Sunday, 14 September 2014

People I've Met On The Road – Frikushon

Teaching In Tokyo
Sometime in the depth of a freezing winter in the early 1980's, a Liverpudlian friend and I were living in a very chilly apartment in Tokyo while making ends meet teaching English. In those days, with a degree it was possible to get work at a language school and stay there on a six-month tourist visa. My degree was a fake since I didn't have one at the time. After the six-months was up one needed to leave the country and apply for another tourist visa. This could usually be done three or four times before they said no. So my friend and I came to the end of our visas and with very little available cash, had to find the cheapest route to getting a new one. Flights were expensive. Eventually we worked out our best bet was to hitch-hike to Shimonoseki in the south-west of Japan and go by ferry to South Korea then take a bus over the mountains to Seoul.


 It was not hard to see where Ridley Scott got his ideas for Blade Runner

Truck Mechanic
We set off in the early hours. Hitch-hiking was not something the Japanese understood in the early eighties. After hours of waiting we managed to get a truck to stop by flagging him down. In pigeon-Japanese we explained where we were going. An hour later, in early dawn, we were rudely awakened by a rumbling noise and the driver pulled over. One of the rear tyres was punctured and torn half off. The driver seemed unsure how to change it for the spare. Eager to get some distance under our belts I stepped in and helped him change the huge and filthy wheel. We were rewarded with a superb breakfast before being dropped off outside Osaka.


Wedding Guests
Our next host was a man in a car en-route to his brother's wedding near Okayama. Hiro was very chatty and eager to practice his English. He bought us lunch and we became firm friends – so firm in fact, that he made a phone call and insisted on taking us with him to his brother's wedding party. Much alcohol was consumed and many more friends made before we continued on our way, stopping off at Okayama for the night. It was then I realised I had the name of the friend of a friend who worked there at the Women's University. In a moment of crazy optimism, my friend and I called the uni and asked if they had an English girl working there named Christine. Eventually they understood and found one. It was indeed her. We had never met before.

Japanese Massage
Meeting her after work, Christine took us to a pre-arranged dinner party with the Principal of her university and some other teachers. Here we were encouraged to consume too much sake and I became romantically entangled with the hotel owner's lovely daughter, who I remember wooing with a story of being in Japan to study massage. We left later under a dark cloud, but were treated as heroes by the ageing Principal, who took us drinking until he fell unconscious from his bar stool and we had to carry him home via a taxi. Here we stayed the night before being served a reviving breakfast and continuing on our journey to Shimonoseki.

Slow Bus To Seoul
The ferry crossing was rough and we had to sleep on the carpeted floor with the Koreans, who were of similarly limited means. From these kindly people we learned the scam of buying a bottle of Johnny Walker whiskey from a kiosk in Shimonoseki and selling it at a reciprocal kiosk in Pusan, on the other side. It almost paid for our trip. In Pusan we boarded a rickety old coach to Seoul. A small TV at the front blared out Korean music and showed Kung Fu films all the way along the bumpy mountain roads. It was a terrifying and exhausting experience. Finally in Seoul we found the embassy and organised our visas before staying a night in a hostel where we slept in a courtyard on the floor alongside coal fires, with rats scurrying around throughout night. It was a well known dirt-cheap establishment named Inn Daiwon, which I believe burned down several years later.

Wild Journey Home – Tokyo Punks Knew How To Party
After getting chased out of a sleazy bar by a gang of drunken US servicemen, my friend and I boarded a bus to repeat our mountainous and bumpy journey back to Pusan. Another stormy boat ride ensued, after which we found ourselves hitch-hiking in the freezing early hours in Shimonoseki. We had barely slept in two nights and were so tired we hardly knew where we were. With only enough cash for a can of warm coffee from a vending machine (in our tiredness we mistakenly pressed the cold coffee button), we waited hours with no luck until eventually in a state of sheer exhaustion we lay down to sleep on the concrete verge of the motorway.
It was probably about 6am when we felt someone shaking us. Frozen stiff, we looked up to see a skinny man in sunglasses, a leather jacket and drainpipe jeans.

"Dude, speak Engrish?" he shouted. "Where you go, fukkah... Tokyo?"

Struggling to focus we climbed to our feet and followed his instruction to get into his van. In the back we found four other pale and skinny young men along with a drum kit, guitars and amps. Too shattered to ask questions we simply climbed in and lay in the pile with the other guys. It was about an hour before we opened our eyes again and attempted any communication.


"Fuuuk you crazy boys. Samui des nih? (cold no?)"

We agreed, we were as cold as a man can be. We explained where we had been and where we were going. The other bodies, roused from sleep by our story, began laughing uproariously.

"All okay now fukaas!" said the man with the sunglasses. "We are Frikushon. Punk music, yeah? We go Kagoshima play punk music. Too much crazy fukaah distance! Now go home Tokyo. You sleep more, no problem."




But we were awake now. A punk band we thought? now that was interesting. We asked them if they knew The Clash. The Damned? The Jam? They certainly did. The man with the sunglasses grabbed a guitar and began a familiar riff. From deep down in the pile of bodies around us a sound began to resonate. It was a sound somewhere between the howl of a wounded animal and singing:

"In a city one a thousan' thing I wanna say to you...!!"

Punk Friction
For hours we sang together... screamed and groaned. The drummer banged his hands and even his head against the metal side of the van. Cymbals crashed. A drum was broken over someone's head. The long journey seemed to pass in no time. It was an utterly wild experience and by the time they dropped us in our area of south-west Tokyo we had sung ourselves hoarse. I couldn't teach for a day after we got back. I was mute. Yes those Tokyo punks knew how to party. Fukaas!




Friction on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwHDD2DRZo4

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc. 
In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.

Sunday, 7 September 2014

People I've Met On The Road – Kiriyakos

Forested Thassos
Way back in the seventies, I was hitchhiking through South-eastern Europe and took a ferry from the lovely port of Kavala (east of Thessaloniki) to the island of Thassos. I had read about the densely forested Thassos in a book when I was in my last year of school. I had vowed to go there and three years later there it was ahead of me on the horizon, floating in an incredibly azure Aegean Sea. It was not a long voyage. Probably little more than half an hour if my memory serves me correctly. The first stop was the seaside village of Skala Prinos. It had seemed logical to me to go first to the main town, but Prinos looked so inviting and undeveloped that I could not resist disembarking there.

 Thassos - The larger town of Limanos back then


I Too Much Young For Work
The jetty at Skala Prinos was tiny and in need of repair. Three or four of us climbed ashore and waved the small ferry off as we stepped over the missing planks and headed towards the one single cafe. This was a laid-back kind of a place even by Greek standards, I could see that. I sat myself at a small, wobbly table and ordered a coffee. Despite being on a tight budget it seemed the right thing to do if I wanted to meet people. I surveyed the beach and the wooded hills behind.


It was just as beautiful as I had hoped. In those days, Prinos amounted to a collection of about twenty or so little whitewashed houses in front of the ferry stage, with a few larger houses that I could see further along as the little road rounded the headland. Unfinished reinforcing rods poked through the flat concrete roofs, visible among the trees. The beach would be quiet along there, with little hidden coves, so it would be perfect as a place to sleep so long as there were no sewage pipes. These attracted mosquitos. I had a sleeping-bag and a military waterproof groundsheet-cum-poncho, which had served me well down through France, along the French and Italian Rivieras and down through Yugoslavia before arriving here in Northern Greece. I was straining my eyes, looking for the best coves, when someone stepped into my field of vision. It was a stocky looking young man with dark curly hair and a few days growth of beard.

"Kalimera," he said, holding out a hand.
"Kalimera," I replied, although it was now afternoon rather than morning.
"America?"
"No England. My name is Mark, have a seat."

The young man sat down casually and put his feet up on the spare chair. Perhaps his family owned the cafe, I wondered? He smiled a lot, almost like he knew me from the past and I hadn't realised it. But I didn't know him, I was sure of that.

"I am Kiriyakos. Say me Yakos. Jour friend in Prinos!"

Yakos shook my hand again and ordered a coffee from the young waiter. His manner with the waiter was rather surly, I thought. A local pecking order thing, perhaps?


I was unsure of Yakos at first, convinced that at any moment he was going to ask me to come to look at blankets, sandals or bazoukis in his friend's shop, but he did not. He only wanted to talk. His English vocabulary was sparse but what little he knew he used inventively. He asked me about my life in England – about school, art college, work. He wanted to know about what kind of houses or apartments we lived in, what cars people drove in England, but most of all he wanted to know about girls.

"I too much like England girls... oh yeah, wow!" He mimed some girlish mannerisms and we both laughed. "You like see Prinos?" he asked. "Walk for the beach?"

I finished my coffee, paid and we got up. The waiter would not allow me to pay for Yakos' coffee, yet Yakos did not pay either. Perhaps he had an account, I wondered?

Prinos People No Pay
"Prinos people no pay here," he muttered as we headed along the dusty road past the small makeshift car park. "Look my uncle." Yakos pointed out to sea at a fishing boat bobbing about on the waves. "I too much like fish."


"Is that your job – your work I mean – fishing?" I asked, miming the casting of nets and pointing to the boat.

"Yakos don't to make job. Yakos too much young for work, my friend," he laughed. "Work later. Now I like to make all days for enjoy the life."

I was not sure if he was talking only about today or whether this was his general philosophy of life. We walked the length of the beach in one direction, about a mile I suppose. When we got back to the cafe I was expecting to continue in the other direction towards the coves and the big houses.

"No no my friend, first come to cafe. Too much hard for walk. Muchas illios! Too much sun. Yakos very tiring. Sit, sit down please!"

We sat and Yakos explained how life was, in his opinion, too full of opportunities for pleasure to be exerting oneself.

"Too much working, Yakos die young man, same like Yakos father."

I questioned Yakos further. Had I understood correctly? Had his father died young? It was an uncomfortable question in a culture that I so far barely knew.

"He has forty years. Too much working, working. Try to make money, money. Athini, Thessaloniki, Germany. Heart..." Yakos clutched his chest and grimaced.

"My father too," I said. "Thirty-seven years. Heart." I too clutched my chest and adopted a pained expression.

Yakos looked hard at me. "Your father same? Die thirty-seven years?"

"I was fifteen years old," I told him.

"I ten years. Too much small boy," he replied, tears in his eyes. "We are brothers, Mark. Yakos and Mark, brothers no?"

"Yes brothers," I said, patting his shoulder. I was moved, though clearly not as much as he was. My North European reserve, perhaps? Yakos waved to the waiter and shouted something. A moment later he arrived with a pair of brandy glasses filled to the brim.

"My brother," said Yakos proudly, presenting me to the waiter. The waiter shook my hand. "Metaxa.
Greek brandy. Drink!"

The Carrot & The Donkey
I drank the brandy, eventually. I was surprised, it was not at all bad. Fairly weak, thankfully. We talked more about our fathers. Yakos told me his mother was always angry with him for not working. She called him lazy. He didn't want to die young like his father, he told her. Did she want to lose her son as well as his father? This was his usual repost, he said. The fact was that I too extolled the virtues of a relaxed, carefree life. Who needed money when they had free time, shelter and fresh food from their garden or the sea? I was too idealistic, people back in England told me. It was a man's natural instinct to work to achieve more. A bigger house, a better car, a boat, holidays and a good education for their children. But I was never convinced by this theory. As far as I could see it was the carrot that spurred-on the donkey that kept the wheels of industry turning. I had listened to too many rich people grumbling about how unhappy and pointless their life was for me to believe in that.

"Come, we greet my mother!" said Yakos, jumping up.

Yakos' mother seemed accustomed to meeting tourists and wastrels befriended by her son. She was polite but maintained a definite air of scepticism. Yakos told me to leave my rucksack in the kitchen. His mother snapped grouchily in response and I quickly retrieved it again, but only to be told to put it in the living-room where it would be safer. I hoped Yakos wasn't going to try to persuade her later that I should stay with them. I would have to refuse. Walking along the beach, however, Yakos pre-empted any further concern I may have had on that front.

"You sleeps here on Prinos beach this night, Mark?"
"Yes I sleep on the beach, absolutely, yes."
"OK OK... Look, Mark, I am so much sorry you don't can stay my house. My mother she is angry for me. Too much friends coming. She say, Yakos no more! I am sorry my brother."

I told him I preferred to sleep on the beach. The sound of the waves. The sinking sun and dramatic magenta skies. I painted him such an attractive picture of it all in the hope of sparing him his embarrassment.
"The gulls," I said. "The stars – shooting-stars sometimes. The glow of the rising sun preparing to peep over the horizon and bring the dawn. It's so beautiful. So peaceful." Yakos seemed touched by my description. He became pensive.

"Mark. Yakos like very much to sleeping on the Prinos beach this night, yes? Same like brothers!" he told me.



Yakos was entranced by the stars, almost as if he had never noticed them before. The next morning we swam in the sea, then went and washed under a hose in the garden of a nearby hotel. A woman and her husband came out, clearly the owners. I was worried but they just laughed and brought us a towel each. Other people were watching from the windows. Yakos introduced me. Mama and Papa Angelos. They spoke no English but Papa did speak German. A guest-worker, like so many in Northern Greece. Yakos told them all about me and they shook my hand.

"Yakos bruder, jah? Guss Gott!" Said Papa. "Komen sie hierein bitte."

He led us inside and sat us down at a table amongst their smiling hotel guests. Breakfast was laid before us along with strong coffee. Greek coffee – exactly like Turkish coffee, except of course you must never say that, not to either nationality. Yakos could see I was concerned about money. It would not be necessary to pay, he said. Prinos people didn't pay, he explained. They do some work when it is needed or they bring some fruit, fish or bread when they have extra.

"Ah, barter," I said.
"Yes yes, sometime shoes also," he replied, pointing at his sandals.

Yakos asked what I would like to do for the day.

"You like to fishing?" he asked. "I am like too much fishing, my friend. We go fishing yes?"

The best place for fishing was a small jetty in the next village, apparenty. It was about three or four miles away. Yakos would not want to risk an early death by exerting himself in the walk there and back, I felt sure of that. Approaching the cafe Yakos went into the kitchen where they were busy making a moussaka. Kalimera's were exchanged all round. Dishes were examined and sniffed at. Compliments paid. Was anyone driving along the coast road, Yakos asked? A man appeared from out of a cloud of steam over a large pot of fish broth.

"Seega seega, Kiriyakos!" the man said, "Seega seega!"
This was, I learned, an important expression in Greece. Slowly slowly!

We returned outside and sat on the wall by the ferry. I didn't like to question Yakos over the arrangements. It was nearly twenty minutes before the man arrived and got into a three wheeled scooter with a home-made pick-up platform at the back. Yakos began helping the man to load some crates onto the back. I assisted as best as I knew how, tying some rope around the load before joining Yakos on the back, wedged between crates. The coast road was bumpy but the views were amazing. Colourful lizards scuttled off the road ahead of us and into the rocky verges.

"Mark, my friend. You can to find me one England girlfriend?" asked Yakos, lying back against the crates and gazing dreamily at the sky.
I considered asking him if he would find me a Greek girlfriend in return, but I knew too much of the culture already to risk that.

A vision of Yakos in years to come perhaps?

Gone Fishing
Yakos' fishing tackle was crude to say the least. No rod. An oversized hook on undersized line, or so it seemed to me. The kinked and knotted line was simply wrapped around a beer can. A coin with a hole was used as a weight. I was amazed that we caught anything at all but Yakos had the technique. The fish, being fairly small, were not generally caught by the lip. Instead the large hook was used to snag the fish in the abdomen or the tail as they massed around a piece of bread dropped into the clear, shallow water. In this haphazard way we had a bucket-full of three or four inch long fish within about an hour and a half. At this point Yakos packed up the tackle, took the bucket and headed for the bakery. Handing over a dozen or so of the shimmering fish, Yakos received in exchange, a large loaf and a couple of small coconut madeleine-style cakes. Next-door he borrowed a sharp filleting knife, a bucket of water and a couple of long barbecue skewers. Having prepared the fish and found a suitable amount of dry driftwood and kindling, Yakos then built a fire on the beach. Even the matches he scrounged from a fisherman. His slovenly attitude masked a practiced skilfulness. In no time at all we were tucking into delicious barbecued fish and fresh bread. The woman in the cafe even came down the beach and brought us a chopped up lemon.
"Sometimes I sharpen her knives for her," said Yakos. "She is my mother's friend from the school. My father's girlfriend before my mother," he laughed.




Riding home to Prinos in the back of another vespa pick-up truck that we had helped load with cabbages, I wondered about the lives of people back in England. Even the lives of Greeks in Athens or Thessaloniki, come to think of it. Why on Earth would anyone want for more than this? But there I was, being idealistic again.

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc. 
In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.

Saturday, 30 August 2014

People I've Met On The Road – Rainer & Eva

Necessity Is The Mother Of Invention

Cycling along the Vltava river this summer, on the outskirts of Ceske Budejovice in the Czech Republic, I decided to pitch my tent for the night before I got too close to the town. I didn't want to be forced to stay in a B&B. I'd spent more money than intended by extending my stay in a hostel in Prague. It's an easy place to fall in love with. Camping for a week or so would save me money and might prove more interesting, I had decided. How right I was.

Finding places to pitch a tent was never hard along the river heading south from Prague

This was a quiet stretch of the river and there were a number of likely looking spots for pitching a tent. Leaning my bike against a walnut tree, I picked up a large stick and used it to beat a path through the dense undergrowth just back from the riverbank. Shortlisting a number of possible spots, I continued on, hoping to find something with the right balance of privacy, shade and sunlight along with a soft level surface. Before too long my persistence was rewarded when I broke through some brambles into a lovely little glade with a base of clover and a boundary of camelia bushes.

An Encounter With Rainer
I was just tightening the guy-lines of my tent after returning to collect the bike, when I heard footsteps behind me. My heart sank as I turned, expecting to be told I couldn't camp here. Behind me was a bearded, bare-chested elderly man in a baggy pair of khaki shorts. Thick grey hair seemed to spring from every visible part of his body, almost as if he were a wild-man.

"Hallo, ich bin Rainer, guten abend!"


Pleased not to have been instantly told to clear off, I introduced myself in halting German and explained that I was a cyclist from the UK, making my way from Dessau in East Germany, down through the Czech Republic to the Danube in Austria and from there north-west up to Wurzburg. Rainer looked pleased as he enthusiastically shook my hand. He was an odd looking chap. It did not escape my notice that he was committing the heinous crime (according to my wife) of wearing socks with his leather sandals. Socks with large holes, through which his gnarled old toes were protruding.

"We are coming from Bremerhaven," he told me. I come down the Elbe river with my wife, starting in June but it is so cold and raining so much, jah? You are maintaining your cycle by your own self?"

I told him I was. As I did so I anticipated the reason for his question. No doubt his bike had broken and he was having difficulty repairing it.

"Ach so, perhaps you can help me," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder to guide me, "commen sie mit."


Following Rainer through the bushes and down through a well trodden hollow, we eventually came to a shaded area under tall horse-chestnut trees. Here was pitched an old tent with a washing line strung from the tent to a tree. On the line were some large ladies pants and a few pairs of socks. These also had holes. Ducking under the line and trying to avoid getting caught up in the pants I looked for Rainer, who had now stopped and had begun pulling away some branches, revealing what I could instantly see were the red and a yellow hulls of a pair of kayaks.


"Come look please," he said, "you must come closer please, closer."

Moving in behind Rainer I could see that the two kayaks were in fact joined together side-by-side with wooden struts. The struts were attached to four metal bands that had been bolted around the two hulls in front of and behind the cockpits.

"I am making this from small pieces. Some I must buy but most of them I am finding to the rubbish, hah!"

"Amazing," I said, taking care not to cause offence. "So, why are you doing this?"

"Why, yes of course, why? Yes, because my wife Eva – she is to the town to buy foods – she is having a problem mit... er, mit der..." Rainer rotated his arm and held his shoulder.

"Her shoulder?" I suggested.

"Jah jah, a problem mit her shjoulder. After so much like so mit der paddles each day, she has a big problem mit her shoulder. We stop for some days to rest of course. We continue more but problem comes back all times. For two months now. My job before is engineer. I like to build new machines... from my idea. She say we must buy one boat with motor or go back home. We must like to travel for Budapest. I say boat with motor too much expensive. Eva is sad. Then I am all night in the tent thinking what to do. Maybe this, maybe that. Change to go with bicycle maybe – but no, too much problem for shoulder also. Big kayak for two, I am thinking? Yes but so much small area for the luggages. Then I realise. Maybe I can make Eva's kayak with... with pedals. You know pedals?"

Rainer made a pedalling motion with his hands in case I had failed to understand him. I nodded in accord, trying not to smile.

"So jah, we are with the tent here and each day I am working. I try to make it from one old cycle equipments, but the kayak is too much falling over, ha ha. Crazy!"

"Unstable," I suggested.

"Yes, yes unstables. So more times I am thinking in the nights. Finally I see that I must fix my two kayak boats together and put some driving paddles between the two kayaks, like so."

Rainer pulled the kayaks out of the dark hollow so I could inspect his invention more carefully. Drawing my attention to the footwell of each kayak, he showed me how he had rigged up a crank that passed through both kayaks with rubber grommets to protect the plastic hulls. Onto that he had mounted pedals and in the centre, between the two hulls, a large cog with a chain leading to a set of metal strips fixed around another crank with a smaller cog at one end. He pointed to the metal strips. I was fixing wood pieces to the metal here to make paddles, but they every time breaking. I think about to use plastic from sweeping bucket but it break also.

"Now I ask one man to make metal paddle pieces in his workshop," said Rainer. "I think maybe it works, but I don't know. Here I have it, look!"

Rainer took a cardboard box from the back of the hollow. From it he took a piece of steel about a foot long by about four inches. Holes had been drilled for the fixings.

"I am to make it this day but the bolts he give me is too much small." Rainer threw his hands in the air in frustration. "I need this size but I only have one piece like so. I so much want to make it today but I must walk to the workshop in Hluboka. It is quite far, maybe ten or twelve kilometres, so I must go tomorrow."

"But I can go by bicycle," I told him. "It will take me half an hour. One hour to go and come back!"

"Can you do this?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"Of course I can," I assured him.


After Rainer had drawn me a map of how to get there, I set off at a healthy pace back along the narrow wooded cycle path to Hluboka. The man at the little workshop was just closing up when I arrived but made no fuss about having to dig out some new nuts, bolts and washers in exchange for the smaller ones. I was about to set off back along the path when he called me back. Into my backpack he pushed a brown paper bag, patted my back and waved me off. Inside was a large bottle of beer and a hard sausage.

My Encounter With Eva
Back at the camp I met Eva.

"Guten abend, you are Mr Mark, jah?"

I shook her hand. I noticed her caution at shaking with her right hand. Her shoulder must still be bothering her, I thought. Eva was a large, strong looking lady, well tanned with long grey platted hair. A woman who had wisdom in her eyes and written in the lines of her kindly face. She was folding her washing and had lit a fire with a large pot hanging over it, rather like the way men used to do it in cowboy films.

"Rainer washen!" she said, pointing towards the river and making the universal lathering under armpit gesture that is know throughout the world. "Essen!" she said, lifting the lid of the steaming cooking pot. "Hunchen, gut?"

"Jah, hunchen gut, danke!" I replied. I was not about to turn down chicken stew after my hard day's cycling.

With the light failing, it was difficult to begin fixing the blades of the paddles onto the drum, but returning from his evening ablutions Rainer wanted to at least try the bolts for size before opening the beer.

"Jah jah, das is richtig! Das is zair schoen," he muttered, holding it close to the light of the fire. "It is good I think, Mark. Very good. Tomorrow we can try. Eva is urgent to continue our journey. Her mother is living in Budapest so we must try to arrive before her Oktober birthday. She will have one hundred years!"

We opened the beer and drank a toast to Eva's mother. It was good beer and complimented Eva's chicken goulash well. We sat up late that night with Rainer telling stories of their exploits along their route so far, and Eva correcting him in the same way my own wife does with me. Perhaps we were not so different. I looked across at Rainer. He did not seem to possess a shirt. Like Eva I had covered up immediately the sun went down to avoid the fearsome Czech river mosquitos, yet while Eva and I were still bitten mercilessly, Reiner did not seem to receive a single nip.

"It is because his fur!" chuckled Eva, pulling at the forrest of grey hair on one of Rainer's arms.

"Jah, they are thinking I am a wolf maybe!" responded Rainer.

The next morning Rainer was up excitedly at first light. Hearing the chink of metal I crawled out of my tent to help him assemble the paddle blades on the drum. Like most engineers of his generation, Rainer was a meticulous worker. Carefully he inserted neoprene washers between the steel and the galvanised struts, before tightening the bolts to an equal tension all-round. Finally after assembling the paddle wheel onto the home-made catamaran, he tensioned the chain and motioned to me to help him drag the boat to the water.

First Sea Trials
"The first sea trials Mark, jah!" laughed Rainer.

But for a few minor adjustments the pedal-powered catamaran worked beautifully. Rainer was clearly delighted, although he did not congratulate himself. No doubt there had been many previous launches that had seemed successful at first and then failed. But this one was not going to fail, I could sense that, as I think could he. We continued up-stream for about twenty minutes before turning back. It was a beautiful morning and we watched in silence as swallows dived for insects over the shimmering water. We disturbed a heron hidden in the bullrushes as we struggled to make a clumsy turn in the unfamiliar boat.



"Eva, pack the luggages!" Rainer called out as we rounded the bend in front of our landing point. Eva was waiting at the bank. Her beaming smile said more than words ever could have.

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc. 
In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.

Monday, 25 August 2014

People I've Met On The Road – Emil

Bigger Apples Are Not Always Better

While I was cycling along the river Elbe in former East Germany with my wife this summer, I met a rather interesting man. In Riesa for a day and a night I had left my wife visiting a museum, as she likes to do, while I hung out in cafes, backstreet bars and along the riverfront. It was sitting on a bench by the river that I met Emil. He seemed to be trying to tie a hook on the line of his fishing rod. It was a rough old rod that I could see had been repaired many times. There was almost more glue and tape than rod. Emil was struggling with the task. This was partly due to clumsy fingers and partly due to poor eyesight, I deduced. A keen fisherman as a boy, I eventually offered to help. It was hard for me to watch an old man struggling like that.

The river Elbe meanders from the hills near Prague, all the way to the sea in Hamburg

"Can ich hilfe mit das?" I asked him, in equally clumsy German.

He smiled, muttered something incomprehensible and handed me the tangled mess.

"Francais?" he asked, "American?"

"Englander," I replied. 

He patted my shoulder. "Ah, English. I learn English in the school. Could you please direct me to the post office?" 

He laughed heartily. Confused at first, I laughed also when I realised this was a phrase he remembered from his English lessons. Putting on my glasses I began untangling the line. Emil introduced himself and began asking me questions about my trip and my life in England. At the same time as satisfying his curiosity, I focussed my attention on the business of tying the hook to his line. The job was soon complete. Offering him some figs and nuts from my backpack, I asked about his own circumstances.


"My name is Emil, I am born in Riesa, nineteen sixty-two," he told me. "I have fifty-two years."

He was younger than he looked. I had him down for around sixty or even more. His lined face intrigued me. I asked him where he lived, whether he worked and whether he was married or had children. He didn't seem to mind me asking such personal questions. He laughed again and banged me on the back.

"Ah this is good questions, my friend, jah very interesting questions."

Emil sighed. I waited patiently for his reply as he muttered to himself, chuckling and repeating the words wife, children and work. Eventually he went quiet, his gaze fixed on dragonflies hovering over the river, squinting against the backdrop of afternoon sun breaking through the willow trees, the trees swaying in the breeze and brushing the water like a dancer's skirt.


"Children no," he said, breaking the silence. "Wife finish, go to Berlin now. I don't have see her for five years. Job no. Working alone. Philosopher!" he laughed again. "Philosopher, yes."

Cautiously I pressed him to expand upon what he had told me about his life. Emil had trained as a mechanical engineer. He had grown up in a communist East Germany and had disliked the factory he had been forced to work in. He had not had any choice over where he worked, he explained. It was dark, noisy and miserable. After years of working in the factory he had become sick. Emil gestured towards a huge derelict brick building in the distance with a blackened chimney rising prominently on the skyline. He tapped his head. 

"Sick by the head, my friend." 

Emil's former workplace. Disused factories are everywhere in East Germany

Emil explained how he had left the single room flat which was tied to his work at the factory. He slept in an old shack by the river that was used to store lime and sulphur. The chemicals had burned his nostrils and lungs and had made his eyes sore. He had lived on soup that his old work colleagues shared with him from the factory canteen when he met them during their lunch-breaks. He had stolen vegetables from allotments and once a chicken, which he found himself unable to kill. Eventually he had found a better place to sleep where the hot water pipes crossed the river. These large pipes came from the factory. The hot water was a byproduct from the furnaces and it heated the blocks of flats in which he had lived. Little by little Emil had set up a diminutive home, suspended over the riverbank. Careful about coming and going, nobody had discovered him in the eight years he lived up there. There he had eked out a meagre existence, even growing his own vegetables in a corner of a nearby field, while he cannibalised old bits of dumped machinery for parts that he sold on the black market.


Eventually East Germany had been reunified with West Germany and Emil found he could make a good living selling recycled engineering parts from abandoned factories to West German businesses. He prospered and moved into a bungalow in a newly built suburb of nearby Dresden. Before too long he was driving a big BMW and eating out in smart restaurants. 

"I have in my house one big TV, refrigerator, microwave, porcelain plates from Meissen," he laughed again, "silk sheets on the bed! Yes yes I am rich. A swimming pool and then a wife. Too much beautiful wife, my friend, too much beautiful. Yes and a spend too much wife, oh yes! When I say stop to spend money she go, away." 

Trappings of the Capitalist Dream

I knew the bad news was coming, long before Emil began shaking his head and raising his hands to the sky. He was still smiling, yet now it was a crazy kind of smile.

"So much shit!" he said, "yes, yes, so much bloody shit! Soon I don't care about this expensive stuff. I am all days with pain, worrying. Then my customers telling me they can to buy cheaper the parts in Romania or Czech Republic. Men tell me I must give them too much money or I cannot go to the old machines. I try to fight them with lawyers but it is too much expensive. Gangsters. I spend so much money, so much. Then my wife in Berlin with another man is request me for divorce. More expensive lawyers. I am drinking so much, and smoking. Too much of stress!" Emil tugged at his thin hair and screwed up his eyes at these painful recollections. "Finally I have nothing," he said, calmer now. 

Emil sat back on the bench and breathed in the fresh aroma of the river on a summer afternoon. I felt uncomfortable having taken him back to these troubling memories. 

"I have nothing once more. And so I am happy. Very happy."

Emil explained how the day he climbed back up to the tiny space between the hot water pipes and found his old home intact, just as he had left it, was the happiest day of his life. He had seen the men arrive in a removals truck outside. He was living in an apartment that he had only recently downsized to, and yet here they were like vultures or wild dogs, ready to take his remaining possessions. He had shoved a few clothes and valuables into a bag and gone out the back way, leaving them to pick over what he had left.

"I was feeling like I am escaping from a prison," he said gleefully. "Jah, I still feel this. I am waking up each morning in my small place between the pipes and when I know where I am, I am laughing. Yes, laughing because I am so happy every day since that time. Communism was shit, but capitalism is not the answer for the problem my friend, no no."

"So what is the answer to the problem, Emil?" I asked.

"Freedom of course!" he replied, laughing again. "Jah, we used to dream of freedom in the communist days, but capitalism is not freedom. Bigger apples is not always better, you know? Sometimes they are not so sweet. I am sorry, I don't like to say bad for another's life, it is a choice for each one, but it is only one more kind of system that force you to do what they say. You can think you will be free but it is a lie. Many blind people my friend, working for another. Working... working for... the man. You understand?" 

I understood. I wanted to ask Emil if I could see where he lived but it didn't feel right somehow. It might have seemed to him that I needed further convincing that his way of life was better. I didn't, and I didn't want him to think that I did. Reaching down into a bag as I left, Emil handed me four bright red tomatoes and a sprig of wild thyme, which I took graciously. I bought some fresh bread and shared them with my wife in the park across from the museum. I think they were the most delicious tomatoes we had ever eaten.  

The most delicious tomatoes we had ever eaten

My sincere apologies must go to Emil. Within days of me posting this blog he has found himself troubled by people hunting for him along the Elbe near Riesa. However well-meaning, I would ask anyone reading this blog to please respect his privacy and desire for solitude. Thank you.

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc.

Monday, 18 August 2014

Relationship Overhaul

Cycling With My Wife

My wife Lorna is a family therapist so she has a good understanding of where things go wrong in relationships. Our youngest of three children is about to leave for university and it has become clear to Lorna that if we are to enjoy old age together, it would be better if we shared a few interests. And although we do share quite a few, my main pastime of long-distance cycle touring is not one of them. Being semi-retired and mainly dedicated to writing, I am inclined to spend months at a time on my bike. In 2008-9 I cycled 10,000 miles to Japan with my then 18yr old son over a period of 10 months (link to bestselling book Long Road Hard Lessons below). Consequently she could see that she might be living through long periods without me once our daughter Scarlett leaves home, and although we are comfortable being apart this did not seem ideal.

Laos. Sam & I on our 10,000mile ride to Japan in 2009

Lorna has never been attracted to, or enjoyed cycling. It was a shock to me therefore, that last year after my son Sam told me he didn't have time to cycle over the Himalayas with me, Lorna suggested she might train to do it with me. We would need to do a few other trips first, I told her, and she'd need a decent bike. This is how we ended up cycling down the Elbe river in East Germany this summer and down through the Czech Republic. It was a risk, I knew that, but probably a risk worth taking.

The Elbe Radweg (cycle path) is a beautiful route, passing through picturesque countryside and lovely towns as it meanders (in our direction - upstream) from Hamburg to the hills east of Prague. In addition to the benefit of meticulous German cyclepath engineering, the big plus for a reluctant cyclist is that it's almost entirely flat. Decent distances can be covered each day with relative ease, or so I thought. I planned an itinerary starting Lorna off gently with a 35km first day, gradually building up to a few 75km days towards the end. After all, I told myself, when my son Sam and I had been cycling along the Danube cycle path we had generally managed to cover 100km before lunchtime. Hence my feeling that this plan erred well on the conservative side of caution.

The Germans know how to make cycle paths & route maps

We began our ride in the town of Dessau, staying at the modernist architectural shrine of the Bauhaus campus, mostly designed by Walter Gropius. It was an auspicious start which Lorna began with trepidation. The panniers on the back of her new bike caused her problems immediately and she struggled to keep her balance as she lifted a cautious leg over the crossbar. In a moment she was cursing me as the bike fell sideways and the mudguard stays cut her delicate shins while she attempted to steady it. I looked on dumbfounded as dark red blood ran down her legs. How could anyone not be able to manage a bicycle with a couple of panniers? I asked myself. Quickly I taped over the exposed sharp ends of the stays and got us on the road. The path was lovely and we moved along slowly, Lorna wobbling a little but assuring me she was fine.

Walter Gropius' Bauhaus building. A shrine to the birth of modernist architecture.

By mid-day we were approaching our target, the historic small city Wittenburg, where the Reformation began with Martin Luther nailing his ninety-odd indulgences of the catholic church to a church door. That very church tower was in sight when I noticed Lorna was not behind me. I turned to see her sitting in the grass at the verge. I waited but she stayed put. Returning to see what was wrong and dreading a puncture, I met with a very angry woman.
"I cannot for the life of me understand why we did not stop at that last cafe by the river as all the other cyclists had!" she exclaimed in fury.
"They were probably having lunch before continuing to Torgau or somewhere even further," I replied. "We are staying in Wittenburg, therefore we need to find a hostel or pension before the rooms all go. I thought we'd do that then have lunch straight afterwards. There's a hostel just across the road there!"
"I don't care," she snapped, "It's nearly 40 degrees and I am absolutely shattered. You may as well get off your bike because I'm not moving from here for at least fifteen minutes!"

There seemed to be more cuts on her legs. The bike had been thrown down rather than parked on the side stand. I picked it up and sighed deeply. We had only been cycling for a couple of hours along a flat path. How on Earth could she possibly be shattered?

Lorna as she gingerly makes her way on a section between Dessau & Wittenburg

That evening Lorna was quiet and depressed.
"This is not going to work, Mark," she said over dinner, wringing hands.
She seemed emotional and her eyes fixed me with a serious stare. It did not bode well. I admit I was a little scared of what she might do. Violence while I slept that night seemed a distinct possibility. Still baffled by how anyone could be so traumatised by a 35km cycle ride and a bit of heat, I tried to look sympathetic. It was important that she felt I understood, I told myself. Not that I sorted the problem out necessarily, just that I understood and that I was prepared to listen to her. This I have learned about women after years of doing the male thing of thinking when a woman complains that it means she wants you to sort the problem out for her. I credit Lorna with teaching me this lesson... eventually.

After a discussion that appeared calm, and subsequently became so, we agreed that the following day (which I had written down as 50km but was actually over 60) Lorna would spend the day visiting museums etc in Wittenburg, then take her bike on the train to meet me in Torgau. She tried to relent the next morning, not wanting to be a quitter, but I insisted. It was a good idea, even given though there was work on the line and she had to wrestle her bike on and off a coach for the end of the journey. I had demonstrated understanding and she felt good about that. I should say it was not really in my nature. I am a  bit of a "failure is not being knocked down, failure is not getting up again," kind of a person. I enjoy the challenge, even the pain. Lorna never needed to miss a day's cycling the rest of the trip, so my restraint on this occasion was rewarded.

Castles and cathedrals abound along the Elbe (a view from our Meisen pension window)

Both of us were rewarded over the next ten days with beautiful countryside and some lovely towns and cities as we made our way (slowly) towards Prague. Lorna increased her maximum distance to 40km and then to 50. One day without realising it she even managed 63km when we took a wrong turn. But although she was able to cover the distance physically, she struggled emotionally. She felt nervous that she would crash or not be able to manage to cover the distance to that day's target. However much I reassured her that there were plenty of places we could stay and that we were free to do as little or as much as she wanted to, she retained a look of trepidation in her eyes most of the day. I turned to find her riding along crying with the fear of what lay ahead at times. My older daughter pointed out later after we returned home that this is caused by extreme exertion resulting in an outpouring of built-up stress, and so it seemed. It scared me a bit at the time, being the only one she could turn to (or perhaps attack).

Typical architecture - The beautiful town square in Litemerice (Czech Rep)

Throughout our 10 days from Dessau to Prague Lorna felt the cycling was a negative experience, despite thoroughly enjoying what she saw along the way and the places we stayed. Arriving in Prague was a huge emotional watershed for her and by the evening of that day she had begun to have a sense that she had really achieved something worthwhile. For a lot of the way she had doubted she would even complete it. But now, despite not being a sporty person, she could already feel the benefit, not only of her increased fitness but of the psychological barriers that she had managed to overcome. We cycle three further days along the Danube in Austria and Germany after moving on to the lovely Cesky Krumlov in the south of Czech Republic. I had hoped to cycle all the way there but that would have been a mistake.

It was not until we returned home last week that Lorna began to feel the real benefits of the expedition. Not only had she faced up to something that she found extremely difficult emotionally, she had actually cycled 519km without serious incident and she somehow she felt changed. Releasing all that stress had transformed her. She felt cleansed. Not only that, she recognised that there is no way she could have experience all those lovely places so intensely if she had been travelling by other means.

 St Vitus Cathedral, Prague

 Lorna on a happy day without cycling

The UNESCO World Heritage city of Cesky Krumlov

"Mum," our son said, when she related her experiences to him, "it took me a three thousand miles before I was really able to enjoy the cycling and not worry about things. A few more trips like this one and you'll be loving it!"
Lorna looked horrified.

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this and his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc.

Sunday, 6 July 2014

People I've Met On The Road – Valentina

The Best Bloody Woman I Know!

"Can I help you with that?" I asked.
The elderly woman looked up from her crouched position over the battered crate. It was full of the most succulent looking cherries and they shone bright reds and purples in the hot midday sun.


"Certainly you can, if you tell me how you knew I spoke English?" she replied, straightening out her aged back in a gradual, cautious movement. She regarded me over the top of her spectacles with a kind of humorous suspicion.

"Ah, well I heard you saying something to yourself outside the shop," I said, picking up the crate.

She hesitated, looking me straight in the eye then opening the back of her little van.

"I like to make preserves," she said, "I was trying to remind myself of what else I had to buy. We do that us old folk you know... talk to ourselves?"

"Oh I do too and I'm only twenty," I assured her. "I write songs and stories so I tell them out loud to myself when I'm walking in the country. I get some funny looks sometimes."

"So what's your name then?" she asked, scrutinising me carefully from head to foot.

"Mark. Very nice to meet you. I'm walking from Paris to Barcelona. I should have been there a month ago but I get sidetracked easily. I've been trying to get to Carcassonne for the past week but to be honest it's been so hot I've had to give up by lunchtime most days. "

The beautiful walled city of Carcassonne, in SW France

"University?" she asked.

"Art college," I replied, apologetically.

"Nothing wrong with art college," she replied. "I was at St Martins. Taught there twenty years."

I gulped. Now I would have to explain why I had taken a year out, I thought. Fortunately, however, she changed the subject.

"And where are you going to stay in Barcelona, might I ask?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll try to get a job I suppose."

"Get in," she said, sighing. "You'll have to move Percy. He's inclined to growl at strangers but he won't bite. English people call me Val, by the way. Not Valerie! I'd rather be called Gertrude than bloody Valerie. Yes, my idiotic father insisted on christening me Valentina."

Fortunately Percy the ageing Border Terrier took a liking to me and sat happily at my feet. Val drove appallingly, with her hairy double chin resting on the steering wheel. Her cardigan was buttoned up all wrong. She also, I observed, seemed to have little idea of what gears were for, a volley of swearwords accompanying every crunching inappropriate change. Eventually we arrived at a large set of rusting gates with tall stone pillars to either side, looking like they would soon topple over.

"They're not locked," she said, gesturing me to get out. "Pull them behind you when I've gone through and walk up to the house. Go on you get out too Percy you lazy bugger!"



The house, as she called it, was more of a small chateau – but a very derelict one. There were floorboards missing and buckets everywhere in the grand hallway to catch rainwater that regularly leaked from the once spectacular roof and through the ornate ceilings. Books lay piled everywhere. Cats miaowed. Percy grunted at one then strolled over and lay on his bed, keeping one eye open and fixed hard upon me. I placed the cherries on a stone worktop by the sinks once I had cleared a space. Rummaging in drawers and cupboards, Val uncorked a bottle of wine and poured two enormous glasses that half emptied the bottle.

"So was your father Italian then Val?" I asked. "I mean you know,  naming you Valentina..."

"No no dear, he was a Frenchman. He'd been in love with a singer named Valentina and she'd left him when his money ran out. He was one of those impoverished counts, you know the type – a compulsive bloody gambler with a penchant for tarts. Married my decidedly plain and sensible mother on the orders of his elderly aunt, on the understanding that she would to pay off his debts. She left him this monstrous bloody house. He said because she had a soft spot for him, but I'd say more likely to spite him!"

"Is he still alive?" I asked, knowing he was unlikely to be but hoping to flatter her regarding her own years.

"I'd say not! Shot himself stone dead in Monte Carlo after a night on the tables, the bloody fool. Mother never got over it. If it's possible to die of a broken heart then I think she did. God knows why though, he treated her abominably. Now Barcelona... drink up I've got a cellar full of this rubbish. So where was I? Ah yes, Barcelona. I have an old gentleman friend. Friend of the family. Bobbie. He's queer though he doesn't think anyone knows it. Everyone knows of course. Don't worry, he won't bother you, he has a dicky heart and a wooden leg. Ex-ambassador, long retired. Big house up an even bigger bloody hill. He loves visitors though. I'll send him a letter and you'll be able to stay as long as you like. Big on boats. Makes models, usual boyish nonsense. Once sailed the Atlantic single handed and came back minus a leg the old fool. Not even a bloody war wound!"

I did of course offer to cook something for Valentina but she wouldn't allow it. She didn't have much of an appetite, she said, but people in the village always dropped her something by. Personally I thought that unlikely, yet sure enough a young village girl turned up at some point in the early evening with a large pot of rabbit stew and a tarte tatain. The cream in her fridge was green but she still ate it. I stayed for three or four days, helping her to sort out her garden and doing jobs around the house, before the urge to move on got the better of me.

It was nearly a month later before I rocked up at Bobbie's house in Sarria, a genteel suburb to the north side of Barcelona. I was eternally grateful to Valentina for introducing me. Bobbie was a charming host and lived well. As a result I lived well too. One evening after the weather had begun to turn cold, Bobbie asked me to light a fire in the library and he poured us a large cognac each.

Sarria, Barcelona. House in the background was Bobbie's.

"By the way you never said how you came to know Valentina, Bobbie?" I said.

"Val? Ah well I suppose I first met her in London when I was at The Home Office," he smiled. "We'd both have been in our mid-twenties then. Friend of my sister's. I asked her to marry me the same week but she said she wasn't the marrying kind. Asked her every year since for the last sixty one years. Answer's always the same."

"Didn't you ever think about marrying anyone else?" I enquired, cautiously.

"What marry someone else? Impossible! Best damned woman I know. Impossible. She'll change her mind one day, you mark my words, young Marcus. Oh yes she'll come round, you mark my words."

Bobbie really did seem sure Valentina would come round, but at eighty two it seemed unlikely to me.

"I tell you what, d'you know that woman saved an entire village – several villages really? There was a factory down the valley that made chairs. Exquisite chairs actually. You're sitting in one."

I looked at the old chair in which I was so comfortable settled. It really was an exquisite chair, Bobbie was right.

"Well the men of her village struggled when that factory closed y'see, trying to eke out a living farming and what have you, but it was no good. The younger men began to move away to the city. Valentina felt for those villagers and used to ask them to make her things, for herself or to give to her friends – hence your chair there young man. Well one day she decided she needed a particular kind of armoire – a cabinet of a rather beautiful style. So she drew it – fabulous artist is Val, fabulous – she drew it and a chap in the village made it for her. It was beautiful. Anyhow one of Val's aunts, I think it was, came to visit and loved that armoire so much she wanted one to ship back to her house in Chelsea, and in no time the carpenter had orders for half a dozen from the aunt's friends. Pretty soon he'd set up a workshop and got in help, and so it grew. She saved three villages did Val. Half the well-to-do ladies that lunch in London have one of those cabinets y'know. Worth a bloody packet now of course. And she wanted nothing out of it, even though she's been living on two-pence-ha'penny a week for years. Best damned bloody woman I know, Val!"

If you would like to read the bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons' by Mark Swain, you can find this and his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc.