tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49774033311139482772024-02-20T08:28:01.308+00:00OMGMEGALEOLZLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-31635185531557892202016-10-13T15:30:00.003+01:002016-10-14T08:47:45.219+01:00ROMANIA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Chips from vending machines. Accommodation so bitterly cold I slept in my pyjamas AND my clothes. A grand yet austere Bucharest, the outskirts of which hosted the Christmas Day execution of Nicolae Ceausescu and his wife. Transylvania. I VANT TO SUCK YOUR BLOOD. Romania. I’m sorry Romania. So so sorry. But please let me redeem myself.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Interestingly enough – or perhaps not at all – Romania is one of only two locations in which you can still get a McChicken Premiere. And it is over a McChicken Premiere that you should be planning your trip deep into the heartland of Transylvania. We are so conditioned that the mere mention of the place conjures up a feeling of foreboding, of darkness, perhaps even of the eyes of a painting following you wherever you are in the room. But there’s more. Beautiful countryside, Medieval towns, and the castles. Man, the castles.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="405" data-orig-width="829" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><img alt="image" data-orig-height="405" data-orig-width="829" height="244" src="https://65.media.tumblr.com/9ff42a3aadc26efa22eed9950421cc52/tumblr_inline_o8wogmSOj61qbgg6s_500.jpg" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="500" /></figure><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="405" data-orig-width="829" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><br /></figure><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
And what castles would be better to visit than those of Vlad Țepeș . Of all history’s naughty boys, Vlad was pwopah nawty. This was the Middle Ages – hardly the age of moderation of forgiveness when it came to battle, but even amongst the general cruelty of the age – Vlad Țepeș stood out. When visiting Turkish envoys refused to remove their hats, Vlad had their headgear nailed to their heads so that they could never remove them – and that was just for starters.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="300" data-orig-width="620" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><img alt="image" data-orig-height="300" data-orig-width="620" height="241" src="https://65.media.tumblr.com/ea0b6c2c2fd8e6d4aeb6378a788d6b5f/tumblr_inline_o8woeh7zho1qbgg6s_500.jpg" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="500" /></figure><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="300" data-orig-width="620" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><br /></figure><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Take <i>The Night Attack – </i>Țepeș’ cruel, crowning glory. Though his assassination attempt on the life of the Ottoman sultan failed, he perhaps had a greater impact in failure than he might have done in triumph. For it was when Sultan Mehmed II and his men tried to track down Vlad, that they came across as many as 20,000 of their fellow soldiers – impaled on spikes inserted into the anus, through the body, and out through the mouth. You can enjoy the finer points, fantastically worded here…</div>
<blockquote style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border-bottom-color: initial; border-bottom-style: initial; border-image: initial; border-left-color: rgb(239, 239, 239); border-left-style: solid; border-right-color: initial; border-right-style: initial; border-top-color: initial; border-top-style: initial; border-width: 0px 0px 0px 4px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 10px; quotes: "" ""; vertical-align: baseline;">
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<i>Vlad’s method of impaling was to impale his victim, possibly using a stake that was thin at the top and grew thicker gradually, and pierced through the victim’s anus. Upon entry the organs would be shoved aside by the stake and the bowls pierced, allowing for bacteria to enter and torture the victim(which takes up to two days to die from alone). If done right the stake could be forced out of the victims mouth where they would have lived for a few hours or days in this position, helpless and writhing in pain.</i></div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<a href="http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Flaunchistory.blogspot.co.uk%2F2012%2F04%2Fvlad-impaler.html&t=ZDE4OTJlMjNhZjNhMmVjNWNlMDhmNDUzMmFkMzc5Mjk1NzJjMGE3NSw1ZEhGdVMwTg%3D%3D&b=t%3AqlxsCMR9-BYabbGxj-YbgA&m=1" style="border: 0px; color: #59b123; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 1px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><b></b></a><b><a href="http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Flaunchistory.blogspot.co.uk%2F2012%2F04%2Fvlad-impaler.html&t=ZDE4OTJlMjNhZjNhMmVjNWNlMDhmNDUzMmFkMzc5Mjk1NzJjMGE3NSw1ZEhGdVMwTg%3D%3D&b=t%3AqlxsCMR9-BYabbGxj-YbgA&m=1" style="border: 0px; color: #59b123; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 1px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">http://launchistory.blogspot.co.uk/2012/04/vlad-impaler.html</a></b></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="360" data-orig-width="720" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><img alt="image" data-orig-height="360" data-orig-width="720" height="250" src="https://66.media.tumblr.com/df842b9d4104df47829920eebd3b8998/tumblr_inline_o8woa1QkAw1qbgg6s_500.jpg" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="500" /></figure><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="360" data-orig-width="720" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><br /></figure><span style="color: #454545; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px;">Historical rumour has it that Vlad even went as far as to sit and dine among the ‘forest’ of impaled bodies, feasting on a McChicken Premiere. Ok I made that bit up, but the rest is true - and Romania – and her myriad of castles - should very much be on your list of places to visit.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1200" data-orig-width="1920" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><img alt="image" data-orig-height="1200" data-orig-width="1920" height="312" src="https://67.media.tumblr.com/286c8c0a6a646d03ad6d9ceefab411f2/tumblr_inline_o8wp16pu5K1qbgg6s_500.jpg" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="500" /></figure><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="1200" data-orig-width="1920" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><br /></figure><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<b><br />USA '94</b><br />
<br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/a500ca7b55f597f78d697f0a952b9363/tumblr_inline_n6yjvhGwde1qbgg6s.jpg" /> Following on from the Danes’ magical triumph at Euro ’92, it was England-free USA ’94 that gave rise to the great underdogs on the world stage. That World Cup was truly wonderful preparation for Euro ’96 (“the Greatest Summer Ever”TM) and one I still remember fondly as being bathed in constant sunshine as Diego Maradona went apeshit and I kicked a small leather football around in the garden after yet another McDonalds Hattrick burger. Two of the little-fancied teams that came from absolutely nowhere, or more accurately, the Balkans, to lodge themselves in the glorious compendium that is my collection of footballing memories.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
One of those teams, was Romania. Ten years on from France in 1984, Adidas had done it again and provided an absolute belter of a kit. A template complemented perfectly by the Romanian tricolour and worn with distinction - especially by one Georghe Hagi. For all the talent that Romania possessed, it was Hagi that truly inspired, and it was with the stunning 3-2, second-round victory over Argentina that he – and Romania – truly announced their arrival.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="600" data-orig-width="800" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><img alt="image" data-orig-height="600" data-orig-width="800" height="375" src="https://67.media.tumblr.com/b98a26f4b121a1f62b8d8dd8f8431ff4/tumblr_inline_o91g9mJhoR1qbgg6s_500.jpg" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; max-width: 100%; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="500" /></figure><figure class="tmblr-full" data-orig-height="600" data-orig-width="800" style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 0px;"><br /></figure><br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
In a welcome departure from the typical, anodyne footballer interviews so common nowadays - <a href="http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2F_FwfAWTUlDo%3Ft%3D3m1s&t=YmNmMzA3MTRhMDYwM2Q4OTUyYjJkODg5NmYzMzdkYzI3MThkOTc2YSw1ZEhGdVMwTg%3D%3D&b=t%3AqlxsCMR9-BYabbGxj-YbgA&m=1" style="border: 0px; color: #59b123; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-weight: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 1px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Hagi does not shy away from the disappointment of the Romanians’ defeat to Sweden in the quarter finals of that tournament</a>. One even goes so far as to wonder if he even still talks to Florin Prunea, the goalkeeper whose mistake led to Sweden’s extra time equaliser - and to the penalties that ultimately did for Romania’s hopes.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke: 1px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); border: 0px; color: #454545; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin-bottom: 14px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Be that as it may, that vintage Romania side that will always be able to point to their fine, flowing performances; and their part in a World Cup that is so fondly remembered.</div>
</div>
Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-53308673357803315142014-06-13T12:40:00.002+01:002016-06-03T10:18:21.462+01:00CROATIA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/a500ca7b55f597f78d697f0a952b9363/tumblr_inline_n6yjvhGwde1qbgg6s.jpg" /> Croatia, 1990. Franjo Tuđman's nationalist party had just won the the Croatian republic's first parliamentary elections following the decision by Yugoslavia to abolish the one-party political system.<br />
Less than a week had gone by and tensions were still high when Red Star Belgrade arrived to play Dinamo Zagreb - a city gripped by Croatian nationalism. 3,000 fans of Red Star - led by the frankly terrifying <em><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C5%BDeljko_Ra%C5%BEnatovi%C4%87" target="_blank">Arkan</a> - </em>made the journey from Belgrade; and were met at Stadion Maksimir by many more Dinamo fans. While the game began, it never finished.<br />
<br />
Amidst the running battles both on and around the pitch, young midfielder Zvonimir Boban, took exception to a policeman beating a Dinamo fan - deciding on dispensing his own retribution. Having kicked the policeman in the head, Boban had allowed the fan to escape. In being captured on video doing so, he became a hero to Dinamo fans and Croatian nationalists alike.<br />
<br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/En6wViD1jtY?start=68" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
Tuđman went on to be the first President of Croatia, as much of what was once Yugoslavia descended tragically into war, and Arkan? Well, Arkan became a very naughty boy indeed. He was assassinated in 2000, before his trial for crimes against humanity could begin.<br />
<br />
Boban went on to be banned for six months, and to be as revered in Croatia as he was reviled in Serbia.<br />
<blockquote>
<em>"Here I was, a public face prepared to risk his life, career, and everything that fame could have brought, all because of one ideal, one cause; the Croatian cause," - Zvonimir Boban.</em></blockquote>
He was eventually forgiven by the policeman.<br />
<br />
<strong>But never mind all that.</strong> Well, actually? <em>Do</em>. Because for all of what went before, what came <em>after</em> as part of Croatian independence, was one of the best football kits of all time. A kit worn by one of my favourite international XIs - the 1996 Croatia side.<br />
<br />
<br />
Croatian artist Miroslav Šutej designed both the national flag and the coat of arms of Croatia, but Šutej's most enduring legacy - for fans of football at least - is surely the <em><strong>šahovnica</strong>-</em>inspired design still worn today. The kit was debuted by the national team in their first, unofficial friendly in 1990, but It wasn't until 1994 that the kit evolved (beyond a wonderfully bizarre <em>Lotto</em> number very much of the time) and the broader checked design that we know today, truly appeared. Davor Šuker (pictured), Aljoša Asanović, Alen Bokšić, the outrageously talented Robert Prosinečki - names that evoke memories of that timeless summer of Euro '96. Not forgetting of course, the main man of the Maksimir - Zvonimir Boban.<br />
<br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/7f026248e3d8f0834902094c707bbc9a/tumblr_inline_n70f3qy6qe1qbgg6s.png" /><br />
<br />
<strong><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/9b99d3ec445a6c766623ce4f63c16225/tumblr_inline_n6yjzt1pMJ1qbgg6s.png" /> </strong>There is always a danger of <em>Museum fatigue </em>when travelling. Though some are truly fantastic and are absolutely worth a trip in their own right, that most are so frequently found at the top of the to-do in most destinations, means that occasionally they need to offer something different to really pique your interest. Something different to really stand out. Something like... Jesus' diapers.<br />
<br />
Yep. I know right? But apparently so.<br />
<br />
Well, <em>technically</em> they were his swaddling clothes. Wait! I'll save you the trouble of Google-ing it:<br />
<blockquote>
<em>"... an age-old practice of wrapping infants in blankets or similar cloth so that movement of the limbs is tightly restricted. <strong>Swaddling bands</strong> were often used to further restrict the infant. Swaddling fell out of favor in the seventeenth century." - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swaddling" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a></em></blockquote>
Anyway -<em> apart</em> from that - Dubrovnik truly is the Pearl of the Adriatic. Tread the marble streets, allow the smells of seafood and Dalmatian sausage to be tempt you into the restaurants that nestle within the impossibly narrow walkways, then bathe in the reflected sunlight as you can only fail to answer one simple question. Where you have ever been that was really this wonderful?<br />
<br />
Take the time to walk around the ancient city walls - a vantage point from which you really can get more of a flavour of life in the Old Town - and if you can find your way out, you might well find where to swim straight off the rocks and even get yourself invited to a game of water polo with the locals.<br />
<br />
So are Jesus' undercrackers really in Dubrovnik? You'll just have to go and find out...<br />
<br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/b2c24e3b89b4f1fe2a587f0b1970b4b8/tumblr_inline_n707klTx1W1qbgg6s.jpg" /><br />
(Credit to <a href="http://1001traveldestinations.wordpress.com/2013/03/17/0031-dubrovnik-croatia/" target="_blank">1001 Travel Destinations</a> for the wonderful photo)<br />
<br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/41a7b90f600ed32eefb5e620a4f653fc/tumblr_inline_n7076mPe9N1qbgg6s.png" /></div>
Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-88616288836066935382014-06-11T08:09:00.006+01:002014-06-11T08:12:00.280+01:00BRAZIL<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/a500ca7b55f597f78d697f0a952b9363/tumblr_inline_n6yjvhGwde1qbgg6s.jpg" /> Brazil’s <em><strong>Edmundo</strong> Alves de Souza Neto</em> scored 187 goals during his career both for club and country. For 18 different clubs, to be precise, as Edmundo not only scored goals, but caused trouble wherever he went. He was involved in a car accident in which three people died, went AWOL from Fiorentina in order to attend Rio de Janiero’s famous carnival, caused various fights and brawls, but ultimately – here was a character that scored fantastic goals. At the inaugural World Club Championship he scored an absolute peach against a Manchester United team absent from the FA Cup that year. Here it is, complete with the wonderfully fitting local commentary...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<iframe frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/eXvArtTIZC4" width="480"></iframe></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<strong>But never mind all that.</strong> At his son’s first birthday party, Edmundo booked a carnival - complete with animals - as the main form of entertainment. Hopefully by now you will have grasped that Edmundo generally was neither a fan of decorum, nor a man to be bound by the generally accepted conventions of socially acceptable behaviour. Something that he most famously demonstrated by plying Pedrinho the monkey with beer – <em>and </em>whiskey – at the party. On the one hand, animal welfare groups were outraged; but on the <em>other</em>, this was <em>exactly</em> the kind of ridiculous behaviour gleefully received by those of us who otherwise had to make do with the generally anodyne nature of footballer behaviour. Quick to calm the situation, Edmundo denied everything - reassuring people that no such outrageous behaviour occurred. For the avoidance of any doubt then, here is Edmundo definitely <em>not</em><em> </em>plying a monkey with beer... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/035703c2eb7337941ee5d2c6c6f4b457/tumblr_inline_n6yi6dvUz21qbgg6s.jpg" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<strong><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/9b99d3ec445a6c766623ce4f63c16225/tumblr_inline_n6yjzt1pMJ1qbgg6s.png" /> </strong>Blue skies and a warm breeze calm your senses, and you feel the warm, soft sand beneath your feet and between your toes. Sandwiched between the Amazon and the ocean, <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Attraction_Review-g671558-d1157665-Reviews-Lencois_Maranhenses_National_Park-Barreirinhas_State_of_Maranhao.html" target="_blank">Lençóis Maranhenses</a> is a bizarre little paradise that to most, would seem like a desert due to the 1500km<sup>2</sup> of sand that continually moves and shifts as sand dunes do. Four to five times as much rain falls here as the Sahara though, so much rain in fact that during the rainy months of January to June, crystal clear lagoons form amongst the dunes – creating individual oases as far as the eye can see. Despite the short life-span of these lakes, fish manage to make themselves at home here. Incredibly, one species of fish can even remain dormant in the sand after the lakes have dried up – ready and waiting for the rains to return... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/6af4d87698c9409b2492fc71601b288c/tumblr_inline_n6yik3NIiQ1qbgg6s.jpg" /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Credit to <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/trip2gether/6985274185/in/photolist-bDgmDP-bDgnvR-bDgoxT" target="_blank">trip2gether</a> on Flickr for the wonderful photo)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br />
<img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/6a5938d2e7f7d6f4026d6eb1b4b4f2cd/tumblr_inline_n6yioy89701qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/6a5938d2e7f7d6f4026d6eb1b4b4f2cd/tumblr_inline_n6yit60pmk1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/6a5938d2e7f7d6f4026d6eb1b4b4f2cd/tumblr_inline_n6yioy89701qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/6a5938d2e7f7d6f4026d6eb1b4b4f2cd/tumblr_inline_n6yit60pmk1qbgg6s.png" /><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/6a5938d2e7f7d6f4026d6eb1b4b4f2cd/tumblr_inline_n6yit60pmk1qbgg6s.png" /></span></div>
Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-83493381427537082492011-06-13T00:07:00.003+01:002011-06-13T00:14:14.551+01:00Travel whimsy<a href="http://leophillips.tumblr.com" target="_blank"> <br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="http://29.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lhuyfxnoY91qc6iv0o1_250.jpg"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"I keep seeing it and thinking it's exactly the sort of thing I should be looking at. But then never looking at it. What a chump."</span><br /><br />In need of short, salient snippets of travel whimsy on an almost daily basis?<br /><br />I'll put a few of the best ones here, but for now you can pootle along to <a href="http://leophillips.tumblr.com">leophillips.tumblr.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Chechnya, and why Ramzan Kadyrov is my hero. Or not. </span></span><br /><br />Succeeding what was left of his father (violently assassinated in an explosion that ripped through Grozny’s main stadium), Ramzan Kadyrov has recently convinced Dutch footballing legend Ruud Gullit into accepting the role of head coach at local Russian Premier League team Terek. It must be the same persuasion which this week brought a Brazil team featuring players who won the 2002 World Cup to play a game here, ostensibly as a “mark of respect” to the Chechen people. Gullit must presumably be hoping Kadyrov can work his considerable magic on the Dutchman’s own family, who were ‘unable to settle’ when he was in his last coaching position. In Los Angeles.<br /><br />For now though, one of the world’s few (and the former Soviet Union’s many) fantastic Bond villain-esque characters has contented himself with playing a key role in this friendly kick about, before treating those gathered to a traditional Chechen dance at half time. You really couldn’t make it up. <br /><br />Not merely a stooge of Medvedev (who in turn is very much a stooge of Putin’s), Kadyrov controls a volatile republic in a dangerous and complex area of the world in what is, admittedly, probably the only way possible. Even with Russian backing, no shrinking violet is going to last long here. Along with shameful views on women’s rights (who are the property of their husband), a large percentage of Chechnya’s violent and fatal crime is attributed to his henchmen, and that isn’t forgetting what could be his own personal chapter of alleged human rights abuses. Still, I suppose he’d make the trains run on time. If there were any.<br /><br />That is unfair actually, there are trains operating here. Though access for foreigners is complicated to say the least, not least because of the tribal nature of the north Caucusus and the protection and danger money that has to be spent along the way. The “World’s Most Travelled Man”, Charles Veley, was rumoured to have spent tens of thousands of Euros just to safeguard himself for a few hours as he was taken in and out of Chechnya safely. More money than sense perhaps, but who wants to be the world’s most sensible man?Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-34226035011101794512011-02-27T16:44:00.000+00:002011-03-03T23:32:03.658+00:00Travel whimsy<a href="http://leophillips.tumblr.com" target="_blank"> <br /><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh594qlKGm1qc6iv0o1_250.jpg"></a><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">"The word skullduggery so close to Huck Finn-ery blew my tiny mind."</span><br /><br />In need of short, salient snippets of travel whimsy on an almost daily basis?<br /><br />I'll put a few of the best ones here, but for now you can pootle along to <a href="http://leophillips.tumblr.com">leophillips.tumblr.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Oblivia</span></span><br /><br />I think this ['<span style="font-style:italic;">The Happy Isles of Oceania</span>', by Paul Theroux] was the first piece of travel writing that I ever read that didn’t paint everything with a rosy glow. The father of Louis (and Marcel), Paul Theroux set off around rather a lot of the South Pacific islands during the time of his divorce, with the minimum of kit aboard his one-man inflatable dinghy.<br /><br />He was in one of the most beautiful places in the world - and I remember him pretty much hating everywhere he went. Finding squalor and thievery, vandalism and skulduggery, it was something of a revelation for me and struck a chord with some of the places I’ve been in the world. Far from this being a trip of idyllic Huck Finn-ery (although strictly speaking, that story itself wasn’t so idyllic), we find an example of how difficult travel can be if thoughts weigh heavy on top of you - and the effort it takes to turn things around in places that don’t unfurl themselves to you as you had hoped the might. The title itself really is something of a misnomer, and this book does well to shatter the illusion that people have about getting away from it all.<br /><br />Besides, getting away from it all is something reserved for holidays - this is about travel, and if you look at the etymology of the word itself (which I’m sure I will go into in the future whether you like it or not), you begin to understand the difference.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-80595811334768427502010-12-24T23:08:00.000+00:002011-01-12T19:30:07.413+00:00Gibraltar and Morocco<span style="font-weight:bold;">Gibraltar</span> 11-12th November, 2010<br /><img src="http://www.funcoolavatars.com/avatars/Logos/Country-Flags/Gibraltar-Flag-%28transparent%29.gif" height="40" width="40"/><br /><br />Fag-end of a once-great empire, let me further patronise Gibraltar by saying it’s one of those places of which my knowledge is limited - but if it’s there, that’s generally reason enough for me to visit it.<br /><br />Gibraltar international was recently named in the top ten most extreme airports by none other than Channel 5, by virtue of the crosswinds that whip over the Rock and threaten to make things jolly tricky for landing aircraft – but seldom do. Part of the rather unique charm of the place is that looking at the runway you notice that it doubles as a road and pedestrian crossing in-between flights. “Don’t drop any rubbish here”, the warning sign warns – perfectly reasonably, but it goes on in a tone that wouldn’t have been out of place leaving the mouth of the petty apparatchiks in charge at my college, “next time it could be you on that plane”.<br /><br />My CouchSurfing contacts exhausted, I stay over the border in Spain at the cheapest place I can find for an upsetting €28. It’s clean, cheap, and in a good location – the three boxes I seek to tick when I travel on my own. Only planning to stay for one night I put a move on and start my whistle-stop tour of Gibraltar – finding my way in through what was once the only entrance into the fortified city, pounding the cobbles of Main Street and avoiding the relentless offers of fish, chips and all-day breakfasts. My bearings are found at Trafalgar cemetery, named after those who lost their lives at the battle of the same name, and were buried before they returned home. From there it was uphill to the Rock as I stubbornly set about walking to the summit and finding all manner of dead ends. With no room for pavements, narrow staircases often took people up to their homes – with a warning reminding them at the bottom – “Look left for cars.”<br /><br />The place is peculiar. The narrow winding roads that seem to have sprouted up the sides of the Rock are undoubtedly quite a feat – but I’m not a huge fan of the British seaside, and Gibraltar is pretty much that. A kind of British Dubrovnik. Except for all that we contributed, we weren’t the Venetians.<br /><br />Anyway, at least the Barbary apes seem to approve. ‘They’ (that is, ‘they’ referring to people unknown in the generic sense – not the apes themselves) say that the apes made their way from Africa in under-sea tunnels that once linked the continent to Europe. One of the most famous, iconic features of Gibraltar – they are famous for their tempers and warnings are pretty clearly presented to people visiting the Rock. ‘They’re wild animals’, ‘don’t piss them off’, ‘don’t ask them stupid questions’, ‘don’t feed them or they’ll shred your arm and disrespect what was once your sandwich’, and so on.<br /><br />That’s not enough for most people. And as it happens, I love it when they ignore the warnings. This time it was one particularly dozy family with a child in a push-chair, who’s blanket was stolen by an errant simian. To be fair – after a while he did tire of it, but that certainly didn’t mean that he was ready to give it up without a fight. And he didn’t. No sooner was the blanket retrieved than the little fellow was halfway up this woman’s arm chowing down on her shoulder. <br /><br />That’s what happens when you don’t <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKSV52JrWXQ" target="_blank">‘Hail to the Chimp’</a>.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Morocco</span> 12-25th November, 2010<br /><img src="http://avatars.qkype.com/free-avatars/avatars/logos_228/flags_244/morocco_flag_avatar_96x96_78020.jpg" height="40" width="40"/><br /><br />The honking of car horns grew ever louder as driver after impatient driver joined the chorus that never quite harmonised. A filthy boy led me to a taxi, and received a dry slap as thanks for his troubles before bolting, tears streaming down his face. “Taxi solo?”, no thanks old chap – do your worst. Already three people in the car – we’ll be off soon thinks I. Or not. Moroccan shared taxis work on a leave-when-full basis, and full means full. Two passengers in the front, four across the backseat, and I wonder how many of the 346,758 miles have been put on this car by the driver who joins us.<br /><br />A bit of faffing ensues in Tetouan, where I have to change to a second shared taxi. This time headphones – for music – and elbows – for jabbing out some space – are both primed. My bag continues to smell of kerosene, which adds to the smelltrack of the entire journey to Chefchaouen.<br /><br />It’s very much a feature of human nature that, for our brain to understand things quickly – we tend to generalise. The great shame of this, I find, is that generalise to too great an extent and things become pretty much the same and without realising it, I kind of write places off. Arriving in Chefchaouen’s medina, it’s late – and whilst maybe only somewhat reminiscent, it reminds me of the old town in Jerusalem. Now there are of course some differences. For as interesting a story as it makes, I do prefer not to walk narrow busy walkways where soldiers have machine guns, or have some member of the security forces visibly walking around with an earpiece listening to instructions. There were a number of people who offered me hashish, as the town is a well known place historically on the tourist trail where one can get high pretty easily. A clean and basic hostel here cost me £5, and when I met yet more Australians who were nothing less than excellent, we headed out for an entertaining, large dinner with wonderful hospitality and change from £4.<br /><br />From the very same restaurant, Mohammed ran into me the next day whereupon he found me one of the few taxis heading in the direction of Fes, and got me in it. This car had done over 700,000 miles which explains why my passenger door wouldn’t close properly. “I probably should be more nervous about that than I am”, I said to the Mathieu beside me.<br /><br />Four hours after a rather uninspiring journey reached it’s conclusion, I was staring out of the window at nothing in particular when I noticed a bound sheep being unloaded from the top of the bus. Then a goat. Then another sheep. For this was Eid dear reader, the Muslim festival which led to the excited almost Christmassy atmosphere when I got to Fes. As Christmassy as you can feel side-stepping burning sheep heads and sheepskins at every turn. The warmth still rose from the 1200-year-old city streets as I walked through the maze and eventually stumbled into the incredible oasis of my Dar courtyard accommodation, with it’s mosaic fountain and intricately painted wooden walls.<br /><br />It’s always a pleasure to meet Americans who actually have some idea of the world outside their country. Normally, they’re called Canadians. In the interests of fairness I take supper with company from either side of the border, in what might be the only restaurant open that night in Fes.<br /><br />Though it really isn’t for me to say, I do think I’m hilarious – but it is nice to have this verified by an independent adjudicator from time to time. So when a perfectly pleasant eavesdropper nearly spat food out his nose, I took it that I'd recounted a joke successfully. One British comic was bemoaning people who assumed that just because you went to one particular university, you therefore ought to know someone else with whom you have no connection - apart from that university. “Oh you went to Leeds, do you know so-and-so?” "Well, I never went to University" he went on to say "but no one says to me “oh so you didn’t go to University. You must know so-and-so?” on account of them also never having gone onto higher education."<br /><br />Maybe it loses something in writing...<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stop, Hammamtime</span><br /><br />At the halfway point of my trip approached, I’d planned that it would be high time for a full hammam service of lavage (washing down), gommage (scrubbing down with a coarse glove) and as a reward – a massage to conclude the whole experience. 40Dh was the amount mentioned by my Moroccan host, who also checked that I wasn’t taking any excessive amounts of money, wallet, or mobile phone with me. ‘Calm down dear!’<br /><br />Hammams in this part of the world exist, historically, for reasons of necessity. Due to scarcity, the local water source was shared with the local mosque – where people could clean themselves before prayer, and keep neat and tidy generally in the absence of running water at home. This was definitely a local place, with a local feel, local people, and local languages. I soon show myself to be a tourist by inadvertently helping myself to someone else’s buckets of water – oops – before someone takes pity and shows me what I really should be doing. After unexpectedly having to wash myself, an old man who looks somewhat like Danny Glover is assigned to tend to my massage needs – but instead seems more keen on performing all manner of bizarre, though not painful, wrestling moves on me. After that, I’m washed, again, then scrubbed free of dead skin. Wherever I’ve been to public baths (St. Petersburg, Istanbul, Amman, Bishkek, etc) I find that guidebooks always try to instil a terrible fear into you – never failing to mention that you will have your skin shredded off and your spine knotted before you are tossed out onto the streets as a quivering wreck, mewing like a poorly kitten. Every time I read that, and every time I find that the treatment is never quite brutal enough for my needs. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be having to scream a safety word when it all gets too much – but get rid of my dead skin and tension and I’ll probably be happy.<br /><br />Whatever you do though, don’t send some idiot skaghead to bother me with soap – only to tell me later that this most definitely costs 50Dh, on top of 150Dh for the massage. “200Dh, really? Oh dear…” I say as I sit down to disagree in the least confrontational way possible.<br /><br />Maybe I can paraphrase GMF at this point, <span style="font-style:italic;">"If life has taught me anything at all, it's how to keep my countenance in the presence of men whose rightful place is in a padded cell... Many... sharing the delusion that they could put any proposal, however lunatic, to me and make me like it. There's no arguing with such fellows, of course; all you can do, if you're lucky, is nod and say: "Well, sir, that's an interesting notion, to be sure - just before you tell me more about it, would you excuse me for a moment?" and then once you're round the corner, make for the high ground."</span><br /><br />It took about four minutes of this discussion to decide that you know, I’ve never been in a fight. If this were to be the first time I ever had to hit someone and make a run for it – I fancy my chances laying out this mentalist and bolting the 200m to my Fessis base.<br /><br />Seems I wasn’t the only one thinking this, as halfway through our rather tedious negotiations some other cretin came in and exchanged slaps with the hammam fellow, as the other staff looked on shamefaced yet unable – or unwilling – to offer a reasonable price to the non-Moroccan. This rather pathetic spectacle of a fight did block the exit, so I did have to wait before slapping down 100Dh (double what I wanted, but half what they wanted), leaving, and reminding myself that I do now expect to be knowingly ripped off once in every country – but once only. Macedonia is just about the only place that springs to mind where I wasn’t.<br /><br />All of that said (and tapped in as blog-worthy material) there were at least two acts of stand-out strangerly kindness for every goddamned shyster that expected me to cross their palm with silver.<br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dear Chicago</span><br /><br />I don’t care if you agree or not, but life can get pretty boring at times. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t actually play centre-forward for Queens Park Rangers, and divide my off-seasons between winning the Ashes or touring with my rock and roll super group. Undoubtedly it’s a legacy of doing the easy thing and not making anything happen I suppose, but I’m only reminded of the fact when someone comes into my life and I’m reminded that for however brief a time – anything seems possible.<br /><br />Someone is vague actually. It’s a girl. It’s always a girl.<br /><br />In the space of a few hours, this group that I had become a part of had totally changed my perspective on the holiday. They used words like “gash” and “flange” in a vegan café and suddenly, instead of my fairly methodical plans for the remaining five days of the trip (where I was staying overnight, how I was to travel, what I was going to eat and what I was to see each day), I went with the flow and found myself happy to do something I rarely find myself planning for when I travel on my own – just hanging out.<br /><br />Gone were my seaside crepes with amlou. Gone was my lobster plucked freshly from the Atlantic, with the wind in my hair and another four hour bus journey losing myself in music and panorama. In came cactus fruit, pissing off some idiot who put a doped-up snake around my neck expecting a tip, and genuinely interesting conversation. Also unplanned, my Moroccan cold worsened – a Snickers the only sustenance my body demanded in three days as I tried to stay hydrated and succeeded in losing my voice – something that strangely, I enjoy.<br /><br />Soon enough though, and as soon as co-incidence had brought us together, co-incidence set us back on our regular courses once more. Maybe I read too much into it all but it did remind me that as introspective as I can be, the right company does coax me out of my shell and maybe, just maybe, not every man is an island - just a peninsula.<br /><br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Marrakech (s)express. </span><br /><br />“This place is sex massage”, he says. “Right ok, but you’re taking me to where I want to go, aren’t you?” I ask my guide. He leaves in disgust when we arrive at <span style="font-style:italic;">my</span> destination, and I have no more than 2Dh to tip him with. Obviously I understand that a lot of people go to a bath house for sex. Sex for money. Once that seed of suggestion was planted in my head, it was tough to shift. <br /><br />“You want male or female massage?” Bit of a no-brainer really. “Take off all your clothes, just leave your underwear”. Fair enough. “Follow me”. You’re the boss. “Are you fine?” I’m asked by the young lady, as I raise an eyebrow and straighten the cravat in my mind.<br /><br />She leaves and after some time, I open my eyes and look down at myself. In doing so I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. Breakfast is an important meal – that I know, but when you’re up at 4am it’s not so appealing, and so you might as well delay it slightly, right? Wrong. The rule does not apply when your breakfast comprises of seven ice cream Snickers, go home, go to sleep, and wake up some hours later liberally covered in peanut-ty sick. This is what my exfoliating olive oil massage looked like, and any amorous thoughts were quickly and thoroughly dispatched with. <br /><br />I took all of my will power not to punctuate the tranquil Enya bollocks music with howls of laughter as my feet were massaged – instead I sobbed with laughter into the hole in the massage table. “Just relax”. This experience was much more in line with what I wanted compared to the Fes debacle, and I strolled back to my hostel with the sunlight shining through the medina roof, and leading the way.<br /><br />Nicely prepared for my flight, and with tension mostly dispelled, it’s bismallah Morocco - I’ll miss you. Though not for the reasons I would have thought.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-90259102467947930152010-12-24T00:14:00.008+00:002010-12-24T00:17:42.063+00:00Nagorno-Karabakh, burnt-out tanks and wild flowersLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-48883890633569567062010-12-24T00:14:00.007+00:002010-12-24T00:20:47.308+00:00Armenia and dog shit on the stairsLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-41182930529298201322010-12-24T00:14:00.006+00:002010-12-24T00:20:20.848+00:00Georgia and Tbilisi's ankle-spraining pavementsLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-69106453567839453702010-12-24T00:14:00.005+00:002010-12-24T00:16:21.737+00:00Azerbaijan and the world's harshest toilet paperLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-73512669276343018122010-12-24T00:14:00.004+00:002010-12-24T00:19:13.000+00:00Kyrgyzstan and pimped IlyushinsLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-62053074387665245232010-12-24T00:14:00.003+00:002010-12-24T00:14:56.696+00:00ChinaLeo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-79430655948716084732010-12-24T00:14:00.001+00:002010-12-24T00:14:32.780+00:00New Zealand (again)Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-11923911609628088812010-12-24T00:13:00.003+00:002010-12-24T00:18:17.580+00:00Pitcairn Island and six horizontal daysMore to follow.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-59792273364756457802010-12-24T00:12:00.000+00:002010-12-24T00:17:03.296+00:00Tahiti, French Polynesia and it's comedy banknotesMore to follow.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-74481461555753622332010-11-24T16:27:00.000+00:002010-11-25T15:58:40.734+00:00Ohhai!A quick hello to new friends who make their way here.<br /><br />I hope you'll find something you enjoy, and please remember that my blog posts are a bit like buses. Foreign buses. You're never totally sure where they're coming from, when they're going to arrive, and even when one does eventually come along you're a little peturbed about where it's actually going.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-28615928731401938172010-06-10T08:23:00.000+01:002010-11-24T16:39:29.609+00:00Official Unofficial office World Cup SweepstakeLeo | France - Korea DPR<br /><br />Co-created the competition to maintain maximum interest, and even won some prize money. Fix? Naw!Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-8908608825037606822009-12-29T18:29:00.001+00:002010-11-24T16:40:49.395+00:00Testing stuffJibberjabber.<br /><br />Back from Jordan / Israel. Need to pull my finger out and carry on writing up travel blogs, but am currently distracted by...<br /><br />* the Prime Ministerial debates.<br />* hoydens.<br />* cooking a three-course French menu for five.<br />* Pacman tins.<br /><br />Blog entries still to come...<br />* French Polynesia<br />* Pitcairn Island<br />* New Zealand pt 2<br />* Australia<br />* China<br />* Kyrgyzstan<br />* Azerbaijan<br />* Georgia<br />* Armenia<br />* Nagorno-Karabakh<br /><br />Blog entries currently 99% complete with photos...<br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/iceland-island.html">Iceland</a><br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/united-states-of-america.html">USA</a><br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/quebec.html">Quebec</a><br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/cuba.html">Cuba</a><br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/united-states-of-america-reprise.html">USA pt 2</a><br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/cook-islands.html">Cook Islands</a><br />* <a href="http://leophillips.blogspot.com/2009/12/new-zealand-pt-i.html">New Zealand</a><br /><br />Recent travels...<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/sets/72157622744822983/" target="_blank"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2684/4131750600_f095b05971_s.jpg" height="50" width="50" /></a> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/sets/72157622390392606/" target="_blank"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2446/3926562435_6d2091ef0a_s.jpg" height="50" width="50" /></a><br /><br />I'm also all over<br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/leo.phillips" target="_blank"><img src="http://www.depts.ttu.edu/centerforcampuslife/images/button-facebook.png" height="30" width="30" /></a><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/" target="_blank"><img src="http://assets.panda.org/custom/socialnetworking_icons/flickr_button.png" height="30" width="30" /></a>Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-57531662383953602392009-12-29T18:06:00.000+00:002010-01-06T20:41:21.333+00:00New Zealand (beginning)<span style="font-weight:bold;">Aotearoa</span> 16-22nd March 2008<br /><img src="http://cityofauckland.net/images/Flag_of_New_Zealand_small.png" height="35" width="60"/><br /><br />Air travel really is much more relaxed in this part of the world. Opposite Rarotonga’s international airport, I sit in an Army old boy’s club with a beer and re-pack my bag. Checked in, I move out and take a Coca Cola, before sitting out in the sunshine on the grassy check-in lounge. Hibiscus lines the fence, and we watch the jet taxi in as people disembark. <br /><br />Equine flu. Beware. Danger. Etc. The security at the airport is good, with neither the jobsworth nature that permeates in Great Britain, nor the sheer attitude that you get when visiting the United States. I reach my hostel in Auckland on the wrong day, puzzled by the International Date Line. England are on their winter tour, I fancy taking in a game. Seemingly charmed, I find that they are playing New Zealand in a ODI here. Tomorrow. In Auckland. Because of the misunderstanding with the dates, I’ve also missed all but two hours of Valentines Day.<br /><br />Good times.<br /><br />Up early. I make my way to the ticket ground and buy tickets for the New Zealand vs. England ODI. Once that was taken care of, I dashed back across town to the Chinese consulate on the Great South Road – just in time, as it turned out. My Chinese visa a snip at NZ$60… so long as I can pick it up at 2pm and get to the airport by whatever time I need to be there for a 5.30pm flight.<br /><br />Far from an easy morning, I have my first Subway. Eggs. Jalapenos. Sweet chilli sauce. Breakfast? Breakfast.<br /><br />England make it a great contest. The big screen focuses on someone in the crowd dressed as Andrew Symons, complete with boot polish. Some time later, two folk emerge in an empty stand with a large banner that read “Symons – stop monkeying around!” I laugh like a drain as they are chased out by police. This makes for a nice distraction from the damned, ill-behaved children in my ‘family’ section. Little bastards. <br /><br />Collingwood sees the tourists home. It’s Friday night, but I don’t feel like going out. Not even with the Barmy Army in full voice. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Shall we tell them? <br />Who we are? <br />We are the England. <br />The mighty mighty England.</span><br /><br />We are the England. The mighty mighty England.<br /><br />There’s an old Canadian gentleman in the room in the hostel. He offers booze. He’s extremely drunk as I go to bed, and needs help getting into his bunk – but I’ll be fucked if I’m going to do it.<br /><br />The next day I start my tour to the far North of the country, and the Bay of Islands. I’m pretty despondent, truth be told. There are French, Swiss, Dutch and Brits on our bus, and I want to talk to none of them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they are all perfectly average human beings, but I listen to my iPod and generally seem aloof. We stay in Paihia. It’s small, but I find a place to sup on a Guinness and update my diary before wandering back to the hostel. <br /><br />The highlight of the day has passed, undoubtedly – I just don’t know when.<br /><br />I have my barbecue supper, and make no attempt at conversation, because, frankly, I don’t believe I want to. Well, I want to, but just not with the kind of people that I am happening across. I wonder if it’s general shyness manifesting itself as animosity towards people who I just judge, or whether I do actually dislike them. I’m sure it’s percentages of both, and whilst I’m sure that I could find conversations and friendship with any number of them – I don’t.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4069/4252138472_da7c445920_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="England celebrate the wicket of Styris, NZ are 53/5"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2124/2268501804_9a8b2c13ab_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2749/4252138002_5643b16959_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Seagulls discuss the fish and chips - and why you get lemon juice but not vinegar, Whanganui"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2749/4252138002_7dfa40a015_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4020/4252137698_22a4f773fd_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Roses, Russell"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3177/2367620135_8e3408dd2b_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4043/4252138820_5ebe40231b_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Things are looking up, Auckland"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2106/2268501904_07a6b6b3a8_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And so on, and so on</span><br /><br />An ancient forest. Full of people. Pies. A highlight so far. Cape Reinga, where hills roll and gravel roads lay underfoot as we approach the lighthouse, and where Atlantic meets Pacific. Or something. The Maoris believed that the spirits of the dead made their way here, before finally finding rest somewhere in Polynesia. <br /><br />Later, we sandboard. At the top of the dune – larger than I expected – I kneel, then lay my face down, and push off. Three times I did that, filling my clothes with sand when I ditch on the last attempt and thus ensuring mild discomfort until I can find a shower or rid myself of any retained modesty.<br /><br />The spare day in Paihia comes in handy, as I watch TV with another comely couch potato. Drinks are taken with people, as I have been shunning people for some time lately. Giggles ensue when someone reveals their surname to be ‘Honeybun’. This fills me with some goodly energy, as the next day I head to colonial Russell – the birthplace of modern New Zealand. I stroll past small bungalows, the pretty town, and the odd immaculate garden and feel somewhat more content before my return to Auckland, and indeed, to the South Pacific Islands.<br /><br />I collect my passport, and have my round-the-world flight ticket re-routed. Suddenly all the lights are changing to green, and the start to my day is a happy one at last as I pick up an excessive weight, and perhaps indeed quantity too, of books. This takes by bag up to 16kg, but with English literature likely to be thin on the ground for a while yet, it seems the most sensible course.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stopover</span><br /><br />The flight to Rarotonga is rough again, and I would say that flying across the South Pacific ocean is not something I will miss in a hurry. I gain a day, which disappears into a haze as I read and sleep during the day, but find the latter impossible in the darkness of night. Peanut butter toast happened somewhere along the line. A girl who looks like Scarlett Johansson checks in. <br /><br />By jove, the next day I did something! Cycling a decrepit bicycle down to the shop for snacks and beer, I return only to need another shower, as I peel off my tshirt now stuck to my skin with sweat, and find solice by the pool. For some reason, I chat with a rotund American before making my excuses and making use of the free washing powder. With my clothes drying, I return to my room and beat back a scouting party of cockroaches with a liberal application of deodorant, which sets them scampering on their merry way. Buoyed by this cruelty, I chat with two English girls that evening. We share pawpaw and beer until a rather large spider disturbs the peace with it’s languid eight-legged shuffle up the wall.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-32948731871308957452009-12-29T18:03:00.002+00:002010-11-24T16:46:42.339+00:00Cook Islands<span style="font-weight:bold;">Kūki 'Āirani</span> 4-15th February 2008<br /><img src="http://www.flagsinformation.com/cook_islands-smallflag.png" height="28" width="56"/><br /><br />My Air New Zealand flight touches down before sunrise, Rarotonga airport's hilly backdrop barely visible, but by God is it warm. Due to lack of blank pages in my considerably dog-eared passport, I'm grateful that the immigration staff are kind enough to stamp a non-blank page. Hoorah!<br /><br />Esther Rantzen asks me to help her find her bag, and I wonder if I might have hit my head without remembering.<br /><br />A short minibus trip takes me and a couple of others to the beach front hostel, where we arrive in time to see sunrise clouded out by some heavy rainclouds. As reception wasn't scheduled to open for a couple of hours, I nipped to the nearby shops to buy some water, consider a pawpaw, and wonder why all the imported biscuits from New Zealand are quite so odd.<br /><br />Don't believe me? Three words. "Milk Chocolate Afghans".<br /><br />It turns out that the hostel doesn't have a reservation for me, I assure them they are wrong, and find it inexplicable that they know my name considering that I apparently haven't spoken to them before. Luckily, there is room available in a small shed-sized bungalow a stones throw away from a sharpened crowbar sticking out of the ground for husking coconuts. Getting tired.<br /><br />I'm falling asleep at the computer for the first time since leaving work - and decide to supplement my day with a little adventure, taking one of the complimentary, decrepit bicycles for a ride to one of the few places that is recommended for snorkelling. Quite keen to get the right place, as other people have been dragged out through the reef (painful) by strong currents. Amusement reins as my snorkelling buddy from the hostel is repeatedly attacked by a small but belligerent little triggerfish, and I discover that it is possible to laugh with a snorkel on your face. Later, I open (read - destroy) a coconut with a subtle mix of crowbar and axe.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4057/4249537238_f8d1f2d598_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="View inland, Rarotonga" width="403" height="604"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4057/4249537238_80959c6e86_s.jpg"/></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2749/4248763995_1de7b5b91f_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Rarotonga International's resident chicken" width="403" height="604"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2749/4248763995_d8efbd7cc1_s.jpg"/></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4070/4249536478_54ae8fba1b_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Approach over Aitutaki lagoon" width="403" height="604"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4070/4249536478_b773e129e0_s.jpg"/></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2768/4248761547_ab69d84cea_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Flower, Aitutaki" width="403" height="604"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2768/4248761547_a6eff757f2_s.jpg"/></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Scuba snacks</span><br /><br />By my second day in Rarotonga, it's clear that three weeks here is a quite preposterous length of time. I find flights on the web that will get me to New Zealand and back for about 200GBP, and cycle up to the dive school to book myself onto a four-day PADI scuba diving course. The cost is half what it would have been to do it at home, plus this way the chances are I might see some real life fish, and not just revel in silent delight as used plasters float tantalisingly close to someone(else)'s mouth.<br /><br />Put a map in front of me, and I will plan a trip. Even if I'm talking to you whilst I'm looking at the map, you don't have my full attention - merely enough to hold the conversation. That's the way it is. With feet up, relaxing after my swim, I consider my itinerary for the seven months ahead - New Zealand - Australia - Laos - Vietnam - Cambodia - China - Burma - India (whilst it's a little cooler) - and why the devil not! Kyrgyzstan - TajikistanUzbekistanTurkmenistan and a boat to Azerbaijan... GeorgiaArmeniaIran&Dubaiandthenhome!! Deep breath. Suddenly eight months isn't enough, but I'm strangely assured with the prospective addition of a few obscure destinations to the plan. Somehow it's more like my trip again.<br /><br />As things turn out, I'm the only person on my diving course - and I'm happy for the one-to-one tuition. My mind is immediately put to rest when I ask about sharks in the Cook Islands, "you could slash your wrists and you'd not see one". Theory fills the morning, and in the afternoon I'm blindly fumbling and upside down in about 3 feet of water, tangled in neoprene and diving gear and struggling to fulfil the seemingly straightforward task of just paddling along the bottom of a swimming pool. Day two sees more theory, and kneeling at the bottom of a 3.2m pool and retrieving a lost mask and mouthpiece, and putting them both back on. I find this easier than doing the necessary skin dive, though if I can do everything else the course demands, there's not a lot going to hold me back for long.<br /><br />I awake the next day from yet another football-related dream, QPR beating Chelsea soundly. I wolf down some toast and half a dozen sea-sickness pills in anticipation of my first open-water dive down to 12m. After about five minutes of that I somehow manage to float back to the surface, and decide that I need more weights. Day two, and I've completed my first dive to 18m - vomiting triumphantly over the side of the boat as we return to land, and once again whilst bobbing about in the water, desperate to descend to the sea bed where things would be calmer. Hopefully I wouldn't have to discover what you're meant to do if you need to be sick at the full depth of 18m, knowing that if I panicked - I was fucked. At that depth, you need a three minute safety stop at a depth of three metres before returning to the surface - or you'd probably get the bends and die. I'm amazed at my control, and incredibly proud of myself to have completed the course - which really was something that a few years ago, I don't think I ever would have even thought about attempting.<br /><br />My seasickness was that severe, that I was very serious in considering whether I should scrap my trip to Pitcairn Island, which I knew was a three day boat journey. I'd already paid a deposit, planned my entire trip around it, and heard it call me for four years... I hate the sea.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Aitutaki</span><br /><br />Air travel is wonderfully relaxed in this part of the world. Although I'm up early in order to pack up my floordrobe, I'm directed to the fireman at the airport - who lets me leave my big rucksack with him whilst I take some time out from my travels for a relaxing holiday. Rarotonga International airport's resident chicken struts his stuff as the breeze drifts through the open sides of the building, and I make the short walk across the runway to the the 34-seater Saab 340 jet. The flight is spectacular, the view of Rarotonga - which, being volcanic, is far from the sandy, palm-fringed paradise you would imagine - over and down into the Aitutaki lagoon. Get a window seat on the left hand side of the plane.<br /><br />Mango. Coconut. Guava. Quite a welcome to my night's accommodation. Huge lizards strut the walls, and I go for a walk. The place is wonderful. Relaxed. Beautiful. The main road, lined with hibiscus and scented jasmine, led me past the oldest church in the Cook Islands. Past giant crabs dashing for cover. Into a shop for some sort of cup-a-soup, which I later cook for myself in a large silver bowl. I chuckle to myself at my rather Dickensian supper.<br /><br />The next day I am the first to arrive on the boat for the lagoon cruise. The captain, a man of style, talent, and... well, his name was Leo too. I was made honorary second-in-command for the day, and considered the captain's daily routine compared to mine... almost horizontal in his chair, guiding the wheel gently with his feet, whilst strumming a small ukulele. The lagoon is paradise. Warm water lapping gently as we make our stops for snorkelling... wandering around one of the small islets... and taking a delicious lunch of pan-seared tuna, breadfruit salad and chips, and fresh mangoes.<br /><br />A beautiful, beautiful place. Sublime.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2711/4249535142_44293dea40_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Tropical climbers, Aitutaki"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2711/4249535142_11088c2b5c_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2781/4248762107_a0159fb158_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Postbox, Aitutaki"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2781/4248762107_fc1015d81e_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2733/4248762259_38e792ab71_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="On the sandbank, Aitutaki lagoon"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2733/4248762259_faac2d4673_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4007/4248760401_4a05a2d582_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Sunset over Aitutaki"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4007/4248760401_ac6855d942_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br />Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/sets/72157603919740065/" target="_blank"><img src="http://assets.panda.org/custom/socialnetworking_icons/flickr_button.png" height="40" width="40" /></a><a href="http://share.ovi.com/album/neontrotsky.CookIslands" target="_blank"><img src="http://a3.twimg.com/profile_images/461299057/twitter_ovi_logo_nokia_green_bigger.png" height="40" width="40" /></a>Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-62923571291778396262009-12-29T18:03:00.001+00:002010-01-04T19:27:30.132+00:00United States of America (reprise)<span style="font-weight:bold;">United States of America (reprise)</span> 2-3rd February 2008<br /><img src="http://en.citizendium.org/images/thumb/2/2b/Usaflag.png/200px-Usaflag.png" height="25" width="50"/><br /><br />Thanks to the American embargo with Cuba, my flight out of Havana gives me a brief stops in both Cancun and Mexico City. A 4am start with uncomfortable seats on two out of three of the legs of the journey leave me in a foul mood by the time I get into LAX. To top it all off, it's cold. Very cold. It gets cold in Los Angeles. Who knew? My free Travelodge shuttle takes fucking ages, but eventually I collapse into bed and watch a hard-hitting documentary about the pizza's introduction to America. I sleep well.<br /><br />In need of supplies, I spend a fair amount of time and dollars on a taxi to and from the 'mall.' It's shit. I can't find half the things I want. I buy some sandals and I buy some socks. I go to the 'movies' and watch Cloverfield as I desperately try to kill time somewhere other than the airport.<br /><br />As it turns out, that was a good move. When I get to the airport, it transpires that passengers aren't afforded the luxury of a nice big area to move around in. Half-a-dozen shops, four cafes, and a mobile news stand is all there is. The SuperBowl is on. It's been going on for about four fucking hours. People watch and cheer and whoop and I die a little inside.<br /><br />Stocked up with six bags of Peanut Butter M&Ms, I brave the bureau de change. I can't use my card to get money out. Yes, I've tried the machine. Yes, I've tried with another card. Can't I just... no. Give me strength.<br /><br />I wonder back to the mobile news stand and buy pens. I ogle Heidi Montag on the front of Maxim magazine, and wonder who she is.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4007/4241366606_a51e5379f6_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="LAX"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4007/4241366606_819e794ec1_s.jpg" height="60" width="60" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4241367210_d0c540a465_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Handluggage"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4241367210_a6a3ef6669_s.jpg" height="60" width="60" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2655/4241367004_c5a2693b40_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Sickbag"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2655/4241367004_2a60d6d051_s.jpg" height="60" width="60" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2642/4240595961_ec860c5a89_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Peanut butter overload"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2642/4240595961_a4955e2f01_s.jpg" height="60" width="60" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2768/4241367388_6abc12383a_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="HeidiMontag"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2768/4241367388_280024a4eb_s.jpg" height="60" width="60" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Things to do in airports. Whilst bored.</span><br /><br />1. Stand at the urinal. Keep standing there. See how long you have to wait before you are questioned, wondering if you have, in the confusion, somehow forgotten what you are meant to do... or have merely had some kind of breakdown. WARNING! Exercise this with caution, lest you should become liable to allegations of cottaging.<br /><br />2. Push into a queue. Find a queue. Any queue. And push in. Start off subtly, but make adjustments depending on one's own level of boredom. See who is too polite to say anything. See who you can incite to the verge of physical violence. WARNING! Pushing into queues may result in people incorrectly assuming you are French.<br /><br />3. Teach yourself how to do a handstand. Perhaps, use a prop such as a book bearing a dust-jacket entitled "Teach yourself how to do a handstand". You might encourage others to look at you with calls of "Look at me! Look at me!" once a reasonable standard has been attained. WARNING! Be extremely careful not to kick curious security staff when terminating a stable handstand.<br /><br />4. Hold a belt in your hands. Explain to the person next to you - who, for optimum effect, ought to be minding their own business - that you never actually wear a belt, merely that you always have one to hand should an errant child require disciplining. WARNING! A pleasant side effect of this may lead to vacation of the seat next to you, giving you room to spread out.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-4931678438247795612009-12-29T18:01:00.000+00:002010-01-04T19:30:44.122+00:00Cuba<span style="font-weight:bold;">República de Cuba</span> 26th January - 2nd February 2008<br /><img src="http://www.cubaemotions.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/05/cuban-flag.png" height="25" width="50"/><br /><br />La Habana. Cuba. The cusp of my 8 months of summer, spanning from the end of January until the end of the English cricket season, a month or so after I return home.<br /><br />Arriving at the airport, the lady at the Bureau de Change takes some gentle persuasion that I am who three forms of ID prove I am, and I am finally allowed to change some money - getting my hands on the Convertible Peso (CUC) which are what Johnny Foreigner is supposed to be using when he visits Cuba. My first outlay is for my taxi to my private accommodation, in the bustling streets of Habana Vieja. The ride in the taxi is an eye-opener, the country is undoubtedly quite poor as a result of various factors - including the US embargo - but the people seem happy enough, getting on with their lives, and mixed in a way that I have never come across before. Cuba's history is something of a melting pot for Spanish, French, African... incredible and fantastic to see the genuine integration of families, kids playing and so on.<br /><br />I dump my belongings and set about the city. My stroll reveals street-side dominoes, and plenty of folk trying to fob off inferior cigars onto ignorant tourists. This is to become something of a recurring theme.<br /><br />Breakfast. Fresh fruit. An omelette. Slightly fermented fruit juice. I am in good stead for the day. I plan my trip. Cuba is my oyster.<br /><br />Taking to the streets of Habana again, I venture out from the bustling side streets into the opening in the centre of town, site of the"Capitolo" building. A dead ringer for it's counterpart in Washington, I am guided inside by one of the guards who lets me take a few snaps, answers a few questions, for a small tip of course, but I don't mind quite so much.<br /><br />Meanwhile outside, people hustle trying to increase their monthly wage from well meaning tourists. Or 'suckers' as I prefer to call them. If you consider that the average monthly earnings are around 15USD, the best of beggars are soon earning the same as doctors in this strangest of scenarios. Not that I have a problem with people making an honest living, or honest-ish, but it's this kind of befriending you-then-ask-for-money bullshit which rapidly becomes exceedingly tiresome. There is a man with a foot for a hand (impressive), and then the slightly less impressive and just plain confusing, man-who-covered-his-head-in-mud-and-then-let-it-dry model of money making.<br /><br />From here I take a taxi and enjoy the rather generic, wide-open Communistic space of 'Plaza de la Revolucion', set aside for parades and general bombast. I snap some pics of the iconic Che image on the building opposite, and commence my walk back to the centre of town. On the way I stop for some ice-cream, where I exchange 1CUC for 25 National pesos (local currency), and a cone of strawberry goodness for about 20p.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2703/4240430633_a7556fb864_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Street view, Havana"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2703/4240430633_0356ae8c1d_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4240432127_05199be89e_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Capitolio building, Havana"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4240432127_645ed50134_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4022/4241193418_9eb95a3561_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Che, Havana"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4022/4241193418_32f6935726_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4003/4241201826_0c3f5e97a0_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="View towards the Capitolio, Havana"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4003/4241201826_123d6d6eb8_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Trinidad (no Tobago)</span><br /><br />Trinidad is my second city visited on this trip. An advanced booking never materialised, so I'm left to run the gauntlet of locals hawking their private rooms with various degrees of intent. I take a house that's about 30 seconds walk away, from a young chap who is slightly less pushy than the others. I have a large room, with an en-suite bathroom and parrot.<br /><br />The colourful houses in this colonial city make Trinidad a real delight, where the pace is much slower than that of Habana. The cobbled streets are a test for my shoes and ankles, but I get to know the town quite quickly.<br /><br />Lethargy overtakes me on day two, and when I eventually wake, I have little desire to take in the outside world if truth be told. When I eventually get my sorry arse into gear and walk about, somewhat dazed and confused by the brightness of the day. The weather is not unbearably hot, what with it being winter and all, but it's certainly agreeable and somewhere over 20C.<br /><br />"Tss tss tss", that's the noise people generally make here when they want to sell you something, yet can't quite be arsed to purse their lips to emit the equally popular "Amigo!" or even "Wanna buy a cigar my friend?" I suppose the main idea is to attract your attention and eye contact with that noise and then go from there, but regardless, it's pretty fucking irritating. I reckon I completely blank 25% of any attempts at communication by a 'jintero' or hustler... maybe make that 50%, with 30% polite refusal and 20% prolonged, unnecessary conversation (ie. >20 seconds) dispelled by being from 'Slovako' and not having any knowledge of the English language.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2714/4241196116_02a8bf75eb_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Street scene, Trinidad"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2714/4241196116_04326ce06d_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2548/4241200594_734028f553_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Derailed train and revolutionary monument, Santa Clara"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2548/4241200594_1751da67fb_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4017/4240527297_755c8792ca_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="View from the bell tower, Trinidad"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4017/4240527297_c3d13e071e_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2731/4241197646_a7f0651674_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="A man carries a double bass, Trinidad"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2731/4241197646_6ba65e3270_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br />Though still not farting with confidence after my roadside omelette, I go for more simple fare - 5 peso pizza, which is reasonable and hearty and has the added bonus of being wrapped in two sheets of grey paper which keep one's fingers just on the right side of 100C, as the pizza is rather warm. Plus I'm happier not pissing away more than 25x the cost on dinner in a proper restaurant.<br /><br />My hosts were able to book me some accommodation in Santa Clara, after my attempts at internet booking failed. Most people have friends with private rooms scattered across the country, so it's never a problem finding a place to stay here. A 3 hour bus ride later, I'm met at the station here, fed and watered well, and chat with my host.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Beadle</span><br /><br />Some called it 'the day laughter died'. No, I've not given up on comedy; Jeremy Beadle. Dead. Aged just 59. I have a smile on my face, despite this tragedy, as time was when the need for humour in my life was filled with a Saturday night of Beadle and Noel Edmonds. These were truly simpler times. One might even say, happier. Part of me still thinks this could be one last prank from the man himself to revive a once-popular career. I await the influx of low brow jokes.<br /><br />There’s a real, but unnerving kind of communistic whimsy that prevails here amongst the commercial sector. Thankfully, sensibility exists in so much as it is possible to just by toilet paper roll-by-roll, when a four pack is unnecessary, and indeed - they are priced as such; but why, is it not possible for me to buy my bus ticket until 8am… meanwhile the fucking flies in the bus station are driving me quite mad, buzzing around aimlessly, fighting and fucking and tumbling all down me. WHAP! Two are instantly added to my diary - like some kind of messy errata.<br /><br />How I’d love that. Two less of the fuckers, replaced by twenty more - but I don’t do fiction. Not often. Lies upon lies, limited by the author’s own imagination and command of the English language.<br /><br />In the evening, I return to my rather simpler concerns - feeling more than a little apprehensive at some of the costs involved - particularly in French Polynesia. I consider a) much fasting, b) stockpiling cheap supplies in the USA, or c) thinking that there must be a way to survive, however basically - when I arrive. I knew I should have had that beer. Or maybe I’m just too decadent. At least I realise it.<br /><br />Shortly before my visit there had been an election in Cuba. Perhaps surprisingly, the only party on the ballot won. A short time after my visit, Fidel Castro stood down as leader, with his brother Raul, one of the original revolutionaries - his successor. He has appointed a deputy of a similar age and ilk, which doesn't really make a statement that change is imminent.<br /><br />Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/sets/72157603916417164/" target="_blank"><img src="http://assets.panda.org/custom/socialnetworking_icons/flickr_button.png" height="40" width="40" /></a><a href="http://share.ovi.com/album/neontrotsky.Cuba" target="_blank"><img src="http://a3.twimg.com/profile_images/461299057/twitter_ovi_logo_nokia_green_bigger.png" height="40" width="40" /></a>Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-81675172594075243692009-12-29T18:00:00.001+00:002010-01-04T19:31:10.757+00:00Quebec<span style="font-weight:bold;">Québec</span> 21-25th January, 2008<br /><img src="http://www.ogwa-hydrog.ca/files/images/Quebec%20Flag.png" height="30" width="50"/><br /><br />One of the things I love about myself is my unflinching optimism, and complete refusal to face proven fact and reality. I wouldn't say it's my favourite thing, but it's certainly up there - around about the same level as what I would refer to as my "working knowledge of reasonable personal hygiene." Praise indeed... allow me to explain.<br /><br />Having woken up at 2am in Washington DC, my first train staggered into New York Penn Station at about 6.45am... where upon I moved my caboodle into the station. Obviously by this time, I was planning for the day, but remarkably was shunned when trying to buy a beer (before 8am) to drink on the train a little later on in the day (around 9am). Not before midday apparently - land of the free indeed! A few hours later, after a light grilling by Customs and Immigration... 6pm to be precise, the train has the audacity to chug into Montreal whilst I'm still asleep - almost doubled over in my seat in fact. Panicking, I do the first reasonable thing that springs to mind, and soil myself before gathering my belongings and disembarking in a furious stupor muttering under my breath.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2487/4230709527_e5a0522f08_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Church, Montreal"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2487/4230709527_50653c1895_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2698/4230709685_42a2693fa5_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Church roof, Montreal"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2698/4230709685_50c998a4e8_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4007/4231476038_14459fa364_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Above Montreal"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4007/4231476038_a86a09003a_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2503/4231477076_5a44ca6edb_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Candles, Montreal"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2503/4231477076_107bc3de10_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Changing plans</span><br /><br />My main reason for coming to Canada is to visit St. Pierre et Miquelon - two small islands which are the only remnants of the vast empire of 'New France', which once controlled a vast swathe of North America, back in the day. The economy of these islands reached an all-time high during the 1920's, when they illegally shipped booze to New York City during the period of prohibition in the United States. Needless to say, that didn't last forever, and they once again became poor, rude French peasants. Nowadays at least, their claim to fame is that due to their quirky geography, they are the first to cast their votes in the French elections.<br /><br />To get there, you have to make your way to Newfoundland, or Nova Scotia. Now, I understand maps. And even, to some extent, scale. Obviously a life size map of a country is not something one can easily carry around. However, the map in my book somehow convinced me that the distance from Montreal to Halifax wasn't that far at all. Only a couple of inches, in all reality. I checked the train times, and yes, huzzah!, 2145hrs was the journey time. I could be within a stone's throw if the islands by bedtime.<br /><br />I looked closer. Don't ask me why, but I did... 21 hours, 45 minutes... one way. By train. Right... but the book says.... oh right! Scale... 1inch = 1000 miles... oh...<br /><br />Even then, I don't give up, I think to myself - I'll book a flight! and carry on upon my merry idling way to find my bed for the night, and the internet.<br /><br />Unwilling to find a cash point, and in spite of the previous 24 hours of pain in my knees caused by walking 11 blocks to my hostel in Washington, I decide to walk to my hostel.<br /><br />It is cold here, very cold. Sub 'f***in' hell!', and substantially colder than 'brr', the weather here is at -20C. In technical terms, this is what's known here as 'brass monkeys.' Within minutes, Jack frost is biting up and down my legs, my ears are on fire, snot freezes, and my eyes are watering profusely. I make it to the hostel just in time... I check in, with the drowsiness overcoming me once again.<br /><br />This is the kind of tiredness where you just don't care anymore, and where it just takes that second too long to realise that the tap water is actually scalding your hands... after some light cursing, I decide to ignore the evident cold outside, and convince myself that it's actually quite warm - and that I don't need my cardigan. Or a hat. This is the kind of idea on a par with JFK thinking, 'Hmm, what a lovely day for a drive'... you get the picture.<br /><br />I meet my first room mate. "You are how the French say, 'un glouton'!". We part amicably. Over the course of my travels, I knew that I would become enlightened as to some of the dangers and... unpleasantness that awaits the weary traveller in shared accommodation. However, I was completely unprepared for the fetid stench that awaited me in the dorm room on day two. I concluded that he needed some kind of melodramatic story as to his existence, and this is it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Whilst dragging his knuckles upon that fine line that separates beast from man, 'The Smelly' has the power to upset the generally clean air of a shared hostel room - and to force people to move their possessions surreptitiously in the middle of the day, lest they should have to be in his presence. Wrapped in his blanket like some kind of decaying trampard, he emits a kind of unimaginable smell that would sicken even the cleaner of a 15th century whorehouse.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4026/4230706885_c6202380db_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Not a church, Montreal"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4026/4230706885_a03a5d8e4e_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4002/4230707379_0230a82732_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Church detail, Montreal"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4002/4230707379_5e1b031742_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4029/4231474574_0c1bf567bb_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Christmas shop, Montreal Old Town"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4029/4231474574_3a4217b9c8_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2514/4230706439_b2bb1ef8de_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="My poor shoes. Saying goodbye to an old friend, Montreal"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2514/4230706439_30b640452c_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Background</span><br /><br />Montréal is the world's third biggest Francophone city in the world - that's 'French speaking' to you madam - after Paris and Kinshasa. Don't let that put you off though, despite it's size, the centre is walk-able, and the colonial history here is quite fascinating. The archaeological museum here is build atop a shared Indian / Colonial cemetery, and one of the first buildings that was ever constructed in this fair metropolis.<br /><br />Once the capital of New France, a report by Lord Durham - into the rebellions in Canada in the mid 1800's, was rightly quite upsetting to a lot of the people here. After slandering the French for having little or no culture, he went on to surmise that the government should decide "once and for ever, the national character of the province," and as if anyone was unsure, he went on <span style="font-style:italic;">"I entertain no doubts as to the national character which must be given to Lower Canada; it must be that of the British Empire."</span> Montréal is now the biggest city in the province of Québec, the flag of which rasps atop flagpoles outnumbering the Maple leaf some 3:1 - the whole vibe of the place is terrific, with people flitting between French and English as they jaywalk across the snowy streets.<br /><br />The Old Town has it's own charm, with it's small, European style streets, sprinkled liberally with Gothic churches. To the North East of the city, is the 1976 Olympic Stadium. It probably won't shock you to hear that it is very similar in style to it's German counterpart, built for the Munich games some 4 years earlier. The roof now no longer works, as the snow makes it too heavy to lift. Evidently these same bright sparks who planned the layout have gone on to find work in just about every project who's goal was to create yet another overpriced, noteworthy English building.<br /><br />The nights out were good. Organised by the hostel, led by the receptionist with a penchant for loud jackets, a variety of Canadian beer, and clubs that finally led me to understand the term 'meat market'. <br /><br />Montréal. Cold. Fun. Terrific. Despite the weather here being the kind intended only for the irredeemably evil, where the best option once you are outside just seems to be to lay down on the ground and hope to die as quickly as possible.Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-1896174315101487702009-12-29T17:59:00.001+00:002010-01-04T19:27:14.379+00:00United States of America<span style="font-weight:bold;">USA</span> 17-20th January, 2008<br /><img src="http://en.citizendium.org/images/thumb/2/2b/Usaflag.png/200px-Usaflag.png" height="25" width="50"/><br /><br />So it begins. Leaving home. Everything. My family. My friends. My routine. My life. For longer than I ever have before.<br /><br />After a last night at home relaxing with friends, I became ever so slightly panicked at my plan - and just what the hell I thought I was doing. I knew I should have had that beer... time passes, eating into what should have been a good night's sleep, as I once again do battle with bastard iTunes as I try and update my iPod.<br /><br />Anyway, morning comes, and all is going smoothly after a cup of tea with my nan and my Dad dropping me off at the airport - until a BA flight touches down too early and beaches itself just short of the runway. Bad weather on top of that ensures that we leave England a good three hours late.<br /><br />An emotional drunkenness overtakes me, and for all that I've come to dislike about home, I was really going to miss it. Eventually. Ultimately, I'm a very proud Englishman.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">New York</span><br /><br />With the minimum of fuss, we reach NYC and the queue for immigration. After that I'm vaguely unconscious with tiredness, and reach my hostel where I'm past the stage of polite conversation. Alas, the visit preceding mine was that of a sweaty feet convention, and some 2 days of window opening fails to freshen the room in the slightest. One, or perhaps, maybe the key reason I didn't spend longer in the Big Apple.<br /><br />The next day, gasping for air I make it out of my room early and begin pounding the streets. Downtown. Criss-crossing 5th, 6th and 7th Avenues all the way. Breakfast is taken within sight of the Empire State Building, where I seem to impress with my politeness. Probably less so when I leave no tip. Greenwich Village arouses no interest, although I don't look very hard. This is even more true of SoHo and many other of the central areas. My interest overall was generally starting to wane.<br /><br />One of the main places I had wanted to visit was the site of the WTC. Currently an enormous building site, a small memorial (more to follow in the blueprints) just touches on the little pocket of immense hell that opened up on that day in New York. In some places it is possible to see into the site, the foundations are like a crater, which in the days following were filled with crevasses in between the tangles mess of bodyparts, brickdust, razor sharp twisted metal and entirely flattened cross-sections of the buildings - now just ghosts on the Manhattan skyline.<br /><br />That fresh in my mind, I amble down to Battery Park - visiting the Statue of Liberty - and the almost infinitely more interesting Ellis Island. I spend a couple of hours wandering the wrong way round - avoiding the crowds - and trying to get a handle on the place again. It is undeniably fascinating.<br /><br />For me at least, there really was a very clinical, almost Auschwitz like efficiency about the place in it's heyday. The stories told there really stir up so much emotion in me. It's bewildering to think of these people leaving everything they've ever known behind - some illiterate - some who had never even held a pencil - waiting with thousands of others like them - and not - to get the nod, to enter into the New World. Skyscrapers. The City. The Statue of Liberty. I can only marvel with a strange smile at the feelings they must have felt in those days when America first flung open her doors too all-comers. Taking their first steps together.<br /><br />My favourite, heart warming part of the day follows by way of a quote from a Polish immigrant at the start of the 20th Century.<br /><br />"They asked us two questions, "How much is two and one? How much is two and two?" But the next young girl also from our city, went and they asked her, "How do you wash stairs, from the top of from the bottom?" She says, "I don't go to America to wash stairs.""<br /><br />Superb :)<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2695/4229248923_3d799d0110_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Pecks and the City, New York"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2695/4229248923_7db5b40132_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4045/4230013560_01e91371e6_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Ellis Island, New York"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4045/4230013560_fbc20feb89_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2602/4230013312_4005b85067_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Wall Street and the NYSE, New York"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2602/4230013312_dd78761604_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4028/4229246115_9d2739436b_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Ellis Island, New York"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4028/4229246115_d2ef2bbb7e_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Washington DC</span><br /><br />The chance to see the capital is too much to pass up, so I get up early to cross NYC to buy my ticket - stopping only to help a poorly woman who has collapsed on the Subway. There are that many mentals in the city, so much so that it's very disconcerting when anyone even talks to you - let alone actually finds themselves in need.<br /><br />Leaving Union Station in DC - the Capital (Congress) building is the first thing that grabs one’s attention. I walk the 11 blocks to my hostel - something that I come to regret - as my knees let me know all about it as the days goes on.<br /><br />Being a fan of the horror genre, high on my list of places to visit was the house - and indeed - the steps that were made famous by the 1973 film - The Exorcist. Somehow, this suburban Georgetown house looks less imposing with a black VW Beetle in the driveway. In hindsight, it takes an abominably long time to get to, ultimately costing me a chance of visiting the Lincoln Memorial, which I would have liked to have seen.<br /><br />I see the rest of the sights, potter around some shops, and pick up a ticket for the hockey game that evening. It’s pretty cold, and the circulator bus which services the main highlights takes a while to reach me time I want to hop on. The light fails me by the time I get to the White House, but I have a look around, and generally avoid getting lost amongst the cordoned off roads.<br /><br />Ice hockey rounds off my trip to Washington, where I sup on a Guinness and watch the Washington Capitals sprint into a 3-0, first period lead. The Florida Panthers get back into it gamely, as the poor goaltending continues, yet ultimately it’s the ‘Caps’ who run out 5-3 winners.<br /><br />I sleep with a dorm to myself… wake at 2am… and struggle to find a taxi driver who fancies going to the station. The hostel receptionist assured me that getting a cab would be no problem, even at silly o'clock. One chap helpfully informs me that he’s “not going that way.” Hmm, are you going to tell him - or should I?<br /><br /><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4229244271_0c270d431f_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Union Station, Washington DC"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4025/4229244271_886c896c11_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2511/4229244009_d71ce2f0b0_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Capitol building, Washington DC"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2511/4229244009_3aa7d5020e_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4058/4229320443_de3716dbe8_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="The White House, Washington DC"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4058/4229320443_bf813e3307_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4060/4229249701_035f2a472e_o.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Amtrak service, Washington to Montreal, via NYC"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4060/4229249701_69928f066a_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Stopover</span><br /><br />Arriving back in New York in time for my egg, bacon and cheese roll breakfast - I try to stock up for my onward train to Montreal. Success in finding Peanut Butter M&Ms, but I'm denied a beer to drink on the train that evening, as they can't serve before midday.<br /><br />Once seated on the train, I delicately convince some puss from the painful spot in my ear, enabling me to listen to music for the first time in a couple of days, whilst some weirdo pesters the girls in our carriage. We reach customs at about 4pm, and I relay my poorly thought-out plans for Canada to the nice, assertive border guard. <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Where do I want to go? </span><br />The Maritimes. St. Pierre et Miquelon.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Did you know that it's been snowing?</span><br />Yes I know. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Do I have any family in Canada? </span><br />Yes. An aunt who once asked me how to spell 'pizza'. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Will I be staying with her? </span><br />No, not if I can help it.<br /><br />Thank you, I will enjoy my stay.<br /><br /><br />Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/sets/72157603786132472/" target="_blank"><img src="http://assets.panda.org/custom/socialnetworking_icons/flickr_button.png" height="40" width="40" /></a><a href="http://share.ovi.com/album/neontrotsky.USA" target="_blank"><img src="http://a3.twimg.com/profile_images/461299057/twitter_ovi_logo_nokia_green_bigger.png" height="40" width="40" /></a>Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4977403331113948277.post-90389551365673097632009-12-29T17:56:00.000+00:002010-11-24T16:53:55.829+00:00Iceland<span style="font-weight:bold;">Ísland</span> 3-15th January, 2008<br /><img src="http://bestfunfacts.com/PhotosCountries/FFiceland_flag.png" height="16" width="22"/><br /><br />Having bought myself a new camera especially for my 2008 travels, it was only proper then, that my main activities before leaving for the airport were dominated by the disappearance of my camera charger... this hectic last minute search ends in total success. I'm off. Twelve days in Iceland. Got my diary. Not a single pen. Unlimited access to stationary at work, and I didn't even take a bloody pen.<br /><br />My arrival in Reykjavík coincided with being buffeted furiously by a wind so wild that you couldn't actually tell which direction it was trying to blow you in. On the bus to the city, I began talking with a lovely German girl who had been living in Iceland for 11 months - and helped me with my then non-existent plan by suggesting to me a route, and some places not to be missed, to which I replied occasionally with witty aplomb and my finest Deutsch. She taught me my first lesson of Icelandic weather, which apparently is that "there is no such thing about bad weather [in Iceland], only bad clothes."<br /><br />I laid down some plans with the help of my guidebooks when I got to the hostel, and to be honest - I was feeling a little overawed... that perhaps I was in Iceland for too long... it was going to be too expensive... and just generally, 'what the hell am I doing?' Fortunately, the chap at reception is the first of many excellent sources of information in the hostel about Iceland. After a chat, and a look at the prices of tours (at least 100GBP for the all-day ones), I am rapidly convinced as to the merits of renting a car. I put a note up on the bulletin board, to see if anyone else would like to share the ride, and decide to crash out for the evening.<br /><br />When driving out of Reykjavík, there are large shipping containers - each with a terrible car wreck atop, encouraging people to drive safely. To be honest though, this has little effect upon me - with the recent revelation of QPR becoming the world's richest club, I'm still full of excitement and intent to live for many decades yet. Besides, there's a happy little fungus on my foot who wouldn't thank me too much if I kicked the bucket just yet.<br /><br />Only joking.<br /><br />It's not on my foot. For the first time in a few days, I have a good night's sleep, take an expensive lunch (16GBP), and decide to get to grips with Reykjavík city. The weather is hovering uneasily above and below 0 degrees, much like an ill-fitting pair of trousers that can't quite decide where to sit on your waist. I've forgotten to pack my thermal undercrackers, and fate has decided that with only three pairs of socks in my bag (don't ask), I will be rotating these for as long as it takes for me to find some reasonably priced wardrobe additions locally.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2679/4225647237_a89443eb6c.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Street scene, Reykjavik" width="403" height="604"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2679/4225647237_a89443eb6c_s.jpg"/></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4026/4225646573_86209743b9.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Whaling ship, Reykjavik docks"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4026/4225646573_86209743b9_s.jpg"/></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4056/4225599405_9d0efe2b26.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Houses by frozen lake, Reykjavik"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4056/4225599405_9d0efe2b26_s.jpg"/></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4036/4225644517_f4f742c3d7.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Hallgrímskirkja Church, Reykjavik"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4036/4225644517_f4f742c3d7_s.jpg"/></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The city</span><br /><br />That evening is my first foray into the kind of night most Reykjavíkurs get used to every weekend... drinks flow very freely before you go out, around midnight, to the best bars on the strip. Most play pretty sound music, are full of exceedingly beautiful girls, and proceed to charge 600 krónur (6GBP) for a beer, and 780Kr (8GBP) for a Smirnoff Ice. Beer was forbidden here until 1989 - but pretty much every week since, the vote that changed this has been celebrated royally. God bless democracy. Getting in at 5am, I decide to postpone my 8am tour 'til the next day. When I say postpone, I should clarify by saying, I sleep until 2pm, then get up, go to reception, and ask them nicely to change it :)<br /><br />That day's highlight is visiting a restaurant by the harbour, ran by an old fisherman, whose signature dish is the wonderful lobster soup. 850Kr (8GBP) shows that local foods are no cheaper than anything else... but the portion is a good size, and extremely satisfying. I consider returning to the same place again later in the week, for the whale kebab that caught my eye. I start to consider the ethics of such a purchase, though at that time am more concerned about the QPR's FA Cup tie that I'm missing to be in Iceland... sad I know.<br /><br />The tour does indeed go ahead, the snow is swirling down by the time we reach Gulfoss - a remarkable waterfall that battles the freezing conditions to continue it's spectacular display. Having taken the sensible precaution of wearing trainers with absolutely no grip, I give up some way down the sheer ice path, and decide that a closer view is not for me. I later hear that if I had tried climbing over the fence, and holding onto the rope on that side, then there's nothing but snow - and it's not so slippery. The kind of person who would suggest such a thing, is obviously the kind of person to whom the phrase 'natural selection', has not occurred.<br /><br />Geysir is the next place on the tour, where geothermally heated areas stop any snow from settling lead the way up to Stokkur - which is Iceland's main geyser since 'the other one' blew itself to bits some years ago. In fact, at Geysir, there are a few areas that still erupt - but two only do so when an earthquake is imminent (thankfully not), and another which will only put on a show if you empty soap into it (didn't have any to hand...). Every 4-5 minutes these go off, the water level rising and falling by a few inches - and then a huge turquoise dome rises forth from the spout, producing a jet of steam 30m high that then drifts in the direction of the wind.<br /><br />Several viewings, and a disappointing zero scaldings later, we go off to Þingvellir National park - site of the first Icelandic parliament over one thousand years ago, and the area where the earth's crust is being physically torn apart. Iceland gains about 2mm of land a year here, where the North American and European plates are moving apart just ever so slowly.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4018/4225613281_907f314739.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Gullfoss, nr. Reykjavik"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4018/4225613281_48ff64572a_o.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2724/4225611479_c9a5f38386.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Geyser, Geysir"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2724/4225611479_ecc0dc4d99_o.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2775/4225608731_f76c91b298.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Þingvellir national park, Iceland"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2775/4225608731_1487f3c5fe_o.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2663/4225608349_199f7069e9.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Þingvellir national park, Iceland"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2663/4225608349_eba81010a0_o.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Leaving the brightlights</span><br /><br />I rent my car, a Honda Jazz with studded tyres, and make my way north. Grundarfjörður is my base for the night, and it's getting dark by the time I get there. The second biggest village on the peninsula, with about 900 people living there, this is where I hope to see the Northern Lights... and make my way to Snæfellsjökull tomorrow - setting for the start of Journey to the Centre of the Earth - and perhaps the main reason that I took to starting my own trip in Iceland, in the beginning of January.<br /><br />The display of the Aurora Borealis is nothing short of breathtaking. I often think how spoilt we are in modern life, so blessed are we that we are aware of most of the beauty in the world, so much so that some things just fail to push the buttons in your mind that they should, when you are actually seeing them. I take this back unequivocally having stood agog at the side of a desolate road, mouth wide open, just staring at the sky. Pictures just don't do it justice.<br /><br />Starting as a green band across the sky, it proceeded to change shapes, move up and down - and upon occasion, almost light up the entire bay. There was a part of the performance, which, odd as it sounds, was almost especially for me - a whisp of light appeared from nowhere above my head, splitting in two before meeting again, becoming brighter, and then fading away as it seemed that the very thin green dust from above the clouds would sprinkle down upon me. Sheer magic.<br /><br />The quiet time alone allowed me to think clearly, the mind cleansed of worldly thoughts and concerns - and this kind of clarity is all too often at a premium when surrounded by a not-so-carefully chosen tour group of dullards and yokels who couldn't tell their three r's from their elbow.<br /><br />The next day, I drive around the peninsula in West Iceland, to view the Snæfellsjökull volcano and glacier. It is a massive size, and as you drive across the increasingly gravelly roads in-between huge long-since-cooled lava flows, you can't help but be impressed. For two and a half hours, I drive along a 'B' road which is just gravel and ice - seeing about one car. Although it gives one a great view of some desolate homesteads and almost uninhabited fjords, it takes bloody ages to get off it... and I'm wary of going too fast - as my insurance doesn't cover damage to the underside of your car caused by 'off road' driving. Oops. Increasingly tired of driving through heavy snow, I pull in at the nearest village (700 inhabitants), where I crash for the night. The next day it is still 2-3 hours to Akureyri, Iceland's second city, and I realise that if I had pressed on the night before trying to make up time - there probably would have been some kind of accident.<br /><br />I found after some time of driving an automatic, I was actually completely bored of it... and so proceeded to fiddle with my iPod / eat / rearrange myself to the point where I was almost veering off the road onto one of the steep embankments either side. Not too close however, but I really should have paid more attention than I was at times. What a fool...<br /><br />Not far from Akureyri is Lake Mývatn, which is an enormous lake surrounded by craggy volcanic rocks and the odd foreboding crater. This not being enough for me, I take another, smaller road, up past a geothermal energy plant to a site which is still technically active - and scientists / volcanologists studying the area have noted that magma chambers in the vicinity have been filling up over the last few years, suggesting that it's only a matter of time before there is another eruption. The guidebooks warn not to stray from the path, lest you should happen across some of the area where the earth is a mere few centimetres thick - and you're knee deep in boiling water / mud / lava before you realise what is actually happening. On the day that I visit, the path is completely covered in a drift of snow so thick that I cannot actually see the route to take, and with no other people or cars around the steep, snowy roads, I decide this is the kind of place I should probably leave until my next trip to Iceland... !<br /><br />That evening is spent soaking in the local hot pots, 38, 40, and 43°C geothermal pools - where men are men and others weep silently. Swimming baths and hot pots seem to be to the Icelanders what saunas are to the Finns, so the whole event in itself is exceedingly social. This prepares me nicely for my six hour drive back to Reykjavík the next day, to which I am returning for another night on the tiles. I find an international group to spend my evening with, thought it is rather quieter than the last evening out - but an Australian chap and I set out our intentions for the following night - where, as it happens, I order myself a shot of both 'Opal' and 'Topaz', two salt-liquorice spirits which taste as good as they sound. To borrow a line from the Flashman papers, "even to sniff the stuff shrivelled the hairs off your arse." After impressing some Finns with my paltry linguistic skills, (my pronunciation is excellent, apparently), it's time for more sleep, and more car rental - the South of Iceland is next...<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2614/4225646053_cddf103bcc.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Church on the Snæfells peninsula, Iceland"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2614/4225646053_cddf103bcc_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4070/4225606335_69960d117c.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Stronger aurora, near Grundarfjörður"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4070/4225606335_69960d117c_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2759/4226370860_610c1c7e07.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Power station, northern Iceland"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2759/4226370860_610c1c7e07_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4035/4225603505_9fdea8d446.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Snæfellsjökull volcano, Iceland"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4035/4225603505_9fdea8d446_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The South Coast</span><br /><br />Without getting lost before leaving Reykjavík this time, I'm on my way to Höfn with a new French travel buddy - François. This was his first trip outside of France, and he seemed overwhelmed by the surroundings. I took this in good humour, and as the trip went on - he proved himself to be a most interesting and entertaining person to share a car journey with. We stop at the Skogafoss waterfall, the spray from which has settled a fine sheen around a large radius, making it almost impossible not to slip and fall flat on your face. Being the sort of chap that looks danger square in the face, and sniggers, I moved closer to the waterfall to snap some quite impressive pictures of bizarre ice formations that looked almost alien. Maintaining both decorum and my balance, I slid gingerly back to the car, and spent much of the period of darkness making good time along the south coast of the island.<br /><br />Lying just south of the Arctic Circle, Iceland is actually blessed with daylight during the winter months. From 11am-4.30pm the sun pokes itself above the horizon, though it never really reaches above a 10 degree angle. The main issue is organising ones time effectively in order to see enough of the incredible landscape before it gets dark. Eight hours passed... and we reached Höfn í Hornafirði. Now Höfn is the kind of place which has three restaurants, and the fact that this was Sunday already having slipped my mind, these were all closed. The almost lustful thoughts of grilled lobster, which had sustained me all day, would have to wait until the next day before it was consummated... and was it, an entire bowl of a half kilo lobster, grilled, with a garlic sauce. Sensational, absolutely sensational, and the fact that it was the most expensive price that I had ever paid for a meal didn't linger long in my mind. This was, undoubtedly, an early contender - and indeed a favourite, for my 'meal of the trip.' A prestigious award, have no doubt of that dear reader.<br /><br />Jökulsárlón. Jökulsárlón - if I may describe in a very bland way that in no shape or form conveys what an incredible place this is - is a glacial lagoon where Europe's largest glacier, the size of Yorkshire in fact, reaches the sea. Seals rear their heads in-between the almost, unnaturally blue chunks of ice that form a vista that is almost impossibly beautiful. Not a lot is made of it in the guidebooks (hang your heads), but I spend almost an hour here - taking upwards of 200 pictures, as I try to get some kind of handle on this bewildering place.<br /><br />Iceland really is the kind of place where you simply run out of superlatives, it's just an unreal place. Desolate, yes. Certainly in winter. I realised, freezing my fingers off in that special place, that Iceland was just the kind of place where I should have started my trip. If you begin as you mean to go on, setting the bar high from the off, you would have to work very hard to top this kind of magnificence.<br /><br /><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2492/4226367664_79cd957458.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Ice formations, Skógafoss"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2492/4226367664_79cd957458_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2783/4225593227_7df7b2d9f2.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="End of a glacier, Jökulsárlón"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2783/4225593227_7df7b2d9f2_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4029/4226365172_355dbaf4f3.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Leaving Höfn"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4029/4226365172_355dbaf4f3.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2598/4225642593_600df74dd5.jpg" rel="lightbox" title="Vatnajökull, heading back to Reykjavik"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2598/4225642593_600df74dd5_s.jpg" height="70" width="70" /></a><br /><br />Please check out more of my photos on Flickr/Ovi/more to follow:<br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/witandcaboodle/sets/72157603723344656/" target="_blank"><img src="http://assets.panda.org/custom/socialnetworking_icons/flickr_button.png" height="40" width="40" /></a><a href="http://share.ovi.com/album/neontrotsky.Iceland" target="_blank"><img src="http://a3.twimg.com/profile_images/461299057/twitter_ovi_logo_nokia_green_bigger.png" height="40" width="40" /></a>Leo Phillipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08716302614373368030noreply@blogger.com0