably already knew that cyclones, hurricanes and typhoons are the same thing. They just have different names depending on where in the world they happen. Mexico's hurricane is Japan's typhoon, while on the Indian Ocean and South Pacific it's the cyclone that's feared.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">4. Not even half of 10. Sounds fairly innocuous. After all, our trusty old Beaufort Scale goes up to 12. If British sailors tune in to the shipping forecast to hear they're facing wind force 4 on Tyne, Dogger or Cromarty, they know that's a 'moderate breeze'.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Thing is, when they created their scale in 1971, structural engineer Herbert Saffir and his meteorologist mate Bob Simpson thought 12 was way too many categories. Even 10 seemed extravagant. Below, is the simple,and slightly scary, Saffir-Simpson scale.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA996jO7CuixaaULZlH9jalaP4ZUUBSepDN6SyPYp-A7hpw76Kx4P0WxEw7t9TqFOjkRajU0LYyiBpOrLWiGnb_qV2vx5ieHugm5xf6iPv_Db34_LKIlEPsOsnaPqwHQfXOgW0zl257Ky2/s1600/Cyclone+scale.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA996jO7CuixaaULZlH9jalaP4ZUUBSepDN6SyPYp-A7hpw76Kx4P0WxEw7t9TqFOjkRajU0LYyiBpOrLWiGnb_qV2vx5ieHugm5xf6iPv_Db34_LKIlEPsOsnaPqwHQfXOgW0zl257Ky2/s400/Cyclone+scale.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You now see why a 'cat. four' as it was being referred to was very quickly Australia's top story.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This morning we woke to the news that Yasi is now category 5. Those in its path may not want to see Saffir and Simpson's 'damage' description for such a thing.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's size and force has got newscasters wearing earnest frowns, meteorologists reaching for record books and politicians doing almost round the clock press conferences updating people on the threat to property, land, and of course, life.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A cyclone's path cannot be predicted, they are as likely to turn a hairpin as to go straight on, but as I write this everything is looking like Yasi will hit the coast just south of Cairns. Remarkably, here in Brisbane, all we're expecting to get is some rain off the fringes, but don't let that fool you into thinking Yasi is a 'localised' threat. Australia is very big, and Cairns is 12 hours drive north from here. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The best illustration of Yasi's magnitude is this comparison in the Herald Sun newspaper showing how its size compares to the United States and Europe.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR3bjJ2CkHwfXZ_ODd4lfkzRckaGoBmw7FNY91AcT0w8ofECFWzIyzN0c5-Gxg1MyGOC-pFnyv6LNsF9qEZVtfTghj2QRrO6r_bMkQSdOF5OU6v0lhT_OhbP20dj25FJS5zXdstX_xkgb/s1600/Yasi+USA.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwR3bjJ2CkHwfXZ_ODd4lfkzRckaGoBmw7FNY91AcT0w8ofECFWzIyzN0c5-Gxg1MyGOC-pFnyv6LNsF9qEZVtfTghj2QRrO6r_bMkQSdOF5OU6v0lhT_OhbP20dj25FJS5zXdstX_xkgb/s400/Yasi+USA.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you look closely at the Europe comparison, you can just make out Birmingham to the north east of the eye.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirktQAuMA3GgRGmxM15u5n8ZRN2DftPTnQsoLitJkYdJ1tZyNcxmqmaEZboGYW6Mu9ZDybNQta7jGmr0ZXN6dSpryOyPXz9w9A7OJTQZ_W8qbJiylP5X2W8XkGh2gly890XiS3q_1UUz4o/s1600/Yasi+Europe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirktQAuMA3GgRGmxM15u5n8ZRN2DftPTnQsoLitJkYdJ1tZyNcxmqmaEZboGYW6Mu9ZDybNQta7jGmr0ZXN6dSpryOyPXz9w9A7OJTQZ_W8qbJiylP5X2W8XkGh2gly890XiS3q_1UUz4o/s400/Yasi+Europe.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The eye of this cyclone is an estimated 100 kilometres across. That's just the <i>eye</i>, the dormant peaceful lull at the centre of the carnage. Forecasters predict it will take an <i>hour</i> for the eye to pass over those in its path. This remarkable phenomenon, the peaceful calm that is so often the cause for false hope, usually lasts just moments, a few minutes perhaps. The fact that some people will suffer 6 hours of 170 mph winds, then an hour of calm, knowing they've got another 6 hours still to bear is just incredible.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">These facts and figures are alarming from a distance, but what must it be like for those thousands of people from Mackay up to Townsville and as far as Cairns who are preparing for tonight? Berners and Leona's parents are both up near Cairns and have been, along with a flurry of calls from friends throughout today, on the phone reassuring that they are fully prepped and braced for the worst. The advice from the authorities was initially to leave the coastal towns in its path, but from about midday today they advised it was too late to evacuate - the winds were already too strong. Now it's a case of batten down the hatches and sit it out. Parents and friends have stocked up on food, taped or covered windows, filled up the generators and gathered in groups and communities at each other's houses. Strength in numbers, I guess. Plus the power and phones will be knocked out soon, so the easiest way to know you're all OK is too gather in the same shelter. Aussies aren't easily fazed, of course. I heard a guy on the radio today being interviewed about his night ahead.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Well, we've followed all the advice, got a few friends here, a fridge full of beer and few nice bottles of wine too."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The safest place in most houses is the bathroom because it's small and usually tiled giving it extra strength, so I've heard the Premier of Queensland, Anna Bligh, reminding people to prepare for a long night in the bathroom!</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you read this during Wednesday or Thursday, you may want to check out this official Government site that shows a live satellite feed of the cyclone's progress, <a href="http://www.bom.gov.au/products/IDR192.loop.shtml">HERE</a>.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">11pm local time is when the violent edges hit the coast - so at 1pm Wednesday in the UK, spare a thought for the already weather weary Queenslanders who are huddled in their bathrooms, in the dark, sitting out a terrifying and historic weather event that may just make Mister Saffir and Mister Simpson wish they'd considered a number 6.</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-42015596276486972322011-01-18T02:03:00.000-08:002011-01-18T02:36:30.416-08:00Put Us Up Down Under<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigamoe-KWfVGaqpl9o_5O4ykLnEsb6fw0Qih3gjOMFEv3lkl3QN1invm9OuSMKAiZfYpVh0npK-ZheZSpeL1M53M9_Qe1ZS8cxMa8QKnVQAMsc8o-ffX48fXtDjKmK9tH_sLSayVntUsSP/s1600/Australia+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigamoe-KWfVGaqpl9o_5O4ykLnEsb6fw0Qih3gjOMFEv3lkl3QN1invm9OuSMKAiZfYpVh0npK-ZheZSpeL1M53M9_Qe1ZS8cxMa8QKnVQAMsc8o-ffX48fXtDjKmK9tH_sLSayVntUsSP/s400/Australia+sign.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles driven - 8,253</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles travelled - 11,580</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hello reader! Isn't life wonderful? Today, for instance, I'm in Bangalore, a city I can't tell you much about because we arrived last night as darkness fell, but not even the choking smog and gridlocked traffic can stifle the joy in my heart. Today is one of those 'anything is possible' sort of days. Can you feel it? You could change the world today, I can sense it. You've got that super-confident 'world at your feet' aura about you. You look great, too. Have you lost weight?</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">OK, enough of that. I'm after a favour.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Our aim, as you know, is to busk our way from Liverpool to New York. Surprisingly, despite 18 months of planning, that's about as detailed as our mission got. Being under prepared, under rehearsed and under funded was what made it exciting. Making plans day by day, learning to play our instruments and trying to make our cash stretch are all daily realities to be embraced. The next leg of our journey is through Australia and New Zealand, and we've realised we need your help.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The funny thing about Australia is, as we've travelled and we've told people our route, that's the one place about which people have said "I've got a friend in Oz if you need somewhere to park your van for the night". And when I reply "Yes please! Can I have their address?" they don't look even slightly alarmed.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDFRWYXNWQz8bTdC716-O-HcId2ZxStC6XCXiBL3iljyHNvc3dtDBkVHbv7NrrEfb1ESoRbaAx2Hh6NFrEVHjkM3I5lqvDnUR6Y4QK0SyuUXLGJox-vVHvhIswGPHg_GYqJWRh4I_SRyP/s1600/caution_buskers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifDFRWYXNWQz8bTdC716-O-HcId2ZxStC6XCXiBL3iljyHNvc3dtDBkVHbv7NrrEfb1ESoRbaAx2Hh6NFrEVHjkM3I5lqvDnUR6Y4QK0SyuUXLGJox-vVHvhIswGPHg_GYqJWRh4I_SRyP/s400/caution_buskers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">From various random places between our 'home from home' staying with friends in Brisbane (while we wait for Penny's ship to arrive), and our 'jumping off' point in Melbourne we've had genuine offers from generous 'friends of friends' inviting us to camp on their drive. This is a really valuable offer, not only because 'wild camping' is a big no-no in Australia and the cops are quick to move on stray campers, but because we'll get to meet lots of new friends. Friends with a toilet! And maybe even a washing machine!</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So then we had an idea. What if we offered something in return? A song? Hmmm...hardly Charlie's golden ticket, is it? It was Bethan's passion for baking that clinched it. She's survived almost 6 months without an oven and one of the first things she'll be doing in our friends' kitchen in Brisbane is baking her legendary lemon drizzle cake. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That's it!" said Jill. "We'll offer a traditional English high tea!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Ooooooooohhhhh" we all responded, eyes wide at the prospect of cake.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Cucumber sandwiches, crusts cut off, a pot of tea and Betty's cake," she went on. "We can buy the ingredients pretty cheaply, and if they'll let us use their kitchen we're sorted."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWx8bPSIzB7BL2sXzgZKHVRdZdkO3nKYu0J8WIzFHKqBY0-9XHkx3V7FGyjo9q83rutTaDWHaVTyDOTzkHNwUAZAUfVuu9csk5cbHYqaudS3WjX1_aizLh8rVVFW8GLTXIr8_OxjZUgV4k/s1600/Lemon+drizzle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWx8bPSIzB7BL2sXzgZKHVRdZdkO3nKYu0J8WIzFHKqBY0-9XHkx3V7FGyjo9q83rutTaDWHaVTyDOTzkHNwUAZAUfVuu9csk5cbHYqaudS3WjX1_aizLh8rVVFW8GLTXIr8_OxjZUgV4k/s320/Lemon+drizzle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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And so, project <b>Put Us Up Down Under</b> was born.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">How can you get involved? Simple.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you know anyone living on the east coast of Australia who might like a visit from us, a delicious English tea and, if they're really unlucky, a song, then put us in touch! Email them NOW with a link to our web site www.beatnikbeatles.com and to this blog at<br />
http://beatnikbeatles.blogspot.com/2011/01/put-us-up-down-under.html</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then, having checked us out online, if they're up for it, they can email us at <a href="mailto:sim@beatnikbeatles.com">sim@beatnikbeatles.com</a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">From Mackay in the north down to Melbourne in the south, we're making it our aim to try and get all the way down Australia just using 'friends of friends' power. As well as saving us money on campsites and hotel rooms, UNICEF can benefit too. One 'friend of friend' who's been in touch (remember Fiona who did our Indian cookery class?) is organising a charity barbecue, gathering a load of mates for a Beatnik Beatles singalong and fundraiser. Brilliant! We'll also be popping in to local radio stations in towns we visit to do some PR and try to bolster our UNICEF pot.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">If you're reading this and you've got friends in New Zealand, we need them too! North Island, South Island, we need 'em all! Put them in touch. And if you're the person in Tasmania who used the 'comment' button on the blog to invite us to your place...yes please! We're going to Tasmania, and we'd love to visit you! Email us - <a href="mailto:sim@beatnikbeatles.com">sim@beatnikbeatles.com</a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This blog has had over twelve and a half thousand hits. Wouldn't it be an amazing experiment in harnessing the power of the online community to see if we can travel the height of Australia just by hopping between one reader's mate and the next? It would also be a very cool chapter of the book, <i>and you can be part of it!</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><i></i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So spread the word, ask around, and <b>Put Us Up Down Under</b>! It's the ultimate feel-good gesture that'll give you that yummy warm feeling inside, almost as good as the feeling your friends will get eating Betty's lemon drizzle!</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>PS - On the subject of new friends, remember Stefano and Federica whose wedding rehearsal we crashed in Italy? Here's a photo they sent us of their wedding day. (Details in blog 'A scary day - parts 1 & 2')</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DbWrgeZYwZCXIM-OPCHqJMfFXqk0HGbXXWXM1QQP-iRq_BiipXhrgrX9Q6dEZZY0v20C7vkVbXPemUhQVZ11ztRmMNATLdcj-EFyQv98jSUex2E9UGDSaCtSWkksxgEGgaK02yxaux41/s1600/b+%252828%2529.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1DbWrgeZYwZCXIM-OPCHqJMfFXqk0HGbXXWXM1QQP-iRq_BiipXhrgrX9Q6dEZZY0v20C7vkVbXPemUhQVZ11ztRmMNATLdcj-EFyQv98jSUex2E9UGDSaCtSWkksxgEGgaK02yxaux41/s400/b+%252828%2529.jpeg" width="266" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
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</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>PPS - The Agonda gig went well, Jill </i>did<i> play the recorder and we raised £37 for UNICEF! Pictures, video and the new India (part 1) photo album are all online now at <a href="http://www.beatnikbeatles.com/">www.beatnikbeatles.com</a></i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8omwlMu92NXL4XAWrzFykYEkrgHN0FUPT2FgHMQ9wUImdOuB8bBrVxWXrL0y7_AjtrSQpq-sxEqboQVrAkl7GPFltgPOSqJk26qg6zE5V7ttDvsaCrUAX_W-osdVTsnwtsMMKx2XN-yq/s1600/Agonda+gig+clapping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8omwlMu92NXL4XAWrzFykYEkrgHN0FUPT2FgHMQ9wUImdOuB8bBrVxWXrL0y7_AjtrSQpq-sxEqboQVrAkl7GPFltgPOSqJk26qg6zE5V7ttDvsaCrUAX_W-osdVTsnwtsMMKx2XN-yq/s400/Agonda+gig+clapping.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
</i></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-24823379705552761232010-12-26T21:54:00.000-08:002010-12-26T22:07:36.686-08:00Boxes, Boyle and Bent Bobbies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-zcxsB6jEZ6ScJDj7SEqo6AbbV8dn-QBBjJmHrW4hiENjkSieTu0c9cf43oeooJ4OSxuCVQVRo61sY0kihW_N7tBRzsI2gIFhHoMwNTq7MBYkJ2IexkQhktuhLGhGEdQqrhkSdbFrnCF/s1600/Penny+in+box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx-zcxsB6jEZ6ScJDj7SEqo6AbbV8dn-QBBjJmHrW4hiENjkSieTu0c9cf43oeooJ4OSxuCVQVRo61sY0kihW_N7tBRzsI2gIFhHoMwNTq7MBYkJ2IexkQhktuhLGhGEdQqrhkSdbFrnCF/s400/Penny+in+box.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mumbai</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Countries driven through to get to India: 12</b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Officials' signatures required to drive Penny through those countries: 6</b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><b></b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><b>Officials' signatures required to drive Penny out of Mumbai port: 23</b></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">India loves her paperwork. Every hotel or hostel, for instance, since the passing of the Foreign Visitors Act of 1939, requires each person staying to fill in a page of information about themselves, where they live, where they've been, where they're going, and sign it - even the children. The simple process of getting a refund from the YWCA for a couple of nights I'd paid for in advance but then didn't need, required a meeting with the manager in his office, and then the writing of a letter explaining why we needed the refund. On checking out, several different breakdowns of our bill were produced for us to keep, and then as I turned to leave, a flustered cry - "Sir! Wait!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Another piece of paper was being handed to me. It was a hand written slip, although I couldn't read its scrawl.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What's this?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Your clearance pass", explained the receptionist. "You give it to the security man outside as you leave."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What will he do with it?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"He'll file it."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I wouldn't be surprised if the security guard had a boy to file these pointless slips of paper. Job creation schemes like this appear abundant in India.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But nothing I've ever seen can compare to the unfathomable process of releasing a vehicle from India's customs authorities. I could write a book about the intensely complex, bewildering and comical procedure overseen by a myriad of self important egos in uniform. It would be a short book, like The Little Book of Calm, but called The Little Book of Fury. It would have far too many characters, incomprehensible dialogue and a mind boggling plot that went round in meaningless circles until finally proving utterly pointless and leaving the reader exhausted to the point of tears. I should probably pitch it to Dan Brown.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The entire 3 day process of reclaiming Penny, 2 of which I spent at the port, was surreal. My clearing agent, John, repeatedly begged me to complain to my Embassy about the process, in the hope that one day it might improve.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"No one sees how ridiculous this has become", he would moan. "Because no one person is overseeing the import of a vehicle under Carnet, it is falling to many many people, none of whom sees the full procedure. If you drove the car into India," he went on, "one man would stamp the Carnet and you'd be through. But because it comes on a ship, we have all this."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">'All this' involves running around and between 2 large buildings at the port (each a tuk tuk ride apart, just to make it more of a challenge), persuading a total of 23 people to sign various forms, each in the correct order, and almost all needing to be told why they have to sign it. My agent was a trooper - I don't know how he keeps sane. <i>But isn't any of this system computerised?</i> you may ask. Yes, it is! One vital part of our 2 day marathon involved visiting an office where we were to hand a floppy disc to a man who attempted to load data from it onto a computer programme written in MS-DOS. For our younger readers, MS-DOS was what Bill Gates wrote software in before he invented Windows (late 1980s), and a floppy disc is...well, just ask your parents. People who remember The Early Days of the Home Computer won't be surprised to hear that the floppy disc didn't load, so we had to go to a different building where another man could access the data and adjust it so the DOS programme on the first computer could read it properly. It's computer nostalgia heaven, and all to the rhythmic whine of dot matrix printers!</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The only reason the entire pantomime only took 3 days rather than the threatened 4 or 5 is because my agent used my white Western face to push us past crowds of other clearing agents and get to the front of the queues - "If they see a foreigner they will deal with us quicker". He also knew exactly who to bribe along the way (most people, as it turned out - more on India's corruption in moment), and when no one appeared to be taking the promised action of finding our container and delivering it to the customs inspector, I went and searched for it myself.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where will it be, roughly?" I asked John. "If I can find it maybe we can get things moving."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Oh God", he held his hands to his head. "It'll be somewhere over the back".</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">'Over the back' was an area of open desert behind the main massive storage warehouse at the Speedy Container Shipping Terminal. (I know, 'Speedy'. The irony wasn't lost on me.) An area of about 2 square kilometres was home to a few thousand containers piled 3 or 4 high in rows, squares, random stacks, all over the place.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yeah, but there must be a system, right? A grid system or something so they know roughly where my container is."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He shook his head.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"How do they find it then?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"The manager will radio his junior supervisor, who will send men out to look for it."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There's that job creation scheme again. A plethora of cheap manpower compensates for a complete lack of order. It's the Indian way.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8edcq-Uh0EXpBsShyS3NxZcqe-f_qInTXTC2niHMxZ9hUvcS-oasBASGeHvAHhE1bTIPvP_MA-WUaH0q-phgOSHRr0rv5pVDXi6x7sBciNxOnrwCTfgO2dioOB05q-vCV1D2eO7NBMVA/s1600/Penny+crane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk8edcq-Uh0EXpBsShyS3NxZcqe-f_qInTXTC2niHMxZ9hUvcS-oasBASGeHvAHhE1bTIPvP_MA-WUaH0q-phgOSHRr0rv5pVDXi6x7sBciNxOnrwCTfgO2dioOB05q-vCV1D2eO7NBMVA/s320/Penny+crane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So, at the risk of putting several men out of a job, skipping an entire layer of bureaucracy and therefore bringing the whole house of cards crashing down, I strode out into the dusty heat to "find my own flippin' box". And in a surprising triumph for a man who can't even find a jar of Marmite in the cupboard - "It's in there! You might have to move something!" - I stumbled across UACU3222307 after about 10 minutes. Many, many pieces of paper later I was opening the container, Penny started first time, and eventually we were free to leave and drive wide eyed and sweating through Mumbai's rush hour traffic at nightfall - a modern and convenient way to reduce your life-span by several years without the costly need for cigarettes or drugs.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Before Christmas I promised to tell you about the Dharavi slum. This is the triangle of land between 2 of Mumbai's major railway lines, the same size as London's Hyde Park, that is home to 1 million people and was made famous in the film Slumdog Millionnaire. 'Reality Gives' is a local charity set up by a Brit - Chris Way from Birmingham. He realised while staying in Mumbai that the Dharavi slum, which long before Danny Boyle's film was already famed as India's biggest slum, was misrepresented. Keen to show it for the positive people and values he found there, he gathered the various 'tribal' elders from the different religious 'districts' within the slum and proposed Reality Tours. These small, unobtrusive tours offer tourists the chance to explore the slum and meet the people, while profits are ploughed back into the community. Since they began in 2005 Reality Gives has paid for a kindergarten (and the training of 20 local pre-school teachers), a high school with 33 pupils and a community centre where computer skills are taught.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQIYfWvsviKp0t7SjzdJZmIEqU4KKapH2XI8Kw2DdFcqXM7TFTvSJ9DdWBiKekXfYWmBvpU7KOQcYb15PUs4m_i8u_yTzMBHTf0JlVRniTzjvx0Wvs91hegjvfkbqK3V54nOdaX1giSOU/s1600/dharavi+slum+arial.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQIYfWvsviKp0t7SjzdJZmIEqU4KKapH2XI8Kw2DdFcqXM7TFTvSJ9DdWBiKekXfYWmBvpU7KOQcYb15PUs4m_i8u_yTzMBHTf0JlVRniTzjvx0Wvs91hegjvfkbqK3V54nOdaX1giSOU/s400/dharavi+slum+arial.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The dilemma about taking the tour was obvious: It's a very fine line between 'expanding your social awareness' and voyeurism. The fact that cameras weren't allowed (I didn't take the photos you can see here), and that a few articles in Indian newspapers seemed to back up the charity's claims about the way the community was benefitting, eventually justified the visit.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There were only 3 on my tour - 2 Australian women and me plus our Indian guide, so we didn't stick out too much in the throng and were able to spend 2 hours winding our way through the slum, seeing and smelling slum life close up. In some respects it was exactly as you'd imagine: Cramped, dark dwellings line a maze of endlessly twisting alleyways and cut-throughs. Smoke fills the air and you have no idea what you might be stepping in. Yet in other ways it was full of surprises: Industries such as pottery, clothing manufacture and leather tanning thrive. Plastic and metal recycling occupies another quarter. Beneath the corrugated metal rooves and plastic tarpaulin shelters is a hive of productivity. Dharavi's commercial output stats. are astounding - the annual turnover of the slum is about 650 million US dollars. Its social statistics also confound expectation - 80% of children go to school. That's significantly higher than a lot of the villages in Rajasthan we were talking about with UNICEF.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The most surprising discovery of my visit was how happy everyone was. I had naively associated slums with misery, yet Dharavi is anything but. In fact, it turned out to be the least threatening place I've been to in my month in India. No one was begging - something impossible to consider outside the slum where, from Delhi to Mumbai and in every town in between, there are beggers at almost every corner. It was a genuine shock, and demanded a mental re-adjustment, when children ran up to me and <i>didn't</i> ask for money by putting one hand to their mouth to mime eating while the other palm is thrust towards me. Instead they wanted to talk. They are all taught English from the age of 4 and are thrilled to see a white face they can try it on.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-K6Gb9J7ioxg2BvhzjVeGzAaDyhEiFiiDQlDW2fr8nzGZHBRtbtO2hcCivGVugIFjbFexPqpSNrDW0u34YCf7oG5f5X8Xj7M_kfDLTj-ErnySRAn0Akkjabs1zb0TnHVkLgXq_zCX6_k9/s1600/dharavislum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-K6Gb9J7ioxg2BvhzjVeGzAaDyhEiFiiDQlDW2fr8nzGZHBRtbtO2hcCivGVugIFjbFexPqpSNrDW0u34YCf7oG5f5X8Xj7M_kfDLTj-ErnySRAn0Akkjabs1zb0TnHVkLgXq_zCX6_k9/s400/dharavislum.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hi! What's your name?" is the chorus as they offer to shake hands, a gaggle of grinning faces. The first child I saw in the slum wasn't interested in me, she was a girl of about 6, neatly dressed in a smart school uniform and she was dancing and skipping through the alleyways ahead of us. She swung every corner knowing this gloomy alien world like you know your own neighbourhood. She stopped at a door, shouted up to her mother and quickly scaled a ladder to reach a single room on the second floor. This was home, and this girl was as happy as any I've ever seen. If a group of 10 year old boys approached you in Delhi, you'd brace yourself to march through a barrage of begging and sleeve pulling. In Dharavi a similar gang surrounded me...to show me their toys - a wooden spinning top expertly propelled into life with a leather cord was the current craze. They insisted I had a go - laughed at my efforts and held out my hand so they could place the quivering top in my palm, as if to show how easy it was. Imagine that, I'm the white guy in the slum and I'm holding out my palm to them.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It wasn't without its poignancy. My spinning top tuition took place at one edge of the slum in the shadow of 2 high rise concrete towers built by the government in the 90s to rehouse some of the slum dwellers. Our guide had been there in 1995 when Prince Charles had officially opened them.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"This area," he remembered, "was a beautiful playground. The grass was like The Oval."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Now, it was a rubbish dump.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"The Governement tidied it up for the Prince, but now they just send a truck every few months to collect the rubbish."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">As he spoke, in front of us a young girl of about 4 was hitching up her pretty dress and defecating on the litter. Even this space wasn't wasted though. Behind the preoccupied girl, spread across the mounds of waste, were animal skins drying in the sun. The output of these leather workshops is exported to Europe, and at least 2 major Italian fashion labels use their hides. I'll smile the next time I see one of those designer leather jackets, its owner unaware of the prestigious garment's humble beginnings at the little girl's toilet.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPFvsWfHUUqpyb1zaUGo6_oYkOHDslnI69eb-nlhB52IeXBKgOlSbx10ryZJErzvxnBTljmxTN7tuDfIyTTSaOMXB8kw1wjF9hzbU5fDPORM_yNA-PBR26X2uJYDne0YtqU_OkPq4JxRx/s1600/Dharavi_Slum_in_Mumbai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPFvsWfHUUqpyb1zaUGo6_oYkOHDslnI69eb-nlhB52IeXBKgOlSbx10ryZJErzvxnBTljmxTN7tuDfIyTTSaOMXB8kw1wjF9hzbU5fDPORM_yNA-PBR26X2uJYDne0YtqU_OkPq4JxRx/s400/Dharavi_Slum_in_Mumbai.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The streets, by the way, aren't awash with sewage. Since Dharavi was made a 'legal slum' in 2000 the Government pipe in mains water for 3 hours per day, (and most dwellings now have electricity), so although raw sewage is still around, you're not up to your ankles in it. However, only 1% of homes in Dharavi have a toilet. Most people use communal facilities, which are massively over burdened. I don't know what the ratio is in your house of people to toilets, but if you live in Dharavi it's 1,500 people per loo. Even with those conditions, though, Dharavi comes with a price tag. Dwellings are rented for the equivalent of about £28 per month, and people can only get them if they know someone living or working there who can vouch for them.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Even in India's biggest slum, demand has out-stripped supply and capitalism has been the result.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It was a fascinating day which my tour buddies and I agreed had been essential in getting a better understanding of the city. It took me about a day to let the onslaught of sensory overload sink in, and the overwhelming feeling I had when I left is the one that stays with me now - that contrary to the menacing squalor of Boyle's Slumdog, Dharavi slum is one of the most uplifting places I've ever had the pleasure of spending time in.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Right, before we head off to Goa, here's a quick word on Christmas. As you know, we 'd planned to stay at 'The Y' (as the YWCA is known) for Christmas day and head south to Goa after that. We'd even sourced a local caf that was offering a turkey dinner for those die hard Brits growing weary of curry. At least part of this plan was altered in the nicest possible way by a generous gift. We had an email on Christmas Eve from some great friends in the UK telling us they had bought us all a night in a 5 star hotel on Christmas night! So we started the day in our decorated room at The Y (Ella had drawn a Christmas tree to put presents under), Beth and Edie had planned a Christmas service with carols, a bible reading and a sermon from Edie(!) after which we all opened the gifts we'd bought each other - typically 'budget' and very Indian - tops, sandals, a fake Rolex for me (from the woman whose father worked for Trading Standards) and the surprise hit - traditional string puppets from Rajasthan. Ella and Edie love them! I can't believe we bought Beatles Rock Band for the Wii last year when a puppet would have done.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We asked a splendid Canadian woman we'd met at The Y called Marilyn to join us for lunch and had a slap up feast of turkey, mash <i>and sprouts!</i> What a result! Then we drove for a couple of hours (about 10 miles, then) through Mumbai's terror-traffic to our swish hotel near the airport. We only encountered 2 impacts on the journey, which locals assure me is a remarkably incident free journey through Mumbai. One bus simply changed lanes into the side of us scraping our plucky wing mirror all the way down his side, and a dozy driver in a surprisingly new car pulled out behind us, got his timing wrong and scraped the back of the van...the same panel that had been repaired after the bus incident in Jordan! There's simply no point stopping to deal with these minor scrapes - no one has any road insurance and I've witnessed a few much worse bumps than that always result in a shouting match in the street before both injured parties simply accept they must drive away. It's knock for knock, or rather dog eat dog out there. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdUdNkSqSg_PPSjpnUmj8Rw9Ensk9FtXb3xYWny1ZJ0QfrgzBGWYlQInMaRIHHHbHHmITzeA1oe875BdBNqe1JJZ3sVxUIoNEOYd6v966eI4JRhkWCCD9mDJ5hf_EiJZQbiBgirr2WlWz/s1600/Penny+scrape+Mumbai.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIdUdNkSqSg_PPSjpnUmj8Rw9Ensk9FtXb3xYWny1ZJ0QfrgzBGWYlQInMaRIHHHbHHmITzeA1oe875BdBNqe1JJZ3sVxUIoNEOYd6v966eI4JRhkWCCD9mDJ5hf_EiJZQbiBgirr2WlWz/s400/Penny+scrape+Mumbai.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The only other interesting aspect of the journey was our realisation that India's police really are as corrupt as several newspaper articles claim. Actually, corruption in India is so rife that you see signs asking you to report corrupt officials. (But how would you trust the people you're reporting them to?)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We crossed a busy junction along with lots of other cars, tuk tuks and cabs and a traffic policeman blew his whistle and waved at us. We were lost, so pulled over to ask his for directions. He looked at the map and told us the way before telling us he needed 500 rupees. Why?</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Penalty" he smiled. "You crossed a signal. Dangerous driving."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Er...it was green, and we crossed with everyone else."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"No, no, no. 500." he insisted.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I remembered something my clearing agent John had said as I drove him back into Mumbai that first time. As we approached a police check point he'd said "Stick close behind a truck. If they see a foreign car they'll pull you over."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jill stopped me arguing with the bent copper and offered him a hundred (about £1.40), which he took happily.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A little while later, while driving through the suburbs in a line of traffic a police motorcycle pulled along side my open window.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where are you going?" asked the young officer. I genuinely couldn't remember the name of the hotel, so simply shrugged.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Dunno!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Pull over!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"No thanks!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And still he stuck with us.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Pull over up here!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I haven't broken any law!" I insisted. He dropped back but then re-appeared.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Pull over!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Stop distracting me!" I calmly instructed. "I'm trying to drive!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">At which point he dropped away, turned round and headed back to his territory.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A third traffic cop tried to wave us down as we pulled across a junction with all the other traffic but we just ignored him.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The only trouble, of course, is that with all this corruption around, how will we ever know if one of our wheels is falling off, or if we have an angry monkey on the roof? No amount of waving and whistle blowing is stopping this big yellow bus. Next stop - Goa.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-18453166189209015652010-12-16T03:31:00.000-08:002011-11-02T08:42:02.539-07:00Getting down in tinsel town<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMAk4T5dnIbS093T-a7qSNSesXiJISnHbwuz-AL8DZs4Iib9HzPyMWuTbdqZRWVKDTCNLB9IM1kUATljJSS4k7xdXdSkngXNCftTgRK_hf53FCvVrW2KzG0lC1HbVYsRwDSJT-uGx0BBN/s1600/Taj+%2526+Gateway.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoMAk4T5dnIbS093T-a7qSNSesXiJISnHbwuz-AL8DZs4Iib9HzPyMWuTbdqZRWVKDTCNLB9IM1kUATljJSS4k7xdXdSkngXNCftTgRK_hf53FCvVrW2KzG0lC1HbVYsRwDSJT-uGx0BBN/s400/Taj+%2526+Gateway.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mumbai, India</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It happened at the Gateway of India.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A fitting monument from under which a monumental opportunity should arise.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We had travelled to Mumbai on the overnight sleeper from Delhi. Since watching Michael Palin grapple with the Indian railways over twenty years ago I had wanted to experience them for myself. The brilliant film <i>The Darjeeling Limited</i> only strengthened my desire. I'd already suspected that the wonderful 1940s wooden panelled four-bunk compartments on the picturesque Darjeeling line would have been superceded by more modern carriages on the Rajasthan Express, so wasn't too disappointed to find ourselves in a 'British Rail circa 1970s' plastic palace. The class system on Indian rail is complicated and offers almost a dozen different ways of getting from A to B, from 1AC at the top (air conditioned sleeper in a four bunk booth) down to unreserved sleeper class where, even after purchasing a ticket, you're not guaranteed a place on the train until boards are published on the platform bearing the names of the lucky few.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We'd chosen the third rung down, 3AC, which meant sharing in a booth of eight bunks. The most surprising thing about the journey apart from the price (about £21 each for a 1500 mile journey!) was the constant food we were brought. We only discovered after settling in and chatting to one of our Indian co-bunkees that the Rajasthan Express is the only train line in India which provides food included in the ticket price. It started just after departing at 4.30pm with afternoon tea - a sandwich, a samosa, a cake and tea or coffee. Unfortunately for us, we all thought this was our main meal, and as we hadn't eaten since 8am tucked in with such gusto that when our neighbours offered us their unwanted samosas and sandwiches we heartily unburdened them. It was with some surprise, therefore, that two hours later we were served cups of spicy tomato soup.<i> Delicious</i>, we thought. <i>That'll be supper just before bed.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><i></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWavHu24aca1jsGP8BWlNEajfHWRbnKpwDcbG-NjaubgKIdFvL6XhEdWMUj1KFYYX0HpZbhll0LuPFlET2lZK-vKcu1wZwKFd5SiidQ5DMYQoFY_8nOgs-bcM647kRqBP4lHxmJQSziZx/s1600/Train+food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQWavHu24aca1jsGP8BWlNEajfHWRbnKpwDcbG-NjaubgKIdFvL6XhEdWMUj1KFYYX0HpZbhll0LuPFlET2lZK-vKcu1wZwKFd5SiidQ5DMYQoFY_8nOgs-bcM647kRqBP4lHxmJQSziZx/s320/Train+food.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then came another tray. Dal, paneer masala, rice, pickle, papads, nan. And still our travel companions were offering us more. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You want?" asked bunk six (Kohe, a Japanese student) offering me a nan.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Oh dear. I'm new to sleeper train etiquette, but I imagine vomiting is frowned upon.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We bravely battled on, doing our level best to clear our trays, before collapsing in a bloated sweat.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Amazing," we panted.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Brilliant," we gasped.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Why don't Chiltern Railways do this?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And just as Ella groaned "I couldn't eat another thing," the porter reappeared.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Ice cream?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Ooh yes please!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsR1cvzaM1cpr8Y6SCqjW9trV8-BkAORrBMhgOw-FpA3dtGI-NcX_0_Cb_Osa-xrDF19ypyHHd3IR8BxvraRUPBpUZqDNlG11CBicuzeKEs02XkLO4YkVXfKdRlPnNu7joMAfN50_3efK/s1600/Victoria+terminus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAsR1cvzaM1cpr8Y6SCqjW9trV8-BkAORrBMhgOw-FpA3dtGI-NcX_0_Cb_Osa-xrDF19ypyHHd3IR8BxvraRUPBpUZqDNlG11CBicuzeKEs02XkLO4YkVXfKdRlPnNu7joMAfN50_3efK/s400/Victoria+terminus.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mumbai is a sixteen hour train ride from Delhi, but is a world away. The narrow, chaotic, smoke-filled streets of the capital are replaced by wide boulevards with trees and daylight above. Traffic stops at traffic lights. There is barely a cow to be seen, and certainly no hogs, camels and piles of burning trash on every corner. The architecture is stunning, a glance to the left looks like Georgian London, while one to the right finds a gothic church sandwiched between tenements reminiscent of New York. The buttresses, domes and stained glass windows of the Victoria Terminus have seen it described as 'to the British Raj what the Taj Mahal is to the Mughal empire' - a stunning mixture of Victorian, Hindu and Islamic styles which is now a World Heritage Site. Our wide eyed first impression of the city as we drove from the station to Colaba was borne out by our experience on the streets. Yes, there were beggars and hawkers - as you'd expect in this touristy part of town - but after Delhi it felt as comfortable as strolling through Oxford. Its relatively obedient traffic, its occasional smart cafe or swish gallery made it feel cosmopolitan, the most western, and 'Western' city we'd seen in India. We've met a few travellers here from all over the world, and it gives us a quiet feeling of smugness to hear their alarm at the noise, pace and sensory overload of landing in Mumbai from Australia, Italy or London. A chap from England used a phrase Jill had herself coined in Delhi.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"It's just a complete lack of order!" he exclaimed.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You wanna try Delhi," we would smile, grateful now for our toughening up in India's fire-pit. Only one foreigner we've met, a girl from Portugal, had been to Delhi and she described it as "my least favourite city in the world," which made me laugh. I thought that was a bit strong, but it was reassuring to know it wasn't just us who felt a wave of relaxing calm on arriving in Bombay.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so, having installed ourselves in the YWCA, it was time to explore. The YWCA, by the way, is a fantastic place to stay; clean, cheap and breakfast and an evening meal are included. Best of all, it requires membership, so it is with much pride that I now carry my Young Women's Christian Association member's card. I'll keep it with my Brownie uniform.<br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It was a lazy Sunday morning. Mumbai's streets were surprisingly quiet and we planned to cross a tiny stretch of the Arabian Sea to visit Elephanta Island. (There are no elephants there. Please don't get distracted). I was buying the ferry tickets in the shadow of the Gateway of India when it happened.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hello, I'm from Bollywood," said the voice. "Would you like to be in a Bollywood film?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I laughed out loud. Now I'd heard them all. Hawkers are constantly bombarding you with lines - "Excuse me sir", "Hello, how are you?", "You want taxi? Hop in!", "City tour?", "Sir! Wait!". Eventually you get immune. But this was a new one.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Please, I'm serious," said the man, and he looked it. <i>Everything about this should be a scam</i>, I thought, but I recognised the look in his eyes. It was the look of a beleaguered production assistant who'd been tasked with the impossible.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I need to find 20 people who look English for filming tomorrow," he explained.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where's your card?" asked Jill.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The man was taken aback. So was I.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Er, it's in the car."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Let's see it then."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">As he scurried off to get his business card, Jill explained. She'd read about this happening, which is how she knew the drill - get their card, ask the terms, where the shoot is, all the details. It's not uncommon for Bollywood films to recruit Western tourists as 'background artists' ('extras' to you, me and Ricky Gervais) in the hope of adding some glamour to a movie on the cheap.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Glamour? Clearly he's more desperate than we thought," I said.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so it was, that at 8am the next day we were picked up on the Bollywood Bus - destination: Destiny.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpf7VHXnYU-SPNZOodXBVhmHUUlkoVzqSnh9VJEGNm87cCv0SvXLAjA8CI8bZHZHvTGyaJE9LkmgjMb0YnXV9f0k_YWIMLo1mZP-IYIAGXlfAfa_bddqjlbX4Zgu5DYACzXVB3Q_g5I3i-/s1600/Bollywood+bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpf7VHXnYU-SPNZOodXBVhmHUUlkoVzqSnh9VJEGNm87cCv0SvXLAjA8CI8bZHZHvTGyaJE9LkmgjMb0YnXV9f0k_YWIMLo1mZP-IYIAGXlfAfa_bddqjlbX4Zgu5DYACzXVB3Q_g5I3i-/s320/Bollywood+bus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">At this stage I need to make a few things clear. The casting agent, Imran, who had found us at the ferry terminal (or 'the bottom of the barrel' as it's known in casting terms) had told us the film title, the star, that we could all be used (although Edie may be too young but he'd do his best) and that we'd get to meet the star, take lots of photos and be well looked after with lunch and drinks thrown in. Also, we'd be paid the handsome figure of 500 Rupees for our trouble.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Seven pounds for a day's work!" I had remarked to Jill later. "It's a bit of a cheek, isn't it?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hmmm. Like you wouldn't have <i>paid them</i> to do it," she pointed out, knowing me far too well.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"And what will we have to do?" I had asked Imran.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Just dance," he smiled.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Well, we're all <i>brilliant</i> dancers!" I lied. "Will we be shown what to do?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Just freestyle. It's a party scene."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Freestyle. My favourite!" I beamed.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The rest of the day was filled with nervous chatter about movie stars, costumes, luxury trailer dressing rooms and how on earth we were going to avoid being the five people in the scene who looked awkwardly like they'd been dropped into the party straight off the ferry from the land of Twoleftfeet.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We had duly researched the movie that would herald our big screen debut, and if anything it upped the stakes. <i>Ra.One </i>is a sci-fi movie that holds the impressive accolade of being 'the most expensive Bollywood movie ever made'. It's pronounced 'Rah one' as opposed to 'Ar ray one', (which is a shame because 'Ar ray' is a scouse term of disagreement, as in "Ar ray dat's cheat'n!").</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It stars Shahrukh Khan, known as King Khan 'round these parts, who is Bollywood's numero uno, bar none. As well as being the Brad Pitt/Johnny Depp of India, he's the founder of two production companies (one of which - Red Chillies - is making what from this point forward shall be called 'my film'), he's considered to be one of the world's most successful movie stars thanks to fans numbering billions and has a reported net worth of 540 million US dollars. He was also in Newsweek's Top 50 'Most powerful people in the world'. As if that's not enough, he's even been on Friday Night With Jonathan Ross! I was slightly sheepish I hadn't heard of him.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When we arrived at the 'lot' (that's what us movie stars call the studios, plural) we were escorted into an empty 'stage' (that's what us movie stars call the studio, singular) where brightly coloured fabric walls had been erected on bamboo frames, making separate areas for 'makeup and wardrobe' (that's what us movie stars call makeup and wardrobe).</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">While an eager gaggle of twenty or so tourists waited expectantly, a girl with a clip board, earpiece and wearing a Batman tee-shirt pointed at people, beckoning them inside. <i>Oh no! A selection process! </i>Before I had time to fully gather what was happening she pointed at me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You. Inside."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I stepped forward, but suddenly felt that awkward twist in my stomach, like the immigrant men who, trying to enter America, had been separated from their families at Ellis Island. I couldn't leave them, could I? I looked back at their faces. They looked just as uncertain as I did. But none of them reached out to stop me, so I ran towards the light.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOZ-tbH0BeER6GIs2ncEcPcxTsRdlktDjGM0EShz20R1E0RxRyq6vBh9IKO2gNcVYXSewZFcUWTenWqR7wiKCEmp4RFZl5bdHaVCHfdWw1B5jhgsVR_EF959ssyCTund8DFIzjHLXT8st/s1600/Bollywood+makeup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcOZ-tbH0BeER6GIs2ncEcPcxTsRdlktDjGM0EShz20R1E0RxRyq6vBh9IKO2gNcVYXSewZFcUWTenWqR7wiKCEmp4RFZl5bdHaVCHfdWw1B5jhgsVR_EF959ssyCTund8DFIzjHLXT8st/s320/Bollywood+makeup.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">Having been duly made up by Santosh - conversation limited:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I've covered your spot."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Santosh, you're a wonder."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Next!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was bustled into wardrobe. Girls who just minutes earlier has been bleary eyed travellers in rag-tag clothing on our bus were now tottering about on precarious heels wearing little more than glittery string. Clearly by 'Western glamour' Bollywood meant 'Western flesh.' One girl asked if she could wear something that covered her up a little more and was told "Oh no! This is what London girls wear!" The 'Batman' girl re-appeared.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What shall I wear?" I asked, secretly eying the heels.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">She shouted to a man next to rail of shiny shirts, and shoved me towards him.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You're behind the bar. Bar tender," she said.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That's uncanny. You have a gift," I replied, and was squeezed into the campest bar tender's outfit possible without introducing feathers.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Reunited with my family in my shimmering satin shirt, crotch clenching pants, golden bhangra braces and a sequinned (yes, you heard me) tie, I judged by their laughter that they weren't too sore about not being in the film. Ella, Bethan and Jill were repeatedly offered the chance to dress up and go 'on set' (that's what us ... oh forget it) but the sight of what all the other girls were wearing (or <i>not</i> wearing) put them off. They installed themselves in the wings to read, play cards, watch TV and laugh at me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAz53ZdRd9hDS1skIP079B3to1yceUB1bqVkpd9h3bkM7uP79OG6WEWYu2DyJLFT615KfErkF0EXaIpXYdVwr2divMWfbYGAf3LlKhWWWWXNnWW6NGv12s8anfzu6PFE1LNHTxxluLM4IS/s1600/Bollywood+camp+barman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAz53ZdRd9hDS1skIP079B3to1yceUB1bqVkpd9h3bkM7uP79OG6WEWYu2DyJLFT615KfErkF0EXaIpXYdVwr2divMWfbYGAf3LlKhWWWWXNnWW6NGv12s8anfzu6PFE1LNHTxxluLM4IS/s320/Bollywood+camp+barman.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Just to clarify, this man is straight</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've never been an extra before. It's a lot less fun than it looks in the Ricky Gervais series. Cameras and mobile phones were banned, but, undeterred by my lack of pockets, I snuck mine on-set in my shoe - sorry the shots aren't great. The scene was in a London nightclub and the set was impressive - a central illuminated dance walkway and circular stage, raised tables and seating around the sides, huge video walls leading to a wondrous bar at the back. Behind that bar is a less than wondrous barman. In fact there are two. A long haired guy from Norway and a bloke in unfeasibly tight trousers.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhsk0jAS3EsUQ0s2X9Pzs_BXPxKyghImWMP4wG1KD4BFfhwYodGscUoaZSxw8v0Y8H05vXIOKSFMRhDL5nVQ3IvFFw4lkY_NI5-TsjX5YiSELTWduBwSsJyoTv81UQIL4zTMfhM7WaRBK/s1600/Bollywood+club+set.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhsk0jAS3EsUQ0s2X9Pzs_BXPxKyghImWMP4wG1KD4BFfhwYodGscUoaZSxw8v0Y8H05vXIOKSFMRhDL5nVQ3IvFFw4lkY_NI5-TsjX5YiSELTWduBwSsJyoTv81UQIL4zTMfhM7WaRBK/s320/Bollywood+club+set.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Because the scene was a music number, it was shot in tiny chunks. Rather than having a sequence of events, or dancing that you shoot a few times from different angles (which is what happens in TV) the entire jigsaw was precisely built, tiny piece by tiny piece. This means fifteen or twenty minutes of setting up a shot (the first four bars of the song, for example), and then about twenty takes of that same four bars. After each take, the music stops, everyone stops dancing, the director shouts "Re-set," and we all hang around for five minutes until, again, the cry goes out "AC off!" (air conditioning off - that's so they can use smoke) "Dry ice!", and then "Sau sau!" which was the director's way of asking for 'Sound'. Once again the first beats of a banging bhangra dance tune would start. "Let's go! shouts the director loudly. "Energy!" and the room would burst into life, I'd allow myself a small amount of grooving and do a fine impression of Tom Cruise in <i>Cocktail,</i> but without the bar skills and juggling talent.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFK6aRraVY6C9HvAlBHMlapcO3reipwni33DVHcpFzCfWPupsOhnsZUr0uzkm7uMuRwkwTueys05el56Az8q46yecLk5DQxsSZkxUN4FXzpbIz7gjewKPo48yxpIFcc1g8b0ToQUk5sRS9/s1600/Bollywood+bar+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFK6aRraVY6C9HvAlBHMlapcO3reipwni33DVHcpFzCfWPupsOhnsZUr0uzkm7uMuRwkwTueys05el56Az8q46yecLk5DQxsSZkxUN4FXzpbIz7gjewKPo48yxpIFcc1g8b0ToQUk5sRS9/s320/Bollywood+bar+view.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A standard shooting day in Bollywood is twelve hours. I got to know pretty much every other extra there that day, including Indian models who do it for a living and even an English girl from Norwich who lives in Mumbai and does agency acting to make a bit of cash. There was some unrest a while ago when Indian actors threatened to strike because of studios using tourists as extras, a fact brought sharply into focus when I chatted with Gordum, an Indian model at my bar. He was pleasant enough and we talked for about half an hour about films and music and books, but only after he'd quizzed me on my visa status and what I was being paid. I think the locals still resent white skinned Westerners walking into a day's work. He was earning ten times what I was, so there were no hard feelings.<br />
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By 8pm we were all shattered. Jill and the girls were a lot less bored than I feared, and in fact grateful they had not been on the set, where hanging around doing nothing was driving me crazy. At least they had their laptop and books to read. Our scene had got about as far into the song as the first verse. Shahrukh Khan had made an appearance for about an hour to do one shot, where he beckoned the singer over from the edge of the dance platform (I believe it'll be R'n'B star Akon in the film - I can reveal it was a double for this shot) and pulls him off the stage. I never saw him after that, so sorry - no pic of me and one of top fifty most powerful people in the world. My bar tender buddy, though, shared the toilets with him.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Shahrukh Khan, a man worth 540 million dollars, uses the same loos as us?" I asked, amazed.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Apparently," shrugged my Norwegian friend. This was quite some revelation, given the typically Indian quality of the facilities. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aAC4ElzIKrkrnnnw3kE-jYhLNurfO8s3a3tT6WDAsYtyeagxNNgBdifxM7qMfnsCJlTwnI7j6kOFwm2izrHPC-SpoWugaWUF3RCUiJsA19jC_AiK_ncYHjXBxoPmB1OF4dxMlkN702mQ/s1600/Bollywood+toilet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-aAC4ElzIKrkrnnnw3kE-jYhLNurfO8s3a3tT6WDAsYtyeagxNNgBdifxM7qMfnsCJlTwnI7j6kOFwm2izrHPC-SpoWugaWUF3RCUiJsA19jC_AiK_ncYHjXBxoPmB1OF4dxMlkN702mQ/s320/Bollywood+toilet.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><i>Shahrukh Kahn's toilet, yesterday</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The floor manager was doing his best to motivate the party people. "Come on! Let's go! It's a party! Keep the energy up! And that includes the barmen!" <i>I'd been noticed!</i> Maybe not for the right reasons, but still ...</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA04vPcjSDmJIABz4MWYr_tONNpUTfCCmsN5Zy-VK_0EZpnjVU8hCxZeXsrH1N7elfuOkm6VDGDcKMGOySYdCXbLeDu86-gnKPJY3AYgDBqXHbN-0znpwv2MyhMwN2_D_4aY2OsTNOxk0x/s1600/Bollywood+drink+props.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA04vPcjSDmJIABz4MWYr_tONNpUTfCCmsN5Zy-VK_0EZpnjVU8hCxZeXsrH1N7elfuOkm6VDGDcKMGOySYdCXbLeDu86-gnKPJY3AYgDBqXHbN-0znpwv2MyhMwN2_D_4aY2OsTNOxk0x/s320/Bollywood+drink+props.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">By 8.30 I was getting gung-ho with my moves. Years of working in TV weren't wasted as I spent every shot making sure I was within sight of the lens, and lacking the permission to use the bar props (the bottles were all fake - props guys made whisky by diluting cola) I was tossing a chrome cocktail shaker in the air with casual aplomb. I doubt for a moment it will distract the viewer from the eight scantily clad female dancers in the foreground who appeared to be tasked with an enormous amount of 'booty' to shake, but I was having fun.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Again ... and again ... and again we did this shot. <i>When will it end? Let me go home!</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Again the music started. Again Akon started singing about a girl who is apparently 'criminal'. Again I smiled jauntily as I spun the chrome beaker into the air. I winked at a girl, because I think detail matters and De Niro would have done it. I dropped the beaker.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">CLANG!</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Everyone near the bar turned round.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The director shouted "CUT!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I held my breath.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That's a take!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Of course it was. Twelve hours of 'barman' solid gold and they take the one where I drop the cocktail shaker.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">They asked me back the next day to continue shooting the scene but I declined. I don't want fame to change me. I learned from 'Norwich Girl' that they're taking five or six days to shoot that one scene, and as 'Norwegian Man' was also occupied the following day, it's safe to assume the bar staff may change five or six times during one song.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But when Ra.One is released next year, and you hear Akon's tune start in a busy nightclub, just keep an eye out for Barman 2. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And if you don't see me, just listen for the clang.</div></div>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-36929800842331900542010-12-03T19:07:00.000-08:002010-12-03T19:13:39.178-08:00Grrrrrrrrrrr<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGvx-5IMMqJ_F9viE0IYUgZLyNOpX6GCE7Gcj3LWj956NrAKNdlVi9m4IRMBA_DoQ6XyUoV3b2DIEozolE-_pKntLkL5MPpQgwsZ-2jskJd4HhgkFqMmnt6R59UYhAz0n2qSreMeV2jG5/s1600/Tigers+close.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOGvx-5IMMqJ_F9viE0IYUgZLyNOpX6GCE7Gcj3LWj956NrAKNdlVi9m4IRMBA_DoQ6XyUoV3b2DIEozolE-_pKntLkL5MPpQgwsZ-2jskJd4HhgkFqMmnt6R59UYhAz0n2qSreMeV2jG5/s400/Tigers+close.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Udaipur, India</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles - who knows? Somewhere around 7,000? Penny's afloat somewhere in the Gulf of Arabia.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When we planned that our world tour would include India, one of the things we dreamed about was the prospect of seeing a tiger in the wild. Ranthambore National Park in Rajasthan is widely regarded as the best possible place to witness such a thing, and since we had altered our plans to fly into Delhi rather than Mumbai, it was, in Indian terms, a short drive. Just 7 hours.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Waking before dawn and taking a 6am 'canter' - basically a school minibus with the roof peeled off - through the freezing mist into the wild bushland, our hopes were high of seeing one of natures rarest predators, that ancient Indian symbol of courage, the tiger. To see <i>two </i>would be incredible, and that's why I opened this chapter with that jaw dropping photo I took...</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">...of a magazine.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOnzwSSyNAyEFJUAchCsMG-NIqzhrDLgYEsmmXAWrBeTCVfMtpN2Q8eLsJoGbP7Aedn8Fkru5O-TI4B1LWkBVMROjtlynetGvyn3Rtw-V-G1foKJrMMQG1E-qCNQ7oE5Lv0tVPZbJcdfk/s1600/Tigers+magazine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOnzwSSyNAyEFJUAchCsMG-NIqzhrDLgYEsmmXAWrBeTCVfMtpN2Q8eLsJoGbP7Aedn8Fkru5O-TI4B1LWkBVMROjtlynetGvyn3Rtw-V-G1foKJrMMQG1E-qCNQ7oE5Lv0tVPZbJcdfk/s400/Tigers+magazine.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The 1000RP (about £14) <i>each </i>I had invested in our 'safari' (which comes from the ancient African word saf-a-ri, meaning 'expensive disappointment') proved fruitless. Bless the girls for looking on the bright side, saying things like </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"It was nice to see the peacocks."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"And the deer. They were nice."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Peacocks! Deer! It's not Blenheim Palace! </i>I wanted teeth and claws and roars and at the very least a dangerously close encounter with a cobra or two.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"There! On the lake" the guide would whisper with reverence. "An egret!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>An egret! Brilliant! We've crossed countless borders and 2 continents to see a bird also found in Poole Harbour!</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What next?" I whispered in awestruck wonder. "A pigeon?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Of course I didn't. I was sitting next to Jill and I value my shins. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">In fact, although I can share my inner most thoughts with you, I actually do a good impression of a relatively non-cynical dad when in public. You should have heard me trying to engage Bethan, whose interest had waned somewhat after an hour or so.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Look at the long grass, Beth. Can't you just imagine the tigers prowling stealthily towards their prey?!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">'Imagine'! That's right, I'm painting pictures in my childrens' minds! I should be invoicing those thieves in safari clothing. To be fair to the 'safari', we did see a crocodile. It was some distance away, but here's my long-zoom picture.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_rEKTIv_l1NAob9fFjvK70OmcxTbL9iGPezI-jW925M4ylmgUeUUZi4wkGS6Fss-Az2YkG_CSBksABjg-G4le776IfmlcxvtEIYsFvq4XBkeJ0vtfHeC3fix-doenxP746uf2I02KDN9/s1600/Crocodile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_rEKTIv_l1NAob9fFjvK70OmcxTbL9iGPezI-jW925M4ylmgUeUUZi4wkGS6Fss-Az2YkG_CSBksABjg-G4le776IfmlcxvtEIYsFvq4XBkeJ0vtfHeC3fix-doenxP746uf2I02KDN9/s400/Crocodile.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It lay entirely motionless while we watched. I know what you're thinking. I was thinking it too. <i>Is that fibreglass? </i>I blame Disney. I've seen too many theme parks. That damned mouse has robbed me of my wide eyed wonder.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We travelled on, bravely shouldering the crushing disappointment, to Udaipur, a pretty city on a large lake that bills itself as 'The Venice of the East'. (I thought that was Norwich). On the way we stopped at a large fortified town on a hill, looked at some temples, saw an ornate tower on a hill, spent some time in Udaipur looking around a 15th Century palace and another few Hindu temples, and the fact that I'm glossing over all these things is intentional. I need to crystalise in my mind a phenomenon that is affecting us all, and sharing it here is, unfortunately for you, reader, the easiest way I can do that. It's hard to describe the condition without it sounding horribly snooty, condescending and superior, but you're used to me by now, so here goes.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We're all suffering from a malaise that can only be described as 'travel weariness'. It's a creeping apathy that needs arresting and throttling as quickly as possible. A disease that, if left unchecked, may leave me being the only guy who'll turn up at The Grand Canyon and sigh "Not bad. Bit like the Wadi Mujib but with more tourists." <i>I don't want to be that guy!</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><i></i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Getting the driver was a mistake. Naresh (nick name, er...Nick) is a nice enough bloke, but we constantly feel we're letting him down with our reactions. He'll offer us sightseeing opportunities that we feel we can't say no to, only to see him crestfallen when we return to the car after 15 minutes.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You not like? Why so quick?" he would plead.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's not that we don't like ruined forts, or old palaces and ornate temples, but...let me put it like this:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There's a scene in a film (sorry for the constant movie references in these blogs), no, not <i>a </i>scene - it's <i>the </i>definitive scene in <i>the </i>definitive sci-fi thriller. Rutger Hauer is Roy, a non-human 'replicant' battling with the realisation that he is mortal, and about to die. As he pushes a nail into the palm of his hand, trying to stave off the eternal sleep that's overwhelming him, he delivers Blade Runner's finest monologue to a rain sodden Harrison Ford.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe" he starts, and then goes on to describe such fantastical sights as "attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion" and "sea beams glitter in the dark off the Tenhauser Gate" (wherever that is). I'm not going to post the YouTube link right here because you'll click it and then I'll have lost you. It amazes me you've read this far, and if it comes down to me versus Ridley Scott, I don't fancy my chances.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">(Sigh, OK...I'll put it at the bottom.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That scene keeps springing to mind when we feel duty bound to raise an excited smile and say complimentary things about the historic landmarks we're shown. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"This is seats of ancient theatre" a guide will say, "where emperor would be entertained." <i>Not bad, but I've stood in the Colosseum.</i><br />
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"This jug from 1500s."<i> I've picked up discarded pottery that pre-dated Christ. </i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"These walls are dating from 11th Century." <i>I've blown dust off a 3000 year old Moab altar.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've seen things you people wouldn't believe.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's awful, and I feel horribly guilty admitting it. We're all unbelievably lucky to be seeing such treasures, and I really mean it when I say I don't want to become the man who shrugs "Yeah, pretty big. Shame about the flies" at Ayers Rock, but I'm giving you an honest insight into our mental state. At dinner tonight (vegetable biryani, vegetable pakora, zera aloo (potato and cumin) and naans - a week in India and still no meat! - Hooray for absence of dysentery!), one child asked how long the drive will be tomorrow and when Jill said 3 hours another child said "Can we please not stop at a fort?". None of us are proud of that, but there it is; the phenomenon of 'travel weariness'. I'm not entirely comfortable telling you about it, but it's too late now. I'm blowing the taboo wide open. It doesn't help that we're actually missing your snow. There, I've said it. Stop looking so smug.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheWLV4jXwRWP2rxV8aFkqg6yU-5bLkbS_3kzI6jdb6apY3XNsZjpa5YxYA5jg4t1q-VQcnffMwbpQnTg-9pOLCCSqmJ7_0TGGudpZunEVPnx_eZOmZagtXLtDSo2k16aFcxX-_cTHrQdy/s1600/Chittogargh+fort+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgheWLV4jXwRWP2rxV8aFkqg6yU-5bLkbS_3kzI6jdb6apY3XNsZjpa5YxYA5jg4t1q-VQcnffMwbpQnTg-9pOLCCSqmJ7_0TGGudpZunEVPnx_eZOmZagtXLtDSo2k16aFcxX-_cTHrQdy/s400/Chittogargh+fort+girls.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><i>Chittogargh. It's a fort. It's old.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">As this blog is a little light on content (I was really counting on those tigers) I'd like to share a funny story that has entertained us throughout some of the many miles dodging cattle and kamikaze cars as we trek across India:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">One of our dearest friends (who shall remain anonymous, lest the parents involved in this story somehow read this and join the dots) is a primary school teacher. She recently went for lunch with another primary teacher friend of hers and the conversation turned to the subject of 'what unusual children's names have you got this year?' - surely a perennial favourite with teachers of our little treasures.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I've got a girl in my class" said her friend, "who spells her name like this."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">She started to write on a serviette. "How would you pronounce it?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">She had written 'Le-a'</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Well," guessed our mate, "that must be Leah."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Wrong." replied her friend. "I was calling her Leah for several days before her parents corrected me. Her name is Leedasher. You pronounce the dash!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Isn't that brilliant? The 'text speak' generation is spawning its own breed of punctu-pronunciated children!</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So, you know what's coming. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">What other clever names can there be that use this fresh new device? I'm sure you can suggest some. For those readers who are expecting a child, here are a few ideas gleaned from our long car journeys.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">There's Dottie, obviously, spelt .e</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">(The friend in the story got that one, you see.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But what about +am, P@, M@ and K@? Oh and don't forget H@ttie (or H@T, but that just spells hat).</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Andy, Sandy, Sasha and Spike become &y, S&i, S#a and Sπk</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But the star of the show, with his shaggy haired panache:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Gun's 'n' Roses guitarist, the man they call /</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">(and you thought this was just a travel journal)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Speak soon. Enjoy the snow. x</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTzA_xesrL8">Blade Runner clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTzA_xesrL8</a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><i>Are you telling your friends about this blog yet? What's wrong with you? You're snowed in aren't you? 9,000 hits and climbing! Get emailing! There's nothing better to warm your cockles on a cold winter's day than a mystical tale from the jungles of the East with absolutely no detail on history or culture and where the tigers don't turn up.</i></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-76519154530862300792010-12-01T09:00:00.000-08:002010-12-02T21:01:17.535-08:00Two towns that tuk tuk our breath away<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9y3M1pRLdwEBfcg8O2_JGSMDFPs3kXtcvYn_TN4PiF5mzAAR-tmqecHfFXm5HZODFtKpYKYYnkKN36OwEf0fSqESFD8TTAK9XEaLQZ2orWzI4u8VLyz-rejmR6Oi0X90aRK1WYm52LC8q/s1600/Sim+at+Delhi+tomb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9y3M1pRLdwEBfcg8O2_JGSMDFPs3kXtcvYn_TN4PiF5mzAAR-tmqecHfFXm5HZODFtKpYKYYnkKN36OwEf0fSqESFD8TTAK9XEaLQZ2orWzI4u8VLyz-rejmR6Oi0X90aRK1WYm52LC8q/s320/Sim+at+Delhi+tomb.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Agra, India</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Unless you were born here, I imagine nothing on earth can prepare you for India. I suspect even people who <i>were</i> born here find themselves startled, confused and discombobulated from time to time. You've watched the travel documentaries, read the books, seen 'Slumdog Millionaire'. You know it's kaleidoscopic, crazy and chaotic. But not until you set foot here, for us it was central Delhi, do you feel its insanity full in the face.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">With Penny safely stowed in a container in Aqaba awaiting her sea journey to Mumbai, we flew to New Delhi to backpack our way south to meet her as she docked in 'Bombay' (as sailors still call it) in mid December. Our introduction to India was something of a baptism of fire. We'd booked a budget hotel in the middle of Delhi's bazaar area and the pre-arranged cab that took us there at 6am was breaking almost as fast as the dawn. It wasn't even a 'car' as you'd know it. I think it was made of Meccano and cardboard. Doors didn't latch, wheels wobbled when its speed passed walking pace and every lurch and bump greeted us with an alarming screech or scrape from below. I sat in the front squeezed next to the cabbie, our faces lit by a plastic disco temple flashing brightly from the dashboard. Jill and the girls squashed into the back, 1 wide eyed in horror, 3 almost instantly asleep. After about 40 minutes we reached the kind of back streets that make Danny Boyle's 'Slumdog' Mumbai look like Surbiton. It was almost 7am and already heaving with life. </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Dogs, hogs, camels and cows shared rammed alleys with rickshaws, cyclists, traffic and tuk tuks - the tiny gas powered 3 wheeled rickshaws that fill every gap in every street. Cooking smells merged with the stench of litter, drains, heavy incense and an open trench being used as a gents' loo. There is simply no point of reference for the Western psyche. No high street banks, no car parks, food shops, bars or fast food outlets. All these things exist, of course, but in a form unrecognisable to our English eyes. I found an ATM bank machine, but it was behind a plastic door jammed between a bicycle repair workshop and a fabric stall. Food is available everywhere, you just won't see any brand names (apart from Pepsi of course, a pioneer of globalisation). Downtown Delhi feels like the design of a child who drew all his streets with a big fat crayon and filled them with his favourite vehicles, shops and animals, before handing the plans to his younger brother, who didn't rub out the original, but simply added more, until several generations later we have the finished product - a multi-coloured chaotic scribble of noise and mayhem.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5MzqOTw4HRsPkhr7NPkYnPDF__QLUjMtCoE1B2kovz9bGf0tXRlZbt-FW-L8BPXOtKTPk2CFJxFDpM7N6r-jFy9H3giJCf2txxV4nbEltB82ZLdI3iHYNJZ-AVjV4iYgAyR2cDRoqp-pj/s1600/Delhi+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5MzqOTw4HRsPkhr7NPkYnPDF__QLUjMtCoE1B2kovz9bGf0tXRlZbt-FW-L8BPXOtKTPk2CFJxFDpM7N6r-jFy9H3giJCf2txxV4nbEltB82ZLdI3iHYNJZ-AVjV4iYgAyR2cDRoqp-pj/s400/Delhi+cow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The hotel was cheap. Not the cheapest, but cheap enough to have damp beds and mice. We got moved to slightly drier quarters, but I think the mouse on our landing had residents status. We sank into an uneasy jet lagged sleep until mid afternoon when I tried to convince my family to brave the streets and see Delhi. A walk through the bazaar (just the name for this quarter, not an actual building) brought the same level of pestering we'd been used to in Syria, but it was obvious from the start that we wouldn't be quite so isolated in the crowd. There were other westerners here, not coach parties, but every now and again the white face of a traveller wearing relaxed hippy clothing and an SLR camera would drift by. The pestering hawkers were keen, but not aggressive, and as Edie noticed quite quickly, they almost all wore similar clothes to ours - jeans and tee shirts. We'd stuck out so much more in Syria because almost everyone there wore robes.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">It was still a lot to take in though, and by the time we'd battled our way past Delhi's train station mayhem and been approached a dozen times by people offering to take us wherever we wanted to go, Jill buckled.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Let's go back."</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"But we haven't got there yet" I whined.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Got where?"</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Connaught Place. It's a big circle with loads of shops and stuff."</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Simply standing still to have this sort of conversation will invite at least 2 random strangers to stop, listen in and offer their advice.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Connaught Place is just up there." offered the first.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"No, no, come with me," interjected the second. "You must bear left."</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"I will take you." insisted the first.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"No, really, we're fine." assured Jill, but a polite refusal won't shake these people, you have to walk away, and even then most will follow you. We pressed on, ignoring several urgent invites into tourism shops all claiming to be the 'official Government office', until the only thing stopping us from reaching our destination was the 6 lane outer ring of Connaught Place. All the traffic lights on the main road had been switched off. Clearly installing them had been a pointless waste of electricity, as no one on India's roads adheres to any rules at junctions apart from 1: Keep going and do not give way to any living thing.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">As a result all 6 lanes of one-way traffic were a relentless stream of cars, motorbikes, tuk tuks and rickshaws, none of them sticking to a lane, but all weaving, dodging and constantly edging into any gap that might give them an advantage over their competitors.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I'd always considered New York must be a difficult place to take children mainly because of the traffic, but although it's busy and loud, they do at least obediently stop at traffic lights allowing pedestrians to pass without dying. No such luxuries in Delhi. We grabbed the childrens' hands and waited, forlornly, for a break in the mêlée. After a minute or so of white knuckle half-attempts that saw us scurry back to safety, a boy of about 15 joined us.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Come with me." he said, his gleaming teeth smiling broadly. "Takes practice!"</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">He stepped out in front of a speeding Ambassador - an ancient car, prolific here, built like a tank and based on the old British Morris Oxford. I held my breath, the kid held his nerve, the car held back. I dragged Ella and Bethan with me in the boy's wake as he progressed, expertly timing each step to perfection so that we wove through the onslaught like salmon defeating the rapids. If you're a child of the 80s and you ever played the computer game Frogger, we were living it. Relieved and joyous, we reached the other side and thanked the boy who simply said "No problem".</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Wow!" I said, turning to Jill.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Who wasn't there.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Oh no!" shouted Ella, laughing. She was looking across the traffic to the distant figures of Jill and Edie, still standing on the other side, mouthing "Help". I shrugged. Did she really think I was going to fight my way back to get them? I'd just been helped across a road by a 15 year old boy - I'd lost any shred of pride at lane 2.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Seeing the situation, the lad effortlessly dodged back through the deafening traffic to rescue them, guiding them into the path of an oncoming truck while Ella, Bethan and I witnessed Act 2 of the circus from the safety of the stalls. I tried to capture this moment for you on my phone, but you only see Jill as she reached safety. Look very carefully at the first blurry photo of the speeding yellow tuk tuk, though, and you can see Edie's red top through his window. It's only now, when I look at these photos that I realise there's a zebra crossing on the road! Brilliant.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRoQOnTaORs_7HJvejPOD7ignFto1oG1JtVzle498Tetaw0peqoBKsX1ujBTFIVYznMnEdnC51Iv3CrjgvaZiL09ZucRRB-sz777aYyaELeQycUHHT7MDbqrW_nAxQ3Ak20EnUoYDflhL/s1600/Jill+Delhi+road+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRoQOnTaORs_7HJvejPOD7ignFto1oG1JtVzle498Tetaw0peqoBKsX1ujBTFIVYznMnEdnC51Iv3CrjgvaZiL09ZucRRB-sz777aYyaELeQycUHHT7MDbqrW_nAxQ3Ak20EnUoYDflhL/s320/Jill+Delhi+road+1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPjMgqR2fY0re4gQ-hB1yz0RJHsD4Pp7aoibaJo-cwitlhaHxU1ZDwKj3wOqmCP2eT6z9rjKlxWqMssA5f4GZ0mE-xH65sJBMK-p1BKePVvXV6BskVLL0h45q8jYfjFmyly0ejP6fFcC-x/s1600/Jill+delhi+road+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPjMgqR2fY0re4gQ-hB1yz0RJHsD4Pp7aoibaJo-cwitlhaHxU1ZDwKj3wOqmCP2eT6z9rjKlxWqMssA5f4GZ0mE-xH65sJBMK-p1BKePVvXV6BskVLL0h45q8jYfjFmyly0ejP6fFcC-x/s320/Jill+delhi+road+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">The same thing happened at the next junction we crossed, a young lad of about 19 stepped forward to slow the traffic and we ducked gratefully into his wake. I got chatting to him as we walked. He told me he could never remember the traffic lights having worked here, and that it takes most visitors at least a fortnight to master crossing the road. I think he was politely humouring me. His name was Bahrat and he was on his way to buy cinema tickets for a later showing of a new Bollywoood film he'd arranged to watch with his girlfriend. He asked all about our trip, and told us he was visiting the UK for the first time next year. His family ran a restaurant in Delhi, but he had the night off - Friday night was date night. When I told him we were getting around by train, and commented that our afternoon of internet searching had proved frustrating as most of the trains were full, he said "Always full online. You need to go to the rail office. They have a tourist quota they hold back."</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Even better, the rail ticket office was just opposite the cinema. He showed us there, then nipped off to buy his Bollywood tickets before re-joining us in the office in case we needed any help. The upshot of our investigations in the rail office was that we could get to Mumbai quite easily, but filling the next fortnight with other sights would be almost impossible by rail. The stations weren't placed near the places we wanted to go (a tiger reserve in Rajasthan, for one) and the fact that we'd always be buying 5 tickets forced the rail representative to reluctantly admit it would be much cheaper for us to hire a car. The thought of battling the madness outside in a hire car with a £500 damage waiver hanging over my head didn't really appeal, but that's not what he meant. Most tourists book a car and driver - it's cheaper than hiring a car because you're not paying huge insurance premiums and far cheaper than repeatedly buying 5 rail tickets and numerous cab fares. Soon a deal was done through a local firm and we had secured the services of Naresh (known as Nick - I asked him why. He said it's his nick name. I laughed at the pun. I don't think he got it.) and we were planning days in Agra, Ranthambore and Jaipur before getting the overnight sleeper train (<i>huge</i> tick for me, long held dream, The Darjeeling Limited and all that) from Delhi to Mumbai. We thanked Bahrat (who had ordered us some tea), swapped email addresses, promised to help him with his visit to England and, as we'd spent a significant few minutes discussing Bollywood, promised to visit Asia's Biggest Cinema when we got to Jaipur.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"It is a palace. You will love it!" he beamed, and left to get on with date night.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So now we were tourists. Being without Penny was inconvenient because we missed having our own transport and cheap beds for the night, and it also felt, after 3 months together, like we'd lost a family member. But worse than that we'd lost our credibility as overland travellers. No amount of explaining to people that we were driving around the world and our van was on a ship could change the fact that we were just tourists now. Backpackers, sure, but we needed transport and accommodation just like every other holiday maker from the west. This didn't sit very easy with any of us, so Jill made a mental adjustment.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Let's treat it like a holiday. We can't get on with our journey until Penny gets here, we've got transport, we've got hotels we can stay in - OK they're not exactly luxury, but all the same - it's a holiday. Let's be tourists." </div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Good plan." I agreed.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"I'm getting a guide" she added.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"What?"</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Nick can get us a guide in Agra to show us the Fort and the Taj Mahal. It's only a fiver for the day. I'm going all 'cruise ship'"</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">She was living the dream. She'd be having a spa treatment next.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdankw41-o9P9bgs9PvAE6uFzEW_a5W_9ql-OtgbTwPnINXWpoPSmjdf0dz1V_hzCxwaGKqzH8f4HE2hh6ksS21nxRrGC9om05tDh3seGUX-HKckHxyhYo6wJ1vu53K5rwtLW-rx0J6c2/s1600/Delhi+horse+guard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAdankw41-o9P9bgs9PvAE6uFzEW_a5W_9ql-OtgbTwPnINXWpoPSmjdf0dz1V_hzCxwaGKqzH8f4HE2hh6ksS21nxRrGC9om05tDh3seGUX-HKckHxyhYo6wJ1vu53K5rwtLW-rx0J6c2/s320/Delhi+horse+guard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">So we started the next day in Delhi at the government buildings - their equivalent of the Houses of Parliament - where we happened to witness the changing of the guard, a daily ceremony with even more pomp than London's. It includes ranks of cavalry men and a marching band, yet incredibly only about a dozen members of the public happened to be there to enjoy it. We seized the opportunity to cover some World History with the girls by visiting Indira Gandhi's house, now a museum, which tells the story of her life and assassination. Most macabre is the display of the sari she was wearing when shot by her own guards in 1984, grizzly dark brown blood stains still clearly visible around the bullet holes. This had the effect of engaging young minds, otherwise bored by newspaper cuttings and photographs, not just of our own kids but of the army of neatly uniformed and beautifully polite school children we shared the museum with.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">I mentioned New York earlier, and if you're ever lucky enough to go, you should make a visit to Ellis Island an early priority. It tells the story of how immigrants built the city and gives you a foundation of knowledge that benefits your entire understanding of the place. We had a similar experience - understanding a country's history early in the visit - at the Mahatma Gandhi memorial. To put Gandhi's life in perspective the museum explained in simple terms the various periods of India's history, including of course the British occupation, which is painted in a predictably poor light. Again, it was his violent end that captured the girls' imagination. You can walk in the great man's final footsteps from his bedroom to the prayer ground where he was shot before taking a public prayer meeting, and read an eyewitness account of how events unfolded. There are quotes dotted around the site, some from Gandhi - 'My life is my message' and ' I don't preach a new message. Truth and non-violence are as old as the hills' are a couple I recall. A particularly fitting one was from Albert Einstein.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"There you go, girls", said Jill. "You can say that when people ask why you missed school for a year."</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">'The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education'.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">Agra is as busy, colourful, polluted and chaotic as any large Indian city, but has one massive USP. The Taj Mahal was built by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his second wife Mumtaz, whose death in childbirth in 1631 is said to have turned the Emperor's hair grey overnight. If it wasn't such a poignant story I'd make a joke here about Phillip Schofield. It's often described as the most extravagant monument ever built for love (the Taj, not Schofe's hair) and is therefore a must-see for any visitor to northern India. Its design is clever in that you can't see it from outside its symmetrically placed gates, so only when you pass through one of the mighty arches do your eyes meet its dazzling splendour. It's breathtaking. No, really, it is. Jill nearly cried. I'm not kidding. First of all, it's much bigger than you think. All those travel brochure snaps, and 'that' Princess Diana picture don't do any justice to its scale. When you walk into its gardens and see how tiny the people are at its distant doorways, you do a double take. (I don't mean they have tiny people at its doors. Indians do tend to be quite small, but...well, you know what I mean). The white marble has 4 changing colours each day - pink at sunrise, white in the daylight, golden orange at sunset and a milky cream by moonlight. We were there at sunset, so having taken the obligatory family snaps at India's most famous landmark, we sat down leaning against the west wall's mosque and watched the crowds milling about (almost all Indian, by the way) and the Taj's dome, walls and towers assume a warm orange glow as the sun slid away. It was a trip highlight.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJe_Twjz8ZLvy-3-uPWlghOpyainiWnaqI13gBNQQ9Zb1JDX_s4eccttf64ZionCmFAS3uvMbexlrfe8Qha1c2oMrE7ik3XunbZjv_0ykY8f7R_GnNbDkxHGY3u2Q-UiQj2qSgovdKMGWq/s1600/Agra+watching+the+Taj.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJe_Twjz8ZLvy-3-uPWlghOpyainiWnaqI13gBNQQ9Zb1JDX_s4eccttf64ZionCmFAS3uvMbexlrfe8Qha1c2oMrE7ik3XunbZjv_0ykY8f7R_GnNbDkxHGY3u2Q-UiQj2qSgovdKMGWq/s400/Agra+watching+the+Taj.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">After walking back to the car through the increasingly gloomy park as the wild monkeys came out to play, we made an unscheduled stop.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Stop here!" several voices shouted from the back of the car. Ella had spotted Agra's Costa Coffee.</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">"Aahhhh, a taste of the west." I explained to Nick. "Indulge us. We'll see you tomorrow."</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 12px; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">We slurped coffee and hot chocolate from familiar corrugated cardboard cups and chattered about the things we'd seen. The feelings of uncertainty that had overwhelmed Jill and the girls back in Delhi were slowly ebbing away. Stepping into the darkness I hailed a tuk tuk to get us back to the slightly cleaner budget hotel we'd checked into, and as we raced through the night, the 4 girls squeezed on top of each other in the back, me hanging out of the front seat perched next to the driver, the wind rushing through our hair, we weaved and beeped past crowd, cows and camels through the busy Agra streets and allowed ourselves several whoops of delight. Giddy and laughing we piled out, and for the first time agreed that India might be quite cool after all.</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-62480377933459885162010-11-25T04:33:00.000-08:002010-11-25T04:33:24.672-08:00Humps, bumps & blowfish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWtwaDEVVhEM9J5uTfV6K4McqvfjGFlABN5ZLOul9EHqk2C-iW6xjuaROkMhH16HgzQrnqyKqDrYSV2Bus60CGa_KKmDSYua6faQ098Y_i0xD4uVcOD6KQ8YLptKxoUhGQI63fU6QEvEI/s1600/Wadi+Rum+girls+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGWtwaDEVVhEM9J5uTfV6K4McqvfjGFlABN5ZLOul9EHqk2C-iW6xjuaROkMhH16HgzQrnqyKqDrYSV2Bus60CGa_KKmDSYua6faQ098Y_i0xD4uVcOD6KQ8YLptKxoUhGQI63fU6QEvEI/s400/Wadi+Rum+girls+view.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Aqaba</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles - 6, 792</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We arrived in the dust blown desert settlement of Wadi Rum after dark, having been delayed by our Big Bus vs Penny clash earlier. We set up the van in 'sleeping mode' in the car park, stowing all the bags in the front seats below Edie's hammock bunk and folding down the top and bottom beds. Back in England, before we left, we had bought the 'Edie bunk' on the off chance that we may have to all squeeze in the van 'once in a while'. Now, this is our most regular sleeping arrangement. Even if we do happen to be at a proper campsite our 2 berth 'pop up' tent is more often used for baggage storage than sleeping in. It's amazing how quickly the concept of all five of us sleeping like sardines in a can has gone from 'slightly alarming' to 'run of the mill'. We just get on with it now.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Still in slight shock after the crunch, we treated ourselves to a meal out at the restaurant next door to our car park home. In fact, we had 2 meals and shared it out between 5, as the limited choice (barbecued chicken or lamb) was more than compensated for by the portion size which we'd spied others eating. The variety of food on offer to diners has narrowed significantly since southern Turkey. From Ankara, through Syria all the way to Aqaba on the southern Red Sea coast of Jordan, everyone eats kebabs. Skewers of 'chicken or meat' (that'll be lamb) are dusted in spices and barbecued, served with flatbread, humous, salad and olives in a million different truck stops, cafes, take-aways and restaurants in hundreds of towns and villages. No one ever deviates. No one ever wakes up in the morning and says "You know what'd be nice tonight? I'm in the mood for a curry." Why would they? There's a story that Kentucky Fried Chicken opened a branch in Syria. Its opening day was much fanfared in the press and business was brisk, yet within a month it was empty and forced to close. Locals, even Arab kids hungry for a taste of 'The West' couldn't understand why a portion of chicken and fries cost about 5 quid, when that would buy a whole chicken plus enough humous and flatbread for a family at any other restaurant. KFC bringing chicken to Arabs was presumably the result of several focus group meetings in a glass air conditioned Head Office at which no-one used the phrase 'coals to Newcastle'.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Our plan was to spend a couple of nights in Wadi Rum before driving the 50 kilometres further south to Aqaba where we would get Penny's dent repaired and arrange shipping to get her to India. We woke at about 7 and spilled out of the van to go and make use of the campsite next door's loos. A 'stealth wee' in someone else's toilet block is all part of the fun of camping for free. If you're feeling confident you can even have a 'stealth shower', at which point you're probably ready to turn pro., buy a VW and travel the world.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Our late arrival the night before rewarded us with a gob-smacking view to wake up to. We were in a desert! This was Lawrence of Arabia country! The very desert where the British officer galvanized the Arabs to fight the Turks from here all the way to Damascus. There were huge, red, mountainous rocks towering behind us, and ahead were miles of orange sand, more even bigger rock formations, and camels. And that's what we'd come for. While I was scouting the tiny desert village, like one of those 'one horse town' prospector settlements in old cowboy films, for some breakfast and to get the lowdown on the current rate for renting 5 camels, Jill met a man. She does this. It's a gift. None of us mind. After all, it's how Daniel The Trucker came into our lives*.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Saleh was wearing classic Arabian robes, headscarf and sandals, plus, oddly, a leather bomber jacket. Well, this was November. The temperature would only reach 35°C today. He had offered Jill a deal on some camels, but also a 4x4 tour of the desert to see the ruins of a Beduin outpost known as Lawrence's House, some massive sand dunes to climb and a couple of cool rocks to clamber up. I negotiated his fee down to something below 3 figures and he was ours for the day. He first insisted we come over to his house to have tea with his wife and meet his kids.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Go on, go on!" he urged, pointing it out across the sand. "I will meet you there with camels." When we walked into his back yard a young boy of about 7 and girl about 9 greeted us and went to call their mum. An old lady dressed in black robes, grandma I assume, smiled and waved from the corner as a man in front of her expertly butchered a goat, strung up by its hind quarters with some wire flex. Smiling, I took the girls over to say hello. This was Eid week, so goats were being eaten everywhere. The man smiled, stopped for a moment and went to shake my hand, but realising is was covered in blood stopped himself and laughed. Ella pointed at the pile of bloated internal organs slumped on the dusty floor and Edie noticed the depacitated goats head, staring vacantly at Bethan a few feet away. Bethan was strangely quiet.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Saleh's wife appeared clutching a young toddler and smiling broadly. "Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in." We sat in their living room on cushions arranged around the walls. The large room had no furniture at all, but a huge rug at its centre, cushions around every wall punctuated by camel seats to lean on and a central ceiling fan to alleviate the heat. The walls and ceiling were painted in vibrant symmetrical patterns forming borders around the ceiling and around pictures on the wall. A large flower had been painted around the ceiling fan. It was a very cheery room, and soon the children were showing our girls their toys while we drank sweet rosemary infused tea.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When Saleh arrived he joined us for tea and when I commented on the impressive butchery in the yard he invited us to join them for dinner. I was only making conversation, honest. Regular readers may guess what happened next. I was just about to politely decline when Jill said "We'd love to". The girls and I exchanged a glance. I knew what they were thinking. They'd met the menu face to face.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBJQs49qjh0CnGge9EgYB57YIBHaKpXiKKnNjPPoHthaTakPJZAnUWIR28_vzK8G9-q-kbYNn2oNPIbCetYXM7odqhm74ZC4DP7b2owrSRx_p3S-gajAv2jHfZtIgtw2yJs55Dziqrc4-/s1600/Sim+Ella+Edie+camels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGBJQs49qjh0CnGge9EgYB57YIBHaKpXiKKnNjPPoHthaTakPJZAnUWIR28_vzK8G9-q-kbYNn2oNPIbCetYXM7odqhm74ZC4DP7b2owrSRx_p3S-gajAv2jHfZtIgtw2yJs55Dziqrc4-/s320/Sim+Ella+Edie+camels.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Putting such concerns behind us, we went to meet our camels. As anyone who's ridden a camel will know, the real drama is when the camel stands up or kneels down, so there was a chorus of "whooa"s "aaargh"s and general hilarity as we were each catapulted skywards by our desert steeds. We then began our steady plod to Lawrence Spring (you're noticing a theme with these desert landmarks) about an hour from town. Each camel was initially led by a boy from the village, but soon they handed us the reigns and precisely nothing changed. It was a gesture to make us feel in control, but the truth was those camels did that route all the time and any thoughts of galloping off into the horizon to raise an Arab army and defeat the Ottoman empire would have been futile, so T.E. Lawrence would have had no luck with these. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, but brilliant fun, especially for the girls, and we all discovered muscles we didn't know we had somewhere on our inner thighs.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijODoJCbk-Ofj4slh7OeTW1BtQSP6ZHCRG_w6HAcXIK3kFviJzI2G3ez5eVGNa19dt-6ylws6SYtm1nwYYUPS2hLZ5abiXdxlDoC7G8b-BgDAnaTwGwAO9RS_a81EdUQ6J7WMlIPWI9RXa/s1600/Bridge+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijODoJCbk-Ofj4slh7OeTW1BtQSP6ZHCRG_w6HAcXIK3kFviJzI2G3ez5eVGNa19dt-6ylws6SYtm1nwYYUPS2hLZ5abiXdxlDoC7G8b-BgDAnaTwGwAO9RS_a81EdUQ6J7WMlIPWI9RXa/s320/Bridge+pic.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>We met Saleh in his old Toyota Landcruiser (this place runs on them - no other 4x4 at all, just bullet proof old Toyotas) at Lawrence Spring which doesn't actually have a spring any more, but does boast a tree, so there must be water underground somewhere. The next few hours were spent touring the Wadi Rum desert sitting in the back of his open 'pick up', stopping here and there to see and explore. We were so glad we'd paid to do more than just get the camels to Lawrence Spring. From the car, you could see how close to the village that was - you had barely scratched the surface of the vastness of this desert. We climbed and then ran down colossal sand dunes in huge flying leaps, climbed steep rock faces to stand on natural bridges formed between pillars of sandstone and saw carved drawings of camels at old trading posts dating back a thousand years. As we hurtled back towards the village, the wind whipping our headscarves, the sun finally dipping low enough to be pleasant and give the desert a terracotta glow, we all agreed it may have been the best £40 we'd spent.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where you sleeping tonight?" asked Saleh, back at his house.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"In the car park again. It's free."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He shook his head. "You don't want to sleep in desert?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We explained that we'd looked into it but decided to spend our money on camels instead, but he was having none of it. He said he only had a few tourists staying at his camp that night, and if we wanted to join them we'd be very welcome.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You must sleep in the desert. You can eat dinner out there, we'll have a barbecue, then sleep in a tent, some breakfast in the morning cooked on the fire..."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It did sound great. We agreed to pay him something, but it was about a third of the going rate.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Please, I must insist," whispered Saleh, "don't talk about the money with the other guests. They are paying full price."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Our lips were sealed.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYe0XBVE_Oapk0l2n6DifKH_8V0hjCclutJ0aCrQfWp3ZJe8jN2hOsvbVeDtnlziL7RUTwHLPKeaagrjtfn7UFEe0TYjOlrmjK1bZwivz0Xbt3iCkOkmBlu_prfFtR8LsYahQM2KtGfiV/s1600/Edie+and+Hajya+desert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYe0XBVE_Oapk0l2n6DifKH_8V0hjCclutJ0aCrQfWp3ZJe8jN2hOsvbVeDtnlziL7RUTwHLPKeaagrjtfn7UFEe0TYjOlrmjK1bZwivz0Xbt3iCkOkmBlu_prfFtR8LsYahQM2KtGfiV/s320/Edie+and+Hajya+desert.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so we found ourselves sharing barbecued chicken (never did find out what happened to that goat) under the stars with Saleh and his kids, Manuel, a Spanish geologist, John, an American language student and Javier, a Spanish voluntary worker who had spent 6 months on a UNICEF project. A few more guests arrived later, but we were all in bed (sorry, 'on mat') by 9 o'clock, exhausted. The highlight was when Ella got up at 4am to go to the loo. Well, that in itself wasn't the highlight. It woke me, which allowed me to leave the tent, grab a seat and gaze at the stars for half an hour. Before bed the bright moon had washed out the sky, rather disappointingly, but now it had disappeared beyond the horizon and the sky was black, and littered with stars. To see the night sky from a desert is something I've always wanted to do, and I wasn't disappointed. The complete lack of light pollution makes the view breathtaking. In the first 30 seconds of sitting out on the sand I saw 2 shooting stars. I cursed my lack of astronomical knowledge, only being able to identify The Plough (flipped almost upside down compared to our normal view) and Orion. I saw Jupiter, of course, but also the dim red flicker I assumed was Mars, not seen yet this year, and a total of 5 shooting stars.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We returned to dented Penny after a campfire brekky of freshly made flatbreads and an egg dish we christened 'scramlette' - halfway between scrambled egg and omlette. Our clothes smelled of smoke and we had sand in every crevice, but we were happy. In Aqaba, the temperature hit 38°C and we camped 100 metres from the Red Sea and as we couldn't raise Osama on the phone (the C.I.A. have the same problem), we clung to the shade and relaxed for a day or two. Osama, you'll recall, is the benevolent businessman who stepped in to try and resolve the Big Bus vs Penny incident by assuring us he would get her repaired in Aqaba. I tried not to get stressed about the fact that he was not answering his mobile for 3 days, and as a distraction agreed (once the packed beach had emptied of Eid holiday makers) to take Ella and Beth snorkelling. We covered up, as is the custom (even the men wear shirts in the sea) and armed with the snorkels and masks bought way back in Croatia stepped cautiously into the Red Sea. Hardly anyone else was around, the sea was fantastically clear, but all that seemed to be underfoot were pebbles and the occasional piece of litter. We soon got beyond pebbles onto smoother sand and were up to our waists, plunging our masks under water to survey the seascape. Then Ella yelled "AT HOOVED!" through her snorkel. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What?" we all pulled our heads up.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That moved! Down there!" she panted, pointing at my feet. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I pushed my head under again. Even under the water I could hear Ella scream "Daddy you're standing on it!!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I danced my crazy sandals up like a marine version of Bez from the Happy Mondays and tried to tread water in about 4 foot of sea (almost impossible) before panic gave way to logic and I simply swam on my belly facing the sea bed below. And sure enough, I'd disturbed a panther ray about 30cm from wing tip to wing tip. Its 2 tiny black pebble eyes were all that gave it away under the sand, until eventually, disgruntled at my flapping it rose majestically and swam underneath me. You can imagine the excitement gushing from us when we regrouped above the surface. We ventured further and had all but given up the ray as a lone visitor to these shores when we spotted several black spotted puffer fish, each the size of a man's fist, their tiny wispy fins propelling their bulbous bodies gently along. Soon, we were out of our depth, both literally and metaphorically. The coral reef was still quite a way out, according to a local boy we met out there, and the girls said the 2 things guaranteed to get an ill equipped nervous father out of the sea:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"A ray and a puffer fish! This close to the shore!" said Bethan. "Imagine what else is out there!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then Ella said "Can we get out? I think I've been stung."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We'd observed the 'spotter's boards' on the beach and knew the Red Sea was rich in life including sharks and jellyfish, so the thought of a gently floating school of jellies soon propelled us racing back to the shore. I won.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That was amazing!" I shouted, finding my feet again.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That was scary!" replied the girls.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yes it was." I agreed. "Let's go back and tell the others. I'm done in the sea. I'm not going any further without a wet suit and someone who knows what they're doing."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I never claimed to be Steve Irwin. But I learned from his ray-related folly.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIy1CUU0O9OtGoU1LMe7N00wjdeZxr_PzVF32KK4Q-5YRFaqaCnHqqslVh-WUwQSKLkDXxHfR_Rg4K7oiPnE6gRYFcMt6U-XIUwVHOo-Lc1IGdBlR-7MriyJfva7aKOM4HYmwibrfWKywa/s1600/Puffer+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIy1CUU0O9OtGoU1LMe7N00wjdeZxr_PzVF32KK4Q-5YRFaqaCnHqqslVh-WUwQSKLkDXxHfR_Rg4K7oiPnE6gRYFcMt6U-XIUwVHOo-Lc1IGdBlR-7MriyJfva7aKOM4HYmwibrfWKywa/s320/Puffer+fish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A black spotted puffer fish, yesterday</i></div><span id="goog_731189545"></span><span id="goog_731189546"></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Finally, on Sunday, we tracked down Osama at his hotel in Aqaba. He was the perfect gentleman, offering us tea and juice, explaining that he'd been in the desert for 3 days and promising to get Penny repaired as quickly as possible. He told the fascinating tale of how The Captain's Restaurant had been opened by his father in the 1980s with just 12 seats. Now, the seafood restaurant is arguably the best in Aqaba (yes they do more than just kebabs) and has spawned a newly built luxury hotel next door. Osama and his brother Rafiq had helped in the restaurant as boys and now run 2 hotels and 2 restaurants for the family firm. We learned how Osama had studied for 3 years in Rome, how he had endeavoured to change local people's minds about working in the service trade from one of shame to one of pride. He shared 10% of all profits on top of the wages he paid in an attempt to empower the staff.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Are attitudes changing?" Jill asked.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yes, of course. But I can't do it alone. You can't clap with one hand", he said with a smile. He trained locals while he paid them (something they weren't used to) and was proud that his head chef was from Aqaba. Then he said that he would not be pursuing the bus driver for the money to repair Penny.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I believe that punishment with words is more effective than financial punishment." he explained. "I know these drivers, and he will already feel bad enough about what happened. I don't want his money." He talked over tea about the charity project he was involved in working with children from Aqaba and neighbouring Eilat in Israel to show them that a peaceful future could be achieved. He took a football team of kids from both cities to enter a tournament in Italy and he glowed with pride that they had beaten several Italian teams. He was, in short, a gentle, polite, humanitarian. Undoubtedly he had a razor sharp business mind, but he never for a moment betrayed any ulterior motive than to do well for his family and help his fellow man.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKF04pR-jAuOm20hknydnj3XC-DknIalmn2NZCTyRRzpl025Y3NvxrhV9ikOv3hDxqxCFTJgaE8SzAqkf5zeTgihpc4nf15XPpubtHan-d8KnS3zOKLVNPSixRzmKuO_9IB7yMhd7uicK/s1600/Osama+and+family.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKF04pR-jAuOm20hknydnj3XC-DknIalmn2NZCTyRRzpl025Y3NvxrhV9ikOv3hDxqxCFTJgaE8SzAqkf5zeTgihpc4nf15XPpubtHan-d8KnS3zOKLVNPSixRzmKuO_9IB7yMhd7uicK/s400/Osama+and+family.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">His assistant, Ahmed, guided me to a workshop deep in the maze of Aqaba's ramshackle industrial quarter where a group of men looked at Penny's injury and assured me (through Ahmed as they spoke no English) that they could fix her by 6 o'clock tomorrow evening. I endeavoured to explain to the boss that I had the paint codes, duly obtained from Blue back in Bodicote, and handed him a Beatnik Beatles card with the codes written on the back. As he tucked the card in his breast pocket and said "OK, OK" shaking me by the hand, I just knew he'd never look at that card. He didn't even understand the Latin alphabet, so how could I expect him to read "Ford Diamond White - Yellower Shade" or "VW Jasmine Yellow". By now, I'd counted myself lucky to get her straightened out so quickly, as the shipping agent we'd found said they needed her by 8am on Tuesday. Osama put us up in a lovely suite with 5 beds and, true to their word, Penny was ready to collect by 5.30 on the Monday evening. In the dark I could see she was straight again, the colour match was almost irrelevant and would have to wait until sunlight dawned anyway. I thanked the men profusely, thanked Ahmed and finally paraded the whole family down to see Osama for a final goodbye. He had extended us probably the most generous gesture we had received. The accident had literally nothing to do with him, yet he stepped in and sorted it entirely at his own expense. To mix my world religions somewhat, good karma surely awaits.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEVk5Luq2m_FNYRXsumkEblJVYrBMcKs08Blhdfm3vNZXyOxN3Y0sRCRHc8h3Yv6nzzBLpX-c1el-3g0aKdzkiQ_foMKQtY5D6OgBj6iF1bxKaIS0cCSlTBiOVx97lqZDONMGUt6Wh_QJ/s1600/Penny+new+paint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFEVk5Luq2m_FNYRXsumkEblJVYrBMcKs08Blhdfm3vNZXyOxN3Y0sRCRHc8h3Yv6nzzBLpX-c1el-3g0aKdzkiQ_foMKQtY5D6OgBj6iF1bxKaIS0cCSlTBiOVx97lqZDONMGUt6Wh_QJ/s400/Penny+new+paint.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so, in the light of day, we packed Penny to be shipped, sorted our own clothes to backpack for 3 weeks in India and observed with a smile the 'almost the same' yellow panel where Penny's dent had been. The metal is impressively straight, the boot closes again and unless you were looking for it, you probably wouldn't notice the colour difference. But my favourite part is the drip. I doubt our mechanic Blue, or the original paint sprayer John, could have lived with a drip on the bodywork, but to us it's a battle scar. A reminder of this remarkable few days and the generous smiling people we've found ourselves sharing tea and tales with.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Now, Penny's in a sealed container, destination Mumbai. We're flying to Delhi and will spend the 3 weeks shipping time backpacking on India's railways down towards Mumbai to collect her just in time for Christmas. Travelling without Penny requires a whole new mindset, and we agonised about carrying our instruments, but all agreed that though it would be great to use the 3 weeks as good 'press opportunity' time, it's just too much to carry on foot. Instead, we'll try and rustle up some publicity like we did in Piacenza, Italy (where we didn't use our instruments) and leave the busking 'til Mumbai. A festive busk is on the horizon. (Would Indians know Fairytale Of New York wasn't a Beatles song? I've got the uke chords for it somewhere.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Next time we speak, I'll be having curry for breakfast! Does life get any better?</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">* Curious new readers can read that episode here - http://beatnikbeatles.blogspot.com/2010/09/go-with-flo.html</div>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-18892318082178420662010-11-14T23:53:00.000-08:002010-11-14T23:53:56.221-08:00The Road To Damascus Experience<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPG1JM3d0-pBmsQ0GiDyJSYTbxDn_uwS330vRkSTb4-z5GuYVvpo9iMQkWrR2cqTJEZ4c3PXVxwBniJH0r0y7XROpFpP_x6jitoszrFKVvg02A93lmnjJB-PQ6ayeQfUnfc1rj-Ld_FLe/s1600/Damascus+sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnPG1JM3d0-pBmsQ0GiDyJSYTbxDn_uwS330vRkSTb4-z5GuYVvpo9iMQkWrR2cqTJEZ4c3PXVxwBniJH0r0y7XROpFpP_x6jitoszrFKVvg02A93lmnjJB-PQ6ayeQfUnfc1rj-Ld_FLe/s320/Damascus+sign.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Damascus</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles - 6,274</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I blame Hama. It was Hama that clinched it. It Hama'd the nail in the coffin. Every time we enter a new country, alongside the thrill and expectation of new peoples and lands to be discovered, we have the added excitement of pondering where in that country we should busk. It was, after all, our mission to busk The Beatles in every country we travelled through around the world. A tall order, sure, but it's good to have a goal. Ever since entering Syria, though, the mood in the band had not been good. I was sensing a simmering reticence to performing on the street.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"There's no way we're busking here. Forget it." Jill had said in Aleppo.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"No way!" echoed Ella and Beth.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Just because we haven't seen anyone doing anything like that, and just because we saw several police officers run after a man trying to sell towels doesn't make it illegal." I argued weakly.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"They held a couple for questioning a few weeks ago for using a laptop in a campsite!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yes, but..."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"For 8 hours! The military police were called and they had to get a translator and everything! Read their account on this blog! They were only trying to download their digital camera photos!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Welllll, they <i>say</i> they were, Jill. Who's to say they weren't involved in illegal international trafficking? Of towels, for example. They're clearly pretty hot on that here."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But it was Hama that lost me the battle. Our journey from Aleppo to Damascus was broken by a stop. Hama time. (80s pop reference, baggy trousered rap fans). </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92uRv2o3a275hXxKjhSjZx3dxukONraJm4U34Z5GL6Y8Oov684dlMTcqMHNMieoH0afKsKVDS0aS3LO449Vbtu7gEUqCg6K9lzl38BqfamiS5OVNMzLC4hsEXU_w5NtwZy2MAuFaOl2L8/s1600/Hama+engineering+lesson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi92uRv2o3a275hXxKjhSjZx3dxukONraJm4U34Z5GL6Y8Oov684dlMTcqMHNMieoH0afKsKVDS0aS3LO449Vbtu7gEUqCg6K9lzl38BqfamiS5OVNMzLC4hsEXU_w5NtwZy2MAuFaOl2L8/s320/Hama+engineering+lesson.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Hama is a town famous for its large water wheels and not much else. I thought they were very cool, and I think the girls would have done too, had they not been constantly distracted by hoards of locals wanting to touch them. Apparently, the engineering marvel of using waterwheels of a massive diameter, not to generate power as is usually the case, but simply to transfer gallons of water in buckets from a river up to an aquaduct some 20 metres higher up, thus allowing gravity to then supply fresh water to the town, is a wonder that wears thin after a few hundred years. A family of westerners, therefore, is like the circus coming to town.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We braved the town, all 4 girls wrapped in headscarves and behind shades, for about an hour before their patience deserted them. I had to remove them from the scene for the safety of the locals. Back in the sanctuary of a rather dingy hostel room, I reluctantly agreed; preaching All You Need Is Love through the power of a haphazardly played ukulele would at best, get us arrested, at worst, be the overture to a sacrificial slaughter. The very idea that we would make any money was laughable, and we'd already been advised that mentioning a connection with a charity was to be avoided as it always leads to angry questions about 'converting people'. Brow beaten and ever so slightly depressed, we resolved to keep our heads down and press on south, or, as Jill put it "Get the hell out of this God forsaken country as fast as humanly possible." She was still on the fence, then.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We all felt sorry for Jill, as it was her birthday in 2 days and she'd been very excited about spending it in Damascus. Now, however, her birthday treat of 2 nights in a luxury 2 star hotel was slashed to 1 night at her insistence as she just wanted to get to Jordan asap.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So we took the road to Damascus. If you've ever read the Biblical story of Saul's blinding vision and his 'road to Damascus' experience that saw him change his name to Paul and convert to follow Christ, you may have wondered what the road that has become synonymous with anyone having a dawning realisation, an utter life changing experience or a complete U turn in thinking actually looks like.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Here it is.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5i_It_vGbA56vKk6YUxLBX-iH2nyw3v6oECHW4YVVMWTmY0-NEGQ1kVaTKYjgkIdGWEab0bUKY3xjyBtZt-0Q_NLC0J8lSdScwfdgIhVIkFsYUdxpz_Fq8s3M3oms7cNorf_T0JJ_I2q/s1600/Damascus+road+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5i_It_vGbA56vKk6YUxLBX-iH2nyw3v6oECHW4YVVMWTmY0-NEGQ1kVaTKYjgkIdGWEab0bUKY3xjyBtZt-0Q_NLC0J8lSdScwfdgIhVIkFsYUdxpz_Fq8s3M3oms7cNorf_T0JJ_I2q/s320/Damascus+road+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Obviously it's not all like that. Some of it looks like this.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_4QuOEk9DsPwN4dovFWGpm1CO6fQLSk2C3rvHDUp7C1CEflsG0yZIMfjoUQH1aN01DIlE2dEgLjdjhBtkmvmfIqZVwLyu_BuIHx8Njvb4kwu38jvxcm870Aq7BiswNB93h8_iHhW2Ahx/s1600/Damascus+road+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_4QuOEk9DsPwN4dovFWGpm1CO6fQLSk2C3rvHDUp7C1CEflsG0yZIMfjoUQH1aN01DIlE2dEgLjdjhBtkmvmfIqZVwLyu_BuIHx8Njvb4kwu38jvxcm870Aq7BiswNB93h8_iHhW2Ahx/s320/Damascus+road+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Domestic rubbish doesn't get collected in Syria. It's expected that people will burn it. But lighting a fire in your dustbin every week must be a total bind, so lots of people just throw it out of the window when driving down a busy dual carriage way. Job done. Thus, the entire 2 hour drive from Hama to The Oldest City In The World was taken through a corridor of trash. The trees growing at that impossible angle is due to the prevailing wind, not an atomic bomb that's just detonated slightly out of camera shot. (Although a nuclear explosion might in fact be the quickest way of sprucing this area up.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Our mood lifted in Damascus as we camped on the outskirts and shared the tiny site with our South African travelling buddies Neil & Silvie, who'd been there 2 days and were moving on tomorrow. It's amazing how good we all felt, them included, just being able to talk to other people who were having similar experiences. It wasn't just us! What a nice feeling! Silvie had had a row with a dishonest fruit seller too! Hooray! She had been groped by a nasty old man. Brilliant! Neil had nearly had a fight with a lecherous slimeball. Terrific! When everyone realises that everyone else is miserable too, somehow morale increases. (I've worked at companies who embrace this management method).</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The next day was Jill's birthday. We had all made cards and they all made us laugh. I'd done the usual Have I Got News For You caption schtick with a picture of the Syrian President I'd bought in a petrol station, but it was Edie's that had tears rolling down Jill's cheeks: "Who'd have thought it? 42! Well, you know the famous saying - 42 is the new 22!" It was so upbeat and chipper we somehow found it hysterical.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And things went from good to better. We got into Damascus, dumped our bags at the Orient Gate (2 stars awarded when it was in fact a different hotel several years ago - but they keep 'em up for old time's sake) and headed out looking every inch the lost tourists holding a map upside down. A woman who spoke good English approached us.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Can I help? You are looking for somewhere?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I confess, the girls and I rolled our eyes at each other. <i>That's all we need - another pestering local who'll want paying. </i>Jill told her we were going to the old city. The woman looked at the map, but couldn't really get her bearings from it.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I'll walk with you. It's not far."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Ker-ching</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so she strode ahead, leading the way and chatting with Jill all the time. The girls and I trailed behind exchanging worried whispers about where this might be leading, both literally and metaphorically. By the time we'd reached the walls of the old city Jill and the mystery tour guide were getting on like a house on fire.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"This is Ennas" she said introducing us properly. "She's a student at the university, studying English."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimag3sg1PNYJDkSr6lf_UUvKbbMtFOu9tR0RL3cIK4obf9rXudhyphenhypheniltBQwpgSBrEJsn7pUB7G4BVA4OB58C4fEFa5mvmy7Fhb78AeFQe4ElIHikqH-WfmdIEFfRchitS9C8A7emn6ngplV/s1600/Jill+%2526+ennas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimag3sg1PNYJDkSr6lf_UUvKbbMtFOu9tR0RL3cIK4obf9rXudhyphenhypheniltBQwpgSBrEJsn7pUB7G4BVA4OB58C4fEFa5mvmy7Fhb78AeFQe4ElIHikqH-WfmdIEFfRchitS9C8A7emn6ngplV/s320/Jill+%2526+ennas.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We all said hello politely and started to doubt our earlier snap judgement. She insisted she take us to the best entrance to the souk, weaving us through busy streets, deftly palming off street traders and expertly taking Edie by the hand when she wanted to stop traffic. <i>My word - she's a pro</i>. I'd taken weeks to discover The Power Of Edie, this girl knew it instinctively. When we mentioned that we still hadn't eaten or drunk anything that day, she led us not to any old cafe, but a good 10 minutes weaving through the old Christian quarter of the city to find a cafe she knew was very good. She spoke to them in Arabic, they knew her, and when we asked that she stay to have a drink with us she said no, she had to get to work. She swapped email addresses with Jill and left. We all sat at a table, stunned. A bit sheepish, too, but also relieved. Syria was redeeming herself. Ennas told Jill that she'd been studying English for 4 years, but that she'd never met a foreign family. Never! Can you imagine that? Suddenly I could understand why she was so keen to give up an hour of her time to chat and learn and ask questions, but she hadn't ever come across as needy or suffocating like the overzealous goons who leapt in our faces in previous towns. She was gracious, polite and genuinely generous with her time.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The day had got off to a cracking start and Jill called the shots from then on. Whatever she wanted, went. A museum on the history of Arabic calligraphy? "Yippee!" shouted the kids.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Would you lot mind if we went inside the Great Mosque?" she'd ask.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Just try and stop us!" we would yell.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We even found a shop selling the ultimate birthday food - jelly.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWSxoZ6N-OGHvLGJLTRVFItiIVuqcjnrh4yZuCxozsfBLP2N9rT7JBACGW5t7cuueGWPhi8LvhOGrY5xTdJW3ghm3qksgn7LeFzTqkUXlK-2QIcHmU2lB54bWjYlp2RXXhXRx_pirAKbxA/s1600/Damascus+jelly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWSxoZ6N-OGHvLGJLTRVFItiIVuqcjnrh4yZuCxozsfBLP2N9rT7JBACGW5t7cuueGWPhi8LvhOGrY5xTdJW3ghm3qksgn7LeFzTqkUXlK-2QIcHmU2lB54bWjYlp2RXXhXRx_pirAKbxA/s320/Damascus+jelly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">We window shopped in the souk which even I loved because its history is groovy: It used to be a Roman avenue leading to the Jupiter Temple, which then became a Christian cathedral, and then the Muslim mosque it is today, and the corrugated black arched roof still lets pin shafts of sunlight through hundreds of bullet holes from an uprising against the French in 1925. Coool! (You can see this and other pics in our Syria photo album now online at www.beatnikbeatles.com - the 'Here, There & Everywhere' page.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Also, because Damascus is huge and well used to international visitors, no one stared, pointed, spat (oh, yeah, we really have been spat at) or even batted an eye at us. Even the souk sellers weren't pushy. It was a joy. We went back into the old city that evening for some food and knew its twisty wiggly back streets like natives, and as we wearily navigated our way through its ancient labyrinth back to bed we all admitted we loved this ancient city and would definitely come back. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Ennas and Damascus had redeemed Syria in our eyes. We had experienced a complete U turn in our thinking. Perhaps that litter strewn highway had worked its magic after all.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
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</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-15083524666364936782010-11-10T10:35:00.000-08:002010-11-12T08:48:04.219-08:00Bent border back-handers? You cannot be Syrias.<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>First, apologies if you're a regular reader for the recent 'radio silence'. I discovered that as well as banning Facebook, the Syrian Government doesn't want anyone blogging. Any website with 'blog' in the title is blocked by The Webmaster (not Spiderman's evil nemesis, an actual job title within Syria's paranoid halls of power). I was the subject of a blog blockage. Now, a week later, we're in Jordan where I can 'publish and be damned', rather than Syria where you can 'publish and be jailed.'</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>So, I've got some catching up to do. This blog was written after our rather harrowing and stressful day trying to enter Syria. I had a pretty low opinion of the place, especially after the friendliness of Turkey, but things do improve and l</i><i>ater blogs get happier. Honest.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
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</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTeRVMMVYDlaMq9QiB4NB0kEUP6xPSAtlU9kzZkOEW1aJ0mDgret59lQD1piyYjY8zV0NKEbY5jwyZ3Cx6f8SUTSW75eNld8QJAYqkqbnOwg1sfu6AhC75_NMOD3BLZtDQLXZVVfsaXci/s1600/Wellcome+to+Syria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTeRVMMVYDlaMq9QiB4NB0kEUP6xPSAtlU9kzZkOEW1aJ0mDgret59lQD1piyYjY8zV0NKEbY5jwyZ3Cx6f8SUTSW75eNld8QJAYqkqbnOwg1sfu6AhC75_NMOD3BLZtDQLXZVVfsaXci/s400/Wellcome+to+Syria.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Aleppo, Syria</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Miles - 5,930</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I have to tell you about our border crossing from Turkey into Syria yesterday. Now before you think <i>'oh yawn, another border crossing. Wasn't there a YouTube video I wanted to watch with a dog dressed as a super hero?'</i>, stick with me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It's a story of bribery, corruption and child exploitation. (I was responsible for that last one). It also features a breathtaking performance by The World's Worst Liar, a woman who also holds the coveted title of Girl Least Likely To Be Snapped Up As An MI5 Spook, and the equally prestigious Last Person On Earth You Would Choose As A Drug Trafficking Mule. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But more on my wife in just a moment.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">To put the events of the day into context I must first furnish you with some essential facts about getting into Syria.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">1) They are deeply suspicious of journalists, broadcasters and writers.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">2) (Oh, that's the end of the list of essential facts.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That one piece of information is vital in the understanding of how yesterday's events unfolded. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">In applying for a visa, you are required to provide evidence of your employment in the form of a letter on headed paper from your employer. I had a letter from BFBS confirming who I was and what I did, but all the evidence seemed to suggest that putting 'radio presenter' and 'British Forces' on a Syrian visa application would be like putting 'Name: Bin Laden, Osama' on your USA visa form. In fact, technically, I'm employed by my own limited company, so I simply created a headed letter from Simantics Ltd. and put my job title as Commercials/Promotions. Well, I did have to create a promo trail for my show every day, so it wasn't a lie. Just 'selective truth'. (The temptation to put 'Golan Heights' when the form asks 'Occupation' was enormous, but I don't think Syria has a sense of humour about Israel where that's concerned.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jill, however, is as honest as the day is long. Midsummer's day on the North Pole. So she dutifully included her letter from the BBC which stated she was on a career break. You could look at this as a positive thing because it was an official letter saying she <i>didn't </i>work for the BBC. Surely that's a good thing, right?</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">3 days after submitting our visa applications online and posting the supporting paperwork from Ankara, my phone rang.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Hello this is the Syrian Embassy, can I speak to Jillian Moody please?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The helpful staff at the London visa office were concerned about Jill's BBC connection. They said we would face a long delay unless we resubmitted Jill's application removing all references to the BBC. For 'Occupation' just put 'Year of leave' and include a covering letter simply saying 'I have left my job and am unemployed'. The irony that this was Syria's own visa office telling us to be (ahem) 'economical with the truth' wasn't lost on us. And so a new application was submitted, and sure enough our brightly coloured visas stuck inside our passports bear the words 'Occupation: Commercials' for me and 'Year of leave' for Jill.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And so, with Penny washed and tidied (for the customs inspection) we arrived like a new pin at the exit border from Turkey. The process of leaving Turkey is almost as tortuous as getting in to Syria, so we were braced for lots of queueing at small windows getting passports stamped. As we approached, the first uniformed official, gun slung casually across his hip waved us to a halt. Jill wound down the passenger window and handed him our passports. He smiled at the girls in the back and did a quick head count.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Five?" he asked.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Yes, five." Jill replied.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What you do?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Wha...I'm sorry?!" flustered Jill, like he'd asked her bra size.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Sorry." smiled the guard, apologising for his English. "I mean where from?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Oh, er..."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"England!" I shouted helpfully, leaving Jill's crimson glow to fully blossom.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He handed the passports back and waved us on.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Wow, mummy, you're really red!" came voices from the back seats.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I thought he was on to me!" she panted, like a top spy who's just survived almost being rumbled at the Russian Ambassador's cocktail party.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Good job you're so calm under pressure," I said "otherwise I don't think we'd have got away with it."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">It was clear the next 3 hours would be no picnic.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">An hour later, we were finally released from Turkey to drive the 100 yards of no-man's land and knock on Syria's door. On parking our understated yellow camper van outside the immigration building we were greeted by a cheerful chap with a round face who said he worked for the Government tourist office. It was as if he'd seen us coming. I shall call him Mr Benn. He looked absolutely nothing like the 2 dimensional fancy dress loving animated character of the same name, but his boss (who we shall meet in a moment) looked <i>exactly</i> like the fancy dress shopkeeper in the cult 70s pre-school programme, so for the sake of the story...</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mr Benn, who called everyone 'my friend' and thought the word 'hello' meant 'goodbye', assured us that he would make the complicated processes of form filling, tax paying, insurance buying etc. a breeze.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You go first to this counter, get 2 stamps in the passport, then come and find me in my office. Go! Go! Hello, hello."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">This first counter was where a humourless uniformed officer peruses your passport and, despite the fact that you've clearly been vetted at great length by the Syrian Embassy to gain a visitor's visa, takes it upon himself to conduct further interviews.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where are you from?" he asked suspiciously, looking at the page in my passport that says I'm from the UK.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"England" I say with smile.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Where are you going?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Well, I was considering the Amazon delta, or possibly the Great Barrier Reef, but as I'm standing at the entrance to Syria being interviewed by a Syrian whose sole purpose in life is to let people into Syria I'm going to answer...Syria"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">...is what I wanted to say.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Syria" is what I actually said, and even that sounded a bit sarcastic. To compensate for my tone, Jill pushed Edie up to the counter. It is now well known in our family that Edie is currency. It drove Ella and Beth mad for a while, but now it's just funny. Need to push into a lane of busy traffic? Not a hope. Get Edie to wave at a driver - straight in. Literally every single day since somewhere in the middle of Turkey she has been kissed, stroked or had her hair ruffled. People love her. So we use her.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">As she rested her chin on the counter the officer smiled at her. <i>Bingo.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What is your name?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Edie"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You like football?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Liverpool"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The man laughed. (We get that a lot). Then, he dropped the smile and turned to me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What do you do?" he asked icily.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Here we go</i> I thought. <i>He can smell 'media' on us.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Commercials" I replied, following the script helpfully printed in my passport by the Syrian visa office.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He looked confused.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Like adverts. Promotions. Radio adverts."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Don't say radio" I heard a panicked whisper in my ear. It was Jill, chillaxed as ever.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You know. Adverts." I concluded. He still looked clueless.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You reporter? Generalist?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I think, my good man, you mean <i>journalist</i>" would have been the correct thing to say, but to belittle the immigration officer is to open the door to a world of pain, rubber gloves and internal inspections. So I told myself not to get distracted by what a cool job a 'Generalist' must have, generalising about stuff all day - 'How was work darling?' 'Not bad. Made some fairly broad statements about women not being able to read maps and men being terrible listeners.' </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I just said "No."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I sensed the very mention of 'reporter' had increased Jill's heart rate to that of a frightened field mouse, and as the officer wandered off to stamp the passports I turned to give her a supportive smile. She was smiling too, but the teeth were clenched and by the distant look in her eyes I knew she'd gone to her happy place.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then Haakim leaned over for a chat. You haven't met him yet but he's been standing next to this whole scene at his own glass window getting his own affairs dealt with. (All these exciting characters! And we haven't even got to the magical shop keeper yet!). Haakim informed me that he was a truck driver. I doubted this because, as any long time reader of this blog will know, truck drivers are slim, blonde and look like H from Steps, but I let it go. He was returning to his home just outside Damascus and insisted I have his phone number so that I might call him when we reach the city. I know what you're thinking - <i>How, Sim? How do you do it?</i> What can I say? 2 in 2 months. Truckers love me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Just then the starchy immigration officer returned to hand all our passports back to me, but when he saw Haakim chatting to me his mood darkened again. He spoke to my new friend in Arabic, and then Haakim started asking me questions, and then suddenly he didn't seem quite as friendly as I had first thought.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What are you doing here? What work?" he asked, trying to stay jovial.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I'm not working. We're on holiday." (Friends of mine will know how much that pained me. 'It's not a holiday' became my mantra before the trip.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What do you do, at home?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Oh Lord, this again.</i> And then "What does your wife do?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">By this point I had the passports duly stamped and Jill was dragging the kids away. I kept smiling and answering his questions - "She doesn't work. Unemployed." - but got the feeling that somehow I was digging deeper every second and the pack (for that's what these men were now) was turning on me. I extricated myself with a smile and a shrug and a jaunty wave. It's the English way.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Well that was weird" I started to explain to Jill as we walked away at a quickening pace, but before I could get any further, as if by magic, a shop keeper appeared.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFgGAkg7BZia4LWJzKFAGBMGQkHj9RMS81EzqrD9FLbXNbTByBYUO2DffOLZ0MjueSC3NFCBUz-TymnV2FbEcVgtQEm_u7cAIJ1bujnIV_eWfWCUXKFs4O03h0-hvgGpsX13zgDshVopC/s1600/mrbennshopkeeper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFgGAkg7BZia4LWJzKFAGBMGQkHj9RMS81EzqrD9FLbXNbTByBYUO2DffOLZ0MjueSC3NFCBUz-TymnV2FbEcVgtQEm_u7cAIJ1bujnIV_eWfWCUXKFs4O03h0-hvgGpsX13zgDshVopC/s1600/mrbennshopkeeper.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">A stocky gentleman in his late 50s with a small moustache and spectacles introduced himself as Mr Benn's colleague from the Tourist Office. Then, with Mr Benn eagerly clucking alongside him, they ushered us into their tiny office. The shop keeper explained that he would be able to get our Carnet for the van stamped much quicker than if we joined the queue, and also that he could nip into the office to get the insurance and tax, saving us waiting with the crowds outside. First though, a couple of questions. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I knew what was coming.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Anyone who has driven into Syria hasn't done so without first reading a hundred internet accounts of what to expect. That way, of course, information is shared. It's what the internet is good at (and why countries like Syria don't like it). I knew, therefore, that Syria charges 100 US dollars 'diesel tax' if you enter the country in a diesel vehicle. And then a further $100 for every week you're in the country. I also knew that lots of people lied about what fuel their vehicle used, to avoid this expense. I had texted Neil & Silvie our South African friends the day before as they had already crossed into Syria, to ask if he'd paid the tax on his diesel Land Cruiser. No, he replied, they didn't even check the V5. Just say benzine and you save 100 bucks.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Is the van diesel or benzine?" asked the shop keeper.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Benzine" I lied.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Good" he said, "because it's expensive to have a diesel."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Really?" I shrugged, as if I hadn't spent weeks researching these facts.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">As he left to get our paperwork seen to, Mister Ben started to point out some of Syria's beauty spots to Jill as displayed on several curly posters. Edie leaned over and said to me "Daddy, did you say the van was <i>not </i>a diesel?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mr Benn seemed to momentarily lose his thread.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"That's right darling, diesel be brilliant places to visit, won't they?" I pronounced unconvincingly. We really are hopeless at subterfuge.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That's when Mr Benn first brought up The Tip.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"If you are happy with the work my friend has done you may give him tip" he said with a smile. "But only if you are happy." he added, as if I had a choice. <i>Sigh.</i> And I had thought that this assistance was part of their job as employees of Syria's tourist office. How naive.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">5 minutes later, when the shopkeeper returned with the completed paperwork, rather than just getting on with the process of getting us across the border he settled back in his chair and wanted to chat. He was hopeless at small talk, but he clearly had to build up to some big question or other.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"How old are you?" he asked me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was so thrown, I actually forgot the answer. I think he realised that rather than charming small talk he had just come across as insane, so cut to the chase.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What is it that you do for a job?" he asked with a smile.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Oh my goodness! They're all in it together!</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Eventually satisfied with my answer, and failing to see the relief in my face that he'd not started grilling Jill on the same subject, he moved on.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You come with me now. Just you." He ushered me out of the room.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>This is it. They won't be happy until they've given me a good pumping in the debriefing room.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Mr Benn, the shopkeeper and I walked a few yards from the office, where the shopkeeper explained that he didn't like to talk money in front of the family.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Ah. The Tip.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I nodded knowingly and slipped each chap a crisp 200SP note (about £2.70). This was clearly an insult.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"We normally get 50 dollars" said the shopkeeper.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I must have looked alarmed because he then started to justify his overheads.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"There is the customs chief. He wants his money. He will wave you through if you're with us. Maybe $35?"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Funnily enough, he knew I had $35 in my wallet as he'd given it to me in change after buying the insurance. I gave him a 1000SP note (£13.50) for them to share, but I could tell that behind their smiles they were less than impressed.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I was just explaining all this to Jill and the girls as we waited in the queue of cars to get past customs, when Mr Benn appeared.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You will soon be through. I have spoken to the chief. He will open the door of the van, just for the cameras, then you will be on your way. OK? Hello."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And he was off. Ahead, several cars were being emptied of their contents. The queue was going to take a while.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Then he was back again. "My friend" he added, "Are you sure this is benzine? I can hear the noise of the engine."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"It's very old!" I shouted. "I bit rattley!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">He seemed convinced. Jill was not.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"We should never have lied. I'd have paid 60 quid not to have this stress."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">The customs official, as per the drill, opened the door, said hello to the girls, closed the door and waved us on our way.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">In the hubbub of people around us, as the barrier lifted, we heard a voice shouting.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>Oh God what now?</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Jill, I swear, was about to hold out her wrists to be shackled shouting "I'm a journalist and it's a diesel! A diesel I tell you! It's a fair cop!" when a face appeared at the window. It was Haakim.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"You call me tomorrow! I'll be waiting!"</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"We're not actually in Damascus tomorrow" I explained as we crept forwards, "but I've got your number! Thank you!" I shouted as we picked up speed.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I'll be waiting!" he hollered in my rear view mirror.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Drive! Drive! Drive!" shouted Jill.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And we did. One journalist, one generalist, 3 kids and a rattly old VW.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">DIEEEEEESELLLLL!</div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-23897289747551852942010-10-17T03:12:00.000-07:002010-10-17T03:23:56.594-07:00Safad's reign of soapy terror<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsIihZ1egh_vpt06whzxxwa4xnQQ2H8NohD1x59eeKwN1b_tc7mwAJJgBYirLoG_URaq2O3Ata0VCkqwczb5Gyr3LK-xieHscQbYqyXImW1dEaGqJgffTE2LRgb3AAGXe_1u44rNymMS3/s1600/Safad's+Trophy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfsIihZ1egh_vpt06whzxxwa4xnQQ2H8NohD1x59eeKwN1b_tc7mwAJJgBYirLoG_URaq2O3Ata0VCkqwczb5Gyr3LK-xieHscQbYqyXImW1dEaGqJgffTE2LRgb3AAGXe_1u44rNymMS3/s320/Safad's+Trophy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528957068841186562" /></a>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It was an outrageous luxury, a treat, a frivolous expense that we'd spent 3 days trying to justify: A genuine Turkish bath. The Hamam. We've all seen it; Michael Palin getting smothered in clouds of bubbles, countless Blue Peter presenters having buckets of water thrown at them (a natural reaction. They get that a lot).</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And here in the heart of Istanbul's ancient city is arguably the most famous bath house of them all, the Çemberlitas Hamam.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The impressive bath was built by the architect Sinan in 1584. My bathroom was built by Bob 'the builder' Smith in 2009. Both have heated floors. That, though, is where the similarity ends.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The first bonus, on descending the steps into the peaceful reception area was that the kids were half price (about a tenner each), which, given that Edie only visits the wet end of a bathroom about as often as Halley's Comet visits the inner solar system, made it reasonable value.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">There are 3 options for patrons - for 35TL (£14) you can relax in the bathing area, lying on the heated marble platform and soaking up the calm for as long as you like. But you're washing yourself. No one's touching you. (In retrospect this sounds very appealing). For 55TL (£22) you get a sound soaping down, scrub, massage and wash from one of the Hamami attendants. For 95TL (£38) you get all that plus a half hour massage involving oils and a table.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We spent days deliberating which option we would choose. The leaflet was keen to stress that men and women each have their own identical bathing areas, but the level of nudity seemed a little vague. Guide books talked of 'taking a bikini', so at least I had that option. The Lonely Planet guide said that you should decide on whether to strip naked only after 'gauging the atmosphere', a phrase that became something of a running joke in our family in the build up to the event. 'Why oh why didn't I gauge the atmosphere?' we would joke, imagining the possible embarrassments that lay ahead.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Opting for something a cut above blue stripe 'value range' but not as lavish as 'taste the difference', we chose the 'mid price' option. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Touching had been given the green light. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And so we parted, Jill and the girls to their soapy spa paradise, and me, on my own, being shepherded to what appeared to be a tiny Butlins chalet.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">This tiny box of a room had a slim door with frosted glass, just enough room for one three quarter size bed and a little table. I was instantly taken back to Butlins in Bognor, where I had 'gigged' as a Children's BBC (ahem) 'star' back in the 90s and they had put me up in a room almost identical. If the Hamami attendant had re-appeared with a big furry aardvark on his arm, I probably could have done a glittering 45 minute set. Momentarily disoriented, the man explained with the words "change" and "lock" that this was my cue to get my kit off and use this room as my 'locker'. He handed me a tiny 'petemal' printed cotton cloth about the size of generous hand towel and graciously took his leave, leaving me to ponder Today's Big Decision.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It was remarkably hard to 'gauge the atmosphere' from inside my Butlins chalet. <i>In for a penny</i>, I thought and stuffed my boxer shorts with the rest of my clothes in our instrument bag. (Yes, I really had visited the ancient Hamam carrying a ukulele, a squeezebox, a flute, sundry percussion instruments and a collapsed pop-up goal bearing our Beatnik Beatles signage. It was a busy day.)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Rather sheepishly, I made my way back out onto the landing area wrapped only in the briefest of cotton tea towels, and remembered that this raised gallery overlooked the busy reception one floor down. Clinging to the wall to avoid being gawped at from below I found the old 'change and lock' man who pointed me not to a wondrous glowing doorway billowing steam and golden sunlight from around its gilted edges, but back down the staircase to reception.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i>Courtie you fool! You could have been sipping coffee and eating Baklava in a charming cafe, but oh no, you just had to get your clothes off in public. Idiot.</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I took a deep breath and descended the stairs, nodding politely to the anorak clad crowds gathering in the reception doorway to shelter from a blustery squall which had decided to break at that precise moment. Did I mention that God hates me?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Afternoon" I said, as if I was in the queue at the post office, and continued towards a burly looking Turk who was beckoning me towards another door.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I knew from the pictures in the leaflet what to expect. The central domed room has a large raised circular marble platform in the middle, on which bathers sit or lie gazing up at the tiny glass holes in the dome which let daylight puncture the gloom like tiny stars. Around the edge are stone arches that lead to smaller bathing rooms in which you can scoop hot water in large copper dishes and sloosh yourself down with the kind of gay abandon that would normally lead to flooding the living room below. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As I felt the humidity hit me my eyes adjusted to the dim light. The leaflet had pictured a few svelte girls, artisticly lit, stretched out on the marble platform, but I knew from countless travel documentaries that the mens section would be occupied by one or two overwheight Turks and possibly a middle aged banker or two. Today, however, the Çemberlitas Hamam appeared to be hosting the wrap party for Elite Model Agency's 'World's Top Male Model' contest. Girls, you might be surprised to learn that we men, despite our bravado and gruff exterior, do actually notice how handsome/ugly, fit/fat other men are. You know that thing all women have that makes them hate Kiera Knightley? Well it's not that bad. But it's just an unconscious thing, probably deep in our tribal instincts, that reassures us that we fit in. Or, in my case, that I didn't. About 2 dozen twenty year old lads rippled about 2 dozen washboard stomachs as I entered the arena, tensing my love handles. I didn't know what to do. It was like walking into a house party on your own but there was no kitchen to flee to. I'd been handed a yellow plastic tag at reception which was to alert the attendants to the services that I'd paid for, but no one took it from me or seemed very interested, so I found a spot on the marble platform and shuffled uneasily into the middle to lie down.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The Elite Models were, like any bunch of lads in a slightly uneasy near-naked scenario, doing all they could to prove they weren't gay. If it hadn't meant exposing themselves, they'd have been flicking towels at each other (although I did actually witness this in the showers later). They were splashing water at each other, arching their wet backs on the marble to make fart noises, some were even playfully rubbing each others shoulders, laughing in a 'wouldn't it be funny if we really enjoyed this sort of thing' way. I don't think they realised they couldn't have looked more homo-erotic if they'd thrown on a Kenny Loggins track and started playing volleyball.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I wandered over to a vacant side room and had a sloosh. I tried to catch the eye of one of the wiry old men who was washing and scrubbing a man at the edge of the big platform, but there didn't seem to be a system to who got washed and when. I sat in the stone annexe surveying the central scene of joshing and hilarity and waited. I'd found my kitchen.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Soon, I was summoned by a mountain of a man to approach the platform. He was the shape of Obelix in the Asterix cartoons and a man of very few words. "Come" he ordered, so I did. "Lie", he pointed at the edge of the circular platform, so I did. Probably out of nervousness, I tried to strike up a conversation with him as he donned a scrubbing mit and started to rub me down.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"What is your name?" I asked. His stern face remained emotionless.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Safad"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And that's where the conversation ended because he was leaning on my chest so hard I couldn't speak. I don't think Safad was much of a talker. I was just pondering how Safad sounded like the name of terrorist splinter group, when he removed the mitt, squeezed a cotton bag of soapy bubbles over me and started his own reign of terror. In becoming a Hamami, Safad had clearly sacrificed a sparkling career as a cage fighter. What started as a vigorous rub down developed into what Safad would later call a 'massage', although the War Crimes Committee at The Hague might have taken an altogether dimmer view.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We got off to a bad start. I was on my back and Safad was pushing his rivet-gun thumbs deep into my thighs causing me such considerable pain that I was clenching my teeth, squirming and shouting 'Argh' quite a lot. Then a random man came up and started arguing with Safad. He was in some sort of dispute over the colour of his white plastic tab, and was clearly venting his frustration in Turkish to the first person he could find who worked there. Safad was having none of it, and continued to pummel my deepest muscles while arguing with this bloke.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And then it happened. I burst out laughing. It was completely involuntary. The ridiculousness of the situation I was looking up at coincided with a surprising twinge of pain from Safad's evil hands and I started laughing. The random guy looked down at me, furious. Safad was unrelenting. This made me laugh even more. I was now in that horrible place I call a 'church laugh'. My dad's a vicar, so obviously I spent a lot of my childhood in church. I also spent a lot of my childhood in whispered conversations with mates during services and know the perils of getting trapped in a 'church laugh'. It's when something funny happens exactly at the moment when you mustn't laugh. When a congregation is at its most silent, contemplating some enormous tragedy like Ethiopian famine, or the untimely death of a much loved parishioner, that is when your entire body will be aching, bursting, throbbing to explode into laughter at some private joke only you and a friend are aware of. The fact you <i>mustn't </i>laugh, makes it all the funnier.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The angry man tried to continue venting his spleen at Safad, who continued to pummel ruthlessly while I laughed like a drain, helpless to the situation. It was horrible. Inside I was aware what an imbecile I looked, but I was out of control. The fact the angry man may have thought I was laughing at him just made me laugh even more. The fact I so desperately wanted to stop laughing just increased the hilarity. As the disgruntled customer stormed off Safad took my mirth as a sign that I wasn't taking his work seriously and stepped up his campaign.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Now on my stomach I took deep breaths and tried to get a grip, which is exactly what Safad was doing with my feet. He was pushing them so hard into the marble that I was squirming like a fish out or water trying to find a position where my bones wouldn't be crushed to dust. And still I giggled. What the hell was wrong with me? I considered that perhaps Safad had inflicted internal bleeding and I was experiencing the euphoria that is sometimes reported just prior to death. <i>Please let it stop.</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><i></i>
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">By the time he had pushed my shoulder blades almost through my chest to touch the marble beneath, I was actually banging my hand on the wet surface shouting "I submit".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">He concluded his torture with a final wallop to my back and stood back, happy with a job well done. I tenderly picked myself up and looked around. A few of the Elite Models were glancing at me unimpressed. I knew I was getting picked last for volleyball.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">After being shown to a second room for more soaping of hair and slooshing with gallons of water, Safad bid me goodbye with a vice like shake of my hand. "Massage good?" he asked.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Yes" I replied. What else could I say? I wanted to say "No. You clearly have anger issues. You hurt me, and furthermore, you appeared to take considerable pleasure from inflicting pain. You are a very bad man, Safad." But he was much bigger than me.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You tip good" he said.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Of course" I said</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You look" he added, not letting go of my hand.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"You find"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Yes, yes" I urged. "I will look for you when I'm changed." <i>Dear God let me go.</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><i></i>
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i>Some bloody chance </i>I thought as I made my way back, wrapped in dry towels, to my Butlins chalet. It was weird enough that I'd endured some sort of sadomasochistic humiliation. Paying my torturer for the pleasure?! What would that make it? Too flippin' wierd, that's what. I gingerly got changed and headed for the stairs back down to reception where a cool drink and glossy magazines would while away the minutes until the return of the girls. I swung around the bottom flight and who's standing at the foot of the stairs, hot and sweating with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp? Bloody Safad.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I pulled 10TL from my pocket and stuffed it into his volumous palm. I felt dirty. Which was ironic given where I'd just been.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And that's not the end of the story. That evening, while my shirt gaped open at the kneck, Edie said "Woah! What is <i>that</i>?" pointing at my chest. I looked in the mirror, and sure enough, she had reason to be alarmed. A large lump had appeared on my collar bone. It didn't hurt, but it certainly looked odd. Like all medical queries, I turned to Doctor Google for advice. What I was seeing, and what was making my entire family go 'eurgh', was my sterno-clavicular joint, where the clavical (collar bone) meets the sternum (big bone in the middle of your chest). It is held in place by ligaments and can sometimes dislocate forwards (or, rarely, backwards), usually as a result of car crashes or sports unjuries. Lots of people have visited their doctors with one clavical sticking out unsymmetrically with the opposite side only to be told 'live with it'. So I guess I will.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It is my special lump and I shall call it Safad's Trophy. He tried to break me, and medically, he did. But mentally, I'm a rock, and I fully expect to be able to bathe again in as little as a year or two.</p>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-36303078560560242322010-10-04T12:41:00.000-07:002010-10-05T23:42:41.725-07:00Είναι όλους τους Έλληνες σε μένα<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguiNW55QAZP39aULSqRw20H5QXad_g3EQOsvASIQY0-rettjbvlaxSPfbVPQxzY_zopjxU246yH_7J_rDbsbjXGPN9Fqwv9kuh6pv3LfsjVUTz00YtferAFA91WmhOp1_WZQqxZyhHwV8m/s1600/Busk+Thessaloniki+DJ.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguiNW55QAZP39aULSqRw20H5QXad_g3EQOsvASIQY0-rettjbvlaxSPfbVPQxzY_zopjxU246yH_7J_rDbsbjXGPN9Fqwv9kuh6pv3LfsjVUTz00YtferAFA91WmhOp1_WZQqxZyhHwV8m/s320/Busk+Thessaloniki+DJ.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524281565751707074" /></a>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">
</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Asprovalta, east of Thessaloniki, Greece</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Miles 4, 087</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">All 5 of us are sheltering from the rain in Penny. It's about 9am and the nearby beach resort of Asprovalta is doing its best to wake up. We stealth-camped on the sea front last night. The rain was lashing down as we arrived here having visited 2 local campsites that were closed, but as we gazed through the misting up windows at the churning Aegean Sea the sky cleared and we headed out on foot into the tiny seaside town. We've reached that stage in our journey where everything feels very 'out of season'. It started the night before we left Italy (the first time) and we stayed on a campsite where we were the only living souls apart from the owner. Now, not even weary owners greet us. Just chained gates and the ghosts of gleeful holiday makers long since departed. Even a lot of the hotels in touristy resorts like this one are closed. There are clues all around of how busy these places must be in the height of summer; shower points standing alone on the deserted beach, stacks of sun-loungers under tarpaulins, boarded up beach bars and brightly painted children's play areas left eerily desolate.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The locals are still here of course, and they have to eat, so one or two restaurants remain open. Last night, one was hosting a party, while its neighbour remained empty. The ghost town was instantly transformed when about 20 cars arrived pouring out smartly dressed family and friends from toddlers to pensioners. The balloons and clothing seemed to suggest this was a 'post wedding' party having waved off the happy couple. Next door's empty bar promised nothing more than those 3 syllables that have come to rule our lives. Free wifi.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">While Jill emailed and researched Turkey I got chatting to a local man who was fascinated with the camper. He'd lived in North Carolina for 3 years (hence his effortless English) and recalled with fondness his own purchase of a massive American motorhome which he drove across the states several times. I gave him our website address, told him of our adventure and that we'd busked earlier that day in Thessaloniki, but the thing he seemed most impressed by was that five of us were sleeping in the confines of a VW T25.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It is a squeeze, I won't lie to you. But we're getting it down to a fine art. These days we don't even have to pop up the small tent to make storage. We stow all our luggage in the front underneath Edie's bunk, leaving the top bed (or 'upstairs' as we like to call it, despite the glaring absence of stairs) for Ella and Bethan while the bottom rock 'n' roll bed (that's a bench seat that flips down into a bed) for Jill and me. That might sound like 'hell in a tin box' (a phrase first coined by my wife on hearing I wanted to buy a campervan) but it's really not. Last night, for example, we strolled back from the bar, cooked some risotto, put the beds in order, settled down to watch a couple of episodes of Arrested Development (the brilliant US sitcom the girls have just discovered and downloaded from iTunes) before bidding each other "G'night" in our own tribute to the Waltons and falling asleep to the rhythm of the breaking waves.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Bliss. Stealth-camping can be great. And the price is right. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Mornings are trickier, I'll give you that. Blinking in the daylight you realise that people have got up and are getting on with their busy day. Commuters pass by on nearby roads. It's not quite as alarming as someone secretly moving your bed onto the centre of a busy roundabout on the A34 while you were sleeping, but if you imagine how waking up to that would feel, stealth-camping has the same unsettling edge.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Also, of course, everyone wants a wee, and if possible a shower. But if you can wait until the first coffee stop, or nip behind a tree, you get by. And you'd be amazed at the all-over-freshness you can achieve with baby wipes. (I'm sorry, were you eating?)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So here we are, about to set off on our mission to find a launderette somewhere between here and Turkey. First though, let me tell you about our Greek Gig busking in Thessaloniki.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">To most Brits, and I include myself in this, Greece's second largest city after Athens, known as Thessalonika back home, is most famous as the airport destination you would fly to before being transferred to one of hundreds of package holiday hot spots. Halkidiki is the one which Jill and I graced with our presence back in '93. Brits were chasing the sun, Labour were in opposition and Take That were huge. It was a different time.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We explored the city properly over the last couple of days and really liked it. It can't compete with Athens for historical ruins, or even historical significance I suspect, but it has a thriving, young, energetic quality that's infectious. A maze of bustling backstreets twist amongst the occasional ancient arch or church and contain a myriad of interesting independent shops selling the kinds of things you don't really see anymore like vinyl records and coloured hair extensions (really, a whole shop of them). Even its 'posh end' seems understated. You barely notice shops like Louis Vuitton nestled among the chaos. It was really refreshing and different from any other city centre I know. It was also the venue for our busk yesterday.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The sea front was even busier than the day before, which was encouraging, but we were fighting a strong breeze which threatened to swallow what little volume we could create. We also found to our dismay that our Greek audience weren't half as smiley and curious as those in Italy or France. I don't know whether it was the language barrier, or whether we were just too quiet, but most people just walked past barely giving us a glance. Maybe it was the smell.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">(We'd stayed at a proper camp site with showers the night before <i>actually, </i>so stop smirking)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The music, we hoped, would be universal, but the language barrier is definitely getting bigger. Dutch, French, Italian - you can see similarities to our own language. You learned enough over the years to hazard a guess. But Greek? It was funny when Ella first saw it written on a sign.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">
</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"They've got a triangle in it! And an M on its side! How are you supposed to say that?"</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">
</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Today's blog title is a case in point. Go on, have a guess. What does it say? Be honest - it's scribble to you, isn't it? Of course you could always copy and paste it into Google Translate, but we didn't have that luxury when trying to explain our mission to baffled passers by. We stuck at it for a good half hour and I was surprised by the girls' determination to carry on, but we only raised €7, which seemed quite disheartening after the fun and buoyancy of Florence. One good thing was that we were featured on a local radio breakfast show. That's the morning DJ from Republic Radio, Algelidou Elena with her friend Samara pictured above. So a bit of media interest was good, even if the locals were immune to our charms. And as we all agreed afterwards, even a measly 7 Euros is 7 Euros UNICEF didn't have before we went out and made fools of ourselves. Every little helps.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Which reminds me, we need to find a supermarket. We're running out of baby wipes.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">(Listen, you're the one reading this blog. If you don't want these gory details...)</p>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-54718058038379762132010-09-16T05:28:00.000-07:002010-09-16T05:42:34.638-07:00A scary day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl56XkGDyjPtYpX3-BPjiNIAovqtp9h9r3CT0GdO2-Ci-NL8UFsJPoanrSeYHa1FTWFXI7far6WVHPkfK5iObd4XwAXGZZNlRmZmm17gEh10dh_0MvNdK67dY6zZAUipbWWZmZYvNehkxE/s1600/Stranded+again+in+Italy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl56XkGDyjPtYpX3-BPjiNIAovqtp9h9r3CT0GdO2-Ci-NL8UFsJPoanrSeYHa1FTWFXI7far6WVHPkfK5iObd4XwAXGZZNlRmZmm17gEh10dh_0MvNdK67dY6zZAUipbWWZmZYvNehkxE/s320/Stranded+again+in+Italy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517488853547860610" /></a>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Miles 2,655</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Somwhere south of Piacenza, north of Parma</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I've got LOADS to tell you. When this adventure is written as a book it'll have well constructed themes, layers, story arcs, the works, but right now you're getting a day by day, blow by blow account of our lives, with all the unexpected twists and turns. Sorry if it seems a bit random.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Coming up, the Scary Churchyard Encounter, but first I have to tell you of The Great Turbo Conspiracy.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">In order of events then, we left Alessandria to cheers, folk songs and a ticker tape send off from the locals...or at least that's how it felt in our heads. Over the past week we've been debating whether to continue our planned journey south to Rome or not. Of the entire route we''ve planned this was the only diversion off our most direct path - a dip down Italy's west coast via Genoa and Pisa, then back up the other side to get back on track at Venice. Two things are pursuading us to still make the journey south; the educational value of all that culture. (Jill's slightly worried that we may have a cultural wasteland ahead through the Balkans and Turkey compared to what's on offer in Rome. Obviously 'wasteland' is a bit strong - there's loads of historical culture to discover of course, but it's very spread out so you can see her point). The seconds thing is one of our friends, Abi, has been the first to try out the Post Restante system, sending us a letter to collect at one of Rome's main Post Offices. Whether we make it is still undecided, but we certainly knew we didn't want to head south to Genoa again, so headed east towards Parma.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We decided to take things <i>very </i> easy in Penny, even paying the toll to take the autostrada towards Parma - no steep hills, no stopping and starting, just a steady 55mph all the way. No dramas...until 20 minutes into the journey, when we felt the undeniable lurch of the engine stuttering. It was exactly the same symptom we'd experienced before we got stranded with a failed turbo. Were we imaginging it? No. It was doing it again. After 40 minutes the engine was losing power, just like before. 'A second turbo can't fail, surely'. I knew where these symptoms were leading and didn't fancy being stranded on the autostrada. Exiting somewhere near Pavia, I pushed the clutch in and the engine died <i>just like before</i>. Everything was the same. And, just as before, I could re-start the engine and it ran fine. I called Blue interrupting his busy morning at T&P Motors in Bodicote and with the entire contents of the boot unloaded to expose the engine bay (that's us in a layby pictured above) he talked me through some basic fault finding. He severely doubted it was the turbo failing. And that's when I found it. Air bubbles streaming through the fuel pipe. All the hose clips were tight, no crack to be found, but that was undoubtedly the problem. A stop at a VW garage in Pavia led to a very friendly man, Luigi, taking a look at her. I regret not taking his photo for you, but the girls insisted he looked like the Hugh Laurie character Gregory House. I was sure, therefore, that if the problem was a mystery, he'd get out his wipe board and a team of young hotshots in white coats would diagnose it after a few dead ends and wry witticisms.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">In fact, they diagnosed it in 5 minutes. A blocked fuel filter. It had been new before we left England, but here's the theory - (if you're a fan of 'House' picture rushing 3D internal graphics illustrating this): The fuel tank is old, it has lots of dirt in it. Italian diesel is, compared to what we're used to at home, a bit rough. So much so in fact that I've since learned that Italian truckers make it the norm to use the standard fuel filter plus another 2 in line, just to stop their engines clogging. The dirty fuel blocks the filter (and I looked, it was full of dark brown sludge), the fuel pump sucks madly, not enough fuel comes through so inevitably tiny air bubbles will be pulled in from somewhere along the system because the pump is causing a vacuum. According to Luigi, the only long term solution is to replace the tank, but with regular filter changes and a careful eye on not running the tank down to the red line, we should be fine. Blue concurred with the theory, adding the fact that with the van sitting still for so long, all the rubbish in the diesel will have had time to settle which is why we got 20 minutes in before she started coughing, once the tank had been sloshed around. (He did also tell me how to clean the tank out but it's a big job requiring a ramp - I doubt I'll do it). The conclusion of all this woe is that </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">1) Yay! We've solved the problem and know how to fix it next time - I have the next filter ready and waiting. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">2) Dohhh! We may have just replaced a perfectly good turbo unnecessarily. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It puts us in a tricky position as you can imagine, trying to argue this with the VW garage back in Alessandria. Did they mis-diagnose a faulty turbo? If so that cost us a huge stack of cash, not just in the new part and their labour but in the hostel costs of waiting 2 weeks for the repair. Was it really as simple as a €50 filter change? I've spoken to Brickwerks, the company we've returned the original turbo to (the old turbos are refurbished and sold) who will let us know if there's anything obvious wrong with it. If not, I guess we're facing a battle to convince the original VW garage that they owe us some recompense. At home, y'know, I relish these 'fights for justice'. But while travelling? And in a foreign language? My heart sinks at the thought of it. I'm calling them tomorrow. Let's reserve judgement.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Then, later that same day...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We drove away from Pavia, cautiously paranoid that Penny was on the verge of collapse, just waiting for another stutter, another random loss of power at high speed. But, of course, she was fine. Completely cured. We should have been thrilled but were actually cross that we may have been misled with a costly mistake back in Alessandria. We made Piacenza our destination and started keeping an eye out for campsites. After an hour of approaching, touring the city, and then leaving Piacenza without seeing a single sign bearing a tent it started to occur to us that for the first time on this trip we may be forced to do some 'guerrilla camping' - in other words, sleeping for free. I'm sure there's a proper word for this, like when they call the posh tents as music festivals 'glamping', from the words 'glamorous camping'. I'd love to merge 'gratis camping' to form 'gramping', but it sounds like a naughty game teenagers might play of sneaking up and goosing old grandads. "I'm bored, let's go out gramping!"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><i>Police said Stanley Timmins, 70, was the victim of a drive-by gramping. "They came from no-where" said the plucky pensioner. "I didn't see them coming. But I certainly felt them. It's just not right."</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Has anyone used 'framping', from 'free camping'? I'll Google it later and probably get 48 million references, but if not, consider it invented right here. So, as we scoured suburban wastelands and remote farm tracks in the fading light, hoping to do some framping (or even some gramping, if the opportunity arose) I remembered that in France they quite often provide free camper van car parks near ancient abbeys and the like. Italy also has these car parks - we just couldn't find one. So we headed for a castle that was listed on brown signs, like a tourist attraction, and it took us mile after mile into the countryside until we'd all but given up on it. In the end, it was just one of the many small castles, more a fortified courtyard really, that is now a private house. Next to it, however, was a church which had a rather attractive, secluded grassy parking area completely empty. Not for long.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We parked up behind the church and were far enough away from the road not to be too concerned about drawing attention to ourselves. Up popped the little 2 man tent, in went all the bags, and within half an hour all the beds were ready, mosquito nets up and we were, after almost 3 weeks in this country, <i>finally </i>eating some home cooked fresh pasta. Spirits were high as darkness descended and we sat out under the stars polishing off the last of our tea. There was now no chance of us being disturbed at this most remote of locations at 9pm on a Tuesday evening. We were all alone. Bats flitted overhead. A large owl swept through the trees. A car drew up on the road next to the church, someone got out and we heard its central locking blip.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Oh. Not <i>entirely </i>alone then. Next, lights went on in the church. "What's the vicar doing here at this time?" Jill hissed. "Don't worry", I reassured everyone, "he'll just be picking up a cassock or something and he'll be on his way".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Speculation was rife about what the priest's reaction would be to seeing a camper van plonked in his car park. To try and settle nerves I said "What would Reverend Ben do if <i>he </i> found a family camping next to the church?".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"That's not a fair comparison" Jill said. "He'd invite them for dinner". (If you've never met him, Reverend Ben is an extraordinary vicar. In a recent theological family discussion Bethan said she considered Reverend Ben to be the closest thing to God on Earth.)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Tense minutes passed waiting for danger to pass, but more church lights went on. Then a second car arrived next to the first. Again, they were out on the road and couldn't really see us too clearly. "He's called the cops" Ella said. In the dim moonlight one of the children saw a woman getting out. "She's going into the church". By now we were all sitting, huddling, almost, behind Penny. It's funny how in these situations, when you know you're being a bit naughty, you can't shake that childish instinct to hide. By now, Jill and the girls were getting increasingly fraught. "What if he's called backup, to forcibly eject us?" asked Jill, rationally. I remained in my chair, cup of cheap Prosecco in hand, confident that whoever was in the church would simply do whatever chore needed doing and leave.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Go and talk to them" instructed Jill.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"What?"</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Go in and ask if it's OK to stay here."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Why? That just gives them the opportunity to say 'no'. Much harder for them to come to us. Just sit tight." (Notice here, the calculating mind of a master criminal)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">An icy stalemate.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Suddenly we were bathed in light. A car, no <i>two </i>cars swung into the car park."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"OK" I conceded. "This is not what we planned".</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Rather embarrassingly, they parked next to us.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">"Either you go and talk to them" spat Jill in a furious whisper, "or we're packing and leaving. Those are your choices."</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As car doors opened in the darkness, the two youngest members of the family clung, whimpering, to Jill.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">It was showtime.</p>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8429611850937981382.post-70633932955866863942010-08-06T23:46:00.000-07:002010-08-07T16:07:23.295-07:00Strawberry Field's not forever, it's for about 30 minutes.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpItmHqZQUcq6s3guY53VoJq-0vua8h8BPhrk9xIAj3WxKkaUmeNeB-k4FBqOJ9ZCAMdxcbNREms5-zdyNxtEkekJwHnosVm5D-SiAdo1St7F9XroJnwsGgZH-_Wldq-0BtQkPwhQ1nLG/s1600/Linda+and+Joan+Strawberry+Field.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpItmHqZQUcq6s3guY53VoJq-0vua8h8BPhrk9xIAj3WxKkaUmeNeB-k4FBqOJ9ZCAMdxcbNREms5-zdyNxtEkekJwHnosVm5D-SiAdo1St7F9XroJnwsGgZH-_Wldq-0BtQkPwhQ1nLG/s320/Linda+and+Joan+Strawberry+Field.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502803532193646514" /></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Look! That's Linda and Joan! More about them in a moment. First things first. Thanks if you joined me in a prayer to any of the multi-limbed deities of any of the world religions, because it worked. On Wednesday we enjoyed our second visit to London's Glittering West End (the Uxbridge Road) where the awfully polite and efficient staff of The India Visa Application Centre ('Ticket four zero one seven, please check your passports before you leave, enjoy your visit, step aside please') returned all 5 of our passports with a beautiful addition – a six month India Visa. Nightmare averted. India High Commission, if you're reading this, loving your work. (If you have any friends in the Syria Visa Application Office...?)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Back to today. As I write, it's 11pm. the rest of my family sleeps, we are staying at a flat belonging to some friends of friends who have now become...well...friends, having moved out of our house a few days ago. This welcome base has become our 'jumping off point'. I had to bungy jump for a TV film a few years ago in New Zealand and although this lovely coach-house flat isn't anything like a lunatic-filled cage dangling from a high wire above a cavernous ravine, the psychological similarity bears comparison. At some point you have to stop talking about it and actually walk out onto the edge and throw your self off. This week has been exactly that – we need to somehow go from 4 bedroom country cottage to...let's face it...a van. Moving out was a massive mental hurdle that forced us all to stop relying on all those little home comforts that needed either packing or storing – toothpaste, kettle, TV, clothes – without the friend's flat, our 'precipice edge', we'd still have been packing boxes an hour after the ferry leaves next Monday.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So here I am, at the and of possibly the busiest and strangest day in this whirlwind of a fortnight ahead of our departure. We 'gigged' at Strawberry Field today. I might have already told you how shortly after Jill foolishly suggested busking The Beatles as we travel the world, I came up with the concept of busking from Strawberry Field, Liverpool to Strawberry Fields, New York, simply because it has a convenient Latitudal (I may have made that word up) ring to it. So amid the crazy chaos that our lives have become, Friday the 6<span style="vertical-align: 5.0px">th</span> of August was scheduled for that all important gig. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">We had talked about doing a proper press launch. A friend who works in PR even offered to help for free. 'This Morning' he gushed, 'GMTV. The One Show. They'd love it!' I wasn't so sure. I'd thought maybe Radio Merseyside, Radio City and the Echo, but nothing more. I'd grown up just half a mile away at Mossley Hill where my dad was a curate and my mum wanted half our old church there to wave us off. A lot of people in our shoes would have welcomed all this attention, I know. And it probably strikes you as odd that two people who work in the business weren't embracing the idea of a huge media send off at the gates of Strawberry Field. But I had issues.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">First, Strawberry Field (singular) is an old children's home owned by The Salvation Army. Why John Lennon tagged this old house he could see from his childhood garden into a trippy song I don't know, but he did, so it now inevitably has a huge appeal to Beatles fans. But it's closed. The Sally Army are, as I write this, still in discussions about what to do with the site having recently (according to a charming receptionist I spoke to) decided not to sell it. Well done them! I hope they can refurbish it and continue its great work in the community. What they couldn't do, however, is confirm that we had permission to park our yellow VW camper across the gate and busk to a random crowd of assembled press and distantly remembered parishioners of a nearby church. Without some authority, a press junket seemed risky. There could be builders, architects, furrow-browed Salvation Army Majors wanting to stride purposefully through those very gates. It could be awkward.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Secondly, Beaconsfield Road, L18, is very narrow. The pavement is almost none existent. A crowd of more than one man and a dog forces what few pedestrians there are to step into traffic. I've been to loads of press junkets and I just couldn't envisage one happening at the gates to Strawberry Field. Not once you added a T25 camper and us 5. At best it would result in hooting and occasional bad language. At worst, a post mortem.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Thirdly, and most importantly, we just weren't that good. At busking, I mean. We'd done a TV piece the day before for ITV1's regional news show Meridian Tonight (the one with TV legend Fred Dinage on it) and thanks entirely to the skills of a TV journalist called Victoria Bennett we had 'got away with' not looking too mad. But we really only knew a couple of songs. And we weren't very good at those. Bringing Liverpool's heritage back to the gates of Strawberry Field and murdering it before the local hacks would be about as welcome as John Barrowman warming up a Roy 'Chubby' Brown audience with songs from the shows. The reception could be cool, to say the least.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Also, by way of an aside, we'd been very rubbish at organising this 'launch day' alongside the quintilliongooglyezillion other jobs we'd had to do, so when I couldn't get a 'yes' from the Sallvation Army I thought 'let's just do what real buskers do'. So the plan was to simply rock up to Liverpool, slam the van in front of L18's most famous wrought iron gates, and do a song. Or possibly two. But no requests.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So we did. By 7.30 we were on the road, ETA 10.30. By 11, we estimated, we should have been there, nailed it, and be heading back to finish countless other undone chores like taking the last boxes to friends garages, collecting the RAC Carnet from the Post Office (whose Special Delivery we'd missed) and, oh one small thing, PACKING THE VAN. We're effectively leaving tomorrow as we're staying with friends in different parts of the country over the weekend before sailing away on Monday. If we were going on holiday for a week I'd have packed the car by now. We're going away for a year and the van remains untroubled. So with gritted teeth I drove to The North, taking some comfort and relief in the fact that at least we didn't have any press waiting for us.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">At 10 o'clock The Daily Mail phoned.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px">
</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">They'd seen the ITV film and wanted to do the story. Even follow our diary throughout the year, they said. Great publicity, we all agreed, 'I wonder if we can get a photographer to you in Liverpool this morning' they asked. Beneath a shabby, unkempt bed-head of hair, Jill's face visibly paled.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">In fact, they couldn't. They hope to sort a piece over the weekend. There is time yet for hair-straightening. So we came, we saw, we busked. I knew Beaconsfield Road was very quiet as far as pedestrians go – there's really nothing much round there, but our impromptu appearance was received very well by the only two people who walked past us as we attempted to video ourselves gigging in front of the bright red gates. Linda and Joan will always be held fondly in our hearts as the very first people on this epic adventure to listen to us perform and then donate to our UNICEF fund. We actually asked them to take a picture of us, which Linda did with such aplomb that I instantly promoted her to Chief Camera Operator, and she shot some video of us too. These 2 complete strangers not only agreed to lend a hand, they genuinely seemed to get a kick out of what we were doing. I watched them as we cantered through a couple of 'All You Need Is Love' choruses, and they were smiling so broadly, and singing along, it was astonishing. A smile of pity, I'd have expected. But these were real, joyful grins of happiness. They kept saying how we'd made their day, and you could tell they meant it. This was a profound moment. This was the first real evidence that we could actually do this...properly. All of us had absolutely no qualms about launching straight into a song, and, astonishingly, we seemed to be quite entertaining. No one threw rotten fruit. Even better, Linda and Joan, our new best friends, on hearing of our quest didn't hesitate to dig into their purses and throw a quid each in the pot to get us on our way. I nearly cried. Linda told Edie all about how she had been her age when The Beatles has flown back from their gig at New York's Shea Stadium, and her mum had got tickets for the both of them to get onto the tarmac at the airport and witness their triumphant return. I've seen that footage so many times, and here was a completely random member of the public recalling it first hand to my daughter at the gates of Strawberry Field having just applauded our busking efforts. As good omens go, I'll take that one. That's when Jill took their picture. We love you Linda and Joan, wherever you are. Thank you for giving the Beatnik Beatles the best launch we could ever have wished for.</p>Beatnik Simhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18427334995762834305noreply@blogger.com0