Dynargh dhe'n Blogofrob

Tuesday 1st June 2004

"I'm scared of everyone so I must be a liberal"

Last week I enjoyed the shambling misanthropy of Dylan Moran, as he wheeled around the stage on the final London date of his Monster II tour. The content of much of his wine and cigarette fuelled ramblings (although the cigarettes seemed to be waved around rather than smoked, and the wine glass stayed almost full throughout the performance) was as old as the hills (foreigners, the difference between men and women, Brits abroad) and may have given Moses cause to smile when he caught Sinai's latest stand-up act, in between parting the Red Sea and growing a beard, but rightfully shouldn't have raised much of a titter from the audience at the Palace Theatre in 'London's glittering West-End' (it's the way the neon of strip joints and kebab shops glitters across the surface of newly laid vomit on the pavement). But there is something about Moran's delivery, including his surreally inventive way with words (to him, children are "midget drunks") and the curious intimacy he strikes with the audience, that makes his act almost consistently funny - plus I'm always going to enjoy watching an outspoken misanthrope banging on for an hour and half. He's good-looking too, apparently.

Closer to the end of the week, as Matt has once again beaten me to reporting, Gomez played the Hammersmith Apollo. Another very good gig - Gomez seem to look exactly the same as they always have done: like physics undergraduates. They also sound exactly as they always have done, which was perfect, because live, they sound great. There was one problem with the evening though, which is often a problem with gigs. I was standing fairly near the stage. During the more upbeat numbers, I glanced forward jealously at the people in front of me, dancing, moving around and generally making the most of the opportunity to drink in the atmosphere and enjoy themselves. And I tried to, but it just wasn't the same - because standing dead in front of me were two blokes standing stock still with their arms crossed. The inflexible wall of T-shirt meant that I just couldn't really get into it. After a few songs, with our frustration increasing, Claire and I weaved forward, this time ending up only a couple of metres from the stage. But, yet again, we were unlucky enough to be stuck behind two skinheads, who, although within gobbing distance of the stage (to use their own value judgements), appeared to be paralysed. I remember a similar frustration seeing Moby a while back - his music is, of course, much more dancey than Gomez's. Everyone around me was moving and dancing, except for two hairless builders, standing as if frozen by the rig lights and simply staring resolutely forward. I don't have a problem if people want to watch a gig motionless, or gently toe-tap from the sidelines - I've done it enough times: but not right at the front. What's the point of them just standing there? Why don't they stop blotting the atmosphere, in a shaven-headed-over-sized-Ben-Sherman-shirt sort of way and slouch off outside and chat with the touts (I'm sure they have about the same level of interest in the music)? That way they can let me, and everyone else down at the front, get on with enjoying slightly tired student-blusey-rock, which I did, immensely (having again ducked forward past the second immovable wall).

And, talking of skinheads, I'll leave the last word to Dylan Moran, chatting to a trio of them: "Hey you know when you're doing your usual threesome thing you do of a weekend, and the moonlight's bouncing off your heads and your arses and everything, does that not get a bit confusing?"

47 - posted at 14:20:54
permalink

Click here to add a comment


Monday 10th May 2004

Owing to the psychopathic excesses of my employers and my general laziness, I find myself sitting down to write about the bank holiday weekend seven days late, but I feel it's still worth briefly mentioning.

As Matt reports, the Brixton Academy played host to a leg of the Carling 24 hour Live Music Event. The depressing and predictable unreliability of London's buses meant that the short journey from Clapham High Street to Brixton took about three times as long as it should have done, and as a result we arrived inside half-way through the Scissor Sisters' energetic and enjoyable set. But to be honest, I didn't really care, as I was there to see Lamb - and the cat-swinging spaces which opened up after the Scissor Sisters pranced off stage meant I really could see them. The set was amazing, Louise Rhodes's voice was stunning and Andy Barlow jumped around like a fool as usual. Perfect. The rumours are circulating that Lamb are going to take a break or even split up after their current round of gigs. I hope it's not true, as they are one of the few bands who turn in consistently amazing live performances. If it is true, Glastonbury this year will be my last chance to catch them, and it'll take a pretty spectacular clash to drag me away.

A desire not to waste the bank holiday stewing in bed until mid-afternoon propelled me out into the rain towards the Tower of London. Another Transport for London farce saw me having to walk from my flat to Tower Hill station where I waited for Jim and Les to join me. The gates to the station were securely fastened and a couple of uniformed TfL employees were on guard outside to confuse tourists - who arrived fairly steadily, grim faces set under hastily bought Macs or union jack umbrellas. As they were turned away from the station, back into the rain with only incomprehensible bus instructions to take them to the safety of their hotel room, I felt that familiar sympathy for tourists in London - a sympathy not shared by some of my friends, one of whom believes the streets of the West End should be patrolled by a 'tourist bulldozer'.

The Tower was fun - a lone Raven hopped around in the damp (the rest of them seemed to be caged to ensure the continued existence of the Tower and the Monarchy), melodramatic Beefeaters gave Simon Callowesque tours and we went to an exhibition about the various unfortunates who have been locked up in the place. A contemporary description of Rudolph Hess's transportation to the Tower in 1941 is one of the highlights, describing how Londoners gathered for his arrival at Euston station to jeer and "shake their fists" at him, indicating how much this country has changed in 63 years. A Nazi war criminal receives about the same level of public contempt as an evicted Big Brother contestant. We also stopped off for a look at the Crown Jewels, being swiftly fed past them on a moving walkway, a bit like, as Jim pointed out, being on the Generation Game.

46 - posted at 18:26:18
permalink

Click here to add a comment


Wednesday 21st April 2004

I've been back in London a month. It's still a bit bizarre, but many elements of life in this city are reassuringly familiar. How easy it's been to slip back onto the grey and rainy streets with the rest of the expressionless white collar workers, all of us trudging to work, lost in our individual worlds of headphones and conundrums about whether to go for the Ham and Pickle or Chicken Tikka sandwich at lunchtime. And there was a comforting predictability about sitting on a motionless District line train in a tunnel the other day, staring numbly at my face in the reflection of the opposite window, as I'd already read all the adverts half a dozen times.

No more opening my curtains in the morning to the sea and distant hills, no more being whisked across the city in a taxi for the price of a Ham and Pickle (or Chicken Tikka) sandwich. No more wandering the S.A.R. (or other choice Asian destinations) wide eyed and alone. But, then again, no more 60 hour working weeks, no more tedious ex-pat lager conversations and no more the ache of wishing I could see someone, knowing she was thousands of miles away.

Three DHL boxes and a large bag came back with me from Hong Kong - and distributed through them, along with various Chinese teas, chops and cut-price goods, I packed a hundred or so DVDs - so if the distinctly non-sub-tropical climate of EC1, or the prospect of the PM completely losing control of his mind and the country, or a football team disgracing itself get too much, I can hide away with another random film. And if I'm lucky, it won't feature the silhouetted shapes of Chinese cinema goers popping to the loo every now and again.

45 - posted at 16:17:14
permalink

Comments (7)


Thursday 8th April 2004

Come Home Billy Bird

Despite the distant prospect of 2047 and the opinion of Beijing, Hong Kong often isn't seen as 'China proper'. I resolved therefore to get into that country before I lost the opportunity - brief forays for counterfeit goods into the den of vipers that is Shenzhen don't count. With only a week to go before the end of my Hong Kong life, I caught a plane which took me an hour inland to Guilin, in the Guangxi province of China.

Just before the plane's shaky descent into Guilin's shabby airport the air hostesses came and took everyone's newspapers, bundling them into black bin liners, while the P.A. system told us this was because of local laws. It was a good indication, along with the sign greeting me as I left the plane that said " el ome to Gui in A r po t", that whatever I may have naively supposed while exploring the remoter areas of Hong Kong, 'China proper', even if only a short flight away, was radically different.

I met Oscar, my guide, as I left the airport. In addition to his exclamations regarding my youth, he told me he had chosen the name 'Oscar', because he liked American movies, and while reading a dictionary had discovered the word could be used as a first name, as well as an award. He also seemed to be some kind of amateur Confucian - when I asked him about the local climate he told me, "Sometimes it is warm, then suddenly it is very cold - like a girl's heart".

We drove 40 minutes or so into Guilin. Once I was installed in my hotel, I decided to go for a brief evening walk along the river, a walk which was soon curtailed, as I grew tired of the constant offers of 'massages' and 'nice Chinese girls'. Is there anything that could induce one to pay for sex less than having it suggested by an odd little man, digging around with his tobacco stained finger in a hole made by the loosely closed fist of his other hand?

The next morning a very early start - before 10am I found myself on a large river boat, cruising smoothly down the Li River, surrounded by stunning scenery - the giant limestone mountains that characterise the region stretched into the mist, each one, completely independent of its neighbour, rising out of the thick forest like a giant crumbling tooth. The boat weighed anchor at a town I can't remember the name of - the boat usually goes all the way up to Yangshuo, but Oscar apologetically explained that the river was too low, and the rest of the trip would have to be made by car. But the car journey turned out to be the best part of the day - the mountains still dotted the countryside and in addition, I also got to see villages and agriculture, cows roaming the roads, diminutive ancient women, bent double under a burden of sticks, three times the height of them, old men lounging by the road in Party uniform and caps. It was these sights, from the car window, that were the highlight of my trip to Guilin, as opposed to the half-hearted visits to a gallery or replica fort - I don't see why places that already pull in the tourists, by virtue of their natural beauty or colourful history, feel the need to artificially create more 'attractions'.

Yangshuo is a backpacker refuge, and the main street reminded me of the infamous Khao Sahn Road in Bangkok. I briefly admired the flood plain and a restaurant advertising rat hot-pot, before getting back in the car for the drive back to Guilin.

Perhaps I wouldn't have noted the rat hot-pot as keenly if I had previously been to the Guilin restaurant I visited that evening. Among the cages of pigeons and chickens, a cage of gently writhing snakes attracted my attention - not for its contents so much, but more for the four decapitated snakes' heads sitting on top of it, the blood of the creatures having been drained into a couple of glasses, which waited for a thirsty diner's patronage. I think it was the dog, skinned and roasted, hanging up in the kitchen window which intrigued me most. I asked Oscar later if he had ever eaten dog. He told me a story about when he was a child, growing up in Yangshuo. He said that when he was about 8 years old, he had befriended a stray dog. Over time the two became almost inseparable, and after school he used to run home to play with his canine friend. One day he returned from school to discover that the dog was nowhere to be found. He asked his mother where it was - his mother told him that their neighbour had sold the dog to the local butcher. Oscar was distraught, and went for a long walk through the countryside, tearful and inconsolable. Eventually, after he had calmed down a little, he dolefully returned home. His mother told him that their neighbour had given them some meat for their supper. It was the dog, of course.

"Did you eat it?" I asked.

"It was delicious. I had seconds" he replied.

Other highlights of Guilin included a trip up one of the mountains via a chairlift, for magnificent views of the region, with Oscar and I taking the option to travel back down the mountain by way of the incongruous toboggan track, which spits you out at sea level after a high speed three minute journey on wheeled toboggans, as well as watching the cormorants used for fishing and visiting underground caves, crowded with stalactites and 'mites.

But it was over very quickly, and soon I was back on the Airport Express being efficiently transferred from Chek Lap Kok airport to the centre of Hong Kong - and then, five days later, it was shipping me out again.

And then suddenly China was done, and Hong Kong too, my time there over for now.

44 - posted at 16:23:00
permalink

Comments (3)


Tuesday 17th February 2004

Deft manipulation of public holidays and available leave meant that Claire and I enjoyed over two weeks respite from work and an opportunity to venture further into Hong Kong and South East Asia.

The dawn of the year of the monkey proved auspicious, and we found ourselves with one of the best views in Hong Kong of the territory's massive and impressive firework display, watching a curtain of stars fall into the harbour, as jealous diners craned over our shoulders.

The new year's public holidays last for three days - most Chinese retreat into their homes or visit relatives, but not before heading for the nearest temple to ensure the best possible fortune for the coming lunar year. Hence the Wishing Tree, a short drive from Tai Po in the New Territories. This enormous tree sits in the grounds of a large temple complex, its branches groaning under the weight of wishes, scribbled on paper, attached to oranges and hurled into the branches of the tree. Having spent some time formulating a wish, I cautiously made my way through the crowds of people, successfully avoiding the oranges thudding to the ground around me, and sent my wish flying through the clouds of incense, towards the branches. The orange, with my wish streaming behind it, flew straight through the tree, missing its mark, and landed amongst a heap of other failed wishes. It was swept up and incinerated before I could retrieve it and have a second go. Claire's however, caught and hung safely amongst the other successful attempts, destined to come true. I wasn't too worried about my broken dreams - prior to trying the tree a wander around the temple, past a high energy dragon dance, had brought us to a fortune teller, who read my palm without too many unpleasant comments, although I was rather hoping for a longer life.

The following days took us to some of the SAR's most colourful and intriguing sites - such as the 10,000 Buddhas monastery in Sha Tin, the number of Buddhas in which comfortably exceed its name; and the walled villages of the Hakka tribe, antique fortresses, over which the tower blocks of the new towns loom, while within, the clacking of mah-jong tiles echoes through the dark alleyways and corridors. The outlying islands also proved fruitful - twilight one day found us on the wrong side of Cheung Chau, amongst the cemeteries built into the coastal rocks, rather than the heavily populated town a mile or two across the car-free island. We quickened our pace, not wanting to be caught out by the darkness. Walking past the crematorium as the sky turned an inky shade of blue, we noticed small fires burning in between the memorial tablets. A gentle sweeping sound turned out to be an ancient woman, sweeping up ashes amongst the flames. She cackled and babbled to herself as we hurried past. Thankfully 20 minutes later and we were deep in the lively lanes of Cheung Chau's market. As well as the outlying islands, a ferry also took us to Macau, Hong Kong's dilapidated older brother, a would be Vegas of the east. Full of character, years of Portuguese rule fashioning the area in the Iberian style, in a way the British never really managed with Hong Kong.

But, despite the delights of Hong Kong (and Macau) I was looking forward to the three days in Cambodia that were, more or less, to bring the holiday to a close. Looking out of the plane window as we descended into Siem Reap airport, the jungle and paddyfields stretching out of view, filled me with a sense of calm that the shiny glass towers of Central could never achieve. The country's beauty though, tragically, hides the sinister legacy of Democratic Kampuchea - the jungle and paddyfields are still largely riddled with landmines. In Hong Kong the amputees begging provide expats with a diverting exercise in speculation - some say that when borrowers can't repay their debts to the Triads, the Triads cripple them, then make them beg to pay off what they owe. No such speculation in Cambodia though - the reason for the plastic arms, the wooden poles and the distorted stumps is plain enough.

But Siem Reap has tourism to pull it away from the darkness of the '70s. The place is now solidly on the tourist map - our fellow passengers stepping off the plane in the baking sunshine seemed to belong to Belgium's equivalent of Saga. In the car park of the airport, a gravel area that reminded me of the carpark in a provincial English railway station, we found Rith and Smee, to be our guide and driver respectively. They were, like almost every local, good-hearted and seemed genuine, with none of the tired smiles I've encountered in other tourist areas, whether on the package or the backpacker trail. Perhaps the charabancs simply haven't got to them yet.

That afternoon we rattled down a dirt track, past clutches of one-room huts on stilts, their walls made of palmleaf mats, outside of which mud-covered pigs fraternised with naked children. Smee skilfully avoided huge holes in the road to bring us to the edge of a village by a river. We buzzed up the river on a small boat, and I felt more and more like Conrad's Marlow (or I would have done, had the boat boy not been wearing a Beckham top). As we neared the end of the river, we passed a floating school, the open doorways affording a brief glimpse of children, quietly attentive at their desks, pencils poised. And then the river opened up into Tonle Sap, the great lake of Cambodia. Our boat made its way through the floating village, at least a hundred houses built on rafts, to a fish farm, the size of a canal barge, on the very edge of the settlement. Beyond this there was only water, which simply disappeared into the horizon. The farm was crammed with tourist junk for sale, much the same as I could get back in Hong Kong at Stanley market, but it also contained more unusual items. As well as a pen of large hungry fish there was a line of cages and tanks containing various lake creatures, a python and a wide-eyed monkey, swinging himself maniacally in his miniature hammock - he would later run riot across the farm when released from his cage. Down at water level, on a platform under our feet, 30 or so crocodiles were lazily enjoying the sunshine.

The next morning found us in the world heritage site of Angkor. Our first stop Angkor Thom, the ancient capital city. It wasn't hard to ignore the hawkers ("Lady, lady! you want guide?") or even the elephants to admire the first giant stone face, looking out of the South Gate of Angkor Thom. Inside, we discovered that our visit had coincided with a national festival, in which monks from throughout the country travel to Angkor to benefit from the public's charity. Lines of orange-robed bald-headed young men stood in lines, holding pots, receiving food and money. We made our way through the crowds to the remains of the Bayon. Well preserved bas-reliefs tell the story of the city of Angkor (and provide one of the only contemporary clues to the history of the place - and therefore the country) while above them, from the tumbledown towers, the benign smile of Jayavarman VII looks out in all directions. Wandering amongst the stones, we eventually made our way under the towers. Above us, chirruping bats were suspended, faint grey shapes in the gloom. Despite myself, old Apocalypse Now/Heart of Darkness fantasies began to resurface - something reinforced later in the day: a distant flock of unidentified birds rising from the depths of the jungle as Claire and I sat on the hill of Phnom Bakheng, watching the cloud smudged sunset over the plain of Angkor.

In the afternoon - Angkor Wat. From the far side of the moat, its five towers, like giant lotus buds, sitting over the long corridors and levels of the temple, present a familiar image - but the pictures and the films do not do it justice. As with Angkor Thom, Angkor Wat is awe-inspiring. Almost every inch of stone in the sprawling complex is covered with intricate engravings, including long corridors of bas-reliefs depicting Hindu stories. The temple exists over many levels, and scrambling across ledges and up steep stairs, occasionally a nerve-wracking endeavour, only presents more to marvel at - whether surveying the views from the temple, the structure as a whole or the details of a doorway or window. Only the sweat drenched t-shirts of fellow tourists tempered the atmosphere - but even they can't really affect the place.

In Ars Poetica Horace states that a writer should 'leave out what he knows will not look polished if written', and although, as is evident, I frequently break this rule, I despair of success in describing Angkor. Plus I'm a little lazy. It's a stunning, mysterious place, but I'm afraid of sounding patronising, or merely flat in trying to do it justice. But I hope to get back soon - I wonder how the increasing numbers of visitors will affect Siem Reap. Will it be completely overrun in five years, destroyed by the ravages of insensitive tourism? Or will it manage its growth as successfully as it seems to be doing at the moment?

I was sickened by an American backpacker I saw assuming he could openly bribe a policeman outside Angkor Wat, and perplexed when I saw a couple of Western tourists tip a monk after chatting with him. But is my tourism anymore responsible? I hope so - and I think so - but at the same time, I greedily stare at the third world villages, feeding my senses, while I pay my money instead to the posh hotel in town, live out my Conradian fantasies and then fly out - fly out to, as it happens, a foot spa in Ho Chi Minh City Airport. And my tip for the day is: if you have ticklish feet, don't have a foot massage.

43 - posted at 01:54:07
permalink

Comments (5)