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6 juin Hawaii Why-OAs a foreigner living in Japan there are times when I think I understand Japan and that basically, Japanese people are just like everyone else. It seems natural enough; I even live with a Japanese girl. Then occasionally I get whore-slapped by a series of events that leave me questioning my existence in a land I’m just never going to ‘get’.
The first: I was stopped by the police for being foreign. Walking through a crowded Shin-Osaka station on my way home from work 2 police officers walked up to me and apologetically asked for my passport (in Japanese). After I’d turned off my ipod and worked out that they were real police officers and not car park security (the uniforms are surprisingly similar) I treated them to a look of disbelief; subsequently I learned that there’s a G8 summit 500miles away on a different island, 1 month from now, and I might be carrying a nuclear war head. Or even worse; a bible. Therefore, according to my police officer, to protect all these innocent Japanese people – who were staring at me because I was being been held up by the police - foreigners are being stopped and made to feel like 2nd class citizens – even though we have to give our finger prints and have our photos taken every time we come in to the country anyway. I went home and learned the word for racism.
The second: people in Japan don’t die. On a weekday afternoon in my local supermarket the average customer age is approximately 400. In politics, the ruling party is controlled by a small group of party grey beards. That is, the prime minister (71), two of his mates (both in their 80s), and the party chairman, who is a false teeth-clattering 91 years old! 91! I wouldn’t trust them to read a menu, yet here they are, working out how best to counter the rising power of China. And nobody worked out why there was a 10-year recession?
Although, on a more impressive note a 75-year old man last week reached the top of Mt Everest in a bid to become the oldest person ever to scale the peak – a record previously held by another Japanese man. Sadly, a 76-year old Nepalese man got to the top 1 day earlier stealing his thunder. NHK news was still suitably proud and he can expect a hero’s return.
The final shaking-head-in-disbelief moment: seeing Japanese people en-mass in a foreign culture. As something of a travelling veteran I’ve seen my fair share of Nips around the world, but nothing prepared me for travelling Armageddon: Hawaii.
As the only white boy on a packed jumbo jet my purgatory started at Honolulu airport. American immigration officials are not the nicest people (read: cunts) but I almost felt sorry for them watching them deal with hundreds of English-illiterate Japanese families for several hours. Picture the scene, if you will: Cunt: “Just one at a time please. No, no, no. ONE at a time, PLEASE!” Four Japanese people diffidently shuffle up to the counter. Cunt: “NO, NO, NO! You, you and you,” pointing and gesturing in exasperation, “GO BACK!” A 400-year old Yoda Jedi knight is left standing, looking terrified. Slightly hunchbacked and approximately 2 and a half feet tall, unable to reach the counter she resembles a mythical dwarf. Cunt: “Mam, is this your first time in the United States?” …… Cunt: Gesturing, “Mam, look into the camera here and press your right index finger here. If you understand can I get a verbal ‘yes’?” Uncontrollable laughter erupts from the back of the queue. The crowd turns round to see the only white boy shaking his head in resigned comedy.
15 minutes later, after being re-assisted by her 3 family members, she eventually gets through, unable to grasp why that rude man was so angry. This process is repeated for several hours before the resigned white boy is quickly ushered through in a show of relief at him speaking English.
The rest of my time in Honolulu was mostly passed wondering why it’s so popular; thankful I was leaving; shaking my head at Japanese girls walking on the beach in high heels and full make up; shaking my head some more at the open-sided Japanese ‘sightseeing tram’ that was packed with camera-wielding tourists and looked so ridiculous it was frequently met with pointing children and disbelieving smiles from other tourists, if not voyeuristic photos; and being amused by over-enthusiastic American customer service while avoiding giving tips.
Outside of the cheesy and outdated high-rise tourist hub of Waikiki, Hawaii is great. At least the islands of Hawaii and Kauai are anyway. I didn’t go to the others. Culturally it’s pretty dull but the scenery is very impressive - see photos. And there are almost no Japanese people in sight.
Hawaii Island – Highlights: Driving up through the clouds to the top of a 5000m snow-capped mountain to watch the sunset. Kayaking while being surrounded by spinner dolphins in the bay Captain Cook was killed at (and subsequently cannibalised at). Watching lava flow into the sea. Seeing a humpback whale breaching not far from the shore.
Kauai – Highlights: Hiking through stunning scenery. Finding out Lord of the Flies and The Beach are based on a true story as I reached an isolated beach at the end of my hike with a community of hippies living on it. But they were very nice. They were even very keen to explain they have a mayor, a library, and a school. Although their educational facilities looked more like pieces of tarpaulin hung over branches with semi-naked druids sprawled underneath to me. Other highlights were seeing sea turtles everywhere, my friend’s wedding, and taking a helicopter flight with no doors.
That pretty much brings us up to date. I recently came 3rd in a travel writing scholarship contest (no prize for that), I’m still not married, Yuko still doesn’t have a baby, and I’m going home for a few weeks this August. Maybe see you there?
Until next time… Mark. 17 janvier Festive Digestive
Japan is ostensibly a Buddhist country. Albeit one where new born children are blessed in Shinto shrines and couples are married in mock Christian ceremonies. But the dead are at least incinerated in Buddhist funerals; where after relatives will pick through their bones with chopsticks. It is perhaps unsurprising then that celebrating the birth of Christ has little meaning here; Christmas Day is a regular working day and families don't usually exchange presents. However, shops - and generally anyone profiting directly from the public - go into marketing overdrive with decorations and music everywhere. And like most things in Japan that are Western-influenced it completely misses the point and is usually badly done - see ‘coffee and curry’ restaurants and pizzas with poppodum bases. Although, unlike an omelette with school-dinner curry dribbled on it Christmas here is still just about pleasing to the senses.
In the absence of a real Christmas I vainly tried to carve out my own festive cocoon. In a rare moment of Japanese-ness Yuko told me she had a Christmas tree we could use and then disappointed everyone by bringing home a 6-inch green toilet brush with baubles on. While Christmas Eve and Christmas Day consisted of a surprisingly good turkey dinner at a friend’s apartment followed by an ill-fated trip to Universal Studios Japan. USJ is the national champion of making a hash of a Western idea - the Christmas street party at one point had a man dressed in a figure-hugging Rudolph costume sexually thrusting himself against a metal pole to the tune of 'Santa's Coming to Town'. How I wept with mirth. Other highlights included my friend's wife crying because she didn't want to go on Jurassic Park, my testicles disappearing while riding Jurassic Park, and the exit. Later I was treated to an argument with my girlfriend about how negative and cynical I was and how inconsiderate and unloving I am compared to other people's boyfriends/husbands. How I longed for a bloated stomach, an old Indiana Jones movie, a drunken uncle and a sleeping grandparent wearing a paper crown.
Going back a little further, the interluding months since my last update have yielded quiet, productive steps in the right direction - wherever it is I’m trying to get to. But by definition that’s not very interesting. More noteworthy would be:
1) My abject failure at becoming a D-list talento (A play on the English word ‘talent’ used to mean model/actor/TV personality). They say it’s a tough business, showbiz. But I applied and failed to land the role of a fucking silhouette! Apparently, I wasn’t ‘suitable’. I have my faults – small manhood, unfortunate hair genes – but a silhouette?!! I had to admit my career was prematurely over as I was forced to stare into the bleak abyss of rejection and elbow-padded sweaters.
2) One sunny Wednesday morning, 20 minutes into a low-intermediate English class of 8 women, a pretty, buxom thing of 29 bustles through the door repeatedly nodding her head and raising her hand towards her face in a shark fin gesture to convey her apology for being late. MARK-SENSEI: We usually say ‘willy-nill…oh, hi Takako! No,no, really, it’s ok. Why are you late? BUXOM THING OF 29: I have a chronic disease. MARK-SENSEI: [sensing misuse of Japanese-English dictionary] A chronic disease? What, are you dying? BUXOM THING OF 29: …I’ve had multiple sclerosis since last December. MARK-SENSEI: …..oh………er…………would you like to sit down? …We’re on page 23. ‘Willy-nilly’…
After over 3 years in the game I really should’ve known better. Luckily, despite my unsuitability to be a silhouette, she didn’t take offence. No harm done - except to her spinal chord and future paralysis.
3) General news from Japan (i) NOVA, the biggest chain of English conversation schools in Japan, went bankrupt and closed down in October sending thousands of English teachers spiralling towards the poverty line. One unlucky teacher was shown on NHK news making soup in his apartment using only an onion and boiling water. Schadenfreude: one of life’s darker pleasures. However, it did affect a lot of people I know so I suppose it will have to go down as a sorry story.
General news from Japan (ii) The justice minister recently announced that a friend at his butterfly-collecting club has a friend who is an Al-Qaeda member and it’s too easy for him to enter Japan. He was less clear as to whether terrorists prefer Cabbage Whites or Red Admirals but he did pass a new law one month later requiring all foreigners, including permanent residents - even if they’re married to a Japanese person and have lived here for 40 years - to be finger-printed and photographed every time they come into Japan. Amnesty International described the move as ‘racist’ and ‘discriminatory’.
The year ended with a visit to Yuko’s parents’ home, some awkward conversation, and a visit to a shrine. New Year’s Eve is traditionally my least favourite day of the year so I was delighted at the prospect of the Japanese version: a quiet dinner at home with mum who invariably showers me with food I hate and conversation I can’t understand; and then a sober visit to a shrine to make a wish for the New Year. Of course everybody else in Japan had the same idea so the cities were like a ghost town and a local shrine I’d never heard of was swarming with about a thousand people throwing coins at large wooden boxes (and occasionally at me) before ringing a bell, clapping their hands together and making a wish. I got to bed at about 3:30am completely sober and about Y1,000 out of pocket: perfect.
To her credit though, Mum did do her best to ruin New Year’s Day by trying to give me miso soup with my bowl of Frosties and following it up by asking when I’m going to marry her daughter. Discomfort is sadly a pre-requisite when visiting Yuko’s house.
Overall, I suppose the year was a pretty good one: I’ve travelled to Istanbul, Cuba, Japan, Australia, Papua New Guinea and South Korea. I started the year working in a travel agency in Manchester and finished it teaching English in Kyoto and Osaka, turning 28 on the way. If I was summarising the last12 months – which of course I am – it would probably look a little like this:
POSITIVE NEGATIVE
I’m not married Yuko wants to get married I don’t have children Yuko wants children I don’t own a house I live in a 1980s shoe box I had a travel article published I’m not writing as much as I should My stockmarket investing finished I’ve saved almost nothing in the black I’ve started practising photography My photos are shit 2008 promises to be an interesting year. After much red tape slashing I’ve just had my visa approved for 1 more year which is the key piece of my plan; the next academic year (Apr – Mar) will be my last in Japan. Japan is a great place, but I will never be accepted here: waiters will always address my girlfriend when taking MY order; shop assistants will always give the change to my girlfriend even when I’VE paid; people will always stare at me everywhere outside the city centres of Kansai and Tokyo. Ultimately, I will always be seen as a foreigner before I’m seen as me As a foreigner I am obliged to find fault in anything and everything in Japan. But many years from now when I’m sitting in my rocking chair I’ll look back on my days here as some of the best of my life. It’s just that it’s easy to get frustrated here; it’s easy to think outside the box when you’re not in the box in the first place, and in a country whose most oft quoted proverb is: “the nail that sticks up will be hammered down.” In the long run, the airport is the only place left to go. I’m glad I came back - it was absolutely the right thing to do: I’ve had the chance to do things I would never have done otherwise - but if I stay too long the memories will lose their gloss. A slice of cake can be heaven but a whole carousel will make you never want to go near it again.
New Year’s Resolution: enjoy Japan, make the most of my time, and be ready to leave with no ill feelings.
Mark. 3 octobre Papua New Guinea - 2007Papua New Guinea was never going to be conventional but when the national airline taxis out to the runway to the tune of Eye of the Tiger you really have to wonder if you know what you’re getting yourself into.
Starting with the basics: there are 867 languages, 5.7m people, 559 airports, and 0 Miss World winners – despite Errol Flynn spending 5 years there. As well as being a desert of supermodelling it is also a tropical island and former British and Australian colony. And that is to say nothing of the white-sand beaches and world class diving, beautiful forested-mountains dotted with traditional straw-hut village, and a multitude of Japanese and Allied WWII relics that litter the length and breadth of the country.
So why are there not more tourists? Well, across the country crime is rife, corruption brazen, unemployment sky high, infrastructure almost non-existent. Port Moresby, the capital, was recently ranked as the worst city in the world in which to live. The BBC reports that, ‘Some people in Papua New Guinea with HIV/AIDS are being buried alive by their relatives.’ The Economist notes, ‘So far Papua New Guinea has had a fairly successful election. A few people have been shot or hacked to death in political squabbles, vote-buying has been rampant.’
Admittedly, it’s not a honeymoon destination; it can at times be difficult and even dangerous. But it is without doubt the most fascinating place I’ve ever been. PNG is one of the few places in the world where you can travel for weeks and barely meet a single foreigner.
4 days into my trip I tried to remind myself of this as I sat outside a police station too scared to walk home in the dark. I was taken home in a police van. The level of poverty is stark, most people carry 18 inch machetes - for agricultural purposes of course - and with my luminous white skin I was a winning lottery ticket. Earlier I had been told by my guesthouse not to go out without one of the staff. They assured me at great length that I was their wantok (tribe) and people in the same wantok are like family: they give money to each other, provide food, give each other jobs – no matter how inept they are; and most importantly for me, they fight for each other, to the death. PNG is essentially still a network of tribes, so when you stay at a guesthouse all the employees are generally from the same wantok, and as a foreign customer you are their guest.
This was in The Highlands; a remote region only discovered by outsiders 60 years ago. It is the best place to experience traditional life and links to tribes are much more pronounced here. With beautiful mountains and thick rainforests it also offers excellent trekking.
PNG is roughly divided into a highland interior and lowland coastal regions, and given it’s relatively large area – approximately the same size as Japan and South Korea added together – visitors with limited time usually focus on 1 of these areas, or follow some type of WWII historical circuit. For my part, after a brief stop in Port Moresby I headed uphill to the coffee-trading town of Goroka.
PNG’s fledgling tourism industry is such that, in the supermarket, a small man with a tour guide ID card and a faded photo album offered to take me on a trek to the top of Mt Wilhelm, PNG’s highest mountain. At 4250m it would be no stroll but, after tickling a lettuce, I reluctantly signed up.
The trek started out in the back of a battered pick-up truck, after the driver had openly bribed a police officer due to his vehicle being both unlicensed and un-roadworthy.
Heading up boulder-strewn dirt tracks we disembarked twice while the driver made running repairs but no one seemed to mind. I don’t think anyone had a watch let alone an appointment to keep.
A further few hours hiking took us to our accommodation for the night: a small row of round-based wooden huts with conical thatched roofs, set against a backdrop of bright green forests that rose up steeply to contrast against a deep blue sky. In some places enormous, thick white clouds, too heavy to float over the mountains lazily bubbled over the top, slowly spilling down into the valley. Groups of villagers sat on patches of red earth playing cards where the grass had worn away while pigs foraged through the dirt and grass thickets. It was a scene a million miles away from my usual life until someone turned on a hand held radio and The Monkees drifted in and out.
Staying in the village was the highlight of the trip. There is no electricity, no gas and no running water. The villagers rise at dawn, grow their own food, collect water and bathe in the adjacent river, and when the sun sets they retire to their huts and sit around the fire eating sweet potatoes and yams. On special occasions they eat the pigs. They don’t need money, they were amazed but not jealous of my ipod, and the hospitality was so warm I felt embarrassed.
The hike continued upwards into the rainforest, into the clouds, then meandered back down through picturesque, narrow valleys covered in a patchwork of incredibly steep farmland cultivated by isolated villages. As we approached each village the inhabitants were initially wary of two outsiders and eyed us nervously, brandishing machetes. As we got closer, and as they saw my white head smiling far too enthusiastically - hoping to convince them we were as meek as biblical infants – they invariably beamed a friendly, mostly toothless, smile back and warmly shook our hands with their non-knife-wielding hand.
In one village I was fortunate enough to be shown around the decomposing high school that served this and the neighbouring valleys. Nationwide, all classes are taught in English and education is optional - costing USD200 a year at this school. With an average annual income of only USD660 it is easy to see why many people start school late or never at all. In each class the students’ ages range from 14 – 32 years old! P.E isn’t on the curriculum.
The ascent of Mt Wilhelm, like most summit attempts, involved hiking up to a base camp, pretending to sleep, then beginning the final ascent at 1am. The moonlight with its corresponding silhouettes and shadows added a subtle atmosphere and mood that was really quite impressive. Nobody spoke much on the way up. Whether that was down to the view or the fact it was freezing cold and at times terrifying – especially passing the open grave of a recently decomposed corpse – is open to debate. The final 20 metres was a bare crag with sheer drops on all sides exposed to the cutting wind. With no ropes or even a radio, I considered soiling myself before eventually hauling myself to the top.
Sunrise was magnificent: deep colours slowly changing hue, becoming brighter, then lighter as they gradually revealed a panorama of low-lying cloud stretching inland from the coast where it was punctured by increasingly larger mountain peaks as the land rose up into The Highlands.
However, in PNG the best-laid plans will go awry. Back down in the village, while Kay was preparing dinner – or rather, chopping its head off with a machete and draining its blood – the villagers told him there was fighting on the road ahead.
The results from the national elections were just in and an unsuccessful candidate’s supporters had accused a rival of cheating. A flurry of blades and limbs had ensued, so we abandoned the hike.
While it was an inconvenience, unplanned side trips are often the most fascinating. In this case, jumping in the back of a pick-up truck at dawn with some villagers heading to market. A pleasant drive along a red dirt track cut into the sides of unbelievably steep mountain slopes that are somehow used as farmland. It looked like there was a forest fire at the bottom of each valley as thick morning mist rose quickly upwards. Above, the sun flickered through leaves of trees laden with dew. The soundtrack was an old Stevie Wonder tape mixed with passengers shouting at passing acquaintances.
On a normal trip climbing Mt Wilhelm would be the highlight. But in PNG experiencing life in the highland villages, and the warmth of the people is a memory that will live with me for a long time.
As a foreigner, the towns are somewhat dicey, but the countryside and villages are extremely picturesque and highly rewarding. Of course the problem for travellers is, to get to the villages you first have to go through the towns.
PNG is not easy. At various times and in varying degrees you will be moved, intrigued, appalled, frustrated, terrified, impressed and amazed. There’s a good chance you have never been to a country like this before and you may never want to. But going to PNG is an unbelievable experience and will be the benchmark with which to compare all other adventure travel.
It is worth the effort.
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Papua New Guineans are quite possibly the most disgusting race on the planet. They are almost a sub-species of the same branch of mammal. If I were a crude, shallow man that rated women on a scale of 1 - 10, in my entire time here I would say I've seen one 6 and possibly a couple of 5s. Everything else could count itself extremely lucky to be even considered for a 4. More usually they would be stone cold 2s.
The biggest selling cheese is called Coon. An irony not lost on me.
An ex-pat Christian missionary – 1 of only 6 foreigners I met in 2 weeks – had some pretty crazy stories.
Wife beating is common and accepted. I witnessed a guy give his missus a sound thrashing because she didn’t want him to take the coffee harvest to market just yet.
It is normal for a man to have several wives. One of the staff at a guesthouse had 2 wives and 5 kids. The only condition is that the man must pay the woman’s parents a ‘bride price’. The value depends on the woman’s purity, age and social standing within her tribe. This is one of the prime causes of violence and tribal disagreements.
I paid to go to a wildlife sanctuary. It had 5 animals. My guide told me the owner had been busy with the recent elections so most of the animals had died.
Papua New Guineans are incredibly racist. White people are treated as a superior class. When I left Goroka to fly to Port Moresby all the flights were full and had a waitlist of over 18 people. The Air Niugini lady cancelled someone’s seat and gave it to me.
A Japanese tour group was due to climb Mt Wilhelm a week after me. They had arranged for an armed police escort for the entire duration of their stay.
At a ramshackle street market a local man asked me in all sincerity if shops in Japan were like this. I gave a sympathetic smile and replied that they usually had roofs.
Most people chew betelnut: a type of natural amphetamine that is chewed like tobacco. It turns red inside the mouth making it look like people are spitting blood, and also stains their tongue and teeth.
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19 juillet Summer Update - July 20071) What are you doing at the moment?
A: I like bogs.
2) What is your mother doing now?
A: She things a cat.
I don’t know what it means but I give it a 3/5. She’s a good girl in class; that is she occasionally pays attention, and she doesn’t shout to her friends while I draw stick men and time lines on the black board to explain ‘I’m playing tennis.’
Please write about your trip to Tohoku.
…....It has a dericious ear.
I don’t even try to understand. Correct grammar but bad teeth so I give it 2/5.
……Kokeshi is girl made in wood in very cute. I chuesed color of kokeshi’s wear is blue.
No idea. But at least she tried. Then I check her name and realise I don’t like her: She never listens in class, she’s loud, I don’t like her face, and she’s a bit stupid. 1/5.
Q: What do you like?
A: I like bleach.
3/5. I shake my head and get up to go to the toilet.
While urinating I reflect upon whether marking exams is better than actually teaching. It’s only a couple of hours and I’ve got nothing else to do for the rest of the week so I suppose it is. If I was serious about teaching I’d probably cry. Luckily it’s a part-time job so I shake out the last drops of wee, zip up my fly and go home for the day, just in time for lunch.
That was last week and they were genuine sentences written by my students. This week we’ve been watching Ice Age in class while the students write down as many English words as they can hear. The winner gets a sticker. And the government spends billions of yen each year trying to work out how they can improve the nation’s English ability. I’d probably start by firing me. Luckily, no one’s worked that out yet so let the good times role. The way I see it, if I can create an interest in the language and show the real use of English beyond a text book I’ve done all I can. Those that want to learn English will, and those that don’t will be pregnant by their 17th birthday. Or else they’ll live a perfectly happy, fruitful life and just have difficulty ordering sandwiches when they travel abroad. And you wondered why Japanese people always travel in big tour groups.
Basically life is good. Work is easy, free time is plentiful and I’m doing the things I want to do – writing, studying etc. So far, the only blot on the landscape is the unfortunate minefield of marriage and baby discussions with Yuko. Negotiations usually go something like this:
“I’m just not ready for that yet.”
“But when will you be ready? Next year? The year after?”
“I don’t know. But Yuko, how can I start a family when I’m on a working holiday visa and work part-time? I don’t earn enough to support a family of geese!”
“But if we get married you won’t need a visa and by the time we have children you’ll be working full time. …won’t you?”
And so it goes. You can cut and paste this about once a month; usually after I’ve done something ‘wrong’ like play football on our only day off together, or wake up late with a hangover and ruin our plans to go hiking for the day. Actually, the last time I did this she’d also gone to the trouble of making a packed lunch the night before so it turned out to be more of a scolding than a discussion. It certainly wasn’t an argument as I didn’t have a leg to stand on.
I suppose it’s a serious issue but Yuko seems to have a good bit of patience left in the tank yet, and everything else is going well so no one’s reaching for the emergency exit just yet.
Aside from work and relationships I’ve just been cavorting around in Japan’s fluffy world of contradictions, opportunity and insanity that both delights and frustrates. Veteran Japan observers have frequently come to the conclusion that there really is no logic in Japan. Trying to understand things will only lead to infuriation, exasperation, and shortly after, a return ticket to your home country. People have written whole books on this but here are a few my own observations.
Contradiction (n) 1 (of one fact or statement) to be so different from another fact or statement that one of them must be wrong:
It’s so convenient - there are 3 supermarkets within a 5 minute walk of my apartment and 2 of them are open 24 hours a day. It’s fist-clenchingly inconvenient - all banks close at 3pm and a surprising number of ATMs don’t work outside of business hours, including weekends and national holidays.
The Japanese are a quiet, reserved race – train companies have a strict and commendable ‘no mobile phones’ policy on trains. The Japanese are a noisy rabble of extroverts - a stroll along any busy shopping arcade in Japan will involve a cacophony of shop assistants standing in doorways bawling out a torrent of vowels through megaphones while carrying or even wearing huge, brightly coloured placards.
The Japanese are amazingly considerate – when most people get a cold they won’t leave the house without wearing a surgical mask so they don’t spread their germs. I once saw a foreigner doing this but he just looked like a murderer. Considerate my arse – with the notable exception of Starbucks almost every coffee shop, bakery and restaurant in Japan allows - if not actively encourages – smoking inside. It’s my least favourite thing about living here.
Surely nowhere else in the world would I have the chance to be a model. Except perhaps posing for a bee keeper pamphlet or advertising gas masks. But in Japan people actually want to see my face. Now strictly speaking I haven’t done any modelling per se but I have signed up with an agency - a large German man took some photos of me next to a pot plant while he asked me to imagine several bizarre scenarios.
To my surprise, about every other week after that I’ve received a job offer. I was offered a TV commercial for Mazda – they didn’t specify what my role would have been so it’s true I may actually have been sitting in a wheelchair while a beautiful couple cruised past me wearing sunglasses and polo shirts; a modelling job for a clothes catalogue – again they didn’t specify what kind of clothes catalogue so it may well have been a fetish brochure; and a wedding catalogue among others.
As much as I would dearly like to have done, I wasn’t able to take up any of these offers because they clashed with my teaching jobs or my summer holiday. The Mazda job for example was a 3 day shoot in Tokyo, all expenses paid and a cool Y100,000 pay check at the end, but missing 3 days of school would spell the end of my cushty job which is worth a lot more to me than Y100,000. Hopefully when I write my next update I’ll have something more substantial to report - and some photos too.
2 when something is not sensible and is likely to have extremely bad results.
There were several contenders for this: going to the immigration office, for example, which involved paying a fee at a food kiosk in a corridor; placing my passport in a re-sealable food bag in return for being given a stamp by a man wearing a surgical mask (hopefully because he’s coming down with a cold); and queuing a total of 4 times - each time playing a melancholic type of bingo: sitting in a sterile waiting room surrounded by suspicious foreigners, anxiously fingering a numbered ticket while random numbers flash across a screen accompanied by a 1980s Nintendo-style tune. This is shortly followed by an excited winner jumping to their feet and rushing towards the front desk uncomfortably holding their ticket out in front of them. The prize: a banal conversation with an official looking man who may or may not be wearing a surgical mask. The reason? So we can come back into the country if we go abroad for a few weeks.
However, in my opinion, the clear winner of the insanity award, which also manfully straddles the ‘opportunity’ category as well, is my appointment as a ‘judge’ in the ‘English Day’ event at my junior high school. On the face if it it doesn’t sound so odd; I’m an English teacher, why wouldn’t they choose me as a judge? Well, for 2 hours I listened to some speeches and some songs, I was the bingo master in front of 500 people for a game which descended into complete farce as it emerged there were no fewer than 15 winners and no one knew what they were supposed to do; none of my speech choices won, none of my song choices won, and I was handed a Y10,000 note for the privilege. Why did they bother? I was worse than useless. Will I be invited again next year? Most probably. Like I said; there’s no logic in Japan.
If further proof were needed, I was on a train the other night sitting opposite a man who had three books on his lap: ‘Learning Hungarian’, ‘The Science of Alcohol’, and ‘Cheese: An Encyclopaedia’.
So next Monday I’m off to Papua New Guinea for 3 weeks and Cairns, Australia for 1 week. According to the British Foreign Office there’s a realistic chance I might die. I’ll leave you with some philosophy from one of my students:
‘I want to be a wife of Europeans. I’ll want to live to think many things.’
Until next time….(hopefully)
Mark.
7 mai The Rise of The OarSince Christmas my email account has been hiding away in a wintry hibernation, awaiting the first signs of spring so as to unleash it's full fury on the latest addition of The Oar. At last the sun has begun to shine, the blossom has turned to leaf, and my blog has been updated.
Changes have been afoot, or at least they have for me, as I'm writing this from a jazz internet cafe in Osaka, Japan. The how, why and when will be explained in due course; or more accurately, just as soon as I can block out these annoying trumpet solos that keep interrupting my thoughts. But like the black man said to the mamed spastic, "It could be worse."
Getting back on track - we've moved into a gentle piano lull. The reasons I'm in Japan being slowly strangled by trumpets and pianos are multi-layered and complex, and best summarised in one word: girlfriend. For centuries many a brilliant young man has had his ambition curbed, freedom suffocated and porn threatened by these hellish predators. And though it's debatable if I would be classed as brilliant I do fear the same fate suffered by so many of my brethren.
Yuko wants to live in Japan for a while, mostly due to her cancerous - though recovering - mother, so naturally she requested the company of her dashing, charming boyfriend - that is me, I've been assured by my grandmother. Understandably terrified by the horrors of a relationship I was at first very reluctant to sign up, writing the whole thing off as absolute madness. But then I broke all precedents and began to think. I started to think that maybe there were some positives to be had from this.
I liked my job but I suppose I knew I didn't really want to be doing it 10 years from now; I was living in my mum's spare room which was quite frankly becoming embarrassing; I was and still am 27 years old: my care-free days of youth with no responsibility are sailing on a stiff breeze towards the sunset and I decided if I was going to take a chance and try something new now was very much the time.
I thought to myself, "What would I do if I won the lottery?" I'd buy a house, a car, an illegally imported lion etc etc. But once money ceased being an issue what would I actually do with my time everyday? I liked the idea of being a property magnate and breeding lions but I have little faith in the current housing market and limited experience in lion stock. I decided a more realistic dream was to do interesting things and write about them and take photos. It then struck me that, as simple as it sounded, I'd just worked out what I wanted to do with my life and what's more, it was a somewhat achievable goal. Alright, it's not an open goal with the keeper on his knees but with hard work and a bit of luck I reckon the chance just might be on.
It then occurred to me that if I go to Japan I could work part-time while getting the same money as my full-time wage in the UK and have enough time to do a Mickey Mouse course in journalism, try some amateur photography and see what happens. Best case scenario: it all goes well and I'll be living the dream - minus the big house with lions. Worst case scenario: I get AIDS and die in an earthquake. Basically, I had nothing to lose. And so long as I worded it right, Yuko would be happy too.
Ideas are great, plans are somewhat satisfying as well but the practicalities are rarely much to shout about,and so it proved in this case. Letters of resignation, working out your notice period, the stress of trying to get everything organised in time and debilitating hangovers after goodbye drinks with family and friends are very much to be avoided. The only thing that was enjoyable was blatantly lying on my visa application.
After working out that my options were limited to either applying for a working holiday visa or trying to seek asylum I downloaded the working holiday forms. To qualify I had to be between 18-30 years old, staying for a period of between 90 days and 1 year, and the purpose of my trip MUST be predominately to travel. I had no plans to travel anywhere further away than 30 minutes by train and I'd just applied for 2 permanent English teaching jobs. I was thinking of applying for a different job as officially - it says this in my passport - the only job I am not allowed to do is "prostitution". But after further consideration I decided teaching and whoring are the only 2 professions I am qualified for.
So, with a visa secured, a one-way flight ticket, one final staff discount, no liquids, gels or barbarians in my hand luggage I arrived in Japan. It felt strangely underwhelming to be back. Everything was familiar, nothing was exotic and I couldn't help feeling I deserved more out of a 12 hour flight. My initial reaction was one of disappointment and I wanted to turn round and go home. Fortunately, I'm an experienced campaigner I knew full well this was going to be the case. After all, I had no home, no job, very few friends and I was trying something that may well fall flat on it's face. Basically, there wasn't an awful lot to get excited about it.
Luckily, there were 2 things worthy of excitement: Seeing Yuko again and playing football with my old teammates. Things have been going well with my Asian poontang and we've just moved into an apartment together after hacking through weeks of pristine Japanese red tape. Apparently, most Japanese landlords don't like foreigners and they don't like unmarried couples. I was like a leper in a beauty contest. To Yuko's delight and my absolute horror the only way we were allowed to move in was by saying we're getting married. I'd rather live under a blue plastic sheet with the homeless than agree to that but Yuko didn't tell me until after she'd written it on the form in undisipherable Japanese. We are, of course, not engaged but we do now have an apartment despite my initial sweating and denial.
The football has also been going well but it seems my two loves are not happy sharing my affections. The demonic nature of a girlfriend has already beared it's teeth on more than one occasion and repeatedly tried to savage my beautiful footballing world. My fears that girlfriends are evil beasts had resurfaced. I've tried with all my might to fight back the beast and defend the honour of my fair sport, and so far, I've managed to just about keep it at bay. But it is a precarious position and a battle that is far from over.
So I had a home, I had a girlfriend, I had football and with it friends and a social life. The only thing I was now missing was a job. In order to try my hand at journalism, photography and one or two other things I've been meaning to spend some time on I was only looking for a part-time job. I lived in Osaka for a while a couple of years ago so I decided my best route into lucrative teaching contracts was through old friends and acquaintances. Like a fisherman who knows his river and knows his bait it's just a matter of choosing your spot, casting a line, waiting patiently in the bullreeds watching for ripples on the surface of the water before, suddenly, yanking the bastard out of the water with all your might and beating it to death on the bank before firing a harpoon through it's head just to make sure you really have caught it. In a round about way it was in this manor that I landed two juicy teaching jobs that leave me working a maximum of 16 hours a week (5 during holidays and exam periods) while still getting the same money I was making in England.
One job is at a really nice private girls' junior high school in Kyoto. Imaginatively entitled, Kyoto Girls School, it is in a very pretty setting in the foothills of Kyoto surrounded by trees and temples and, praise be to Allah, it is adjoining a private girls' high school and university. Entering and leaving the campus is almost heaven like. Were it not for the fact that I have to teach junior high school kids - and I don't like teaching junior high school kids - I would skip to school every day.
My other job pales in comparison but is a sweet little earner none the less. Just bogstandard English conversation classes with small groups of adults at a school where all the teachers are way more qualified than me. In fact, come to mention it, the teachers at both of my jobs are far more qualified than me leading me to conclude that I only got both jobs through sheer desperation and a complete lack of applicants on their part. Live the dream.
So things are going pretty well up to now. I may well fall prey to the apocalyptic nightmares of a relationship I so much dreaded but at least I'll go down fighting. And after all, and this has to be whispered very quietly, there's always the emergency exit. Hopefully that won't be called on and everything will carry on swimmingly, but either way you'll be hearing from me soon.
Until next time.....
Mark. 26 décembre Christmas ResurrectionThe great scriptures state that around this time many years ago a wise man bearing a sweet smelling gift followed a bright light and after an eternity of travelling arrived at the feet of a screaming demon to declare him the saviour of the world. Last Tuesday, carrying a bag of cheap deodorant sets I followed a bright light shining off a bald head and after an eternity of queuing arrived at the feet of a rude sales assistant to declare him a cunt. Christmas is here. And in keeping with tradition I've wheeled out an old family member, plied it with too much sherry and unleashed it on the dinner table of society. After 9 months out of the game The Oar finally makes it's triumphant return amid a frenzy of Christmas lights and bad sweaters. I'd like to say it was returned to service on the back of overwhelming public support but sadly that's a gross exaggeration; it's just taken me this long to actually do enough things to write about. And so to business. The Oar was last laid to rest in March at my home in Manchester after an epic journey around the wilds of South America - from the shit-stained peasants of Bolivia to the dancing coons of Rio de Janeiro. DISCLAIMER: The term 'coons' is of course despicable, racist and narrow-minded and is only used as a subtle reference to the mind-set of the Portuguese colonialists and is in no way representative of the writer's opinions. However, it is amusing. Now The Oar has been dusted down, caressed and picked up from exactly whence we left it and 9 months on I'm still here. On the face of it it would appear that I haven't done anything at all and should be shot with a musket, which is of course absolutely true. Although, one man's wife is another man's sex bitch. That is to say, what a conquistador may class as nothing, another man may class as sweet, sweet honey. Take for example the spring: It began one pale grey day with my girlfriend coming over from Japan to take away both my social life and half of my bed. Quickly followed was the stark realisation that I had no job, a demanding girlfriend and a really crap car. In times like those the only way out was to find an Arab and demand 10 pounds an hour in return for giving him some barely legal English lessons. Yuko, meanwhile was busy showing me how it should be done; assembling a string of precision-timed private Japanese lessons which quickly saw her become the chief bread winner and head curator of our mounting bullion supply. It spurred me into action. After being humbled in my own home I struck out and made my play for the top. I became a travel agent. I can still here my poor dad's grave turning even now as he watches in horror and wishes he could give me a good, stern finger wagging and demand to know just exactly why an economics and finance graduate who's travelled the world is selling flights to morons. I asked myself that same question one day but it made me feel sad so I didn't think about it again. Instead I openly laughed at a woman who asked me if she could fly from Manchester to Bradford. You really couldn't make it up. Although it's not all bad. True, I leave my house at 7:45am to commute to work in a slow moving, tightly packed and very temperamental sardine train and don't return home till 7pm; I have to pretend to be nice to people I'd rather wee on, my lunch break is only 25 minutes long (paid!) and my uniform makes me look like a safari guide in a sailing sweater; but there are benefits. As I sit here trying to think of them they seem pretty flimsy, but friendly people, a relaxed work environment and being treated like a responsible adult do ocassionally leave me with a warm glow at the end of the day. Although, the money-for-nothing angle and the staff discounts are probably the only real reasons I'm still here - being paid to talk about travelling and getting huge discounts on flights, hotels and tours is really quite nice. However, in light of the ridiculous nature of these arguments - becasue ultimately it's not what I want to do - I've given El Bamberro (former travelling compadre) explicit permission to come into my shop, squat on my desk and curl out a giant log if I'm still here after Christmas. I will still be here after Christmas. An official request to extend the deadline to early Feb has been lodged and the appeal board is meeting on Wednesday to discuss. Outside of work life has been trotting along pleasantly enough without ever really breaking into a sprint. Yuko was here from April to November; during which time she presided over such momentous occasions as me moving to London for a month to do training for my job, me being distraught when England lost on penalties in the World Cup (again), two friends from Japan coming to England for their wedding - complete with accompanying entourage - and she also squeezed in some travel around England and Europe. Interestingly, she actually liked England in the summer but said the weather is terrible and the public transport is 'so shit'. I already knew that so I suppose the big event of my summer was finally selling my house and pocketing an obsenely large amount of money. Quite why I followed that up by moving in with my mum only the 3 wise men will know. The only other thing of note to happen since then was a 2 week visit to Japan at the end of November to see Yuko and catch up with some old friends. It was a really interesting trip and also very successful for 2 reasons: 1) I realised that I love Japan but I really don't belong there and don't want to live there long term. 2) I bought 5 Sony Playstation 3s to sell on the blackmarket - 500 pounds with 2 games to my friends. All cheques made payable to Under The Table Dealings and Sons Ltd. Well that pretty much brings us up to date. Come March I will have moved on from the green grass of the travel agency to search for pastures new and findout if the otherside really is any greener. At the moment, ironically, a return to Japan looks most likely. Not because I particularly want to live in Japan but because a) Yuko is going to be there for at least the next 6 months and b) it affords me the free time to study investing, and my latest idea of a long-distance learning course in journalism, while still getting paid enough money to live well and do some importing/exporting on the side (God bless ebay). I should stress that this is purely a temporary move to give me enough time and freedom to sort some things out. I'll be very surprised if I'm still there after a year but what are plans these days anyway? In my experience nothing more than well intentioned safety blankets. Here's to the Ghost of Christmas Future. Until next time..... Mark. 17 mars Volume IX (17th March, 2006) Rio & CarnavalThe feared last edition of The Oar has finally come upon us. El Conquistador is conquistadoring no more. While for some it is no doubt a time for tears and sadness, for most I’m sure there is more an overwhelming sense of relief. However, for readers that may be inclined, in this last installment they can look forward to such highlights as the Rio Carnaval, a free Rolling Stones concert on Copacabana beach and a brief selection of random, interesting and quirky things I noted down during the last 6 months in South America.
And so, to business. The Oar was last laid down to rest on the eve of the Rolling Stones concert in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. As previously mentioned this was a free affair on arguably the most famous beach in the world. It was also a rather large affair with over 2 million people in attendance – mostly dark skinned peasants, nee coons, from the favelas (slums), there to sell “Coca, agua, Skol!” or to pickpocket drunk tourists. And so the scene was set for an interesting day. By this point I’d managed to find myself a bed in an apartment 1 block from the beach, due entirely to my befriending a fellow Englishman who lives in a genuine fishing village on the peasant infested northern coast of Brazil, and who therefore speaks pretty good Portuguese. An interesting character, despite his strong southern English accent he claims to be Czech. Anyway, the point of the tale is that my Czech guide and I were in an excellent position to see the mayhem that preceded and immediately followed the concert but not actually see the concert. I saw 2 guys assaulting a bus driver before 2 police officers jumped onboard and pointed hand guns at their heads, then didn’t arrest them and told the bus driver to be on his way. I saw lesbians kissing, people wee in the street, a million people swarm around the streets like ants, and I nearly got crushed when I foolishly tried get to the beach after the concert had started. Fortunately, my Czech assistant managed to secure us a spot in someone’s 5th floor apartment on the beach front. Good view of the crowd but the Rolling Stones were just far enough away for Mick Jagger to look uncannily like a bouncing little prune with big lips.
Following the concert, 4 days before Carnaval was due to start, I temporarily headed out of Rio for a change of pace and to see some old colonial towns. Interesting for 2 reasons: 1) It was really nice to see a small town that didn’t have a single tourist in it and, therefore, gave me a chance to see a different side of the country. A real test for my stunted Portuguese but showed me that the Brazilians are arguably the nicest people in South America. 2) I’m allergic to museums and totally unable to appreciate any intricacies of colonial art or architecture.
Refreshed and revitalised it was back to Rio on a nightbus. Arrival time 4:30am. Having neither zest nor zeal, it was time to prepare for Carnaval. As any true hedonist will tell you, the only real way to do this is miss the first night entirely, watch The Fugitive on tv and go to bed at midnight. Let me be the first to tell you that Carnaval was wild.
Fortunately, Carnaval ran for another 4 nights so I had plenty opportunity to redeem myself. Before I went to Brazil my image of Carnaval was street parades and street parties everywhere, all the time – women in bikinis with giant feathers on their heads gyrating on my lap while I eat my cornflakes, buy my shopping and brush my teeth. Obviously, in a sprawling city of 5 million that’s not actually the case. What was actually the case was a lot of street parties going on all the time but in different parts of the city. It was really cool, just not in the way I expected. My days were usually spent waking up late, going to the beach with some people from my hostel and then going to an early evening party or late night party, or both. A big feature of the street parties is that they are usually preceded either by a mini-street parade or by a bloco – a slow moving truck carrying a massive sound system and DJ followed by a dancing crowd and pickpockets. The atmosphere was great. Apart from the pickpockets everyone was in such a good mood. I had a great time, even if one night I did get completely covered in some kind of white foam.
The visual highlight and global image of Carnaval however, is the flamboyant parade inside the Sambadome. Over 2 nights – 8pm to 8am both nights - the top 14 samba schools in Rio take it in turns to parade the length of the quasi-stadium. Not really my bag but I had to tip my hat to the effort each school put in. The floats were beautiful and the costumes, when worn by hundreds of people dancing in regiment, were very impressive. And that’s despite my complete lack of appreciation for the arts. Other people were positively drooling. Obviously I didn’t stay for the full 12 hours. On the first night, after successfully negotiating my way through the biggest congregation of pickpockets on the planet I stayed for 5 hours – ample time for my uncultured bones.
Well, I think that pretty much sums up Carnaval and brings us nicely to the end of my time in South America. A fitting end to an outstanding trip I spent my last night at a street party and then drank beer through breakfast with some Australians before finally retiring to bed at 10:30am. When in Rio do as the Australians.
All great adventures must come to an end, and while, by many standards, this would struggle to be called great, it is never the less coming to an end. I’ve had a great time, saw a lot, possibly learned something and feel completely justified in throwing 6,000 of my pounds at a 6 month jaunt around some of the most beautiful and fascinating places in the world. There were, of course, plenty of awful places too. Not to mention plenty of irritating people, and sadly – tragically if you’re an American – I never quite managed to find myself. Although, the trouble with finding yourself is that if you work out what it means and then actually achieve it you’ll probably spend the next 20 years wondering how you managed to lose yourself in the first place. But despite this setback the trip will be marked down as a complete success and The Oar can be fondly laid down for the last time, but not without the tinge of sadness that all good friends feel when they say goodbye. I hope you enjoyed my version of travel journalism. If you’ve read this far you’ve done better than most; one of my best friends told me he hasn’t even looked at any of the photos. Oh, the fruits of my pen gone to waste! So to you, my one loyal reader, thank you and goodbye. Until next time….. Mark.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<APPENDIX >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Most travelers keep some sort of travel journal. That’s obviously a horrible idea. Instead, I kept an ‘Interesting Things List’. Here are some of the highlights.
18 février Volume VIII (18th Feb, 2006) Uruguay - BrazilRecently among the ranks of international conquistadors there has been all kinds of wild talk about this being the last ever edition of The Oar. Thankfully, those rumours have since been quashed with the announcement of a futher one-off Rio Carnaval special due for release in early March.
It was, however, touch and go as to whether The Oar would be carried the extra distance. The original plan was to head home on Feb 13th, firmly backed up by dwindling funds and a nagging urge to stop galavanting around and start doing something meaningful with my life. Then I realised seeing the biggest party in the world is much more meaningful than going back to the job centre to collect my unemployment benefit, in winter.
At risk of writing the first insightful comment of my whole trip, it has become clear to me that life is for living, not prodding at. There´s a whole world out there. Just outside your window.
But back to matters in hand, namely a large oar of travel stretching from Uruguay to Brazil. We´ll pick up the journey from whence we left it - Montevideo.
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay - Pop. 1.5 million. Capital of Uruguay. Home of the first ever World Cup. Everyone carries around a bong, which is actually just used for drinking a type of tea. I had a haircut there.
Nice enough place, surprisingly relaxed and friendly people and luckily the Uruguayan Carnaval was being held while I was there. I witnessed the action with two wet lettuces from my hostel who by default would become my travelling buddies for the rest of my time in Uruguay - thankfully only 5 days. Never before have I made such a frustrating yet comical error. Fresh out of university from Australia and England respectively, neither of them have ever had a girlfriend and on this evidence probably never will. I´m also not sure if either of them have ever made a decision before. This had the effect of me feeling like their cool older brother. At the Carnaval the Australian was held up at gun point and robbed of all his money and his watch. Why he went to a cash machine in the middle of a South American street carnival I´ll never know. Meanwhile, the Englishman was jumping around like a lost child looking for other people from our hostel, trying to say something but unsure what words to use. I was watching the parade oblivious to my young proteges´ dilema.
From there I chaparoned them with their safety blankets to a couple of beach resorts that were, against all the odds, on the coast. The Australian was burnt to the colour of a beetroot. The Englishman was so shy of other people that one day he sat by himself on the beach for 2 hours blinding passers by with his luminous white skin, while me and the beetroot were chatting and frolicking with a group of other English speakers. A similar process continued for the remaining 2 days. Nice beach towns though. One was a playground for the rich and arrogant of Buenos Aires (3 hours away by boat) and t´other was more like a fishing village that had no roads.
And on to Brazil. Interesting at first for several reasons 1) The setting free of the wet lettuces, amid growing concerns for their safety. 2) I can´t speak Portugeuse. 3) Brazil is beautiful.
It was also when I arrived in Brazil that I realised one of the most under appreciated things about Uruguay was the temporary respite from that most populous of travelling species - the Israelis. In the savannah of backpackers Israelis are found wherever the prices are cheapest and wherever a previous herd of Israelis has laid down to graze before them. Many tour agencies and hostel owners consider them as pests for their incessant bargaining and often rude, offhand manner. Easily identifiable in their herds they are usually spotted in groups of at least 4 (anything less and they are considered lone outsiders) with abnormally large backpacks covered in black rain-proof covers. Should they be without their backpacks they can still easily be distinguished by their rough semi-beards, a pierced eye brow and a hair band. Generally dis-liked by their non-Israeli counterparts for their insular, unwelcoming behaviour they were once more a permanent fixture in internet cafes, bus stations and restaurants upon my arrival in Brazil (N.B Naturally this doesn´t include hostels as they generally stay in Israeli-only hostels, which are probably cheaper than everyone else´s). DISCLAIMER: While sweeping generalisations maybe the bread and butter of my emails I must point out that there are also a lot of really nice Israelis too. I read that somewhere.
FLORIANOPOLIS, Brazil - Pop. Unknown. Big town close to an area of beautiful beaches. Magnificent array of G-string bikinis.
In the south of Brazil this was the first place I visited. And a very nice place it was too. Although that might not have been the case for the guy that got shot dead on the beach one night - a nice little reminder that Brazil has a reputation for violent crime.
Florianopolis is also a really popular spot for surfers. And that means it´s a really popular spot for blonde haired Australian men with brains like lemons. I don´t think it´s possible to find a social group outside of Islam that I´m less suited to. I have more in common with a dolphin. Despite that a good time was had by all, but after 4 days it was definitely time to head away from the coast, and in particular, inland to the border with Argentina to see the highly impressive Iguacu Falls. Surprisingly most of the surfers had never even heard of the most famous sight in southern Brazil.
IGUACU, Arg/Bra - Pop. Brazil side: Who cares? Argentina side: Even less. Heat: Unbearable. People who´ve heard of Iguacu Falls before coming to South America: Almost none.
In spite of it´s lack of international fame there was an alarming amount of Japanese and American tour groups (usually only spotted in places you´ve heard of). The national park was also serviced by Disney Land style entrances and little steam engines that play jungle sounds over speakers in the open-sided carriages. However, once you get past all the commercial shrubbery the actual waterfalls are incredible. It´s the usual mantra of, ¨photos don´t do it justice.¨ The power and scale of the falls was absolutely amazing. Possibly even worth the overnight bus trip to get there.
However, I didn´t have air conditioning in my hostel so after nimbly tip-toeing through the souveneir shops I quickly hopped on the first overnight bus to Sao Paulo (the last overnight bus of my trip! Hoorah!).
SAO PAULO, Brazil - Pop. 20 million allegedly (the biggest city in South America). Highest rate of gun shootings in Brazil. Looks like any big city in Japan but for some reason is not as cool.
As well as looking like Japan, outside of Japan Sao Paulo has the biggest population of Japanese people in the world. Which for me was great news as my Portuguese was, and still is, woeful. For the first time in my life speaking Japanese was actually useful outside of Japan. On learning of my normally useless skill the people in my hostel suddenly held me in a more reverred light - especially when a big group of us went to a Japanese restaurant. I was quite the man of international mystery. Promoted from also-ran runt.
However, Sao Paulo had little else to keep me interested so after a few days I moved on to my final destination in South America - Rio de Janeiro.
RIO DE JANEIRO, Brazil - Pop. 5 million. By far the most beautiful natural setting of any city in the world. Second highest rate of gun shootings in Brazil. And as a despicable, narrow-minded racist would say, ¨Full of coons.¨
I arrived here 8 days ago. It´s a really cool place. Although, to be fair, I haven´t really been doing much. Upon arriving I had visions of being the man about town. Sadly, the reality has seen me treading water like a spastic. At least that´s how it feels but I have visited a favela (shanty town), boozed all night with some locals, been and immediately left a busy beach (Brazilians have fantastic bodies - I look like a fat milk bottle), and went to a football game at the legendary Maracana stadium.
I´m staying in Copacabana which in many ways is the Hollywood of Brazil - it´s the most famous and touristy area in the country, it´s repututation far exceeds it´s reality, and after dark it becomes very sleazy with prostitutes of debatable gender on every corner (US$100 for big love apparently). Lots of character though.
Anyway, to the present. This weekend will see the Rolling Stones, well, roll into town to play a free concert on Copacabana beach. According to the news an estimated 2 million people are going to turn up. I´ll be the one at the back trying not to get pick pocketed. Then next Thursday Carnaval kicks off. I think I´m still young enough for this.
Until next time.....
Mark. 26 janvier Volume VII (Jan 26th, 2006) Patagonia - Uruguay
3 janvier Volume VI (Jan 5th, 2006) Bolivia - PatagoniaFirstly, I trust everone had a Merry Christmas and an expensive New Year. Especially for this edition, in one swift flight of taste, The Oar has travelled south from the desert regions of southern Bolivia to the fresh, greenery of Patagonia. I say taste because not only has the food substantially improved but the omni-present peasants of the highlands have been replaced by real people with an education and clean faces. Ah, the air is clean and life is good. If you remember the last edition you'll remember that my time in Bolivia was a constant battle between beautiful scenery and exasperation at the people. But in the last 3 weeks I consider myself, like a fat girl with a boyfriend, to be in a very lucky position. By nature I'm more inclined to look at things in a cynical, some would even say negative, light but during the last three weeks I have to admit that I've been to three of the most stunning places on the planet - Samaipata (photos are in Volume V) and Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia and Torres Del Paine, Chile. I won't try and describe them. Instead I'll let you look at the photos (on the right) to get some idea of what they were like. I'll just describe a few of my observations and experiences that happened along the way. I finished the last edition having just been to the green hills around Samaipata, Bolivia. My next stop was a visit to Potosi, supposedly the highest city in the world at 4200m. POTOSI, Bolivia - Population: 200,000 unfortunates. Baron countryside, freezing cold and impossible to walk up any flight of stairs without gasping for oxygen. There is surely no other reason to visit Potosi than to see it's huge underground mines where the miners have voluntarily signed up to have themselves flogged to death for 12 hours a day. I was in there for about 4 hours and my throat and nose felt like they were being melted by the toxic gases. It was then little surprise to learn that about 20 workers die in the mines every year . And the average life expectancy of a miner is about 50. Have a look at the photo of the miner on the right. He's 44 years old. He looks more like 64 and he sounded 84. He didn't stop coughing up thick saliva the whole time I was near him. It was then interesting to learn that the companies that buy all the minerals for peanut prices, and are the cause for the conditions in the mines, are all Western companies. Magnificent to see first hand. Some would say tragic but if I lived in Potosi I wouldn't want to live past 50. From Potosi I then jumped into a jeep and spent 4 days crossing the stunning Salar de Uyuni (see photos) to the border of northern Chile. Although the scenery was absolutely outstanding, not to mention a little surreal, there really isn't a lot I can say that can't be seen in the photos - there were 4 other people in my jeep, we had a good laugh, played football with some locals at 4400m, nearly coughed up my lungs after 5 minutes as a result, and saw more pink flamingos than is healthy for a red blooded male my age. A good time was had by all. It was nice that the last place I visited in Bolivia was a good one. It was even nicer that the first place I visited in Chile had a tarmac road and an air conditioned mini-bus. As interesting as it was in the 3rd world there really isn't anywhere quite like the 1st world. People acknowledge your existence in shops and restaurants, the general atmosphere on the streets is much happier, and people are intelligent enough to have developed a post-child sense of humour. So after a 24 hour bus ride south to Santiago I was practically skipping with joy as I bought a subway ticket for the price of a Bolivian car. SANTIAGO, Chile - Population: A lot. Capital of the richest country in South America. Really nice. Has tarmac roads. No one stared at me for being a rich white boy. Only stayed 48 hours, got drunk, ate well, spent a lot and then flew to Punta Arenas in the far south of Patagonian Chile. PUNTA ARENAS, Chile - Population: 400,000 penguins. The gateway to Patagonia, looks like northern England, also has tarmac. For me Punta Arenas marked the beginning of the 2nd stage of my trip. Before here I'd spent all my time in the altitude and jungles of poverty stricken Bolivia and Peru. Punta Arenas was also the scene of my Christmas away from home. Fortunately, after checking into my pit of a hostal (some things never change) I met up with a good humoured Aussie Bruce, who for future reference we'll call Josh. Up till now I'd always tried to talk to the locals in Spanish but in one conversation I was shown what a schoolboy error I'd been making. Josh managed to organise a whole excursion to a penguin colony including price, dates and times simply by raising his voice and stating, "Hola! Penguinos!" Forthwith we were marked down on the reservations sheet and I was left only to admire the sophistication of the Australians. I've not looked at my Spanish notes since. I had Josh clearly marked down as a sharp card. After a hearty drinking session on Christmas Eve at our hostel BBQ, in which all the food was cooked in a gas oven, we awoke at midday on Christmas with a steaming hangover - in keeping with festive tradition the world over - and got to work on preparing our Christmas dinner. Admittedly there was no Indiana Jones movie on TV or a drunken uncle wearing reindeer socks but we enjoyed it all the same. Relieved to have escaped Christmas without anyone in my family dying or being taken to hospital (see Christmas 2003 and 2004) I immediately headed slightly north to Torres Del Paine National Park for a 4 day trek. Josh, who incidentally is attempting to cycle around the world in 2 years, laid down his bike and also donned his backpack for 4 days of eating porridge and pasta. Without doubt Torres Del Paine is the most beautiful place I've ever been. Again, see the photos - the scenery was outrageous. Possibly more importantly Torres also saw the emergence of the Champagne Backpacker. It's the most trekked National Park in all South America and as such me and Josh thought it was completely reasonable to hike the whole 80km in a pair of sandals and tennis shoes. Other people, however, fresh off the plane and fresh from their local outdoor adventure shop felt they needed a complete khaki uniform with fly fishing vest, mountaineering boots, a backpack bigger than a small child and, most importantly, skiing poles. They also had Roman Emperor-sized tents with a porch while mine was fondly nicknamed "The Coffin" (see photo). While The Coffin did make an interesting conversation piece with passing campers I must confess that I didn't really enjoy waking up freezing cold in the morning with wet canvas plastered across my face. However, the rental shop found it funny when I returned it. Meanwhile, the Champagne Backpackers could be spotted in expensive seafood restaurants still wearing sparkling hiking boots and quick drying synthetic t-shirts. There's nothing quite like roughing it when you're in the wilds of Patagonia. To complete this edition all that remains for me to say is that New Year's Eve was spent at another BBQ (this time with real fire), it didn't cost me a penny, which is a rarity at New Year, and now I'm in the far south of Argentina, still with bi-lingual Josh at my side. To be fair, I shouldn't be too harsh on the boy because we've had a really good laugh over the last week or so and Torres Del Paine wouldn't have been the same without someone to share my skiing pole jokes. And on that note The Oar will retire for another few weeks. Enjoy the January sales and until next time.... Mark. P.S Is this the best name in the history of names? On a bus this week I sat next to a lady called Mary Cockhead. Priceless.
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