¡Qué guay!

It's always nice to be reminded that one is getting older and slowly, but inevitably, becoming less cool. And it's especially nice to get a double hit of this delightful feeling.

Everyone knows that, when in a restaurant with a Specials board, it is someone's job to go and stand in front of it, memorise it (ideally in less than a minute) and then return to the table and reel-off said list, with all the customary guess-work, ad libs and mis-rememberings:
"I think it came with veggies or rice… or maybe something else. Oh and there was definitely a pasta thingy… and there was one more… which sounded quite good actually…"

Well no, if you are nodding sympathetically at that last paragraph, then I am sorry to be the one tell you – but you are old. That is not the thing to do at all. If you are a young hipster, you simply stand in front of the board and take a photo of it with your camera phone. Of  course you do, obvious isn't it? (only, it would never have occurred to me to do that).

But even hipsters get out-hipped on occasion.
"Oh no sir" said the waiter "there's really no need!" He placed reassuring fingertips on the young man's sleeve and with a Dickensian smile, that managed to be both cap-doffingly subservient and supremely condescending, he said:
"It's really not necessary to do that! Not at all! The Specials are all online! Simply swipe the code" and he pointed, in turn, to several strategically placed squares, hidden discreetly amongst depressingly similar abstract art prints. "Just swipe the code and the entire menu, along with the Specials, is all there!"

The young hipster returned to his seat suitably chastised, and I made a mental note to never, ever stand up to look at a Specials board, ever again.

A new beginning

The smell of the city: diesel, dust and cheap perfume. A kaleidoscope of colours and characters. People strolling, traffic, smoke, the heat of the pavements, the time disconnection - it's never too late. And the food - my-oh-my the food! Barcelona. Here I am.

Hello London

I arrived at Marylebone at 4pm, left the station and walked towards Baker Street. Soon I’m on the massive Baker Street intersection where I nearly got run over in 1995. I was deep into a walkman-zone that day: bouncing along with my techno-house on full volume. Daydreaming and oblivious to my surroundings, I nearly stepped out into the on-coming traffic, and would have done, if an elderly gentleman hadn’t stopped me with his umbrella. I was startled and slightly disoriented for a moment.
“Do, excuse me,” he said “ I wasn’t sure... were actually trying to kill yourself?”
I assured him I wasn’t and said thank-you.
“Jolly good” he said cheerfully, the lights changed and we walked on.

I took a left turn onto Paddington Road and then right into Marylebone High Street to see how the rich people shop. Exotic delis, interior design stores and sexy little Boutiques with surprisingly few clothes – even the sandwich bars have chrome fittings. I worked around here back in 2000 – terrible – nowhere to buy lunch.

I reach Wigmore Street – do I turn left here or continue to Oxford Street? My foolish side decides to have a look at London’s busiest street. I last nearly 20 metres before wanting to shake my fists angrily at some stupid French tourists who come to complete stand-still in front of me, without warning. I step to the right to avoid hitting them and an American family crash into me. The French girls toss their Parisian ponytails and flounce away unrepentant. I take a sharp left back to Wigmore Street. There’s a couple standing at the corner:
“Or we could walk down Oxford Street?” says the girl, hopefully.
“No,” retorts the man “it’s just like this street except with thousands of idiots.”
Quite right. I set off down Wigmore enjoying my purposeful stride.

Turn right onto Regents street and take the first left, past a nice little Bar that does great food at lunchtime... now... how do I know that? When have I been there? I am still musing when I pass a familiar doorway. Ah yes, there’s a little Design Studio on the third floor. I can’t remember when I worked there, but my boss was very good looking, very charming and sadly, very married. But he used to take me out for lunch every Friday to that nice little bar around the corner.

Soon I’m back on Oxford Street, the marginally less packed end. I’m looking for a little shop near Tottenham Court Road. This shop does two things: they sell a wide selection of tweed flat-caps and they unlock mobile phones very cheaply. I find it – it’s still there. I peruse the caps while they unlock my phone and then continue on my way.

Charing Cross Road, by John Walsom

Right into Charing Cross Road, past The George, another favourite pub: one of those places where you know you’ll have a great night... so long as you don’t get mugged.

Next, Cambridge Circus, a gladiatorial arena where the game is as follows: Cambridge Circus has an eccentric traffic situation, many roads and many lanes, which follow no discernible system. No matter where you cross, no matter what colour the lights, when you are halfway across the road a vehicle (usually a black cab) will appear from some previously unseen side street and attempt to run you over. The trick, for those in the know, is to find some tourists heading your way and use them as a human shield.

I spotted a couple of suitably substantial Germans and trotted along side them, the woman gave a yelp of surprise when the black cab missed her by mere inches, but we all survived and I’m sure the sprint did them good.

Ahead of me are two narrow streets. I know that one of them will take me direct to Seven Dials and the other will lead me into the murky maze of back streets somewhere behind the London Graphics Centre. I take a guess... and a minute or so later I am lost amongst shadowy streets, dotted with abandoned Art Students. A left, then a right, I kind of recognise that bead shop, and yes! There is Seven Dials straight ahead.

The little pub I used to frequent is still there, but it seems they no longer allow people to take their drinks over the road and onto the mini roundabout to sit on the statue. That’s a shame – negotiating traffic whilst carrying a round of drinks is something everyone should try at least once. I stop for a quick coffee, for old times sake, at the Japanese-inspired basement coffee lounge, full of cool kids with astonishing hairstyles. Then it’s a right turn down Neal Street.

At the bottom of Neal Street, where the M&S is now, there used to be a veritable Palace of all things Kitsch. I don’t remember what the shop was called, but on the front was a row of plastic manikin legs, all doing the Can-Can. At 15 years old I thought that shop was the heighth of cool. M&S is no substitute.

I turn left down to Covent Garden and look for some street theatre. There’s a juggler – he’s not bad, a few good tricks, but nothing my brother couldn’t do. I was about to walk on, when he starts to do the same sequence, but this time juggling meat cleavers. That’s worth a look! Then he repeats the same sequence, with the cleavers, whilst riding a unicycle. For that, I give him some applause. But then he says those dreaded words “a volunteer” and it’s time for me to move along. I stop to listen to some opera singers – is there anywhere else in the world where opera singers busk? Sadly I only hear the end of their set, but they’re excellent.

I pass a Bar I used to visit often in my early 20s. It looks the same and I pop in to use the toilet. In the toilets are two girls applying make-up with industrial trowels.
“You know what” says one, between coats of high-gloss emulsion mascara “sometimes I don’t feel like going out, I’d rather stay in... but y’know, it’s gotta be done, innit?”
Her friend nods sagely, “you know what that is” she replies, “we’re getting old.”
They are no more than 22.

Back on the street, I am pleased to find the shop where I bought my backpack – the one I have been carrying around these last 14 years, is still there and still busy. Finally, I circle past the Ted Baker store (well I can dream can’t I?) before locating the pub where I will be meeting my two, delightful old friends (‘Oi! Less of the old’ I hear them grumble). I haven’t seen them for five years, so I’m looking forward to it.

Safely reunited, after a quick pint, we head over to a French Bistro style Restaurant for dinner. My companions, both of whom have vegetarian wives at home, order meat, followed by meat, with some meat on the side.
“Absolutely” says one friend, “and if they’d let me, I’d have sausages and chocolate for dessert!” As I order the goats cheese, my other friend, sighs in an ‘I’m-so-disappointed-with-you’ kind of way.
“Oh Jane” he says, “you’re such a girl.”

Dinner was excellent, and the company even better. Afterwards we head to a nearby subterranean bar, which serves delicious cocktails for exorbitant prices. Bizarrely, the three of us have a tradition of drinking in subterranean bars. As we settle in with our cocktails, my friend sniggers and points,
“Check out the DJs girlfriend” he says, “have you ever seen anything so bored!”
He’s not wrong. She’s wearing a sparkly top, but she couldn’t be any less sparkly without inducing a coma. She’s hunched and slouched on a little stool, motionless, glassy eyed, tedium and apathy oozing from very pore. Half an hour later my friend says,
“Have you noticed the music has got really good?” We agree and turn to look – oops! It seems the DJs girlfriend... is actually the DJ! And she’s very good. The bloke is now slouched on the stool at her side, looking equally bored and ever so slightly resentful.

It gets late, having said goodbye to one musketeer, I head back with the other to his new place. Safely back at his flat, we sit down for a nice cup of Earl Grey, and I admire their new chandeliers, before retiring to their very comfortable guest room, accompanied by their very friendly cat! How times have changed – back in the day, when we first became friends, I would have been lucky to get a warm beer night-cap, a musky sleeping bag and a bean bag on the living room floor! It seems some things really do get better with age!

And so, there ends my evening in The Big Smoke. Hello London! It’s been a while, but you’re looking well. It was good to see you again.

Too Much Stuff

Sorry for the recent lack of blog: it's been a mobile time. I am now back in Mexico - it took five days to get here. Day 1: Antigua-Lanquín = 8.5hrs. I was supposed to leave Lanquín the following morning but I accidentally spent Day 2 in a hammock. Then (Day 3) Lanquín-Flores = 10hrs. Thanks to two Israeli's who decided the whole bus should wait for them while they (a) arrived late (b) strolled off for lunch (c) changed their travellers cheques and (d) organised their Day Trip for the following day. I would like to say that this is unusual behaviour, but I can't. Day 4 saw me cross the border into Belize (and ripped off by Guatemalan Border Guards. I would have complained, but unfortunately I had a dodgy, under-the-table stamp - long story - so I said nothing). Then out of Belize (not ripped off at this border this time - hurrah) into Mexico (ripped off at the border) and to Chetumal. Followed by a "pleasant" wait at Chetumal Bus Station and a night bus all the way to Cancun. Arrived 5am, shattered but with great plans... slept all day.

I've been here for a few days now and all is sorted. Big News! I will be flying back to the UK on Tuesday to try out "real life" for a while. I don't think I'm going to like it - but I am trying to stay positive. Ha! In the last week I have met two people who recently moved back to Europe... and yes, they're both here again now.

Not that I have necessarily given up travelling forever (I don't know yet) - but I know I would like to have a home and also, I am completely broke. I couldn't find work anywhere and my savings have slowly trickled away. Also, if I'm honest, after the tribulations I've had recently, I am feeling tired and defeated. I don't want to sound melodramatic - but I just can't take it anymore! And, of course, I don't have a choice.

From what I'm hearing I am not sure if anything's going to be better in the UK. Sounds like the job market there is pretty awful - so it could be that after a creepy-crawly Summer, followed by the most monumentally crap Autumn ever (by far), I may be heading back to a cold, dark, unemployed Winter. Please, no. If that happens I shall endeavour to assimilate by embracing day-time television and hallucinogenics, equally. I will also eat a lot of cheese and become obese - well darling, that's all the rage in the First World, don't you know.

Right now I am packing. That's not strictly true: right now I am writing a blog, whilst surrounded by numerous looming piles of dive gear, yoga mats, clothes, tea (leaving), sudoku (definitely taking), books... books! O dear, could it be any more harsh? Books or clothes? I can't take them all! I currently own 6 books. I would like to take 5 of them with me, but they won't all fit. I can take 2-3.

They are:

1. Rough Guide to Mexico (I might need it again... ok, probably not)
2. Midnights Children (definitely taking - I will sacrifice whatever clothes necessary for this one)
3. On Chesil Beach
4. The Reluctant Fundamentalist
5. The Iliad

I am not sure if I can make this decision (or handle the truth) - please advise?

Cleaning and other considerations

This week I have been mostly sulking. I am still in Antigua – waiting for the swelling (from the ousted wisdom tooth) to subside sufficiently for the dentist to oust the other wisdom tooth. It’s so nice to have something to look forward to.

I have spent a lot of time in-putting books into Library Thing. That “Words” blog opened up a whole can of worms! But it’s kept me occupied – so for that, I am grateful. Digging out my Book Lists also inspired me to do a little spring clean of my ‘Personal Organiser’. (Remember them? The thing you used to have before your Blackberry – they do much the same job, don’t need batteries, but do require a biro.)

So I emptied out all of the various pockets and spaces.

I threw away:

• Several business cards belonging to people I am sure I’ve never met.
• Several email addresses from people I am certain I will never contact.
• Some passport photos, which should never have seen the light of day.
• Numerous scraps of paper with “To Do” Lists on them – nearly all of which were undone.

I kept:

• A membership card for “Perama Travel – All Over Indonesia!” Which expired in 1998.
• A bus ticket from Luang Prabang to Vang Vieng (Laos) dated my birthday, 1999.
• A Donor Card.
• An “I do something amazing, I give blood” Card (although I haven’t, for a long time – but perhaps this will inspire me.)
• A London Underground map
• Business Cards for a Photographer in Sussex, an Italian Hair Stylist in Mexico and a handsome man in the Philippines (you never know).
• A photograph of my parents
• A newspaper clipping from November 2000 – which made me very happy and looks like this:

And

• The Proust Questionnaire

I cut this out from a magazine several years ago, with the intention is doing something with it... filling it in I suppose. These days there are so many imitators knocking around on Facebook and the like, that I have got truly sick and tired of Questionnaires. Most of them are so banal – “what time did you get up this morning? Who is most likely to reply to this questionnaire?” Yawn! But this one is actually quite interesting. It supposedly gets to the very heart of an individual. Maybe it does. Kate Winslet apparently uses it when developing a new role.

Here are the questions:

• Your favourite virtue;
• Your favourite qualities in a man;
• Your favourite qualities in a woman;
• Your biggest flaw;
• Your favourite occupation;
• Your chief characteristic;
• Your idea of happiness;
• Your idea of misery;
• Your favourite colour and flower;
• If not yourself, who would you be?
• Where would you like to live?
• Your favourite prose authors;
• Your favourite poets;
• Your favourite painters and composers;
• Your favourite heroes in real life;
• Your favourite heroines in real life;
• Your favourite heroes in fiction;
• Your favourite heroines in fiction;
• Your favourite food and drink;
• Your favourite names;
• Your Pet Aversion;
• What characters in history do you most dislike?
• What is your present state of mind?
• For what fault do you have the most toleration?
• Your favourite motto;
• How would you like to die?

So I did finally complete it. It concerned me how many flaws I could think of and how few characteristics – none in fact. I don’t know what my characteristics are – I don’t think I have any. Maybe glibness. Is that a characteristic? Facetiousness? My flaws, on the other hand, had to be both long and short-listed.

It saddened me that my favourite novelists, poets, composers and painters were all men. Especially having recently read ‘Unless’ in which she blames her daughters descent into depression on the marginalisation of women in the Media. Has this been truly ingrained in me? Or are there (dare I say it) simply less creative women than men? Mind you, all my most hated characters from history were also men (book burners, all).

Even sadder, I realised that I have absolutely no heroes or heroines in real life – but many from fiction. Naming my fictional hero/ines was easy! (Frodo Baggins, Ford Prefect, Levin, Eowyn, Beatrice and Lessa – in case you were wondering). But people in real life are so tainted – how can anyone be so above reproach that is possible to feel nothing but admiration for them? Even after much consideration, I can think of no one. I did, in the end, come up with three names, but I am not completely happy to pronounce them ‘heroes’. (Alexander the Great, Elizabeth I and Emmiline Pankhurst). Does this reflect on me? Am I being realistic or too cynical?

And how would I like to die? Healthy, of course.

I’ve posted my full answers as a comment. Feel free to leave your own – yes, I am interested! Mr Botogol recently mused that every blog gets the readers it deserves... so I have no doubt that you are a sensitive, noble and discerning bunch!

Deconstructing Monty

It is the nature of the world that all things must change, but there has been one particular development over the last few years that is causing me some considerable concern. Ladies and gentleman, have you noticed that sandwiches are getting fatter?

The sandwich was famously named after John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich (how sad that they didn’t end up being known as Geralds – as Blackadder mis-predicted – or indeed Montys. One can’t help thinking that daily life would be a little richer if lunch consisted of a nice cheese & tomato monty.)


Until writing this blog, I was under the impression that the Earl of Sandwich invented sandwiches so his troops could eat whilst marching. What kind of cold-hearted scoundrel won’t let his men sit down for lunch? However, I did my homework and it seems Montagu didn’t invent the sandwich – he just liked them. The Earl was actually an entirely different kind of scoundrel – he was an incorrigible gambler. He ordered his meat served between two slices of bread so he could eat, without having to leave the gaming table or getting his hands (and his cards) greasy. It seems he was also a bit of a trendsetter since, after he ate them, everyone else asked for “one like Sandwich”. Et voila y mange tout – the cult of the Sandwich was born.

In the years following, the sandwich has become a touchstone of modern life: even now, if one strolls the streets (of the West) at around 1pm, one can see numerous office workers clutching their little bread-wrapped parcels of goodness.

In the last few years, as Western Society’s taste for novelty has grown, the sandwich (and everything else) has suffered many mutations. First we had those ‘open sandwiches’ – which, as we all know, is just a posh way of saying ‘on toast’. (Anyone for a baked bean, toasted open sandwich?) Around the same time, from across the Atlantic, came the ridiculous ‘Club’. I am not a fan. I ask you? Who needs three slices of bread in their sandwich? Surely the purpose of the bread is to contain the filling – this third, central slice is both redundant and wasteful. More importantly, it set a precedent for a new thickness of sandwich.

Not long before I left England last time, one major sandwich retailer had started selling Breadless Sandwiches. I was always under the impression these were called ‘Salads’ – but it’s all about the branding I suppose.


However, in general the evolution of the sandwich has resulted in bigger, over filled, thicker cut and overall: much, much fatter sandwiches. This causes a problem for me. Now, after careful study of my fellow human beings, I don’t believe that I have an especially small mouth. It’s seems to be of an average size – so I cannot believe I am alone in finding that most sandwiches I order these days are too big to bite!

So how are you supposed to eat them? I can see only two options:

1. You squash them flatter until you can get your mouth around it.
   
   Depending on your sandwich filling, this is problematic because some items (avocado is especially bad for this) get squeezed out the side and fall, hopefully but annoyingly, on your lap or, even more annoyingly, but more usually, on the floor. Also, the bread turns into that funny, doughy, squashed breadiness type thingy, which just isn’t right.
   
   
2. You take them apart.
   
   But then you’re not eating a sandwich! Once you deconstruct your monty, you can no longer pick it up – and then, well... really... what’s the point? Also, the real beauty of a sandwich is the mixture of flavours – for example, the cheese, tomato, mustard & mayonnaise culinary opus. If you are obliged to destroy your sandwich before you can enjoy it – do you then attempt to reconstruct the combination of flavours on your fork? But then you’re eating a sandwich with a knife and fork, and that’s just silly.

This sandwich situation is a worry, and where will it end? Before long we’ll be eating ordinary salads with bread on the side – and then we might as well be French (not that’s there’s anything wrong with being French of course ;-)

Surely, if a sandwich-maker wants to make their sandwiches bigger or more substantial it would be wiser to bake larger loaves and make the sandwich wider, rather than fatter? Or give us an extra slice of bread and make a halfie?

Here ye! Restaurants, cafes and humble sandwich shops – hear my plea! I want to be able to pick up my sandwich and eat it! I might want to march with it! I might even want to peruse the gaming tables with it! Let’s get back to basics and start serving monties that Sandwich would be proud of.

In the last nine days I have had five appointments with the dentist. Various parts of my mouth have been numb, swollen, painful or a combination of all three, all week. I’ve had one wisdom tooth out – (one more to follow) it had to be smashed up before it would come out. Boo. I haven’t been eating much. But eating, and the ease thereof, has been much on my mind.

I have to eat soft food – the other day, I thought a cheese sandwich might be appropriate (soft bread, of course, no crusts) – but even though this particular sandwich wasn’t especially fat by modern standards, it was still more than my poor jaw could handle. I had to deconstruct it, and in doing so I realised that there is no better example of ‘the whole being far greater than the sum of its parts’ than the cheese sandwich. I love cheese, and I enjoy lettuce, tomato and mustard. But whilst a cheese sandwich is one of favourite vittles, the components of a cheese sandwich, eaten separately, are a bit rubbish (except the actual cheese, of course). Hence this blog.

My dentist is very professional, and a nice, apologetic chap. He apologises after every appointment! As I left on Thursday he said, “sorry... for, you know, everything”
“For pulling my tooth out?”
“Well... yes”
“Or the dental work in general?”
“Well... yes. Sorry.”
“That’s alright, it is why I’m here!” He sighed, in an ‘it-hurts-me-more-than-it’s-hurts-you’ kind of way.
“I made another appointment for you on Monday – is that ok? Sorry. The other side will probably be easier... well... definitely quicker!”
And I replied: “Dentist, do not try to frighten me as if I were some feeble child or woman without knowledge of war’s work. No, I know about fighting and the killing of men well enough. I know how to swing the tan ox-hide of my shield to the right, I know how to swing it to the left – that I call true shield fighting. I know how to charge into the fury of speeding chariots. I know the steps of Ares’ deadly dance in the close fighting. But on your guard now – great man that you are, I do not want to hit you with a sneaking shot, with an eye for my chance, but in an open fight, like this, if this strikes home...”

Okay, I didn’t say that. But The Iliad is ever so good, by the way!

Further Reading

While researching this delicious subject I discovered that there exists a British Sandwich Association (of course there does) whose aims include: “To promote excellence and innovation in sandwich making.” They also have a whole page of Recipes for Cheese Sandwiches, which is as wonderful as it is unbelievable.

Finally, for some truly marvellous musings on the psychology of sandwiches (yes, really) you must read this: The Secret Language of Sandwiches.

“Word, words, words”

I am a voracious reader. You don’t have to take my word for it – I keep a list of every book I read, so you can decide for yourself: In 2008, I read a total of 41 books; in 2007, a meaningful 42. So far, 2009 has been a big year – I have already read 45 books. Voracious? I would say so. As a traveller, being a voracious reader can be quite hard work. I obviously can’t afford to buy books. Instead I exchange them, sometimes with other travellers, but more often at Book Exchanges – which are found in Hostels, Book Stores, Cafés and occasionally, even Dive Shops.

Frequently, my first mission in any new town is to locate my next book. I could write a Guide Book on books, and how to locate them. Sometimes I am lucky and find excellent Book Exchanges with an abundance of interesting and intriguing titles to choose from. Sometimes I seem to be following in the footsteps of peasants, and I end up with nothing but light romance and ‘Airport Blockbusters’.

However, when it comes to the crunch, I would rather read anything, than nothing, so sometimes I read truly terrible books. Low points this year have included ‘Wedding Season’ by Darcy Cooper (the heroine cancelled her own – did I care? Hell no) and the entirely unmemorable ‘False Memory’ by Dean Koontz (I have no memory of what it was about – but it’s on the list, so I must have read it.) Although, the fact that I will read anything does also lead me to some good books which I probably wouldn’t have chosen: ‘Killing Pablo’ by Mark Bowden, which was about the pursuit of Pablo Escobar, was a surprisingly good read. ‘Reminiscences of the Cuban War’ by that well-known, homicidal nutcase, Che Guevara, insured I would never, ever be tempted to wear one of those naff t-shirts adorned with his face. And I would strongly advise anyone who owns one of those t-shirts to read this memoir and see if you can justify the many senseless murders he proudly confesses to.

A few years ago, in the absence of anything better, I read a book called 'Chasing Copernicus' by a bloke who was tracking down all the ‘First Editions’ of Copernicus’s masterwork, ‘On the Revolutions of the Celestial Spheres’, and trying to establish if anyone had actually read it! It seems Isaac Newton wrote notes in the margin of his copy (at Cambridge) – so he did his homework. But the author found several copies in which the pages had yet to be cut! His conclusion was that ‘Revolutions’, although containing an incredibly exciting theorem, is actually a work of staggering monotony which almost no one has read – preferring instead to get the gist of it from Isaac Newton or other, more available, science geeks at dinner parties. Sadly the same could be said of his own book.

But, in the wonderful world of literature, there are always more high points than low. This year’s notable highlights have included ‘The Book of Laughter and Forgetting’ by Milan Kundera (if I ever am able to complete a novel, I would like it to be just like this one); ‘We Were The Mulvaneys’ by Joyce Carol Oates and ‘Daughter of Fortune’ by Isabel Allende. All wonderful.

I never look for ‘Classics’ (by ‘classic’, I mean a timeless works of genius, rather than a book that necessarily belongs to the canon of literature – although the two are often the same) because I had an insight at University, which terrified me. In my second year, as instructed, I dutifully read all (truthfully? Ok, most) of Shakespeare’s Plays*, but it was only when I had finished them that I realised, with profound sadness, that I will never again, in my life, read a Shakespeare Play for the first time (unless someone finds 'Cardenio' – you never know...).

It occurred to me then, that if I kept devouring the Classics at my usual pace, then it was possible that by the time I was 60 or so, I might have read them all! “The horror! The horror!” And then what would I do until I died? Of course, new Classics will always be written. And they are joyous because you often don’t know they’re a work incomparable greatness until you finish them. That is a different experience (most recently ‘Never Let Me Go’ by Kazuo Ishiguro was a unexpected pleasure). But nothing can compare to that thrill, the excitement, the relish of sitting down and opening the first page of ‘Anna Karenina’ or ‘Don Quixote’ and knowing you are about to bring a sublime creation into your mind.

So I made a decision – that I would never actively look for these great books. Instead, I would patiently wait for them. I know that sooner or later they will all cross my path – and I will read them, when I am meant to read them, during the course of my life.

Despite knowing without any doubt, that it would inevitably become one of my most beloved books – I managed to restrain myself from reading ‘Lord of the Rings’ until I was 26. And then, even as I read it, and delighted at every twist and turn in the story, I also felt that inescapable sadness that I would never be delighted in this way, by this story, ever again.

I waited years before stumbling across ‘War and Peace’, and nearly cracked and bought it so many times. But in the end it was here, in Antigua, six years ago, that I came across it in a Café. I read it whilst visiting Lago Atitlan, in the shadow of a volcano.

This morning, I noticed a single shelf of dusty old paperbacks in the corridor of my hostel. Out of habit, I glanced over, although I am still halfway through my current read... and there it was, patiently waiting for me – tatty, battered, but still in one piece – ‘The Iliad’.

I am very excited! This week I am mostly going to the dentist (a fitting end to a truly crap summer) and The Iliad seems to me to be an appropriate accompaniment!

* Except for five, which I started, but couldn’t finish because, they were tedious! Don’t make that face! He wrote 36 Plays; you can’t seriously expect them all to be brilliant!

Monday Night-Tuesday Morning 1.30am

About five weeks ago our house was burgled. They didn’t get inside; they reached through the windows and grabbed what ever they could. Their prize for the night was M’s bag with cash, cards and some keys.

We changed the lock for the front door and thought that was that. But on Saturday evening we were burgled again, only this time they had keys, so they got inside (all the doors were secure). They took a lot of stuff from me, and only from me. Perhaps they got in through my balcony so mine was the first room they came to. Perhaps they went to straight to my room. Either way they took an External Hard drive with a year worth of work, photos, artwork, writing and the rest. I am still coming to terms with that. They also took small electronic stuff – my card reader, MP3 player and some leads and spare batteries. Plus some jewellery and a few other things. Suffice to say, I was not happy.

Three, sometimes four, people live here and both robberies happened at the exact time that all of us were out. Which suggests they have been watching us, enough to know our routines. Last night I didn’t feel comfortable walking up the road after dark. I live on a very dark, very quiet street, and it occurred to me that someone watching would know I have a laptop. They now know I don’t leave it in the house – it doesn’t take much to guess what’s in the laptop-sized backpack that I am never seen without.

So tonight, I decided not to walk up the road, but to stay home. I was relaxing on the terrace, listening to music, when... I don’t know, something made me look round. I saw something-someone next to the garage door, two metres behind me. It was all very quick... I didn’t know what was happening, I vaguely thought it was someone looking for my house-mate, but I knew it wasn’t right. I jumped out of my hammock and stepped toward them, which activated the security light on the corner of the terrace.

The next few moments are vivid in my mind. My step forward illuminated two men, wearing home-made ski masks and dark clothing, coming towards me with knives. The knife of the one in front looked like a prison weapon – the handle had frayed cloth wrapped around it.

I read somewhere that to be a victim, you must behave like a victim. I am simplifying of course, but you get the idea. This article suggested that when under threat, like this, you should be loud and aggressive. You must show no fear, as if you were dealing with a big, unknown dog.

When I opened my mouth to start shouting, I thought for a half-second that I might sob or vomit instead, but then I heard shouting and knew it was me. They both jumped. I got louder, then something strange happened: it must have been the combination of adrenalin and fear, but I became genuinely furious. The fury took hold of me, in fact I was more than furious – I was enraged. So now I’m really shouting at them, cursing them and threatening them. I advanced on the one in front, yelling into his face and they both backed away. Then they were running away and I was standing on the very edge of the terrace shouting curses and outrage into the night. I think, by then, I might have actually been shaking my fists.

I ran into the house and went straight for M’s machete. How did I know where it was? Thinking back, I remember seeing it last month when I was putting some clean blankets away in the wardrobe – The Blue Blanket actually – which is becoming a recurring ‘special guest’ in the outside-jane show), but I didn’t think I really took note of it, I just saw it.

None-the-less, I knew exactly where it was earlier tonight... but what did I think I was going to do with it? I stormed outside and did some more shouting. I think I could easily pass my Vogon Flight Officer exams now.

Then the fear hit me like a punch in the chest and I realised I needed to be inside the house right now. I grabbed my laptop and ran inside, locking myself in – hands suddenly useless and fumbling with the lock. Did I lock the machete outside?! You stupid bi... No! It’s here by my foot. Is that a noise? A shadow? Jesus, they had fucking ski masks? What now? Phone! I have a phone!

Can you believe, after nearly two months, yesterday I finally capitulated and bought a new phone. Yesterday. I already have two phones, but they won’t work with Guatemalan sim cards. I have been looking for somewhere that ‘unlocks’ phones. Then yesterday I gave up and bought a new one. Yesterday.

I phoned my house-mate. No answer. He’s the manager of a restaurant and it was Happy Hour. With shaking hands, I struggled to send the following text:

“2 men in ski masks at the house. I yelled and they ran. But am sacred. Please call police.”

I rang again. I remembered I have M’s number too. I sent him the same text. He called me straight back. From there it got better – he started ringing everybody.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m downstairs” I was pacing the floors, machete in hand.
“Go upstairs, you can close the door and stand on it” My room is an attic and I have ‘a door in the floor’. He was right, it’s the safest place, but thinking that scared me all over again. I went upstairs and stayed on the phone with M and his girlfriend until the Calvary arrived: Three Policeman, one policewoman, both house-mates, the restaurant night guards, his friends, the kitchen matriarch, and a customer from the restaurant who was brought along because he’s bilingual (fantastic – he translated for me, so I could talk to the police,) and maybe more! There were lots of people, a whole house full of people. People everywhere; people with lights; people searching the bushes; shadows in the bushes and everyone asking me the same questions. Too many people.

Finally everyone left, and two security guys came to watch the house for tonight. House-mate #2 and I finally sat down (I hadn’t sat down since I jumped out of the hammock earlier) and stared at each other in surprise.
“This is just crazy,” he said. And it is.

Fatigue.

Now, it’s 1.30am I’m exhausted, but still wide-awake. So once again, in a crisis, I am opting to write about it. Do I live my own life vicariously through this blog? Do I distance myself, and detach, by externalising personal events into a ‘story’? Do I suppress my emotion by focusing instead, on finding the correct vocabulary? The most appropriate tone? Suitable jokes?

So what next? I love this place, I really do. I spoke with my Dad on skype earlier this week; I did the usual thing of turning the computer around so he could see where I was.
“It looks like an Impressionist painting,” he said.
He’s exactly right; it has that same idyllic colour scheme, warm light and peacefulness. Sometimes in the morning, I finish my yoga practice just as the mist is lifting off the mountains – soft light and long shadows falling across verdant hills – and I think it’s so beautiful here it takes my breath away. Except two men in ski masks threatened me with knives this evening.

So I think I’m going to have to leave. How very, very sad. What a truly terrible ending to a really rubbish week. But I can’t live somewhere where I can’t walk home alone, or stay home and relax for an evening. They came at 9.15pm. Usually I get home just before 9pm and the earliest my house-mates are home is about 10pm. So I am sure they knew I would be there, and be alone. I think they’re after the laptop – so sooner or later they will try to rob me again. And you only have 'the element of surprise' once.

I realise “these things happen” and you shouldn’t look for sense or order where, perhaps there is none... but I can’t help feeling that I’m being tested. It seems to be one damn thing after another in this Eden. First the spiders! Perhaps you wouldn’t believe it from reading these blogs, but I am terrified of spiders! I’m as jumpy as hell in this house. So I try to make light of it, to see the ridiculous side of the situation and of myself. But there comes a point when you run out of jokes. Then I get my first scorpion sting! That was only two weeks ago! For nearly two weeks we have no running water... and then the house floods. Two burglaries, then two blokes in ski masks. The Universe is coming at me from all angles and I’m not sure whether I’m bobbing or drowning.

So what now?

Friday Morning

The came again on Wednesday night. This time I didn’t see anything, I was inside the house. But the Night Watchman saw the security light go on, when he went to look he saw someone running down towards the river. Upon investigation, he also found a space in the bushes where someone had been sitting, presumably watching the house. The police came back and looked around, but he was long gone. It’s so easy to disappear in this environment, unless they’re caught red-handed, they won’t be caught.

Since Monday I’m not really sleeping and I’m very jumpy. I still feel kind of ‘surprised’ by the whole thing. It feels very personal – either they’re after the laptop or me. I have wondered whether I have offended someone without realising? But I can’t think when. People say ‘the lads’ around here must know who it is... so I also wonder whether ‘the lads’ are laughing at these guys for getting scared off by an unarmed, lone woman. This is Latin America, the home of Machismo, if they feel I’ve ‘made fools’ of them...

If they’re stupid enough to stick to the same pattern – Saturday, Monday, Wednesday – maybe they’ll come again tonight? We have lots of people staying the house now – some of whom are hoping they do come back.

I will leave very soon – just getting a plan. Fatigue.

You don't say!

So yeah, Tuesday was a rather scary evening! Thanks so much for all the kind comments – I am absolutely fine. That night, the doctor assured me there are no scorpions in Guatemala that can kill you (there are in Mexico - but apparently those ones aren't seen here), but, of course, it would have been good to know that before I was stung!

Later that evening it got even stranger - I could actually feel the poison spreading into the shoulder and then down into my chest and ribs. I worried about that - but it didn't affect my breathing. Also, about 4 hours after the sting my whole mouth went numb and my lips started to tingle (like pins & needles). I wondered whether my tongue would swell up and maybe that's why the Mayans (a few people) told me I should cut my tongue? But nothing else happened, just numbness. And no, I didn't cut my tongue with a machete! Although the night-watchman offered to do it for me - with a foot-long cutlass! Can you imagine!

I had a look on the internet to see if I could find out more about tongue-cutting for scorpion stings, but there is no mention of it. This morning I asked some Mayan friends here, and they tell me that cutting the tongue is very old-fashioned. No, you need to take a machete and bite the blade, three times, as hard as you can. Or, if you can catch the scorpion, you can cut the tail off (and throw that away carefully) and then take the liquid that comes out of the body and rub it onto the sting. Or, drink some hot, very strong, black coffee. I told them that I had drunk beer, they gave that some consideration and said yes, they thought beer was also good.

The next morning my arm just felt dead. Remember when you were a kid and someone (in my case, one of my dear brothers!) would give you a 'dead arm' by punching your shoulder? Well, it felt like that - stiff and weak. It eased off during the day - I think it was a full 24 hours before I was fine again.

That evening I was taking a coffee cup off the shelf and what should be behind it? Uh-oh! Another scorpion! I was glad that I didn't feel freaked out or scared – I’m already jumpy enough with the spiders. But I certainly have gained a healthy respect for the little bastards! I'm not walking around barefoot in the dark any more. And I'm being more careful about picking things up, etc. Not an experience I want to repeat.

Strangely, what really scared me at the time was that I would pass-out on the road. There are no street lights here (no real streets - my 'street' is a mud track) and it's pitch black at night. So if I’d passed out in the middle of the road, the chances of getting run over would have been very high. And that's what was really worrying me! Why I should be more scared of getting run-over than dying of scorpion poison, I don't know. Perhaps getting run over is an idea that my brain could more readily accept? Interesting.

Of course now people want to share their 'scorpion stories' with me: one poor chap got stung twice on the leg when he put his trousers on and found one inside. Another guy was walking barefoot through the grass and trod on one. A girl got stung on the hand, feeling around for the light switch in the dark... When I say I was stung whilst feeding the cats, a few people have said how awful that I was stung while doing a good deed! Aren't people funny!

Another Coffee Shop Blog

I spend a lot of time there, ok! Think of it as a bit like Seinfeld, only without the friends, or the booth. My Coffee Shop is actually a lot classier, with leather armchairs, low lights and a staff tee shirt, so stylish, that I’m seriously considering asking if I can buy one. It also has lots of interesting customers: artsy types; fashionistas; über-cool Argentinean surfers; musicians; emo-kids and some assorted oddballs.

There’s a super-chic, magnificently accessorized Italian Señora: I recently bought a strip of brightly coloured Mayan fabric, which I use a belt, specifically because I saw her do the same and it looked so good. She wears lots of jewellery and looks bohemian and eclectic. If I did the same I would look like a kid who’d broken unto mummy’s jewellery box and was going to get in so much trouble later.

There’s Paul: American, early 60’s, writing a novel (aren’t we all), who told me his wife left him because she wanted to move to Mexico. He said fine, she asked why he was agreeing so easily, he said it was to make her happy, she said this was not a good enough reason. So shortly after they moved here she left him and returned to the States, abandoning their 32-year marriage. I suspect there might be a little more to this story! He recently had a Birthday Party and ostentatiously invited the three, beautiful, 20-something waitresses, I don’t know if any of them went.

Yesterday, there was a new character: once upon a time Playa del Carmen was a cool, hippy hangout and there are still a few relics from that age wandering around in their Grateful Dead t-shirts and Willie Nelson style hair braids, looking vaguely bewildered by the city that has grown up around them. This guy looked like one of that tribe: long grey hair, frosted blue eyes, very much like David Carradine, with a ponytail. He sat across the room for me and started talking to someone on Skype. I wasn’t intending to listen until something he said caught my attention:

"So I dreamt that these two guys were dead, then yesterday I walked down and there’s the ambulance – turns out one of them is dead and the other's in a coma! I have to be careful what I think about cos I’m making it happen!"

I am a sceptic, so of course, I assumed he was a nutcase. He was, after all, old enough to one of the acid pioneers and they are known for their fluid perception of reality. But suppose it was true? Suppose I was in the presence of a dangerous and bizarre psychic phenomena. Any day now Americas Most Haunted (or do I mean Most Wanted?) will descend upon us with Geiger-counters, clipboards and a near hysterical anchorwoman. He was speaking in nervous, hushed tones so I missed the next part of the conversation, but then I heard,

"Well now I am emailing positive images out all around the globe...," emailing? Emailing? Is he using a modern term for sending out vibes? Or does he actually email photos of happy faces and great achievements out into the ether? Surely he’d be better off making a YouTube video or joining Twitter – perhaps I should suggest that?

"I’ve been spending a lot of time focusing on these pictures and thinking about good things, so no one else gets hurt"

How sad, he believes he has this extraordinary power and he’s hiding away, hunched over his computer studying ‘positive images’, terrified of the damage he might do. I missed the rest of the conversation. But shortly after he hung up, a burly Texan, in a faded ‘One-Star Rodeo’ tee shirt bellowed across the room,
"Was that Callie? Did ya tell her about the dude you killed?"

Mr Carradine nodded, anguish etched into his features, and the tears welled up in his eyes.

Question: I had a really fat customer the other day. I mean really, really fat. It was interesting for me, logistically, because fat is buoyant. It’s actually very hard to sink that much fat. The obese need a lot of weight, but carrying it can be a problem as they are generally not strong, very unfit, awkwardly shaped and difficult to handle. Getting a weight belt done up for example: do you politely ask them to lift their rolls so you can assess where their waist might be? Suppose their belly is too large for them to lift single-handed?

Some of my readers are fellow divers, so they might be interested in this situation. I was not planning to be nasty about the guy; he seemed nice enough (although you have to wonder about the self respect and intelligence of someone who chooses to be in that condition – and yes, I do believe it is a choice). But what are the ethics of blogging about this? Is it cruel? Is it bitchy? Is it a breach of confidence? Unprofessional? Can I make jokes?

To tell the truth, the blog has been written... but should I post it?

Sunday Morning Coming Down

I woke up Sunday morning with a filthy hangover. Drinks the previous afternoon had ended well into the early hours of the morning and during the course of the night I had rediscovered my love of Caribbean Rum. I had a moment’s peace, thinking I might just stay here all day without moving... then I remembered! I had to be somewhere in... oh no! Forty minutes! Because we were going out looking for Bull Sharks!

I hadn’t given much thought to where we were meeting, but was surprised when I realised it was Downtown. Still, I found a place to sit and patiently waited for my friends to arrive and wake me up again. J had his truck, which was fantastic, so our tanks were carried down to the beach whilst we staggered. All but two of us had been out the night before, so we made an odd, reservoir dogsish, kind of crew: swaggering down the street in dark wetsuits, dark glasses and self-pitying grimaces.

Arriving at the beach we geared up and started walking to our entry point. I can’t tell you how hot it is inside a 5mm rubber wetsuit, walking on soft sand, carrying a 20 kilo tank and full gear at 10.30am in the tropics, with a hangover. I have rarely been so happy to finally get in the water. And it was only once I got into the water that I really paid attention to where we were. Basically right out the front of the main beach in town. We swam along to Pier to get to our dive site. For the first part of our surface swim we were accompanied by excited children, but not for long. It was a good half-kilometre to our dive site. Which is a long way.

But finally we got there, and after a quick wave and head count someone shouted “are we going then?” and we quickly slipped beneath the surface. It was clear and cool down there, and as always, all became right with the world. If you don’t dive, then I cannot explain to you the feeling of absolute tranquility that comes over you as you drop gently beneath the waves. It’s still my favourite thing to do, ever, anytime, even (and in fact, especially) on a Sunday morning with a filthy hangover.

Photo from Cancun Aquasports

It didn’t take long, to find what we were looking for. Within five minutes we came across our first Bull Shark. They’re fat, monstrous, medieval looking sharks! With large mouths and a fabulous sinuous swimming motion. They were very relaxed that morning; just cruising the area and we were able to watch them for some time. The nearest coming within three metres of me, and at one point we were watching three at once. I don’t think any of us wanted to come up, even on our safety stop we could see the sharks circling below us! Once we reached the surface, after many excited squeals, and ‘oh my god”s and ‘how cool”s and ‘how many”s’, it was W who finally said, “We should probably get moving, it seems there are sharks in these waters!”

And so began the long swim back to the beach, needless to say, the hangover kicked back-in fairly quickly. When we finally reached the shore, I was reminded of Amityville Island and felt a bit reluctant to answer when a young father, with bucket in hand, asked me what we’d seen. But R was too excited and strolled cheerfully back along the sand shouting, “Sharks! Sharks! Lots of really big sharks!” to anyone who so much as looked his way. I couldn’t help thinking the holiday spirit was slightly dampened by our presence.

After carrying back, breaking the gear down and rinsing, I felt my last ounce of energy slowly drain away. I waved my goodbyes and was back in bed by lunchtime.

New Year Resolve

1. Blog more often

Yeah, that was a Resolution last year too... did I stick to it? No, not really. Certainly not for the last two months. Sorry about that. So why the Radio Silence? Well, basically I’ve been sulking. Mexico is great, I like it here... but things have not really been going to plan. Why can’t everything always be easy?! But I am sticking it out – I am not packing my bags and saying "sod-it I’m outta here" as I would have done at any other time in the last 10 years – nope – I am settling in and making the best of it. Because I am a grown-up and that is, I believe, what grown-ups do (growns-up? groan up? hmmmm).

2. Stop sulking

Because grown-ups don’t do that, do they?

3. Speak Spanish

It’s all about Spanish. With Spanish I can get a better job. With Spanish I can meet more people. With Spanish I can join in the conversations and jollity amongst The Beautiful People at work. With Spanish I might even be able to get my Boiler fixed before the end of the year ("Which one?" you ask, with a wry smile. "Oh bugger off, it’s not funny", I reply sulkily.)

4. Stop being intimidated by The Beautiful People

I work in a posh hotel; I work next door to the Entertainment Team. It’s like working on the set of Baywatch, the Latino Version. I like to think of them as Redcoats, it makes me feel slightly less intimidated. But it doesn’t change the fact they’re all beautiful, vivacious, speak several languages and can dance, sing and flirt for Mexico. Which is good, because that’s exactly what they’re paid to do. They do kayaking and biking in the morning; water aerobics, rifle-shooting and Name That Tune at lunch time; they teach Tennis, Pottery, Pre-Hispanic history and the Merengue in the afternoon (if you’re imagining a Latino Johnny Castle – he’s here) and in the evening they put on a Cabaret. At about 11am they mooch about, complain about the tips and attempt (with increasing exasperation) to speak to me Spanish. They’re very nice, but they scare me a bit.

5. Learn to love chillies

They put chilli on pineapple! They put it on rice pudding! They put it on cucumber, melon and chocolate cake! They even put chilli in their beer! Seriously! In beer!

Ok, the pineapple thing actually works really well – but beer! I went out for Christmas Drinks with my work colleagues last week (to a local bar on the highway: a windowless shack in perpetual gloom, decorated with faded sepia photos of men with extraordinary mustaches. The house band started at 4pm and had a combined age of 130. There were two of them. The waitresses had a combined weight of about 700 lbs. There were three of them. I tangoed with our Mayan Boat Captain, to Mexican ‘Om-pah’ music, played on an electronic keyboard and full sized drum kit. The beers were cheap, the food was delicious and the service was beyond compare. Our Mayan Boat Captain also danced with each of the Waitresses in turn – it was like watching a tugboat manoeuvring an oil tanker. At the end of the evening our Mayan Boat Captain told me he was going to ‘take the stars from the sky and give each one to me’... or something along those lines. He told me in Spanish and I didn’t understand much. One of our Divemasters translated and getting quite emotional, with moistened eyes, he exclaimed,
"If only you could understand what he is saying to you! It’s so beautiful, I think I might be falling in love with him!" Suffice to say, it was an excellent night.) But there was a point to this story! Really there was! When they bought our excellent bar snacks (ceviche, grilled chicken, and some other stuff that I didn’t recognise but ate a lot of) they also bought Salsas. There was a green one. As I dipped my corn chip, more than a few pairs of expectant eyes rested on me and I guessed it was going to be hot. I tasted it. Carefully. Seventeen seconds later my head exploded. But I handled it well, necked my cold beer and lived. Whilst I coughed, spluttered and explored the inside of my mouth with my tongue, wondering why I couldn’t feel anything, I watched one of the Instructors, take a spoon, spoon a generous dollop onto his tortilla and eat the lot in one mouthful without a flicker.

6. Move house

Because sadly, I can’t afford my current place. It seems Meanwhile Time Flies has also been Credit Crunched and, alas, there just aren’t enough tourists to go around. So it’s time to tighten the old belt here in Mexico too. But if I packed my bags, where would I go? I spoke with a tourist earlier today; he was berating the Mexicans and us foreign workers for being "oblivious" to the troubles that the USA is currently undergoing. I informed him that I earnt US$100 for the last 2 weeks work and that I’m making more than many of my colleagues; I reminded him that everyone here works for commission-only, so many days it actually costs us money to come to work; I pointed out that since tourism is the only industry in this area, there are no other jobs. I assured him that nobody here is, in any way, oblivious to America & Europe’s economic woes and then I asked him how he was enjoying his holiday? Bastard didn’t even tip.

"And nothin' really rocks and nothin' really rolls and nothin's ever worth the cost"

On the bus to work this morning, we were screaming down the highway at a fairly tranquil (by local standards) 150kph, when I was alarmed to notice that our bus driver was enjoying a rather delicious looking breakfast of rice, beans and scrambled eggs. He was holding a bowl in one hand and his spoon in the other. He was spooning-in his breakfast whilst controlling the bus with his two pinkie fingers, which were resting lightly on the wheel. What do you do?! It’s one of those situations where you can’t watch! My heart was in my mouth... but at the same time you can’t NOT watch!

A few minutes after I first noticed this we came to a sudden halt to pick up another passenger. We stopped for the necessary 8.5 seconds required to open and close the door, and then we were away, attempting lift-off. As far as I could see, the driver, took the money, handed out a ticket and gave change, without actually putting down his breakfast. He did, I hasten to add, stop eating. Not to do so, would have been rude.

Last week, I was staying with a friend in Cancun. One morning whilst on our way to work, he mentioned that this particular highway is one of the most infamous in Mexico.
“At least one person dies here every week,” he said, whilst driving a casual 50kph over the speed limit. He was about to continue, when he realised he hadn’t yet contacted the office for today’s schedule. He quickly sent his text. Then he added,
“Particularly this part! Very dangerous! Many crashes!”
“Why do you think that is?” I asked wryly.
“Because the road is too straight,” he said, “people just don’t pay attention. Can you pass my tacos?”

This afternoon, on the way home, we were overtaken by a single, smoking tyre.

If Stalin and Chairman Mao had decided to branch out from Gulags, into the Airport business – they would have built JFK.

During yesterdays long packing, re-packing and general sorting bonanza, I came across a folder containing copies of some emails I sent back from the United States during my last visit. I was quite amazed by just how vitriolic and angry they were. I thought, ‘gosh, it’s only been seven years, but I have really mellowed in that time. I am sure I am far more tolerant and relaxed these days.’ There was one email, I particularly liked, sent to my friend Chris detailing the more fanciful, touchy-feely, embracing-the-inner-child-ness of American culture. The conclusion of this email was my decision to “accept and affirm my bitter disposition”. Oh how I sniggered at that.

However, in the spirit of that email, I now feel the need, as I sit on the plane from New York to Miami, mentally preparing myself for today’s second dose of the Land Of The Free, to accept and embrace my inner (and indeed outer) vitriol and fury, and clearly state for the record: I HATE THE USA! HOW MAY I COUNT THE WAYS?*

We were over an hour late into JFK. Obviously this was not the USA’s fault, I merely state it as fact. However, upon arriving I had to go through Passport Control, to collect my checked bags; go through Customs; transport them to Departures; check them in again and finally go back through Passport Control. What on earth was the point of that? Hmmm? I have been on many connecting flights in the past, have changed planes and airlines at Hong Kong, Dubai and Bangkok, amongst other airports. And on each occasion my bags have been transferred for me; and I have been able to lounge around inside the customs area whilst waiting for my connecting flight. But no, not so here.

Did I mention I spent nearly an hour queuing at Passport Control? There were six desks open for the 200 or so passengers. In addition, there was 20 or so Uniforms striding around in a purposeful manor, patrolling the queue.

My interview bought the usual questions, but also one more question, which left me utterly bewildered: I simply did not know how to answer it. Even now, having given it some thought I still don’t know how to answer it. We started with a mundane query as to why I had no US address (really). I explained I was only passing through. The Official was quite bemused by that.
“So Mexico,” he said “why you going there?”
“Just travelling” I replied.
“You got friends or family there?”
“No”
“You mean you’re going ON YOUR OWN?”
“Yes”
“Oh… ok then.”
“So,” he started flicking through my passport “you been to a lot of places… (whistle) a LOT of places… all these places on business?”
“No, just travel”
“None of them on business?”
“No”
“Oh… (Pause, and here it came, the question that rendered me speechless,) “Why you been to so many places?”

You know, it has never occurred to me that I needed a reason.

But before I get too superior, he then moved on to official business:
“Please place the index finger of your left hand on the pressure pad there.” I was uncertain,
“Is this my index finger?” I asked.
“Yes ma’am, but that is also your right hand”
“Oh yes.”

I went to collect my bags: one big backpack, one even bigger dive bag. I went to get a trolley, there were all locked up! They cost $3 (in coins) to rent! I was beyond livid. I asked a random Uniform why, when I was coming from the UK, to Mexico, could I possibly be expected to have loose change in US currency. She agreed it was unfortunate, but there was nothing to be done. I felt like I was the first connecting passenger to have this problem, for there was no way to get a trolley, and I had to drag my bags behind me (Ok, I could have worn the backpack, but I was making a point!) past the rows of locked trolleys, through the massive Arrivals hall, through Customs and then around and into Departures. Along the way, something strange occurred: It was partly my mood, but also my physical gait – hunched over, dragging heavy weight behind me – somehow… I turned into Gollum:

“They tricksss us, gollum, they tricks us! They has trolleys, but not for the likes of ussssss, gollum. Only Yankeessssss gets trolleys… nasty, fat Yankeesssss. No trolleys for Limeysssss, poor Limeyssss…. gollum”

“Where’s your trolley?” asked an overweight and completely unprepared Official at the customs desk. I hit him with 30 seconds of pure abject rage on the subject of trolleys. It is a reflection of just how scary I was at this point, that he literally took a step backwards and waved me through without saying one word in response.

I arrived at the Luggage Check-in, spitting and snarling like cornered wildcat.
“Couldn’t you get a trolley?” asked the completely unprepared and quite defenceless girl on the desk. I think it’s safe to say she has never regretted asking a question so much. I handed over my bags and she directed me to the other check-in desk, to get my boarding pass. She did not ask to see any documentation or ID. Straightening up and turning on a sixpence, I instantly became Fawlty.

“Don’t you want to see my ticket? No, of course not, silly me. You'll want to see my passport then? No? No ID necessary! I see, I see. Do you even want to know my name? No, of course you don’t. Are you even going to label my bags? There already labelled are they? Oh super. All the way to Cancun?** Oh they are? Oh good… that’s great… then why the blazes couldn’t one of your baggage handlers bought them around here ON A TROLLEY?”

I stalked towards the second Check-in desk, practically begging someone to ask me why I was so late. I have to give credit where it’s due, the staff on the second Check-in were soothing, calm and polite and dealt with me very well. They also checked me in very, very quickly.

“Lovely! Thank-you so much” I said to the nice man. This is something I have noticed about Americans – they have a terrible weakness for the word “lovely” – it’s gets them every time. English people! If you are ever in a sticky situation in the USA just try to find a way of working the word “lovely” into the conversation. Even the most hardened, Sipowitz-wannabe will go a bit gooey round the edges.
“Have a safe trip,” said the nice man.
“I’m sure it will be lovely” I replied, quite deliberately, to see if I could get a smile. It worked, he practically melted. He was handsome after all, and it’s always worth a bit of effort to make a handsome man smile.

I was feeling quite upbeat until I rounded the corner into a scene from Mao’s Long March: endless queues of weary, battle-worn proles, trudging around a room. Amongst them, striding up and down the isles, with loud voices, polished buttons and big sticks were several fat Security Officers.
“People people, you need your boarding pass AND passport in your hand as you APPROACH the desk… all liquids must be drunk, thrown away or you must LEAVE THE BUILDING… no shoes, belts, jewellery of ANY kind…. Remove any an all of the following items from you bags…. AND KEEP IT MOVING PEOPLE”

I had reached the infamous Homelands Security Checkpoint. When my turn eventually came, I nervously confessed to still wearing a silver bangle, explaining that I never take it off because it is too tight.
“You’ll remove that item if you want to board the plane ma’am” replied the Officer. I forced it over my knuckles and handed it too him. He glared at it, with his full and undivided attention, for a full nanosecond before returning it too me and waving me on.

I turned and received a face full of abuse for not placing my laptop IN A SEPARATE TRAY.
“AND is THIS your HAND LUGGAGE?” asked the fat, indignant hobbit.
“Yes”
“WHAT in HELL have you got IN HERE?”
“It’s a regulator”
“It’s A WHAT?”
“A Regulator…. It’s diving equipment.”
“YOU GOT DIVING EQUIPMENT!”
“Yes”
“ONLY THIS? WHERE’S THE REST?”
“In my other bag, I already checked it in”
“BUT YOU DINT CHECK THIS… THIS… RE… RE… THING IN?”
“No, I didn’t check that in”
“OH… WELLLLLLL…. Ok then.”

“What next?” I snarled at no one in particular.

What next is Miami. I have been told that I will have to go through Customs again. Ha! I only have an hour between flights this time! But apparently my bags will be transferred automatically. What next is Mexico, and it can’t come a minute too soon. Vive la Revolution!

*By this I do, of course, mean the State, the machine - not the people, who are often lovely!
**I arrived last night, my bags finally arrived this afternoon.

On Western Culture & Crayfish

So I’ve been back in the UK for nearly two months now – potential blog topics have come and gone – the problem being that things that seem so novelty, so intriguing at first glance become mundane after a very short time. The most amazing thing when I first returned was supermarkets. I remember sitting in a bar in the Philippines not so long ago, chatting with a Filipino friend about them – I told him that in British supermarkets there is sometimes 10 or 15 aisles stretching from here all the way to the beach (he looked unconvinced) I told him that one of those aisles would contain every kind of fruit and vegetable you could imagine and another aisle would be completely filled with breakfast cereal! He laughed; "No" he said, "it is not possible!"

My first trip to Sainsburys was amazing, I was like a small child let loose in a sweet shop, or a person who lives in the developing world let loose in a supermarket. But now... well, in the end I was raised here and although I still make an effort to appreciate just how lucky I am, it all seems very normal. My trips to Sainsburys are no longer accompanied by breathless excitement, which I expect my Dad is quite pleased about.

Bird song, also, swept me off my feet. My little island paradise was too small for birds. The first morning I was awake at some ridiculous time, open mouthed wondering what on earth was making that strange noise. It took more than a few awakening moments to realise it was the dawn chorus. For nearly a week the dawn chorus would wake me up, but now my brain has remembered it and filters it out and I awake feeling slovenly at about 9am instead. Whilst in France recently I was cycling through a small farm one morning and was startled by the sound of a cockerel. It was like a flashback: in the Philippines Cock Fighting is a national sport – there were at least 200 cockerels living within 50 metres of my home. For months, when I first arrived in the Philippines, they would keep me awake night and day until I got used it. Hearing that cockerel in France took me right back to early furious morning dreams in Malapascua, when I would awake desperate to get my hands on a machine gun to enact some poultry carnage.

But there is one area where the novelty hasn’t worn off and that is trees. Trees are fantastic. On Boracay there is scrub or Palm Trees. Now don’t get me wrong – the palm tree is a glorious thing – tall and elegant, moving as one with the elements. But in the UK are trees are so much richer: from the window right now I can see an immense Weeping Willow, maybe 10 metres high, it towers above the surrounding houses like a benevolent deity. I never understood the human propensity to worship an insubstantial spirit that can’t be seen or imagined, but Animism I understand very well. In our local market town, standing on either side and dwarfing a capacious Church are two magnificent Beech Trees. They must be 20 metres high, verdant and buxom. They delight me every time I pass by.

It has made me think that I perhaps should add another requirement to my ever-lengthening list of stipulations for the place where I eventually settle: it should be somewhere that gives good tree.

I have just returned from a camping trip in France (excellent trees) and two things struck me about La France. Firstly, that it is just so goddamn French. You see none of the generic 'western' architecture and shop fronts that you see in so many places. Perhaps the cities are different, but in the countryside where I was, there is no mistaking, not for one minute, which country you are in. That impressed me – in a world of increasing global homogenisation, le Français are hanging on with considerable perseverance to their national identity. Vive La France!

However the other thing I noticed is that the indubitable inhabitants are strangely invisible! Where are all the French people? We stayed just outside a picturesque little town with a fully stocked main street and square, but each time I cycled around it I expected to see tumbleweed drifting down the street – where is everyone? At night there is a populace but where to they all go during daylight? And I include weekends in this.

There have been other delights this summer: French cheese was every bit as delicious as I remembered – and all my clothes have now shrunk as a result. And I was excited to find a wild crayfish in a river in France. Wild? It was furious. (Was I so delighted by the crayfish because it's a marine animal? The first one I've seen in a while and oh yes, I am missing my oceanic friends.) Hot showers remain the crowning triumph of the First World (and the corporate-driven Media remain our greatest disgrace). I must admit wearing jeans again is kind of nice and even long sleeves have some novelty value. The long evenings would be great if we could be outside enjoying them - but that's British summers for you.

Now, as the summer draws to an end, I suppose I must start thinking about all the things I want to do before I leave and, of course, where to go next. It seems the job I was hoping for, for next season, will not be available... and so the doors are open once again. Where next? Back to the Philippines or is it, perhaps, time for something completely different? After all, the world is my crayfish!

There, but for the NHS, go I

I was born with a bone condition in my feet. Not that you’d know that – obviously I have some scarring from assorted operations, but aside from that there’s very little visible evidence. Perhaps I don’t walk as straight as some, but I am completely mobile and active. The bone condition I suffered from is serious and unusual. I have only encountered three other people in my life with the same condition.

The first one I barely remember, but my parents remember it very well. I was a small child, maybe three or four. At this stage I think I was still a bit wobbly and my feet were still a bit twisted, but the early operations had been successful and all was progressing well. The surgery I had was innovative: the night I was born there was an Orthopaedic Conference in progress at a nearby town. The Doctor on call realised what I had and contacted the hotel, he reached one of the country’s leading Orthopaedic surgeons and asked if he would be interested in my case. He was, and as a result the surgical treatment I received was second-to-none and somewhat experimental.

But I digress; one morning in the park my parents and I encountered another family, with a daughter just a few years older than me, with the same condition. She was in a wheel chair and had those big, ugly black boots that make me think of Oliver Twist. I remember being quite scared at the sight of her and running away to play. My Dad remembers standing there in tears as both sets of parents realised that I was walking and she would not.

In 2002 I was living in Honduras. I used to swim every morning before work and most mornings I would be accompanied by a little girl of about 11 years old. She was a great swimmer with a bright smile and after swimming I would often play water frisbee with her and her sister. I had known this child for more than a month before I saw her out of the water and saw her feet. They were twisted in and backwards; she walked, awkwardly and painfully, on the tops of her feet. She had the same condition as me.

Did she know somehow? Did she seek me out for some reason? It certainly felt like that. One Sunday I saw her picnicking with her family. It was her father who stood up to shake my hand, then looked at my feet, pointed at my scars, pointed at his daughter and said, nervously, "same same?" I nodded and the tears welled up in his eyes. In Spanish he asked, "free hospital?" I said yes. "Where from?" he asked. "Soy Inglesa" I replied. He nodded, there wasn’t much else to say.

I still live in the developing world and get frustrated when people describe it as some tropical paradise where life is ever-easy. Free medical care is a truly breath-taking concept for those that don’t have it. The fact that economic development has enabled certain states to be so rich they can provide it is frankly astonishing to most people here. They cannot imagine such a Utopia.

This morning on my way to work I passed a beggar. I think I may have walked past her before, but I am not sure. Today, just as I was passing she stood up and it was only then that I noticed her feet: twisted inwards and backwards. She had some doctored baseball gloves tied on to protect the tops of her feet as she walked. She was an old lady, tiny in a way that only a lifetime of malnutrition can cause. An obvious lack of even the most basic medical attention (splints) had left her knees and hips crooked as well. Her legs looked contorted and ill-made. She could walk, but the pain was obviously constant and severe. She had that absent look that so many long-term beggars and sufferers have. I gave her money and she thanked me, but she looked right through me. Should I have said something? In the end, what is there to say?

Hmmmm

"Oh hi! We're err, like looking for a snorkeling mask!"
"No problem, we have a few different styles..." I talk through the various masks we stock.
"Oh great! So err how much is that one?"
"That's 3,500"
"Ok, and err how much is that one?"
"That one is 2,000"
"So, like, which one is the cheapest?"

The Truth

Last year I wrote a blog, which extolled the virtues of honest Filipino advertising. I now have a new favourite advert! On TV last night, I saw an ad for a fast-food chain, which finished with the fabulous slogan –

“EAT HEALTHY... SO YOU CAN EAT MORE!”

Forks and Spoons

Traditionally, Filipinos eat with their hands – Malay style – they scoop a ball of rice with their clean hand and dip that into whatever sauce or dish they have. Of course times change and these days all Filipino restaurants provide their customers with cutlery, although I notice my Filipino work colleagues eat their packed lunches (rice and a little something) with their hands. We all take packed lunches to work; there are no budget food places at our end of the beach. I take a sandwich, and for the first week, one of my colleagues would always offer me some of her rice, obviously very concerned that I did not have a 'proper' meal. A meal is not a meal without rice, as everyone knows.

When Filipinos do use cutlery, they use a fork and a spoon. This was something that, for me, took a lot of getting used to. When I first arrived in the country I thought the waitress had made a mistake – being English, obviously I said nothing! After a while you realise that eating rice and sauce this way is much easier – but cutting meat with the edge of my spoon was something I struggled with for some time.

I've been here nearly 10 months now. I eat at a number of favourite local restaurants, with my fork and spoon and, honestly, it’s not something I’ve given any thought to for ages. Tourist restaurants will give you a knife, local places a spoon – one adjusts.

Then yesterday, I tried out a new Filipino café: looking at the menu, I was surprised to see "Bacon, eggs & baked beans on toast". Yum! Baked beans!

When the food came, it wasn't bad! The bread was sweet, of course. They had added sugar to the beans, of course (Filipinos like their beans and their spaghetti sauce very, very sweet) and the bacon was overdone, of course (English style bacon would be considered raw over here). But what really threw me was trying to eat it with a fork and spoon. It seemed, somehow wrong to be eating 'English food' in this way. I was all thumbs – just as I was back in January. Whilst trying to cut my bacon I flicked one rasher onto the neighbouring table. For some reason, I couldn’t work my fork and spoon! Suddenly I felt like a stranger in a strange land, once again. (Although, if I really want to feel 'foreign' I just think about Balut.)

It's the little things you see – the little things that catch you out. One of my English friends has recently started dating a Filipino. She has, of course, told him lots of things about her homeland, but only one thing has really startled him; caught his imagination and completely intrigued him... and that is brown eggs. He has never seen a brown egg and he is not entirely convinced that they exist. It’s always the little things.

The other day I was chatting with a friend from work (the one who kept offering me rice): she asked why I didn't live in England. I said that people in England spent too much time thinking about money. She considered this seriously and replied "here in the Philippines, we think mostly about food..." she thought for another moment and added "and enjoying our lives."

Waste of time (and space)

I was in a bar last night waiting for a friend. Sitting at a table behind me was a large Australian man. His look and demeanour screamed 'idiot-tourist': he had a cheap 'Boracay' t-shirt fresh from the market; shiny, fake Nike shorts and a shiny, sunburnt nose. He was rude to the bartender and when his drink arrived he got his mobile out and started bellowing into it. He was talking to a friend back home about a woman he had met. It quickly became obvious that this girl was a prostitute he had been 'keeping' for about a week. He was not happy:

"I’ve been doing my bit!" he said, "I’ve taken her out and bought her some clothes but she won’t f**king make me breakfast in the morning! She’s just lazy!" He went on to describe how he’d met her in bar and was impressed by her English, so offered to take her on as his 'girlfriend'.

This is a common arrangement struck by the 'better' prostitutes: no payment is made for sex, but the man is expected to buy everything the girls might need for the duration of the agreement. This includes all their food, nights-out (the smart girls will get commission from bars and restaurants) new clothes (which the girls return to the shop the following day) and sometimes even rent and school fees for their children. When I was in Mindoro, a man I was diving with told me how his girlfriends’ parents had lost their house in a typhoon and he was paying to re-build it. I thought this was a little odd because it wasn’t typhoon season at the time. A week later I heard the same girl telling another man the same story. The following day I asked her about it – she laughed and said, “My parents loose their house about once a month, whenever my boyfriend have the money!”

A lot of Western men, who are embarrassed about using prostitutes, prefer to have a 'girlfriend' but they end up paying a lot more! I’m told that the 'girlfriends' who are good hustlers can make around p30,000/month (the average graduate salary is p8,000/month). The girl I met in Mindoro told me she was supporting her parents and putting her four brothers and two sisters through school with her earnings.

But I digress – this particular 'girlfriend' was apparently not up to scratch. The Australian said he had expected her to clean the flat and do his laundry as well, he was angry that she didn’t seem to think this was her job. She apparently wanted him to get a cleaner. It seemed his friend was trying to placate him and in response he admitted that: yes, the bedroom stuff was f**king great and she was "good enough to show the boys". Then he said,

"Cos’ I’m looking at this as a job interview!" (I’m not exaggerating, he used those exact words.) He continued, "I mean, if this is what she's like after a week, what kind of wife is she gonna be? I’ve got three kids back home that need looking after – I’ve got no time for a lazy bitch! Nah mate, it’s no good! I’m gonna have to chuck her out and start from scratch with another one. F*cking waste of time…"