tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374560673962709812024-03-12T19:46:01.710-07:00Long Road, Hard LessonsLong-distance cycling: In 2008-9 Mark Swain and his young son Sam cycled 10,000 miles from Ireland to Japan. This blog developed from that trip and now covers all issues related to travel and cycle touring.Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-64431974917924697622019-06-05T03:28:00.000-07:002019-06-05T03:29:51.886-07:00THE CALL OF A DISTANT TREE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 9pt;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">THE CALL OF A DISTANT TREE</span></b></span></div>
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The train would take six laborious days to traverse the vast emptiness. A
parched, unpopulated wilderness. On day four, the train broke down. After hours
or boredom and suffocating heat, the boy stepped off the train while his father
slept. In the near distance stood a wiry, withered old tree. He had been
observing it for some time. Its stubborn existence there, seemed to defy an environment in which no other vegetation could survive. The tree stood alone and appeared small - about the size
of a 10yr old boy - but as he approached it, it seemed to grow in size. Finally
he stood beneath its dry, twisted branches and saw it was big enough to climb.
From its stiff upper limbs he surveyed the shimmering horizon in all
directions. Vultures soared above. Scheming.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0K3J81v24GFsn7OYwTEwdbY5XjU_Dhw-6g43rwokJfGtbuUPsaiefr6PBxnVShuSBNBhrCfZQslppdLnjIvHE2yOQQtyfjPrC4SjN7JSIUFUoPu3yG7tIHsV6bxfS0PloZ6nupUNnzv-X/s1600/DistantTree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="752" data-original-width="1152" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0K3J81v24GFsn7OYwTEwdbY5XjU_Dhw-6g43rwokJfGtbuUPsaiefr6PBxnVShuSBNBhrCfZQslppdLnjIvHE2yOQQtyfjPrC4SjN7JSIUFUoPu3yG7tIHsV6bxfS0PloZ6nupUNnzv-X/s400/DistantTree.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 9.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 9.0pt;">He did not attempt to climb down
as he saw the train pulling away. It seemed entirely right to him that he was
left behind. Somehow he knew the train was a part of his father’s destiny, but
that it was in no way a part of his own.<br />
<br />
In the shadow of the tree the boy sat calmly. Awaiting inspiration. He had never
been considered adventurous. Neither was he worldly, but he listened well.
Slowly he surveyed the terrain. Bare distant mountains to what he felt was the
north. Rain fell in the mountains. Mountains provided shelter and cooler air.
They also served as a vantage point and perhaps supported plants and wildlife.
These mountains spoke to him of good fortune and even a sense of home, despite
him having only ever lived in a town without a single hill to speak of.<br />
<br />
Having had no plan to set out into the blistering wilderness, the boy was ill-equipped.
He wore no hat and carried no shoulder bag, no food or water. If he was aware
that he couldn’t survive for long, he did not show it. The mountains had called
him. The word of a mountain could be trusted. Fortune would favour him. And so he was unsurprised when
presently he came upon a stiff and ragged sheet of canvas caught by a small
thorn bush. Worn as a shawl, it provided a lifesaving amount of protection from
the baking sun. Looking ahead there was not a sign of civilisation and yet
after barely half an hour of steady walking, a large plastic bottle presented
itself directly in his chosen path. Retrieving it, he tied it to a guy-rope
attached to one corner of the canvas. Eventually he would find water, he told
himself.<br />
<br />
It took the remainder of the day and a full night before the boy reached the
foothills of the mountains. Already there was a soft breeze and a hint of fresh
air. He was tired and sorely in need of a drink but there was neither sight nor
sound of water. He sat on a large rock and then rolled back, lying against the
cool of the rock, staring up at the stars in the clear night sky. It was the
first really solid thing he’d made contact with since he left the train. The
train… He pictured it in his mind, climbing a slow gradient within an endlessly
widening landscape. The sound of metal upon metal. Would his father understand? Might he think his son dead,
and how would he explain to his wife? His mind floated and almost immediately
he slid into a deep sleep. He was in the mountains. Ahead of where he now
lay. He found himself drawn through a small gorge, between tight gaps in the
rocks until he saw before him a building. Eagerly he approached it and made for
the door, but stopped short to read the faded words painted on it in blistered red
paint. “Death Awaits You”.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 9.0pt;">The screech of a bird marked the first sound of life for nearly
two days. He raised his head and then sat up. An egret. Several of them. He
knew so little of the world but he knew birds. And an egret rarely strayed far
from water. Rising to his aching feet, he walked quickly in the half-light
towards the birds. Over the rise he caught sight of the glow of early dawn on
the horizon and soon after, the shape of a wooden structure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 9.0pt;">Lengthening his pace, he began to make out the details of a small
shack with a roughly thatched roof. Not a house but certainly something man
made. Coming closer he hesitated as he noticed something small beneath his
feet. Bending to pick it up he saw an empty shotgun cartridge, and then another. He
crouched nervously and looked about him listening carefully, but he heard only
the egrets' cries. Approaching the hut he saw the door was left ajar. He stared
long and hard at the door. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hello” he
called, “is anyone there?”<br />
Cautiously he pulled the door open and peered inside. The door creaked loudly. The
hut was empty. On one side he could make out openings covered by closed
shutters. Stepping inside, he lifted one to allow light in and slowly began to
recognise the place as a hunting hide, similar to places he had been on
expeditions with his father. A small stove sat in one corner and a large rough
timber cupboard in another. A large water container stood by the back wall. Sadly,
he found it empty. He opened the cupboard. An empty cartridge box and some
dusty tin mugs sat on one shelf. His heart lifted as he spotted a knife, a can
opener, a large glass jar of fruit and three tins. Hastily he took the jar. It
was tight but he had often done this for his mother. Crouching down and placing
it between his knees, he spread his small hands evenly around the lid and
applied enough pressure to gently open it. He felt the lid give. Sniffing it
first he drank the juice before eating some of the pears and replacing the lid.
He had always disliked pears. An image of his mother's sister slowly painting her toenails in their kitchen inexplicably came into his head. His mother always said she was a rebel, but she had been a fun babysitter. He was still very thirsty. Quite severely
dehydrated in fact. His head had begun to spin and he thought he might
be sick. He shook the tins. Nothing liquid. The words “sausage and beans,” were
written on one of them, “Rat Poison” on another.<br />
<br />A cool breeze woke the boy as he lay on the cabin floor. His head ached. Remembering where he was, he slowly raised himself to his aching feet. Looking out of the open shutter, something silver-bright caught his eye which
had not been visible before. A reflection. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear
his blurred vision, then moved closer and peered out. Thinking at first wishful thinking and sickness might have caused him to imagine it, he slowly formed a conviction that he was looking
out onto water. His heart raced but his emotion was one of fear rather than elation. A large lake of gently rippling water. And on
the water, dozens, perhaps hundreds of birds. Egrets.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-88355120243231583762016-11-19T03:21:00.001-08:002016-11-20T04:25:19.735-08:00Walking Hadrian's Wall - The English Camino<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">"We're Gonna Build A Wall"</span><br />
Hadrian came to this decision and began building way back around 122AD. He may, like Donald Trump, have been focussed on keeping invaders out - the Scotts in this case - but the truth is historians are not entirely sure why he built it. It was a long time ago. The wall is no longer complete. Although the Romans were pragmatists, probably more focussed on getting things done than keeping records of it, it must be said that their habit of keeping records was for those times considered quite meticulous. Cataloguing life in ancient Britain is certainly one of the worthwhile things "the Romans did for us 😏" Despite living in England, when my wife and I decided to take on the 80 mile (118km) walk, I was quite unaware that so much of the wall actually remains.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF53OfM0Y6kiI-yAeERiHnTtJj1rak_I11pEJ1wNQxaCQDMlhMlAk2yMeMH6UtToaWfLNxrl-yRajRndp_tfw5sER9d4VSvusv7L6OujbuiohOsf5BKk_ATwmyD8Nee6RZJhklSEn-v7qS/s1600/IMG_3265.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF53OfM0Y6kiI-yAeERiHnTtJj1rak_I11pEJ1wNQxaCQDMlhMlAk2yMeMH6UtToaWfLNxrl-yRajRndp_tfw5sER9d4VSvusv7L6OujbuiohOsf5BKk_ATwmyD8Nee6RZJhklSEn-v7qS/s400/IMG_3265.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">A section of Hadrian's Wall near Birdoswald</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Travelling Through History</span><br />
This remarkable Roman wall runs coast to coast from Wallsend (surprise), by the old Swan Hunter Shipyard just northeast of Newcastle, to Bowness on Solway about 15 miles west of Carlisle. The start and finish points couldn't be more different. The decayed industrial shipyards and urban deprivation of Wallsend contrasts markedly with the timeless tranquil beauty of the village of Bowness, perched at the mouth of the Solway Firth, where locals and visitors can gaze across at Scotland. Along the way one encounters Roman forts, carefully uncovered by archaeologists, and sections of the wall that were not plundered for building materials or simply destroyed under various developer's schemes. The sections that remain are mostly around the middle of the journey, between Housteads and Birdoswald, but the countryside (mostly very hilly), even on the sections with no wall, is spectacular enough to keep the walker interested. After leaving Newcastle, until one arrives in the city of Carlisle the walker can feel rather like they have stepped back in time. I had little idea of quite how primitive it was going to be in fact and we often found ourselves without mobile phone signal, without places to buy food and without ATM machines to get cash. Thank goodness for a few good country pubs along the way, which became our lifeline.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The walk along the Tyne Towpath through Newcastle is picturesque in parts</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">World Heritage Site</span><br />
The wall or what remains of it may be 84 miles long but it was not considered too big to make it a single UNESCO World Heritage Site. Its prime historical significance is that this wall is considered to mark the furthest reach of the Roman Empire. Much has been unearthed since the site achieved world heritage status. The extent of Roman ruins along the way - forts and entire villages that once supported those Roman encampments - is really quite remarkable. The exhibition of the wall and the Roman artefacts that archaeologists have uncovered, hosed in the Great North Museum, Hancock in Newcastle easily bears a half day visit - preferably before the walk.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The fort at Chesters, overlooking the Eden River is large & rather magnificent </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">- this photo doesn't do it justice</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Planning The Walk</span><br />
This is a walk that needs some planning. Other than Newcastle and Carlisle at each end it is fairly undeveloped, with a couple of small towns but mostly tiny villages along the way and wild, slightly untamed countryside in between. Sheep are more plentiful than people. Unlike a Camino de Santiago pilgrimage walk in Spain (see my two Camino blogs - <a href="http://longroadhardlessons.blogspot.co.uk/2015/08/pilgrimage-of-spirit.html" target="_blank">pilgrimage of the spirit</a> and <a href="http://longroadhardlessons.blogspot.co.uk/2014/04/walking-through-spain.html" target="_blank">walking through Spain</a>) less is organised for the walker. Like the Caminos however, there is now a Passport available, which one can get stamped at key points along the way, but there are no state hostels. There are a couple of private bunk houses but mostly it's a matter of camping or staying in B&Bs / hotels. Even the B&Bs tend to be luxury country house affairs, which at around £70-£80 a night can make it an expensive pilgrimage. There is cheaper pub accommodation but these get booked up quickly. Even doing the walk in early November, we found things booked-up 2 months before. Our luxury B&B's were, however, very welcome after hilly 15 mile days walking on sodden ground. I ate more English cooked breakfasts than was good for me. Summer will be easier walking but you will find it more crowded. Also remember that the buses that are scheduled along the route for injured walkers or those who wish to take it easier, these stop running after the last weekend of October and taxis are expensive, since they need to travel out into the wilds from the nearest towns. Bear in mind also, that if you want to spend time visiting Roman forts etc (and I recommend at least one) then you may need to allow for walking only half the day or even taking a day off. On the spur of the moment we decided to take a day off to see the Chesters Roman Fort just outside Chollerford. Unfortunately, not knowing the bus had stopped running 2 days before, we found ourselves hitch-hiking then taking a train and walking miles out of Haltwhistle to find our self-catering cottage for the night, which eventually proved to be only 12 miles from Chesters. Galling when my phone app told me we had walked exactly 12 miles that day. Next time I would plan better in advance! <br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> 1 day out of Newcastle. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The views along the way can be spectacular at any time of year</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Bowness-on-Solway. The hut at the end of the trail, looking out over the firth to Scotland.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">In Retrospect</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jEdJqo0n_h2cgZLoxpxW8wa1DJbvqBtTJsLO7feiyEQvF4NhIYrF2ORN4AO4Z44zeVnwZrf8PmlZtN0Qq2notkW_YRAn91Rw7bj4IgvQSTrBP8zQrJ7PF-fzl5yVIXQwuR9jwIA1FC7k/s1600/Hadrians_passport.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2jEdJqo0n_h2cgZLoxpxW8wa1DJbvqBtTJsLO7feiyEQvF4NhIYrF2ORN4AO4Z44zeVnwZrf8PmlZtN0Qq2notkW_YRAn91Rw7bj4IgvQSTrBP8zQrJ7PF-fzl5yVIXQwuR9jwIA1FC7k/s320/Hadrians_passport.png" width="223" /></a>For those who have experienced one, this walk is no "Camino Ingles". The camaraderie of meeting other walkers in Spanish state hostels and cafes along the way does not exist on this walk - not yet. I hope it will come. Don't forget, the Spanish have had 2,000 years to get it right. The English National Walking Trails, National Trust etc have done a lot since this became an official walk and the numbers making the walk increase significantly every year so facilities will improve. Let's hope increased numbers does not harm the experience. I would certainly like to do it again. For those who prefer it, there is also an adjacent cycle trail.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Information</span><br />
Google will bring up many information resources on Hadrian's Wall. The Northumberland Tourist Office are also very helpful and have a 'where to stay' section on their website -<a href="http://www.visitnorthumberland.com/tourist-information-centres">http://www.visitnorthumberland.com/tourist-information-centres</a><br />
Hadrian's Wall & Around - <a href="http://www.visitnorthumberland.com/results">http://www.visitnorthumberland.com/results</a><br />
Hadrian's Wall Path (National Trails) - <a href="http://www.nationaltrail.co.uk/hadrians-wall-path">http://www.nationaltrail.co.uk/hadrians-wall-path</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnxWdyzs2i_qScNPYJgHyV9I2JMTl9oeZQm1901JO4QJxU50AR6y0QIt3E8bcoRegS78wgrxxQzRPxB3yV2AblXkAahcILrNa_AWXWvRVgEVqbdcp0Mwq-SX8vYKoqy0GJEQmav5pZy9P/s1600/LRHLSmall+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsnxWdyzs2i_qScNPYJgHyV9I2JMTl9oeZQm1901JO4QJxU50AR6y0QIt3E8bcoRegS78wgrxxQzRPxB3yV2AblXkAahcILrNa_AWXWvRVgEVqbdcp0Mwq-SX8vYKoqy0GJEQmav5pZy9P/s1600/LRHLSmall+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles, with his 18 year old </i></span></span><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his </i><i style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #990000;">two collections of short stories</span></i><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores. A new book entitled 'People I've Met On The Road' will be published soon.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-71556613043838313102016-04-04T02:37:00.002-07:002016-04-04T09:11:12.335-07:00Fear Of Travel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">An Idiot Abroad?</span><br />
My wife and I are just back from a trip to Turkey - Capadoccia and Istanbul. I knew all about the recent bombings in Ankara and Istanbul when I booked the trip and continued to pay attention up to the time we travelled. There were bombings while we were there and threats have continued this week since we got back. I registered these terrible events before travelling and considered the risks. We did not change our plans. We stayed in the busiest tourist area of Sultanahmet Square but in a smaller guesthouse in a side-street. We even joined the somewhat diminished hoards and visited the Hagia Sophia mosque as well as the Grand Bazaar and we ate out in restaurants near to the square. Traders, hotel managers and restauranteurs in Istanbul told us how the terror attacks had caused about a 50% reduction in tourism for the time of year. They were suffering badly. Given the countless news reports then, friends of mine found it surprising that I would take the risk of continuing with this holiday. They probably think I'm a bit of an idiot.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Istanbul - The Golden Horn</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Tourism & The Psychology Of Risk</span><br />
I should say here that risk management is what I do for a living. I have studied it in great depth both at an intellectual and a practical level. The statistics do not support the average person's view of the level of risk. As human beings we are programmed to avoid things that scare us, but most of us go by fairly unscientific instinct. In my work I see how people will take great care to use safety controls when what they see frightens them but not when what they see looks unthreatening. People will not put their hand into an industrial mincing machine because they can see sides of meat being put in and minced meat instantly coming out. They can imagine the pain of that happening to their arm. They will not make a parachute jump without training and careful checks of the safety procedures because they are afraid of heights when they look out of the plane door. But tell them they need to be careful of how they sit at their computer because over time they could develop life-changing back problems and they will laugh (and continue to sit badly). So seeing pictures and film on TV of people blown-up in a Paris nightclub or outside a hotel in Istanbul scares us and we will take action. We will stay away. But statistically the likelihood of my wife and I being injured or killed in a bomb blast in Istanbul was miniscule. It was probably no higher and perhaps lower than the same thing happening to us in London and yet in London we would feel safer. Human nature and our perception of risk is not reliable. If you don't believe this, see how nervous you feel standing at the edge of a high structure even when there is a solid barrier to protect you from falling.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Our instincts are not always a reliable indicator of the true level of risk</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">The Impact Of Terrorism On Tourism</span><br />
The impacts of terrorism on the travel and tourism industry can be enormous. It can lead
to unemployment, homelessness, deflation, and many other social and economic ills and spreads beyond the immediate tourist industry to effect the wider economy of a country.
The contribution made by tourist spending in many countries is so great that any downturn in the
industry is a cause of major concern for governments. It matters little that the actual risks are low, it is about how the consumer perceives things, and in that the media with their often sensationalist focus do not help. The repercussions spread far and wide, into many industries associated with tourism like airlines, hotels, restaurants and
shops that cater to the tourists and allied services but also to the businesses that supply them. In the end it affects the whole economy. Terrorist organisations have become more sophisticated. They know these things. They know that seriously damaging the economy of a country is just as effective as frightening individuals.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Blue Mosque, Istanbul. Normally at this time this scene would be filled with tourists.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;">The Underlying Causes</span><br />
Clearly the world needs to address the underlying causes of terrorism. People will always have differing views on how things should be run. At one time people with strong views against the status quo would simply protest in the streets or lobby politicians for change. They might even go into politics themselves to try to achieve those changes. That kind of change can be slow to bring about. Increasingly we live in a world of instant gratification. It's all about having what we want and consumerism plays a big part. While millions starve, many of us are out shopping for stuff we do not need. Stuff that will fill up our houses only to be eventually thrown into landfill. Or perhaps we sooth our consciences by making the effort to put it in the recycle bin. Even in relationships we are no longer prepared to work through difficulties, we simply change partner and move on. Chuck one away and order another. Young people turn to terrorism because they want change now, and terrorism seems the fastest way to get it. It can be as simple as the media telling them they need a Ferrari to be successful but there being no realistic chance of them achieving that. We all need to think about the way we are choosing to live and the way we bring up our children. Terrorism as an immediate problem needs to be addressed en-mass by governments, academics and think-tanks, but it is through our personal life choices that we will really change things.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">We are all responsible for the state of the world today.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">There are unseen consequences to all our actions - especially consumer actions.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">So What Can We Do?</span><br />
When it comes to public response to the terrorist threat, there are obviously things we can do as individuals to protect ourselves. We can ask ourselves if a journey is really necessary. We can choose to travel at quieter times and choose a means of transport less likely to be targeted. We can take holidays in places where gatherings of large groups of people are unlikely and in locations where political tensions are lower. But will this solve the problem? Of course not. Terrorists will simply adjust their methodology and target us in other ways - in schools, sports stadiums or workplaces. They will target us more in our own country. Most of all they need us to be afraid and they benefit from us being unscientific about risk. If we perceive that we are likely to be blown up every time we get on a plane and we are afraid of this, then they will try to blow up more planes because they can see it is effective. Planes feel less safe to us because once they take off we are trapped inside. We can't change our minds because we don't like the look of the guy in the seat in front and get off at the next stop. I cycled 10,000 miles from Ireland to Japan (and survived). I did not perceive it as especially dangerous but I'm sure the likelihood of me being killed was far higher than flying there. And yet I felt safer because I was in control. And I would suggest that this is what we can do. Stay in control.<br />
Travel safety & security advice: <a href="https://www.gov.uk/foreign-travel-advice"><span style="background-color: white; color: #006621; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap;">https://www.gov.uk/foreign-</span><b style="background-color: white; color: #006621; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap;">travel</b><span style="background-color: white; color: #006621; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap;">-</span><b style="background-color: white; color: #006621; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap;">advice</b></a><br />
Travel preparation, health etc: <span style="background-color: white; color: #006621; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="https://www.gov.uk/knowbeforeyougo">https://www.gov.uk/knowbeforeyougo</a></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZX7nkm5PnBc5as1mhyphenhyphenD3E9QmIgJO3cXAjpfW6FUKVIwZNVeE1r7NTuKysEiiUv-NzSbsKQ1Zd95uDMzUzG-WkKREiN0D2JF7tUqOliJ2nrEI9Zmzj0GhcIRX8J-k8Qpofr0N8mldu3mr/s1600/Risk-Assessment+cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmZX7nkm5PnBc5as1mhyphenhyphenD3E9QmIgJO3cXAjpfW6FUKVIwZNVeE1r7NTuKysEiiUv-NzSbsKQ1Zd95uDMzUzG-WkKREiN0D2JF7tUqOliJ2nrEI9Zmzj0GhcIRX8J-k8Qpofr0N8mldu3mr/s320/Risk-Assessment+cartoon.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Common-sense Checklist</span><br />
<br />
1. Be aware of the statistical risk - what are the realistic chances of something bad happening and make your travel plans based on that rather than your instinct (which is affected by media hype)<br />
<br />
2. Avoid large gatherings where possible (sports stadia, big events and attractions) but be realistic about the risks - the chances of something happening to you are still low.<br />
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3. Check the Foreign Office Travel website for the latest advice on travel locations. I find these very reliable since they are not affected by media exaggeration.<br />
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4. Stay in cheaper hotels or better still a small B&B. They may not have armed guards at the door and bag searches, but terrorists are highly unlikely to target them.<br />
<br />
5. In high risk countries such as in certain locations in the Middle East, be careful what you say in public. You needn't be paranoid but don't broadcast yourself as a western tourist or let everyone know your political views.<br />
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6. Many people feel safer abroad in organised tour groups, but perversely larger groups of tourists are a far more vulnerable target. Research things properly in advance and you will find travelling individually can be safe - sometimes much safer (as well as more rewarding).<br />
<br />
Finally I would say that it's important to tell others. It's not always possible to see the threats, but if you go to somewhere like Istanbul and have a great time with no signs of a terror threat, others back home need to know that. Otherwise we remain at the mercy of the sensation-seeking media who are not averse to being 'selective' in their broadcasts to give the impression that a mostly peaceful location is more like a war-zone.<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.79px;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxD6V-Le860SwxdIaj2SctdE1takibm76Ge-P_qZLRjK8k4KECmP3ps-1Glg0xc_wOhlHLLaMoFy4_pQKrK7RCMRNIcfyUbOtyyBIvFLt3LJI6qAgLitjelAHGcUhFCneSsUaPlUJfP78/s1600/LRHL+Book+Sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxD6V-Le860SwxdIaj2SctdE1takibm76Ge-P_qZLRjK8k4KECmP3ps-1Glg0xc_wOhlHLLaMoFy4_pQKrK7RCMRNIcfyUbOtyyBIvFLt3LJI6qAgLitjelAHGcUhFCneSsUaPlUJfP78/s1600/LRHL+Book+Sm.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles, with his 18 year old son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his two collections of short stories, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.79px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.79px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.79px;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.79px;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"> </span><br />
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-83480097909831168722016-03-04T14:00:00.000-08:002016-03-04T14:00:02.540-08:00People I've Met On The Road – Tracey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Needing To Get Away</span><br />
"So what made you come to Romania, Tracey?" I asked.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIGIfsVw5SuNa4TzYHNhk_VXOchky3hpo5rTBqC6EaU0ypjFYXUj1x0laxdEzVLD3cTEiR3zRQ2ljTC06Zc-f6uRVP3NTl8W0ADGlluPSOLysGbX8XtRqYExJA6-PN-OC6JhWOhJ4mvr8/s1600/Romania+Tracey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIGIfsVw5SuNa4TzYHNhk_VXOchky3hpo5rTBqC6EaU0ypjFYXUj1x0laxdEzVLD3cTEiR3zRQ2ljTC06Zc-f6uRVP3NTl8W0ADGlluPSOLysGbX8XtRqYExJA6-PN-OC6JhWOhJ4mvr8/s1600/Romania+Tracey.jpg" width="213" /></a>"Oh, well I needed to get away," she replied.<br />
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Tracey was wringing her hands as she answered. I could tell straight away that she was not comfortable with the question. I needed to change the subject.<br />
<br />
I had met Tracey in a shop, while I was trying to get a spark plug for my motorbike. The bike was due a service and had been playing up since the south of France – coughing and spluttering. I don't think many Romanians had seen a four cylinder bike in those days. The police had stopped me when it back-fired loudly, scaring a load of old people in a marketplace. My command of Romanian was almost nil. Tracey having been there for three months was quite an accomplished speaker. She stepped in and helped, explaining my problem to the police then to a shopkeeper in a hardware shop. She hadn't made a big thing about it but she'd brought me to the workshop half a mile away, where we now sat.<br />
<br />
"It's so nice of you to help out Tracey," I said, sticking to what seemed a safer subject. "Please don't feel you need to hang around, wasting your day. I'm sure I can manage now."<br />
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"He says they'll be here with one in an hour. I'm not fussed waiting. Best I wait any-road. Happen there could be problems if that bloke's ordered wrong bloody part or whatnot."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGHe_LQp0NDoH7TKg9rrBdGQ1N2NwmF_Lqx7sn9J9ccU8rpeiZ6MMpU0Zf0sjsqlIBAurruq7rpp4dPoDhxSVs70uGPd2RBR9-HNhfolTQ303nF9XmjQYu8KkKfpT1wcbCx-gCylnF9vG/s1600/Romania+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGHe_LQp0NDoH7TKg9rrBdGQ1N2NwmF_Lqx7sn9J9ccU8rpeiZ6MMpU0Zf0sjsqlIBAurruq7rpp4dPoDhxSVs70uGPd2RBR9-HNhfolTQ303nF9XmjQYu8KkKfpT1wcbCx-gCylnF9vG/s1600/Romania+bike.jpg" width="320" /></a>Tracey's Northern English accent made me feel nostalgic for home somehow. I was glad she wanted to hang around but I would have to avoid questioning her too hard, I reminded myself. Yet I felt stuck for what else was there to talk about.<br />
<br />
"I used to live up north, you know?" I said eventually. "Birmingham."<br />
<br />
"Birmingham?" she laughed. "Birmingham's bleeding midlands."<br />
<br />
"Yeah you're right," I said, shrinking uncomfortably. "Sorry I suppose that's a typically daft southerner thing to say, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
"I wouldn't know," she said seriously, "I can't say as I really know any southern people."<br />
<br />
I was really messing this up. She'd obviously got me marked out as some kind of private school educated idiot with no idea about the geography of my own country north of Cambridge.<br />
<br />
"Yeah I rode all around the midlands years back. Fixing my old Triumph on factory forecourts, greased up to the eyeballs, freezing cold, jeezus. Broke down every trip nearly. Bits used to fall off left right and centre. Always someone came out and helped me though. Seems to run in the veins up there - bikes. Especially British bikes."<br />
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I was waffling. Worse still I was putting on a bit of a midlands accent. She'd hate that. Talking bollerks because I felt like a bit of an idiot in her eyes. She may have been from up north but she wasn't the slightest bit interested in bikes, I could see that. <br />
<br />
"I'm not exactly a southerner you know," I said. "I mean my parents are but I was pretty much brought-up abroad."<br />
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"Oh yeah, where abouts abroad?" She seemed a little less cross now.<br />
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"Singapore, Malaysia, Germany. My Dad was an avionics engineer in the Army."<br />
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"Ex-pat life eh? Must have been great," said Tracey. "I've always wanted to travel. That's how come I'm here really. Well, that and me uncle."<br />
<br />
"Your uncle?" I asked.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">False Uncle Syndrome</span><br />
"I call him that but he's not me uncle really. A friend of me dad's just. I've been... working in his shop." Tracey was delving into her handbag. I assumed she was about to produce a photograph until she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose hard. I waited while she snuffled and put away the handkerchief again. "I had to leave," she said, "the bastard accused me of nicking stuff from the shop."<br />
<br />
"but you hadn't?"<br />
<br />
"Had I buggery! He made it up, the bastard."<br />
<br />
"I see. So why did he make it up - did he want to get rid of you?"<br />
<br />
"He wanted more of me than I was prepared to give, if you catch my drift? He seemed to think if I were working for him as he could have whatever he wanted off me. But I could deal with that. I was well used to fighting off lads at the tyre place where I used to work. What I couldn't deal with was me dad."<br />
<br />
"What did your dad do?" I asked. I felt nervous asking but it was the obvious question.<br />
<br />
"Fat Freddie – that's me dad's friend – told me dad that I'd been flirting with him. Giving him the come-on, you know? He told me dad he'd have had to give me the sack before his wife saw something, regardless of if me dad paid him for what he said I nicked. Bloody lying bastard!"<br />
<br />
"And your dad believed him?"<br />
<br />
"Told me to get out of the house. Said he'd not have a harlot in his house. Me mam cried but she never stood up for me. I stayed a few nights at me cousin's. I was upset at first, then just angry. I went round and got some stuff. I had a passport thank God, from a school trip a few years back that I never actually went on. I had three hundred quid out of me dad's drawer. I know I shouldn't have but I wanted to hurt him, and I knew how he loves his money. I didn't even know where Romania was. I thought I must be in Italy when I got here."<br />
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"Blimey!" I said. "So how did you get here?"<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Escape to Romania</span><br />
"Hitching," said Tracey. "Buses here and there but hitching mostly. At the beginning anyway. Hitching's good 'cos you learns the language quicker and people help you. I've been amazed how kind people have been. I'm living above a teashop where I work evenings. The woman gave me a lift and says she was looking for someone to teach her and her kids English. She wants to go to live in England, see? I told her not to bother!"<br />
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Tracey laughed for the first time since I'd met her.<br />
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<br />
"When will you go back, do you think?" I asked cautiously.<br />
<br />
"I'm never going back, me!" said Tracey, with certainty. "No way. That's all in the past. I'm moving on now. I'm going to San Francisco."<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">If You're Going to San Francisco</span><br />
"Wow! I said. So you know people there then?"<br />
<br />
"Oh aye. My brother's a movie star over there. Big mates with Tom Cruise! Course I don't, soft bugger. How would someone like me know someone living in San Francisco? But I wanna see the Golden Gate Bridge. Used to have a poster on my wall as a kid. Maybe it's still there – the poster I mean. Me teashop lady says I could get a job as an English waitress. Apparently there's a call for that sort of thing in San Francisco. So I'm saving up for the airfare. Got it half-saved already. Come with me if you like."<br />
<br />
I laughed. Then I turned. She was not smiling and I was immediately filled with embarrassed discomfort. I had offended her.<br />
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"We'd... well we'd need visas," I stammered. Tracey sat quietly. She was wringing her hands again. She sniffed. I wished I had handkerchief to offer her.<br />
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"You've got a girlfriend, haven't you?"<br />
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I felt taken aback. I hadn't told her that. And she wasn't a steady girlfriend anyway – not in my mind. But I'd hesitated now, so she'd know that she was right.<br />
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"I'm looking to move on too," I said. "I'll write to her. She'll be expecting it. Probably she'll be relieved."<br />
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"Happen this'll be your spark plug arriving on this here cart. I'd better be going. Cafe's opening again in half-hour." <br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">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. </span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-69463758634011235452016-01-30T05:35:00.000-08:002016-01-30T10:22:54.579-08:00Top 5 Worst Camping Sites Ever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgZSJcz8MYMppndG-j2ReyKhKTrtKDLiQIlNQFWbsryZgKPEs1Fv_pgzFzp_1T9x6Pm3xOY4V2ChMwGGVlQ_i65H7WmM1NJpTg9WR9-xiVaF0H23rV5UxXZiQ4Xt1iTBXMws2sMiQfr6A/s1600/IMG_2225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwgZSJcz8MYMppndG-j2ReyKhKTrtKDLiQIlNQFWbsryZgKPEs1Fv_pgzFzp_1T9x6Pm3xOY4V2ChMwGGVlQ_i65H7WmM1NJpTg9WR9-xiVaF0H23rV5UxXZiQ4Xt1iTBXMws2sMiQfr6A/s200/IMG_2225.jpg" width="150" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Why Camp?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Since I was a small child I have adored camping - and the more basic the better. I loved nothing more than being </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">tucked up warm in a sleeping bag while breathing in the clean fresh air and listening to birds singing – the scratchy sounds of beetles and other insects crawling around under the makeshift groundsheet. When I built a 'Red Indian camp' in the garden, aged 4, I wanted to move into it. I made myself a table using scrap wood and a toolkit my parents had bought me for Christmas. They were worried. And yet this tent, made of an old blanket, two brooms for poles and some string for guylines, was not the most uncomfortable camp I have spent the night in - not by a long way.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXOG-mVz5lAkJ2k_Kt0oLfaeo7Nq1efeYUsasmen21xikpJq3ZQ0XzjHOAU07_5cUSHOGYXBjS0zcWD6dGMOVUCU0LLwck0e2n-17ajigZ2owZxptsmF-IsqBcXaE6-mQUK1_sOyFX3h7/s1600/IMG_2874.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXOG-mVz5lAkJ2k_Kt0oLfaeo7Nq1efeYUsasmen21xikpJq3ZQ0XzjHOAU07_5cUSHOGYXBjS0zcWD6dGMOVUCU0LLwck0e2n-17ajigZ2owZxptsmF-IsqBcXaE6-mQUK1_sOyFX3h7/s320/IMG_2874.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Number 5 - Chertsey</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">We went camping often during the time I lived in England as a child. One place we camped a few times at weekends was a well established formal site by the River Thames in Chertsey, to the west of London. One summer my parents decided my brother and I liked the place so much we would go there for a whole summer. We were in between houses so it was a doubly convenient as my father could get to work from there. We had a big frame tent, a canoe and we fished every day. It should have been a delightful summer, except that it rained. It rained hard and </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">not for just a day. </span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCe7kyIWpRRsYY7ZtWgugt8vF-SEEqzrenwFGOcQjh9H6GII3F-ov-2rZnaw2LDgACdWVENxtM9Wx1X2DTzjS_ZK_OxpoZPZsdMzI-0pFwjUSPOXmYnxkAGMNjq5oj_3URgLxZ4rNNNP12/s1600/mobile-home_in+river.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCe7kyIWpRRsYY7ZtWgugt8vF-SEEqzrenwFGOcQjh9H6GII3F-ov-2rZnaw2LDgACdWVENxtM9Wx1X2DTzjS_ZK_OxpoZPZsdMzI-0pFwjUSPOXmYnxkAGMNjq5oj_3URgLxZ4rNNNP12/s320/mobile-home_in+river.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div>
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It rained for weeks. The site had poorly drained ground and a tide of water washed into our tent on a daily and nightly basis. In the mornings we had to collect shoes, pots and pans etc from all around where they had washed away. One day while my mother was out washing and drying everything at a laundrette, my brother and I watched a very worldly-wise man with a trowel dig a small trench around his tent for water to drain into. It clearly worked well so we borrowed one of the gardener's shovels and dug a trench around our tent. We were pleased with our efforts. When my mother got back she was horrified. The trench was two feet deep. But it worked. The following week we had to move to a rented house. The police had come when a mobile home was washed into the River Thames with people in it and floated away downstream. Luckily the people managed to get out and swim to the shore but the police closed the site down afterwards. It was a miserable experience and I don't think we ever went back.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Number 4 - Shanklin, Isle of Wight - The last of the great English romantics</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Looking for somewhere quirky to take my wife for Valentines Day, I read about a restaurant on the </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwbos6j6JnwcCXnz61vODK_8lmr6sWdd8voaShhbhdCxUm2ODqFpQw8_Nt8wOlXmcj0pa95ARQ3TIUHE0f_RErBw8i5A8dr_9fV0PdCNsqA32K41-2QLt6b9cOGrJTg2JYVIkk3q8M0Ng/s1600/IMG_2898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiwbos6j6JnwcCXnz61vODK_8lmr6sWdd8voaShhbhdCxUm2ODqFpQw8_Nt8wOlXmcj0pa95ARQ3TIUHE0f_RErBw8i5A8dr_9fV0PdCNsqA32K41-2QLt6b9cOGrJTg2JYVIkk3q8M0Ng/s320/IMG_2898.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;">Isle of Wight off the south coast of England. To add a bit of adventure I took her in my VW camper-van. We arrived straight to the restaurant. The food was good but it was in a bit of a slummy place. Arriving at a nearby campsite in darkness we found the place with a few mobile homes but no lights on. The sign at the gate said 'Campsite Open' however, so we drove in and found a spare pitch (there were many). Backing down a slope onto the grassy pitch we immediately sunk up to the axles in soft mud. My heart sank. This would require a tractor to pull us out. There was no answer at the house. Trying to be philosophical we went to bed and slept. In the morning we saw the full horror of our situation. I phoned the AA but t</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">here were no breakdown services available on the island.</span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"> Knocking on caravan doors we realised this was a place where homeless people holed-up at minima</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">l rent for the winter. The site owner came once a week. Nobody had a car except one guy with a Reliant Robin 3-wheeler pick-up (you literally could pick it up). He very kindly tried to pull us out using a makeshift rope from junk. My wife went to the toilet block for a shower. It was derelict. The homeless people washed under </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie-T75Hx-42E-KjF6fjcBlJuaEmvfmgmB8swKFy3-6NJW6jGcO58W0gC3ZFDVmOxBdMtuUGJXbEwZpOP-xNYtp56ipO2gphcwTYpvhYrbnKKs07FD-lduHqF6LrSLWSmOGhuTe0mrpPcSB/s1600/ReliantRobinPickup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie-T75Hx-42E-KjF6fjcBlJuaEmvfmgmB8swKFy3-6NJW6jGcO58W0gC3ZFDVmOxBdMtuUGJXbEwZpOP-xNYtp56ipO2gphcwTYpvhYrbnKKs07FD-lduHqF6LrSLWSmOGhuTe0mrpPcSB/s200/ReliantRobinPickup.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">an old hosepipe. The site began to fill with the smell of cheap fried sausages. Once people had eaten they came to help. Many were semi-disabled. It was a mud bath. The little 3-wheel plastic car's wheel spun as it tried to pull the VW out. The smell of burning rubber did not go well with the sausages. Finally after about 2hrs of gargantuan effort, someone 'salvaged' some carpet from a large mobile home and we got some grip. We tried for hours. Eventually by 'flooring' the accelerator the VW managed to slide haphazardly onto some gravel and in a shower of flying mud we reached the path. Handing over all the cash I had to the poverty-stricken team of disabled and clinically obese helpers, we just carried on driving - 6hrs all the way home to Kent, hungry and caked in mud. I'm not one for buying chocolates and flowers. I like to treat my wife to something a bit special.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Number 3 - Katerini</span><br />
<span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">It was March. Hitchhiking in Yugoslavia on my way to Greece with a girlfriend, we were picked up </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;">by a Greek truck-driver who told us we really must visit the beautiful holiday resort of Katerini on the east coast where he and his family regularly spent their holidays. Greece is full of stunningly beautiful places but this guy really enthused about this place so a few weeks later we decided to make a detour on our way from Montenegro to Thessaloniki. We arrived in Katerini by train late at night. All the hotels and B&Bs seemed closed down for the winter period. We looked for someone to ask about where to camp but there were absolutely no people. Walking along the beach we finally decided to pitch our tent in a bit of a cove where we might not be seen from the town. We climbed down a slope and pitched on a flat area. Not having a torch we felt about in the dark and found somewhere level with no rocks. Tired and rather disappointed by the lack of a welcoming resort that we had imagined as a beachside paradise, we got into bed and slept a heavy sleep. Poking our heads out of the tent in the morning we gazed open-mouthed at the site before us. A burned out shack, emaciated wild dogs, all manner of rubbish strewn about a disgusting smell and swarms of flies. Climbing out we found, worse still, that we were camped in the mouth of an untreated sewage outlet. The evidence of this was all around us. Striking camp and heading quickly back to the station, we found one or two sorry looking people. "Yes" they told us, this was a lovely resort before they built the meat rendering plant. It seemed the water pollution and the smell of the plant had driven away the tourists. We spent the whole day and half that night waiting at the deserted station for a promised train before we finally managed to get out of the place.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Number 2 - Orsova, Romania</span><br />
<span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Cycling along the Danube in Romania on our way from Ireland to Japan, my son and I found ourselves in the riverside military town of Orsova. We had become separated and had not found each other until 11:30pm at night. Everywhere was closed up so we looked for a place to pitch out tent. Unfortunately everywhere seemed either concreted over or flooded with water. Heading on the road out of town we found a derelict children's play park in a lay-by. The ground seemed unsuitable to pitch a tent as it was knee-deep in broken bottles, cans, take-away cartons, old pushchairs and sacks of household waste. Dog tired we decided to sleep on a pair of broken benches. We lay there amongst the rubbish looking at the stars, but we got no sleep. The lay-by, it seems, was used by what I believe are now termed 'doggers'. Every ten minutes a new car would arrive and people would get out and talk. Doors banged, then the springs of the car would begin to squeak. Finally it got light and the full horror of our campsite became apparent. It would have been unsurprising to find a dead body or two amongst the detritus. We packed up quickly and left.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCXH424CTrAgm5FOxDcC85yswW7hzceBkdjiltaplMVUk9_x__YjVFQW_rI1OLdofpW-K0yXdcuQQMehziNGQvEuYRPFJv_-cRBEGoA4pCN6B6DxNLhOMopcC-R95IpHjx1h9RgSx9kOHe/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+065.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCXH424CTrAgm5FOxDcC85yswW7hzceBkdjiltaplMVUk9_x__YjVFQW_rI1OLdofpW-K0yXdcuQQMehziNGQvEuYRPFJv_-cRBEGoA4pCN6B6DxNLhOMopcC-R95IpHjx1h9RgSx9kOHe/s400/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+065.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; line-height: 20.79px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The derelict playpark was vile but the view of the Danube in the morning almost made up for it</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_6wKUuflwQgtekp7zy2lE60t9wBtJ8HfMfa56A-oKNmMmXagOCRQmnIZEdpd4fTB-t2pGKn_UZzmC0MUc54MfRmWiY4vrnRzS9phwcqDc56U9WzPxf39NZZ-fMHwSDX-3K3njxq0BvA0/s1600/camping-zeinissee-galtur.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_6wKUuflwQgtekp7zy2lE60t9wBtJ8HfMfa56A-oKNmMmXagOCRQmnIZEdpd4fTB-t2pGKn_UZzmC0MUc54MfRmWiY4vrnRzS9phwcqDc56U9WzPxf39NZZ-fMHwSDX-3K3njxq0BvA0/s1600/camping-zeinissee-galtur.jpg" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Number 1 - Camp-Platz Petronell Carnuntum, Austria</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">I have never lost my love of sleeping outdoors. In fact I prefer most things outdoors. Most of all I enjoy wild camping. Wild camping allows few of the comforts of modern settled life we find in houses and hotels. However, in my experience it is surprising how organised campsites with full facilities can be far more uncomfortable. It was in Austria that I encountered my worst camping site. Petronell Carnuntum is a small historic town on the Danube and within a nature reserve. My son Sam and I stopped a night there on our way cycling to Japan. It was a lovely hot sunny day and the site looked idyllic as we rode in. Pitch anywhere you like, the manager told us, then come and pay in the bar – we have nice cold beer and good food. The site had pleasant lawns and decent shower blocks too. It seemed quite a few others had recently arrived and were happily putting up tents. People smiled at us and a few young people came over to chat to Sam. We had the feeling this was going to be a nice place to stop. After putting up the tent we took our leave from our fellow campers and headed over to the bar to pay.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">"Let's have a beer now, shall we Sam, then we can have a shower later and go out to eat?"</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUC5KLacxOe_BWK_hTOuPu2KGpr9TwJJYKhMZK_shP3tLRKC0DEIhAkbhhgb7kEzywYZ3U-gwHOTU1Tn7vkkSw6xtn40hOHty6PeNhXESZFaOJ-pdn0Wgq3joOTTcCZIS2T7urfhj5kNjF/s1600/CampplatzPetronell.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUC5KLacxOe_BWK_hTOuPu2KGpr9TwJJYKhMZK_shP3tLRKC0DEIhAkbhhgb7kEzywYZ3U-gwHOTU1Tn7vkkSw6xtn40hOHty6PeNhXESZFaOJ-pdn0Wgq3joOTTcCZIS2T7urfhj5kNjF/s1600/CampplatzPetronell.JPG" /></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">As we sat at the window drinking our beer, the evening sun going down, the scene outside began to change. The new arrivals had begun heading to the washrooms for showers and after a few minutes, tensions began to develop. Shrieks could be heard as people began swatting mosquitos as they were bitten. One by one freshly showered campers emerged in swimming trunks and shorts from the washrooms and began running towards their tents, vaulting over anything in their path and screeching to their partners to hold open the tent door for them. The mosquito population, quickly alert to their tactics, grouped into a swarm and attacked en-mass. Mass hysteria seemed to fill the site. It was like a battlefield with half naked people running for their lives to barricade themselves in the shelter of their tents. The assault came when a group of around six showerers who had been hiding in the washrooms decided to make a run for it together. These poor souls had covered themselves as best they could, even winding towels around their heads and faces. They sprinted like a crazy heard of stampeding buffalo, tripping over guylines and knocking over flowerpots as they were bitten half to death by the swarm. They paid a high price for this poor strategy. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">The site managers - an elderly couple retired here from Vienna – watched with us from the bar, unmoved but miserable. Clearly this was nothing new to them. They had been unaware of the mosquito problem when they bought the lease, they told us. The local authority would not allow insecticide to be used in the reserve - strictly verboten! - so the mosquito larvae could not be sprayed on the surrounding ponds. People only stayed one night, they told us. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">"Jah, it is all looking so lovely when they are arriving, but then when the evening is coming they discover the true horror of this place."</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIcgzintt0_zuzmN2g9o6vFmfuKNb-z-MJ9-wI5LOgO6kQCdneWkNLq5P-H7aZIxFnb8c_fznrNWMAcHlY8Tp4RKPvVsYS5Qa7Hs8EPhMWN05aU5XXICn8HvvYvli_qfHCtzJHtQvNQ0Q/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #7479d0; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIcgzintt0_zuzmN2g9o6vFmfuKNb-z-MJ9-wI5LOgO6kQCdneWkNLq5P-H7aZIxFnb8c_fznrNWMAcHlY8Tp4RKPvVsYS5Qa7Hs8EPhMWN05aU5XXICn8HvvYvli_qfHCtzJHtQvNQ0Q/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" style="border: none; position: relative;" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles, with his 18 year old </i></span></span><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his </i><i style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #990000;">two collections of short stories</span></i><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores. A new book entitled 'People I've Met On The Road' will be published soon.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-66897635996963019412015-08-01T03:11:00.000-07:002016-06-06T12:27:56.176-07:00Pilgrimage of the Spirit<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vZShlB2Br1br3wWWivwp91x3QBwavFpWHMwc88uLigvy8IoiSuTXOJlk4kRYgN-rL4-qCjAB-W9mcvu0uIlaizM_39DcmJ52eSPMBSoDW6fl-u1waGVCFEyJHVJ3ZTVqM3wSuc4NX3G9/s1600/Camino+-+SatiagoCathed.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vZShlB2Br1br3wWWivwp91x3QBwavFpWHMwc88uLigvy8IoiSuTXOJlk4kRYgN-rL4-qCjAB-W9mcvu0uIlaizM_39DcmJ52eSPMBSoDW6fl-u1waGVCFEyJHVJ3ZTVqM3wSuc4NX3G9/s400/Camino+-+SatiagoCathed.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">A Question of Belief</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqC2Lp6vJSTFdlAHPZ72ILX3WContVeztiozlCCqu6hoSdx9LJfBhFoUFKWhpujgRZdFIuB4XRE4DhUkDHCgFwbGw8sJOc2vro8CkykMR8vbjTacR294WYUdqIoIwVyOU7CCmwYc8hIkfo/s1600/Camino-Compostela.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqC2Lp6vJSTFdlAHPZ72ILX3WContVeztiozlCCqu6hoSdx9LJfBhFoUFKWhpujgRZdFIuB4XRE4DhUkDHCgFwbGw8sJOc2vro8CkykMR8vbjTacR294WYUdqIoIwVyOU7CCmwYc8hIkfo/s1600/Camino-Compostela.jpg" /></a>Presenting myself before one of the "Grand Inquisitors" at the office of the Archbishopric in the ancient Spanish city of Santiago de Compostela, I handed over my "Credencial" – a treasured booklet of official stamps (sellos). These I had received at various pilgrims' hostels (albergues de peregrinos) along the route of the Camino Primitivo. I had just completed a walk of over 350km (218 miles) in the space of 12 sweltering hot days. My feet were somewhat sensitive but I felt elated. So why did I need this "Compostela" (official certificate), I asked myself? A pilgrimage it may be but after all I am not religious.<br />
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The Inquisitor folded her pale hands and began questioning me. How had I travelled – by bicycle or on foot? Had I <i>really</i> walked the whole of the last 100km (the minimum requirement)? Where had my walk begun? What <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LpMJRvGB_vFiOvaI4XcN_obXXLOlb9gPyaN99mbLPJQL9_DStj9OKagBUO5UsgF2o-o1mfBFRyHM_MEyZfjEMI5-0gn52l_FAVEYwqOQOo6OoLFooIezumpzP4ifaZy9CzoOT7WHIYdV/s1600/IMG_1520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LpMJRvGB_vFiOvaI4XcN_obXXLOlb9gPyaN99mbLPJQL9_DStj9OKagBUO5UsgF2o-o1mfBFRyHM_MEyZfjEMI5-0gn52l_FAVEYwqOQOo6OoLFooIezumpzP4ifaZy9CzoOT7WHIYdV/s200/IMG_1520.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
was my motivation? I mumbled awkwardly, stumbling over the Spanish grammar. Her stare, her dark eyes and the quiet, reedy tone of her voice had unsettled me. Sternly she pushed a register towards me, followed by a Godly looking pen. Managing to break eye contact, I looked down and began completing the details, while she scrutinised my credencial. My name – my country – my town – my beliefs, then a list to select from. Was I, a) religious, b) spiritual, or c) a heathen, unbeliever or some such condemning descriptor. I ticked "spiritual" and then looked at what all the others above me had ticked. I looked over to the previous pages. By my estimate I think about 75% had ticked spiritual. About 15% had called themselves unbelievers and only the remaining 10% had ticked "religious." I was surprised. Was this a reliable reflection of the state of the world, or only of the type of people who are motivated to walk until their feet bleed for no material gain? I decided upon the latter.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV027QBEF2PRI1RBMmNPx6mQp8HU_H4baPFk32qXCW1OPlMFZ7KGF673tOpcF4tRLTocWpcCWNZCDfrNePzl50jOyF7F_r38j8gujGbnDPpeXQ_N6UJ4r7mqryRdlvIp-g2XCprtKdO1zc/s1600/Camino-Compostela+office.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV027QBEF2PRI1RBMmNPx6mQp8HU_H4baPFk32qXCW1OPlMFZ7KGF673tOpcF4tRLTocWpcCWNZCDfrNePzl50jOyF7F_r38j8gujGbnDPpeXQ_N6UJ4r7mqryRdlvIp-g2XCprtKdO1zc/s320/Camino-Compostela+office.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Inquisition - A Stern Business</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUeB8thf-64enkzoQX_DWJKNBPxALz7cIfkunsMFpe9HoyErYx4gBB6KusAIWASz-69rxD3vO1F8XSezEb5jAuvezQcUa7m9KjNBUSArVMRw4p08Q1M96wQH2RIeWe_4S_5kME-ETEY3D/s1600/Camino-Compostelaoffice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZUeB8thf-64enkzoQX_DWJKNBPxALz7cIfkunsMFpe9HoyErYx4gBB6KusAIWASz-69rxD3vO1F8XSezEb5jAuvezQcUa7m9KjNBUSArVMRw4p08Q1M96wQH2RIeWe_4S_5kME-ETEY3D/s320/Camino-Compostelaoffice.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">After walking all the way to Santiago, the queue for the Compostela can be long</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Pilgrims services are held daily in the cathedral. If you're lucky you'll witness the jaw-dropping sight of the huge incense burner swinging dangerously from side to side across the massed congregation</span><br />
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I normally steadfastly resist labels and stereotypes for myself, and yet I had comfortably ticked the box describing myself as spiritual. And thinking about it still, as I wandered back out into the sunlit cathedral square, it is how I could easily describe the mentality of the people I had found myself walking with for those 2 weeks. People I now, strangely, felt bonded to as if they were lifelong friends.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPG5WZNCl4govYv_aSgMH3YHwJl04ylI42khB-GLC8e6g0pg36_yyKsT88K3vENGhwSMMaAJK1W603_f1bnU76HppJMvyHEK-ySC0ErxaBl5HpSx3O3245HEzL6y7DR2tne26UVjXxH7JT/s1600/IMG_1414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPG5WZNCl4govYv_aSgMH3YHwJl04ylI42khB-GLC8e6g0pg36_yyKsT88K3vENGhwSMMaAJK1W603_f1bnU76HppJMvyHEK-ySC0ErxaBl5HpSx3O3245HEzL6y7DR2tne26UVjXxH7JT/s400/IMG_1414.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A few of those friends</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Goals and The Pot of Gold Metaphor</span><br />
There have been many illustrative folk stories over time which seek to demonstrate that a treasure which is sought as a goal, results in the person seeking it later realising that what was really to be gained by their quest, was not the goal itself but that which he or she experienced along the road to that goal.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQUlGXPc-34lIeUGMXMlJnVTknQ7xyYiqIIzg0g_2up07RLNnIXRDApxpnkNHah5ZSsX0ir3oYjbsjxSn_bT8u_mn3OOpIvTiWmFYhiQgGyCeG7O_L769dG4jXhHQdXGrLDxeimvIUT-C/s1600/CaminoTheAlchemist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMQUlGXPc-34lIeUGMXMlJnVTknQ7xyYiqIIzg0g_2up07RLNnIXRDApxpnkNHah5ZSsX0ir3oYjbsjxSn_bT8u_mn3OOpIvTiWmFYhiQgGyCeG7O_L769dG4jXhHQdXGrLDxeimvIUT-C/s200/CaminoTheAlchemist.jpg" width="133" /></a>Most religions embrace and promote the idea of pilgrimage. Moslems are encouraged to make at least<br />
one journey to Mecca in their lives, while Hindus follow great rivers and Christians walk between great cathedral cities. I have little doubt that the wise originators of these religious groups had this aim in mind – for people to gain wisdom along the way. Even secular pilgrimages are not uncommon. The young shepherd boy in Paul Coelho's book "The Alchemist," who had a dream of a chest of buried gold, finally found the Alchemist he sought, in order to ask where he might find the treasure. Finally tracking him down, he was sent home again, back to his fields, but not before he had learned along the way to understand about the soul of the world and that his own destiny was entwined with that of the world, since, he was told, "they were written by the same hand." Only then did the young man discover the gold, buried in his own fields. And of course most of us know this metaphor to be true in practice. Yet as with many of life's most valuable lessons, what we subliminally know to be true is kept hidden from us while we are focussed too closely on our daily toils. We need to escape from work and responsibilities in order to really understand it to the level that we can act upon it – live by it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkHJslEKRLk-VutLG97ljvAC0DT7ag5od92gFivOCRPkAa6DU-W2AzJie4OIRZdcAr1P6w9vaBxiG1R69bHxDMlMdEZCLGNiM7MOfhNX3hi_onq8EiMKxjrspU0XJ-NcSMOSOzSHBpw9w/s1600/camino-PrimitivoMap.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkHJslEKRLk-VutLG97ljvAC0DT7ag5od92gFivOCRPkAa6DU-W2AzJie4OIRZdcAr1P6w9vaBxiG1R69bHxDMlMdEZCLGNiM7MOfhNX3hi_onq8EiMKxjrspU0XJ-NcSMOSOzSHBpw9w/s640/camino-PrimitivoMap.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Camino Primitivo crosses mountainous and unspoilt Asturias before meeting the Camino Frances trail as one enters Galicia. The route has been extended to start north of Oviedo, close to the coast east of Gijon.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">The Camino Primitivo</span><br />
Amazingly around 200,000 people a year currently complete one of the Caminos de Santiago. Like all the best treasures in life, I stumbled upon this pilgrimage by accident. In Paul Coelho's Alchemist's terms, I allowed my destiny to take me down a path I needed to go. I had done a short 1 week Camino a year before – the Camino Finisterre – at the instigation of my wife (a wise woman where I am concerned). My brother then showed an interest and we agreed to do a 2 week Camino together. For a number of historic reasons this made the experience more profound – probably for both of us. Even the choice of the Camino Primitivo seemed like an accident, and yet it all came together, along with the selection of people we met, many of whom I feel sure will remain friends, to form something powerful and life-changing. Something that from my current perspective seems far from accidental. Fear not my friends, I have not "found religion," but I have found something valuable, or at least a large piece of it.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Priorities and Redirecting One's Life</span><br />
At some point, often in late middle-age, we all seem to find ourselves bogged down in responsibilities, habits and the pressures of mortgages and careers etc. We tell ourselves we want to escape these things but that we don't have the time. We look for a friend or partner to join us and then use them as an excuse for not doing it. Our job begins to look busier or less secure. An elderly relative looks like they might be on their last legs. These are excuses and are almost never a valid reason. A week away on a short Camino is possible for almost anyone, both in terms of time and physical capability. The "nobody to do it with" excuse seems to be the most common. But one meets people along the way – in hostels you can hardly avoid it. Two weeks I found to be far more rewarding but that could be Step 2 if you are apprehensive. Nobody – and I mean nobody – who does a Camino regrets it. It is one of life's great truths. In fact most who do it never stop telling others what an amazing experience it was, which can become a pain.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Memorable dinner together in Bodenaya Albergue - Frienships are easily made on Camino</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">The Ecstasy and the Agony</span><br />
Despite the intense feelings of "rightness" I felt as my camino progressed – a feeling that sometimes did border on the ecstatic – I came down to earth with a bump about two days from Santiago de Compostela. Suddenly I realised that what had almost become a way of life – getting up at 05:45, starting walking just before sunrise, stopping at small village cafes for simple breakfasts, striding over almost deserted sun-drenched and forested mountainsides with mist hanging in the valleys like cotton-wool, talking with friends about our lives and our feelings, then arriving tired but elated at a country albergue to rest before going out to the village bar for well deserved beer and simple food – would soon be over. Just a memory. I sank into a partial depression. Could I not continue walking forever – a lifelong pilgrimage? I got over this malaise of course, once I was home and able to share my thoughts and experiences with my family and close friends, but there is a part of me that will always be sad that it is over. Until the next time, perhaps?<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">After a hundred kilometres, unaccustomed feet begin to suffer</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Some of the early morning vistas in Asturias take your breath away</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> The (optional) pass of the Hospitales near Campiello is the </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">toughest </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">of any Camino, the book says. It's well worth the effort.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Often you look out from the green and gold hills and the windmills are the only manmade thing you can see</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Typical path on the Camino Primitivo</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The sun, the green forests and the golden grass were always there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Primitivo is less known than other Caminos so silence is not hard to find.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Information on Caminos</span><br />
There are many guidebooks and on-line resources. My brother and I carried with us the recently updated book, The Northern Caminos, by Laura Perazzoli and Dave Whitson, published by Ciserone. I found it accurate and helpful, but I do find it is usually rewarding to stray away from the recommendations of others at times, even if it means going "wrong." My camino is my camino, and yours is yours.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIcgzintt0_zuzmN2g9o6vFmfuKNb-z-MJ9-wI5LOgO6kQCdneWkNLq5P-H7aZIxFnb8c_fznrNWMAcHlY8Tp4RKPvVsYS5Qa7Hs8EPhMWN05aU5XXICn8HvvYvli_qfHCtzJHtQvNQ0Q/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVIcgzintt0_zuzmN2g9o6vFmfuKNb-z-MJ9-wI5LOgO6kQCdneWkNLq5P-H7aZIxFnb8c_fznrNWMAcHlY8Tp4RKPvVsYS5Qa7Hs8EPhMWN05aU5XXICn8HvvYvli_qfHCtzJHtQvNQ0Q/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles, with his 18 year old </i></span></span><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his </i><i style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #990000;">two collections of short stories</span></i><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-62718494942142756502015-07-27T01:20:00.000-07:002016-04-13T00:48:01.666-07:00Palio of Siena<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Spending time in this region I find myself wondering why. Examining the culture it is noticeable how much people are driven by passion. Passion for love, for beauty, for good food and wine, for music, poetry and prose, design, the thrill of speed, the love of battling to win and of overcoming one's enemies. Passion is predominately credited in Italy for driving success. The works of great composers, writers, painters, sculptors, architects and designers. The subliminal and inexplicable elements that are the spirit of a Ferrari, a great film or the best Italian cooking. So what is it about passion that seems to produce such impressive results?</div>
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I would like to think that all of us possess the capacity to feel passion. I believe we do, but that it is more easily sparked in some of us than others. Advertisers work hard to unlock it. But is it something that comes from within us or is it injected? Some would have it that passion is something primeval, coming from nature – not something logical, predictable or controllable. I like to come down on that side. Yet I know that it is possible to unlock passion in others if we understand them well enough. This must be the ultimate power.</div>
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In August, in the beautiful city of Siena I encounter a society with so much of its sophisticated historical past intact in its current culture. I am here for the annual Palio. An ancient and somewhat strange horse race run through the streets of the main square. The passion for the Palio is palpable everywhere. It is not a tourist event. In fact outsiders are barely tolerated. Intrigued, I look up the history.<br />
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There are two Palios each year. One in July and one in August, when people are mad with the heat and their blood is up. Ten horses are selected and assigned to the ten participating 'Contrada' by lottery from those offered by local breeders. Owners win little money. It is about the glory of winning - these are riches enough. Riders however can become financially rich, it is said. The horses are named 'The Barbero' and the jockey 'The Barbesco'. As you can see, this is a primitive battle, not a sport. The Contrada were originally local barracks of soldiers. When not fighting wars, they needed an outlet for their passions and desire for danger. Warlike games were devised. Over time these were banned or died out, leaving only the Palio horse race. The motivations of the race are hard for outsiders to understand. They are based in historic issues. The ten horses are blessed in the church of the Contrada they run for. Yes, horses in church! Yet it is a secular festival. The race is dangerous both for riders and horses. The track is compacted Tufo earth over the cobbled square. Corners are padded with mattresses and leather. Horses and riders die (less so of late). Crowds go wild for what is merely a 4 minute race. The passion swells from the start of the week, building through the 3 days of practice races and culminates in an explosion of madness (it is said it is as if the walls of Siena are about to fall) when it comes to the final event.</div>
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The Palio is both moral and openly corrupt (bribery goes with the territory). There is no advertising or sponsorship by the likes of Coca Cola or Heineken here. Yet this is no contradiction to the locals. It is The Palio. It is for me an undeniably beautiful and thrilling spectacle, where over years they have learned the power of the long, painful buildup to an explosive crescendo. To have any hope of a good view, spectators either pay between 250 and 2500 Euro to stand or sit on a balcony or they bag a place in the centre of the square and stand in blazing heat, crammed cheek by jowl for 6hrs. For the last 2hrs of that wait, the crowd needs to endure a painfully slow procession of traditionally dressed flag tossers then finally a bullock cart of dignitaries. Just when you think boredom will kill you if the heat doesn't, a gun goes off and the horses arrive to tumultuous applause. There is a further agonising wait as they try to get each of the ten horses and Jockeys to line up. Maybe half-an-hour before the shouts of a desperate crowd (many by now carried away on stretchers due to heatstroke) result in the starting gun being fired.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOWlAUo4Z_sx2c9F3aGAHChYrcqi8gjimyYc3p-co6rb-rtw876DKVmZ9eyf3Wm-8zn790L35rIluYtokhdE_a-xc-nvvnLXGuHc0TCuIMTdH1qgKiWzMixRdLTSxx-tHVoHEhrng7i88/s1600/IMG_2129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOWlAUo4Z_sx2c9F3aGAHChYrcqi8gjimyYc3p-co6rb-rtw876DKVmZ9eyf3Wm-8zn790L35rIluYtokhdE_a-xc-nvvnLXGuHc0TCuIMTdH1qgKiWzMixRdLTSxx-tHVoHEhrng7i88/s400/IMG_2129.jpg" width="275" /></a>Bang! Complete orgasmic madness ensues. The Colosseum in Rome with its gladiators never saw the like. <br />
The writhing mass of thousands of spectators as they stretch and fight to see, while the horses run at literally breakneck speed around the track. A faller at the San Martino bend sees a rider break his leg. The horse runs on. The rules say it can still win without a rider. As the horses pass us at the end of a lap the crowd around me is wild with passion - as am I. Involuntary tears blur my vision. Fear is there too. The hoofs thunder. Jockeys pull at one another as they dice with death at our turn. Our Contrada's horse is ahead! It's unbelievable. People all around seem as if they might die of their excitement. Women wail and clasp their heads. Men, like crazed beasts, bellow encouragement and foam at the mouth. The final lap is upon us already. Our horse still ahead followed by the riderless horse. People swoon and collapse beneath the feet of the crowd with emotional exhaustion as the winner thunders past in a blur. And it's our Contrada's horse - the people we shared dinner with in the streets last night! It is as if we have been in the midst of an epic battle rather than a race. Everyone is crying and looking like they've lost their minds. People tear at their clothes, their hair. None of us will ever be the same again. Celebrations begin before the shock has even begun to subside. Scenes of absolute mania. They climb the barriers en-mass and mob the jockey, pulling him from his horse. The jockey looks afraid, as well he might. The foaming horse rears up and has to be restrained. I have never seen or experienced anything like it. This is true passion – three and a half minutes of explosively devastating passion. This is The Palio di Siena. Now I know why someone at dinner last night told me with a flash of manic fire in his eyes, that once you've seen one, you are hooked.</div>
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I am calm now. My heartbeat is almost normal again - but not quite. The very thought of it makes my heart-rate begin to climb.</div>
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In the same way that Zen Archery is said to be the key to understanding Zen, for me The Palio is the key to understanding the notion of passion - in the Italians at least, but probably in the human race. It's primitive. Lust. The quest for fire. The climb of the men of the winning Contrada, up a wooden tower to retrieve the flag with the Madonna, that they will cherish until next year. They climb and fall several times in their mania. Finally they reach it and parade it around the circuit. Again the crowd goes wild. I feel like I died and was reborn that day. I kid you not!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1i2x8HXCY7-r4TDRHmynJ-RMPK_uH0fWaS-9x75j6P2vh7d9Dr7LfY9fRM2ujr1rc47KgNq3inaVmq4NtSQjb4QAumkKtagufZ1M0kOafvPZsqE-rYm6DO1O0E3sfxtpqecMamjsq4Wg/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; color: #010726; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1i2x8HXCY7-r4TDRHmynJ-RMPK_uH0fWaS-9x75j6P2vh7d9Dr7LfY9fRM2ujr1rc47KgNq3inaVmq4NtSQjb4QAumkKtagufZ1M0kOafvPZsqE-rYm6DO1O0E3sfxtpqecMamjsq4Wg/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #010726; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles, with his 18 year old </i></span></span><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his </i><i style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #990000;">two collections of short stories</span></i><i style="color: #cc0000; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-4239441323892838432015-06-16T04:51:00.000-07:002015-06-16T04:51:26.091-07:00Cycling For Weight-Loss<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">A Familiar Story</span><br />
Many long-distance cyclists will have experienced it. You come across another westerner, cycling out in the wilds of Laos, Thailand or Borneo and you stop for a conversation. They seem to have cycled almost everywhere in the world worth cycling. There is a zeal in their eyes when they talk about it. Looking down you see sculpted calfs and a physique that belies the age of the rider - he says he's retired so he's probably in his sixties. Then you ask the question - "So how long have you been into cycling?"<br />
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And this is the familiar bit. Frequently these irrepressible enthusiasts will tell you that five or ten years ago they weighed twice or even three times as much as they do now, drank heavily and smoked forty a day. They hadn't ridden a bike since they were a kid.<br />
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"I had a heart attack. The doctors told me if I didn't change the way I lived I would be dead within a year. I stopped smoking, stopped the heavy drinking, stopped eating junk and got some regular exercise. Then a friend suggested I take up cycling."<br />
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What they then tell you is how the weight began to fall off them and their health began to return. But invariably they go on to talk about how they began to love the cycling - the buzz it gave them, the people they met, the places they went and the simple pleasure of being out in the countryside.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Countryside is made to cycle in</span></div>
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One Dutchman I met in Laos was a case in point. In fact his name was Kase. We met him at the bottom of a long steep hill somewhere north of Vientiane (the diminutive capital). We stopped.<br />
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"Are you okay, do you have a problem with the bike?"<br />
"No no, my wife was telephoning from Holland so I stopped. Where are you from?"<br />
"England. You're from Holland yes – is this your first time in Laos?"<br />
"No my third. I'm on my way to Vietnam then I'll fly home from Saigon. Only three weeks this time."<br />
"You do a lot of this then?"<br />
"Oh yes. I'm nearly always away. I can't stop, because I love it so much. Six years ago I was so fat and unhealthy and my doctor told me to get exercise. I bought a bike and I found I loved cycling so much. Now Im obsessed – my family hardly see me. Ha ha, before they could always find me sitting in the chair, watching TV and drinking beer. Complaining! I love my life so much now. It's incredible. Anyhow I'm sorry I have to go, I want to make it to Luang Prabang tonight. Watch out for the hills, guys - there is a big one about one hour ahead. It continues up and up for about sixty kilometres... but the view is incredible. Enjoy it and watch out for the hot springs place – you can't miss it... incredible!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03PcslXu9rc3Xwke2EYKl0J8n6cI8vD5rgPL_SttCC1lTo4cxQTPh8HJgV2De1rQySa8DFEwOFaTYpxSK8l4phEIyP6JwNjr5-t_6x7V0eBXMNdfO8nz9PZ4nHI6rZuF9DgpeHvsrEuTE/s1600/P1010268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg03PcslXu9rc3Xwke2EYKl0J8n6cI8vD5rgPL_SttCC1lTo4cxQTPh8HJgV2De1rQySa8DFEwOFaTYpxSK8l4phEIyP6JwNjr5-t_6x7V0eBXMNdfO8nz9PZ4nHI6rZuF9DgpeHvsrEuTE/s1600/P1010268.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The cycling paradise that is Laos</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Miracle Weight-loss Formula</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTqyD4s3xSGJC7k4pweapHU2f8m5BCtWgWb_Tzr5lID81HPbboaE9ozBiqiLSzvrJ2xDxp7I8EIz6pitnvbYeWcATew80z-ha-hp9vFXU-H_esFP-CEtAxVA7k6gCVI3pcnGNSHf8kMO-/s1600/WeightLossShake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTqyD4s3xSGJC7k4pweapHU2f8m5BCtWgWb_Tzr5lID81HPbboaE9ozBiqiLSzvrJ2xDxp7I8EIz6pitnvbYeWcATew80z-ha-hp9vFXU-H_esFP-CEtAxVA7k6gCVI3pcnGNSHf8kMO-/s1600/WeightLossShake.jpg" width="200" /></a>I always sigh when I hear someone say they are on a special weight-loss diet or that they are going to the gym. For a start these are unlikely to work because (unlike Kase) their way of life will not fundamentally change. Moreover, I cannot for the life of me understand why someone would suffer this kind of boring regime when they could be out there in the beauty of the world, enjoying the gentle motion of pedalling a bicycle. Cycling is the best route to fitness and good health I know. It's gentle - you are unlikely to suffer impact injuries etc that you may well experience in other sports - it's meditative, it needn't be expensive and you can do it almost anywhere. But the big selling point is that you can be going somewhere, visiting interesting places and enjoying beautiful scenery while you're getting your exercise. There is also a tremendous sense of achievement at the end of every day's ride and even more-so at the end of every expedition. In fact I would say I have rarely met a depressed, miserable or pessimistic long-distance cyclist.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCE1mfJFgLiRKIDTokMOFP-u7-oKH1zoJUv7bKlyf1deOZ5OFNBr_45Jrnvcai20qcaEN6FKa6cgtlLQIdT573bRQEnim5I_Q-ZGH5_qGkKgOJOPXkmjuP81lMB3k6UhzJDc6ORuhS1HBM/s1600/WeightLossGym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCE1mfJFgLiRKIDTokMOFP-u7-oKH1zoJUv7bKlyf1deOZ5OFNBr_45Jrnvcai20qcaEN6FKa6cgtlLQIdT573bRQEnim5I_Q-ZGH5_qGkKgOJOPXkmjuP81lMB3k6UhzJDc6ORuhS1HBM/s1600/WeightLossGym.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Why endure the blandness of a gym when you could be out there doing it for real?</span></div>
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Next time you are thinking you need to go on a diet or that you should take out a gym membership, do yourself a favour, take a trip to your local cycle shop instead.<br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles, with his 18 year old son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his two collections of short stories, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-23131911082643346612015-04-27T03:01:00.001-07:002015-08-21T02:47:42.042-07:00Ageing & Simple Pleasures<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Waking again this morning to spring sunshine, my still dreamy mind leaped instantly to the thought of a cycle ride. Get out there on the lanes, amongst the trees, the English hedgerows, the sound of birdsong and the sobering sight of squashed hedgehogs. Recently I passed 57. That's years old, not squashed hedgehogs or miles per hour! I know 57 is far from old, but I already see how people my age are telling themselves they are too old to do things. Some of them even think they are too old for sex, for goodness sake! (a bad back is no excuse - be more imaginative). Thankfully my passion for such things – physical exertion, expeditionary travel and the great outdoors – is as strong as ever. I am determined to stave off the depressing world of coach trips, mobility scooters, Zimmer-frames, Tenna-pants, stretch waistbands, cream teas, gift shops and queues for the toilets. Surely these things needn't be the mark of a person over sixty-five?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7P0-egbsgsifavo2J-XyjweIrSL6ZBPGXGBpSs0fT88RA9bnUfTc-31TXZ12M0CeUSl_S_Tm32m28DCYpipcXd_nzLqqYBk7V86YezRF4mMSWfGnhX3q9IqRXDngmj1-scCj7fElsaT5/s1600/Zimmerframes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV7P0-egbsgsifavo2J-XyjweIrSL6ZBPGXGBpSs0fT88RA9bnUfTc-31TXZ12M0CeUSl_S_Tm32m28DCYpipcXd_nzLqqYBk7V86YezRF4mMSWfGnhX3q9IqRXDngmj1-scCj7fElsaT5/s400/Zimmerframes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">If all else fails one could take up Zimmer-frame racing</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Dementia & Obesity Epidemics</span></b><br />
Recently there has been much publicity about the "dementia epidemic." It is due to strike Western<br />
Europe and other developed regions any time now, we are told. Partly this is due to many more people living into their eighties and nineties and beyond, but research suggests that more sedentary <br />
lifestyles plays a strong part in it. Nowadays, far fewer people do active outdoor jobs – it has become more the norm for people to sit at a desk all day. Sport in schools has been hugely reduced and we<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6gdsEYdSg8kC8OCoAojfnYFjGzPnLkYQBwm97G278Gc7IQvtPnhSAi2tAoBoxDK3oBR3rDTYKhFr9_-ckrQ7z1s9428rEs9IC0r73hz7jSimfTaCdhzowt-USa33b1Kv4OB4O5EmW_yY/s1600/ZimmerframeFinnishDisco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij6gdsEYdSg8kC8OCoAojfnYFjGzPnLkYQBwm97G278Gc7IQvtPnhSAi2tAoBoxDK3oBR3rDTYKhFr9_-ckrQ7z1s9428rEs9IC0r73hz7jSimfTaCdhzowt-USa33b1Kv4OB4O5EmW_yY/s200/ZimmerframeFinnishDisco.jpg" width="175" /></a>have gone to great lengths to find ways to avoid the need to walk or cycle to work, school or to the shops. Leisure for many increasingly means "pampering." It begins early – children do not go out to play like they used to. They have become voluntary prisoners of their screens. This sets up habits for a lifetime. And clearly the obesity epidemic goes hand in hand with this sedentary lifestyle. Only the recently resurgent interests in cycling, hill-walking and camping (albeit largely at the more mature end of the spectrum) give any cause for cautious optimism. So I am relying on this kind of regular activity to keep me sane, and enjoying it at the same time. And for those who dislike the outdoors, I suggest you check out the strange but effective activity that is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJj6d5QSYaE" target="_blank">Finnish Disco Dancing</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYndMkVoWabgN5KtQj_JEifB_HLC18tTVPtYbBGowOtQQlCAMZmEO4zQmWHyDGV2vawZ4giTpsyeL9CgWUL5tpusAHdNzmyeI4DWhmPIxeTgS6cqddf5hKM2DnybUyl8LqhuyEVxBXZBCM/s1600/Perry+Woods+view+West.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYndMkVoWabgN5KtQj_JEifB_HLC18tTVPtYbBGowOtQQlCAMZmEO4zQmWHyDGV2vawZ4giTpsyeL9CgWUL5tpusAHdNzmyeI4DWhmPIxeTgS6cqddf5hKM2DnybUyl8LqhuyEVxBXZBCM/s1600/Perry+Woods+view+West.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">For those who can manage the outdoors, there is still plenty of it available</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>The Benefits of Maturity</b></span><br />
No doubt at some point my physical ability to cycle, surf or walk long distances over hilly terrain will begin diminish, but so far it seems to be improving. I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible. What I lack in sheer strength I seem to make up for in a more relaxed approach, which seems to get me further and in a more pleasurable manner. I find my judgement is a bit better. I have learned from experience to give a little more thought to when it makes sense to stop, how much water and food to carry and most of all to remind myself that I have nothing to prove to anyone, not even myself. I've done it all before so I can just enjoy it. I am happy to reassure younger people that this is a great stage of life to reach. For me it feels like a reward for years of self-induced pain and hardship. But the greatest reward of being a "mature" cyclist, surfer, motorcyclist and rambler is to have the time. No longer the 2 week summer holiday once a year, at the same time as everyone else is out congesting the roads. No longer the all too brief weekend jaunt stolen between the intense responsibilities of work and child-rearing. Now I am becoming more able to go where I want, when I want and almost for as long as I want. And the great thing about cycle touring or any of the other outdoor pastimes I've mentioned, is that you don't need a fortune to do it. I urge you not to give in to old age incapacity. As Dylan Thomas said (although he was frequently incapacitated) "Do not go gentle into that good night."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05o2cEZd77jhEK1Sm4zRmGj5zozYG8OE793rvD5ysRTKPR_pidNJJQ2Fpv6Aeux89RfDnwWBzr7LneEFJZ-KTOotSAsSG6jtJRfK9nx627FWGP2iVsJVecUBvSDE-Sf3GQCq4FC7vwvlX/s1600/Zimmerframe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05o2cEZd77jhEK1Sm4zRmGj5zozYG8OE793rvD5ysRTKPR_pidNJJQ2Fpv6Aeux89RfDnwWBzr7LneEFJZ-KTOotSAsSG6jtJRfK9nx627FWGP2iVsJVecUBvSDE-Sf3GQCq4FC7vwvlX/s320/Zimmerframe2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Pick Up Thy Zimmer-frame And Walk!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>Where To Go</b></span><br />
I tend to divide up my cycling, surfing, walking and motorcycling (I also squeeze in a few sailing trips with friends) trips into categories based upon the length of time they take and therefore the amount of preparation required.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjs_1iJa3aHbNN-R7_Zwoh_KLQVqu1ZCgl3ph7T4a9xHcizjpdNBZ2bMcvbZgmHGkSohDCkvAVM351ZCYFGpCmU66dlST9wF2ZlxaOPA-kmCRxuNqob3YpNI_NjEp8utnG-XYCCZYbURq-/s1600/iphone0811+038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjs_1iJa3aHbNN-R7_Zwoh_KLQVqu1ZCgl3ph7T4a9xHcizjpdNBZ2bMcvbZgmHGkSohDCkvAVM351ZCYFGpCmU66dlST9wF2ZlxaOPA-kmCRxuNqob3YpNI_NjEp8utnG-XYCCZYbURq-/s1600/iphone0811+038.jpg" width="239" /></a><br />
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Half day and one day trips</span></b> tend to involve cycling or walking to a country pub - usually a micropub (<a href="http://micropubassociation.co.uk/">http://micropubassociation.co.uk</a>)<br />
<b><span style="color: #990000;">Long weekend trips</span></b> naturally require a little more planning, but not much. These might involve a cycle tour of a number of micropubs in Kent, where I mostly live. My friends and I usually take a packed lunch and eat it in a churchyard as micropubs don't serve food. Yes, it's very much like "The Last of the Summer Wine." Sometimes I cycle alone somewhere, out to a farm shop or to visit a friend. Half-day motorcycle trips tend to follow the same pattern. The main thing is these activities require little or no pre-planning. A phone call the evening before or on the morning, fill my water-bottle and perhaps make a sandwich before I set off. Sometimes it might be a trip across to France or Belgium. Motorcycle jaunts can be longer - perhaps down to Wales, up to Yorkshire or over to Belgium or France. Every so often I ride over to Ireland to see a race like the thrilling North-west 200 near the Giant's Causeway. <b><span style="color: #990000;">One or two week trips </span></b>usually involve going further and might involve camping if the weather is good. I often go with friends to cycle The Way of The Roses cycle route from Morecambe to Bridlington (coast to coast in Lancashire and Yorkshire). I've also recently started doing Camino walks (pilgrimage walks to Santiago de la Compostela in Spain) which can take months. It's not all old fogeys mate! And then there are <b><span style="color: #990000;">expeditionary trips</span></b>. These usually take anything from a month to a year. My longest was 9 months cycling from <a href="http://longroadhardlessons.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Ireland to Japan with my son</a>. This November my son and I are thinking of doing a one month cycle trip in India or Morocco. Last summer I cycled the Elbe in East Germany, down through Czech Republic and then back along the Danube with my wife (slowly). It's hard to be bored when you have a bike or a good pair of boots. I'm waiting to cycle The Himalayas at some point, but I'm in no rush. My body seems to work better than ever and that's probably thanks to all this regular exercise.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22q7Id9YHGW-BMYQKI8_vlajYY9rLym8sKZBQvPnKabcbT34WTqCqazMUXF9LJQ33WVdgsHCcDgAiJSItAXuGAD2ZfUQPZonEVTjZwuY-oxkcfUPzt2sk85RsnRwgXpYsuo-cyLWYXt-5/s1600/Popperinge+-+Belgium+2001+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22q7Id9YHGW-BMYQKI8_vlajYY9rLym8sKZBQvPnKabcbT34WTqCqazMUXF9LJQ33WVdgsHCcDgAiJSItAXuGAD2ZfUQPZonEVTjZwuY-oxkcfUPzt2sk85RsnRwgXpYsuo-cyLWYXt-5/s1600/Popperinge+-+Belgium+2001+012.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Men in lycra. A trip to Poperinge Beer Festival (Belgium)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCslGhBuk9S0z-Sz0IWXXsmbzFI2GeeYFBXvplLJycbkMNAu2ur-SOb-eixAK7rieN5oHSdAxR-hKOnnDjzjhPiyH87aG24fLwzcu2OVfbC3m319Qw_LczL6M0l85YA-fHQzmqAxbX_VI/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCslGhBuk9S0z-Sz0IWXXsmbzFI2GeeYFBXvplLJycbkMNAu2ur-SOb-eixAK7rieN5oHSdAxR-hKOnnDjzjhPiyH87aG24fLwzcu2OVfbC3m319Qw_LczL6M0l85YA-fHQzmqAxbX_VI/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+404.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The road from Ireland to Tokyo was 10,000 miles. Thankfully not all of it was like this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Track over Mt Anai Mudi. Kerala, near to Munar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The NW200 Port Rush, Northern Ireland. They're at nearly 200mph!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Way of The Roses, somewhere near York</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Passing pilgrims on the Camino Finisterre, Galicia, Spain</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Next Expedition</span></b><br />
My son Sam and I are currently discussing the finer detail of a one month trip in India. This time we think we will either buy a couple of those old-fashioned Indian bicycles (very heavy and very unreliable but very cheap) then give them away to some deserving local family at the end. Sam favours the idea of getting a couple of scooters (Honda C90 type) and riding them back to UK. I'm thinking we'd need to add at least another month for that but it sounds great. So long as my ageing body holds up. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6N_HdTKDlAb7XsB02SmQc1tUECnYTca1nPl33ZIojSZo79Vl_L-LK4J6wBRz7xkTI7IVZ449CrvqpyhRcLo561jahXoOVQ5UDYlOD5ySKpebl2WB6lOeUDaXtMArOA_UEU_SnvY-W5YK7/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6N_HdTKDlAb7XsB02SmQc1tUECnYTca1nPl33ZIojSZo79Vl_L-LK4J6wBRz7xkTI7IVZ449CrvqpyhRcLo561jahXoOVQ5UDYlOD5ySKpebl2WB6lOeUDaXtMArOA_UEU_SnvY-W5YK7/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles with his 18 year old son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his two collections of short stories, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-1040839679896676092015-04-06T01:50:00.000-07:002015-08-30T07:14:54.119-07:00Contempating an Overpopulated World<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIroCJkFcKyC0dIIpW8nKwgoni00CGevH242qsWRxQrQp-9S4Y4STIKa7oLsF4tGHAe7X5Q8kqbf6Qxo-CBp_w9qiN26Hp1y1KHPArHtjQWQ0N7SpEANmsA-DF2HDBs93RS1okYWxCBQ9/s1600/IMG_1130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIroCJkFcKyC0dIIpW8nKwgoni00CGevH242qsWRxQrQp-9S4Y4STIKa7oLsF4tGHAe7X5Q8kqbf6Qxo-CBp_w9qiN26Hp1y1KHPArHtjQWQ0N7SpEANmsA-DF2HDBs93RS1okYWxCBQ9/s1600/IMG_1130.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I recently returned from a one month tour of Asia - specifically Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong and China. With the exception of Malaysia, which outside of Kuala Lumpur is fairly sparsely populated, the trip served as a reminder of what we must accept we are moving towards in terms of density of population and how we might deal with it. I also find this concerning in the light of the recent migrant crisis, with tens of thousands of people fleeing war, poverty and political unrest for a chance of living somewhere safer with a better quality of life. And who wouldn't? Many of us living in relative comfort are here because our forefathers struck out and left somewhere far less attractive, for the sake of providing a better future for themselves and their families.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jZR7134N-LzcL1Il_tRQeW2EvaDc_1RTvLq9z03za_kz_xvZ0OEW3V7ukjnHX_7NSNgB3BviI4-xABbnz1MUEKlJbe6GzKEsKeauHb0sWtOOeT6_2yzpyGwCXoQ8N9q-lksTFePQvn00/s1600/Migrants1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jZR7134N-LzcL1Il_tRQeW2EvaDc_1RTvLq9z03za_kz_xvZ0OEW3V7ukjnHX_7NSNgB3BviI4-xABbnz1MUEKlJbe6GzKEsKeauHb0sWtOOeT6_2yzpyGwCXoQ8N9q-lksTFePQvn00/s400/Migrants1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The media is on fire with reports about swarms of migrants invading our shores </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">in search of a better life. But this is nothing new.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">World Population - The Statistics</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">World population officially passed 7 billion on 31 October 2011. <span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">According to the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_Nations" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="United Nations">United Nations</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">' World Population Prospects report,</span><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-4" style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 1; unicode-bidi: -webkit-isolate;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Projections_of_population_growth#cite_note-4" style="background: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;">[4]</a></sup><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_population" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="World population">world population</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> is currently growing by approximately 74 million people per year. Current United Nations predictions estimate that the world population will reach 9.0 billion around 2050, assuming a decrease in average </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fertility_rate" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Fertility rate">fertility rate</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;"> from 2.5 down to 2.0. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Almost all growth will take place in the less developed regions, where today's 98.3 million population of underdeveloped countries is expected to increase to 7.8 billion in 2050. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">During 2005–2050, nine countries are expected to account for half of the world's projected population increase: </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/India" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="India">India</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pakistan" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Pakistan">Pakistan</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nigeria" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Nigeria">Nigeria</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Democratic_Republic_of_the_Congo" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Democratic Republic of the Congo">Democratic Republic of the Congo</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bangladesh" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Bangladesh">Bangladesh</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uganda" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Uganda">Uganda</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="United States">United States</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethiopia" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="Ethiopia">Ethiopia</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/China" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="China">China</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, listed according to the size of their contribution to population growth. China would be higher still in this list were it not for its </span><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/One_Child_Policy" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #0b0080; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-decoration: none;" title="One Child Policy">One Child Policy</a> (although this policy has been recently relaxed)<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">. More data is available on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Projections_of_population_growth" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a> and other sites such as the <a href="http://esa.un.org/unpd/wpp/Documentation/publications.htm" target="_blank">UN</a></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">, but the above statistics alone make startling reading, do they not?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: x-small; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Urban sprawl. Mexico City goes on and on. <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/gallery/2015/apr/01/over-population-over-consumption-in-pictures" target="_blank">See Guardian pics on Overpopulated Planet.</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">What This Means To You And Me</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Statistic tend to baffle. It sounds a lot but what does it mean in real terms? The naturalist and campaigner David Attenborough is a great campaigner for increased awareness and individual responsibility over human population growth. He campaigns via the organisation <a href="http://www.populationmatters.org/making-case/key-facts/" target="_blank">Population Matters</a> and much detail can be found on their website about the likely practical realities of the issue. Population Matters are rather good at putting things into terms we can understand. People have differing opinions about what it all means to us but one thing is clear, people will not be able to continue living on this planet as we currently do. It has been said that by 2050, the only way the world will be able to support the predicted number of human beings is if we all live the way most Indians now do. This means a meagre vegetarian diet, travel by bicycle, very few cars, minimal overseas travel and only having a very small space within which to live. This extreme change in quality of life will shock most westerners. Of course if we do not manage to keep on top of the battle against drug-resistant viruses, then the population figures might be very different. But who would wish for that? It may well be us westerners with our sanitised lives that die-off first.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Hong Kong suburb of Tai Long Wan. Some think it ugly, but it works. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">There are parks & trees and under each group of buildings is a kindergarten, </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">supermarket, laundry, cafes, tennis/basketball courts etc.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">The Alternatives</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">If we look at China, with a current population of around 1.4b, we can see that ruthlessly restricting the birthrate via a one child policy does work. It will be interesting to see how people in western democracies respond to being told how many children they are allowed. Freedom of speech pales into insignificance by comparison. Asian cultures seem to more easily accept the concept of doing things for the good of their country or culture. Singapore is a prime example of where a vibrant capitalism in terms of monetary and trade policy has been easily accepted alongside rigid social policies involving restrictions (tax penalties etc) on the number of children you can have, on car use and in housing people in numerous collections of high-rise blocks. Hong Kong and Chinese cities have done the same. Huge new-towns of identical skyscraper apartments are increasingly prevalent. Elderly people grumble but most accept it as necessary and focus on the benefits. But how easily would we in the west adapt to such measures? Well the truth is we are unlikely to have the choice. Short term we could move to less populated wilderness areas but those would soon be overrun.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Not all of Singapore suburbs look like Bladerunner scenes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Today near Jalan Kayu, an idyllic Singapore village where I was born. The local rail network links to MRT tube network.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #6fa8dc; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">The Model For The Future</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">China is embracing green energy and electric transport. There are estimated to be over 120m electric scooters in China and growing fast. Hong Kong copes well with population density. In the New Territories, not much more than half an hour out of Hong Kong Island and Kowloon, people live in quiet countryside. Commuting is a foreign concept to them. They also seem to like living close together. Like Singapore they have a myriad of new tower-block suburbs do deal with the demand to live there. But they are more chaotic than in Singapore - less happy to be told what to do. Lee Kuan Yew, the single-minded visionary who shaped the modern miracle that is Singapore, saw all of this coming and prepared for it. Looking at his country now, one can see that he probably got it exactly right. Singaporeans accepted being told what to do. Visitors marvel at the place but often criticise it for being somewhat sterile, perhaps robotic in its efficiency. As someone who was born there back in 1958 when it was markedly dirty and inefficient, I sympathise with that view. But unlike many beautiful cities elsewhere, Singapore is sustainable. Its people as well as its infrastructure are ready for a densely populated future. They will thrive while other places wither. But some things surprise me. Cycling is not a major form of transport, but then that is probably due to the heat (in Hong Kong they say it's because of the hills but I enjoyed some great cycling there). But why not legislate to demand electric vehicles only in the city centre (as in many Chinese cities now)? And with so much year-round sun why is every building not compulsorily fitted with solar panels? Perhaps they are waiting until things get really bad first? There is clearly still room for improvement. But looking at Singapore - a small island with a big population that punches well above its weight economically - I do feel I see the model for a sustainable future more than in most places. And that cheers me. With solar power and more facilities for cycling, I could put up with Singapore. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #252525; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">China - 120m electric scooters and rising (they cost around £200 new)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: x-small; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">Unlike Wilson Chan, most locals have yet to realise how good cycles are </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: x-small; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">for getting around Hong Kong</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: x-small; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">By accepting high-rise living, Singaporeans can afford a proportionally large, pristine jungle in the centre.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: x-small; line-height: 22.3999996185303px;">It provides recreation, a home for indigenous wildlife, keeps people sane and cleans the air.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJxOFlmVqQZ4AFpOU_lZpfgyrLUGE7oF-mWvaYoEgH7kYHytpSQzngj82e6x4C0bPRUPLiy32-Q63cLTA9lww4CoM0UXAoC43qOAclK07txXvDDi9ctF9snx0hnVPWViX8_TpSsV1zcio/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkJxOFlmVqQZ4AFpOU_lZpfgyrLUGE7oF-mWvaYoEgH7kYHytpSQzngj82e6x4C0bPRUPLiy32-Q63cLTA9lww4CoM0UXAoC43qOAclK07txXvDDi9ctF9snx0hnVPWViX8_TpSsV1zcio/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles with his 18 year old son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his two collections of short stories, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-81949520116652156832015-03-08T00:12:00.001-08:002015-04-04T10:36:59.207-07:00Singapore - 50 Years of Change<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Aromatic Old Singapore - City Of My Birth</span><br />
I was born in Singapore's Changi Hospital in 1958. My father was an RAF aircraft engineer who was posted there soon after marrying my mother in the UK. We returned home to England a year later but were soon back (firstly in Malaysia) 5 years later, around 1963. Back in those days it was a dusty, hot Asian country placed right on the equator. With little air-con and high humidity, foreigners struggled to move about let alone work. Open drains ran along the side of the roads. As a small boy I regularly marvelled at the dead dogs and other pungent detritus that floated by as I walked with my mother to the local market. The dried fish aroma of that market in Serangoon Gardens (where we lived) kept me waiting outside, poking fearsome looking crabs in cages with pieces of straw. In the evenings after an afternoon at the swimming pool (we only went to school in the mornings due to the heat), I would wander off and play with local children in ramshackle kampongs. They taught me snippets of Chinese and how to play noughts & crosses. At Christmas, Santa Claus arrived in an Army helicopter. Snow was a mystery to me and I had little idea what it was to feel cold. It was a life of playing and eating at the swimming pool, Sundays playing sport at 'The Boys' Club', fishing at a local carp pond, or going to Cub Scouts. I remember the good aromas too - the smell of shops, of wet ground after monsoon rain, of starfruit, rambutans and durian, of the Indian man's mini-shop on wheels at the end of our road (which he slept under) and of varnished paper umbrellas. In most ways it was an idyllic life. So idyllic in fact that I have for many years after coming back to the UK (in 1969) been afraid to return there for fear that those memories would be shattered. I have heard many times since how much it has changed.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Singapore Waterfront back then had a rather pungent aroma</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">My Parents and I - Ex-pats in Singapore 1958</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A youthful Lee Kuan Yew of the same era</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">23 Blandford Drive, Serangoon Gardens Circa 1964</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Modern Singapore</span><br />
Apart from a brief visit while working on a cruise ship in 1982, this year is my first proper reencounter with the country (now barely larger than the enlarged city itself). I was prepared for it to be unrecognisable. As I said, I had been warned. There was no Changi airport when I lived here, only the small airport of Paya Lebar. As airports go, Changi airport is a marvellous place to arrive. Clean, efficient and relaxed it is very much a preparation for the city itself. The MRT train into the centre is cool and gets you into the city with so much less stress than almost any other airport link I know. And what a city! The waterfront of Singapore, especially at night, has few equals in my opinion and I've visited most. Long gone is the smell of raw sewage and floating garbage that used to cause my younger brother and I to cover our noses as we drove past the old harbour back in the 1960's. It is now a truly fragrant place. Everything is clean and modern in fact. One could be in San Francisco or Sydney. Everything the modern consumer or visitor could desire is efficiently on hand. The architecture is spectacular. People smile and are happy to be helpful to strangers. All manner of food and pleasant entertainment are available, not only Singaporean. Modern Singapore is a truly international place - and this is without doubt the secret of its success. I am of course sad for the loss of old Singapore, as I suspect anyone is about the places where they were happy as a child. But when I look at Singapore now I can't help being impressed by what has been achieved. I even feel proud to have been born here.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: center;">23 Blandford Drive, Serangoon Gardens in 2015</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: center;">One of only a few 1960's houses remaining</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Marina Bay Sands Hotel - Incredible!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Waterfront views from No1 Raffles (Altitude) building at night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Nightly light-show from the Marina Bay Sands Hotel.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Gardens by the Bay are simply breathtaking - day or night</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Singapore - International City</span><br />
It would be an exaggeration to say that Singapore has not retained any of its Asian culture, but compromises have had to be made. It is undoubtedly a culture more easily acceptable to foreigners - mainly westerners and to global businesses. Lee Kuan Yew, Singapore's iconic former president of a generation, is now in poor health. Despite handing over the reins to others long ago, he has remained Singapore's guiding light. What he has achieved is nothing short of remarkable. It is a massive economic achievement and perhaps a social one too.<br />
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After independence from Malaysia 50 years ago this year (celebrations throughout summer 2015) he laid out a vision of a country where foreign companies could trade with confidence in contrast to the notorious inefficiency, bureaucracy and corruption of other Asian rivals. Singapore's citizens embraced this vision and threw their hard-working enthusiasm behind it. It is the almost unanimous support of this vision by its citizens over the years that has produced what is widely now seen as an economic and social miracle. <span style="font-size: x-small;">N.B. Lee Kuan Yew previously brought about independence from Britain in 1963.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A weekend walk at Macritchie Reservoir & Nature Reserve</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Proactive Social Welfare in action - and no litter anywhere</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">World Series cricket on TV</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The 'Little India' quarter retains an atmosphere of Singapore past</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Paragon of Social Responsibility</span><br />
Tolerance and a decent standard of living for all is a somewhat surprising principal to find at the heart of a strongly capitalist society. Cultural differences are recognised and accommodated. Racism though seems noticeably absent.<br />
In many ways Singapore's pragmatic system seems to me to blur the boundaries between communism and capitalism. Pragmatism though, is what it is all about. Back in the newly independent Singapore, Lee Kuan Yew was faced with a small island with only minor scope for expansion. As it quickly became a popular place to live, his government realised that decent housing for all was a key element of a civilised modern society. It was a major challenge which many at the time thought unrealistic. Modern tower blocks were built to provide municipal social housing for workers. These blocks have done their best to retain a social heart, with integral shops, food courts, sports facilities, hairdressers, nurseries and playgrounds etc often provided at ground level. Despite air-con and modern facilities, older residents of these tower-blocks bemoan the loss of the communal life they enjoyed in the old kampongs (collections of typically wooden village houses on stilts etc), but most now recognise the un-sustainability of that kind of low-density housing. There is no gain without some pain. Singapore's value system often strains at the seams. Many these days quietly feel that the government goes too far in its efforts to ensure racial and gender equality for example. Personally I have often felt moved during my recent time here, by how selfless Singaporeans can be. The desire to help others seems to me a rare example of what communism tried and largely failed to achieve with citizens understanding that to help others is to enhance the whole society and therefore indirectly to benefit themselves. I admire it, yet I don't always feel comfortable with it. There is a 1984 Orwellian paranoia in me, as I suspect there is in many other westerners. And yet I can see that if the human race is to survive in an evermore populated world, then Singapore may be the best model we could follow.<br />
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Lee Kuan Yew, I salute you!<br />
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Sadly a few days after I published this post, Lee Kuan Yew died. He was 92. People have said we are unlikely to see such vision and dedication in a national leader ever again. I am inclined to agree.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-Re02NT_eyDADZR2oxoxjRjrBnACvO30G_eNJfb1WrZeUZ_p994rRgY2C6hpJaLRJ73UyDpMkQiuW3LFN8AqwG91AJP8UOfjn8qv9tW-9eC7FTZk79NhEEutU8hRs8DJ4WxMc1ioToSV/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-Re02NT_eyDADZR2oxoxjRjrBnACvO30G_eNJfb1WrZeUZ_p994rRgY2C6hpJaLRJ73UyDpMkQiuW3LFN8AqwG91AJP8UOfjn8qv9tW-9eC7FTZk79NhEEutU8hRs8DJ4WxMc1ioToSV/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>In 2008/9 Mark Swain cycled from Ireland to Tokyo, a journey of 10,000 miles with his 18 year old son Sam. If you would like to read their bestselling travel book 'Long Road, Hard Lessons', you can find this, along with his two collections of short stories, on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-41628517773599986902015-02-20T10:08:00.000-08:002015-02-23T02:13:25.742-08:00AFRICAR - By Anthony Howarth<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUyX6_Mb28jxcZ4b2PdNdZOqEInsqA8nhMkSRhkio_k5WFad-LA20ZYX19nPwxHeJt1BC2fSDbJpi-zT0jDOBCh8IyX-q6qGNYgtYPvARykQJD54uC4WhWNXoSaCWmIzaD3J_mN2u_yiH/s1600/IMG_0048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUyX6_Mb28jxcZ4b2PdNdZOqEInsqA8nhMkSRhkio_k5WFad-LA20ZYX19nPwxHeJt1BC2fSDbJpi-zT0jDOBCh8IyX-q6qGNYgtYPvARykQJD54uC4WhWNXoSaCWmIzaD3J_mN2u_yiH/s1600/IMG_0048.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last October I rode my motorcycle down to Mortagne Sur Gironde to help car designer, photographer, film-maker & author Anthony Howarth saw his 30ft sailing boat in half and extend it by 5 metres. I wrote a blog about it: </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://markswain-author.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/two-authors-in-boat.html">http://markswain-author.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/two-authors-in-boat.html</a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Friends I told about it said Tony was crazy, but this project is nothing in comparison with his designing of a revolutionary off-road car with a plan to have it built all over the developing world. The following guest blog is a fascinating excerpt about the proving of the concept on a journey between the Arctic in Lapland and the equator in Africa. Anyone thinking of travelling overland through a developing country would do well to read this first! Over to you Tony.</span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Mark,</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Thank you for the invitation to post something on your blog.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">The Long Boat is proceeding, nothing special, just as planned. I expect it to be fit to go in the water toward the end of next summer. A return visit in the spring by Mark Swain will help it along, that is if you need the exercise? Somehow it is too early to write an interesting story about stretching a boat by five metres. You already wrote a good blog. Don’t want to compete. Anyway I am frail, although less frail than I was...</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #3d85c6;">However! I noticed that you published a picture or two including the Africar station wagon, “The Wagon”, used on the 1984 Arctic to Equator trip while filming the TV series A Car for Africa. In my spare time, when not working on the Long Boat or writing Boat, People and Me Book 3, I am slowly but steadily writing the three book series The Africar Affair. As you are one of the few people in the world privileged enough to have been driven in an Africar proof of concept vehicle, I thought perhaps, if you agree, an excerpt from The Africar Affair might be suitable?</span></i> </div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>The Africar Affair – Excerpt from opening of Book 1</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">1. Desert Change.</span></div>
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Banging and swishing? Wheels through muddy potholes?</div>
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“Will it never stop?” Asks <i>People</i>.</div>
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“It’s a big continent.” I reply. “It is the rainy season. We’re lucky the road is open at all!”</div>
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The walkie-talkie crackles.</div>
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“I’m shtuck.” Poor reception on the narrow track between huge jungle trees doesn’t mask Jan’s Dutch accent. </div>
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“Again?” Exclaims <i>People.</i> “How come?”</div>
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“It’s what happens driving a stylist’s idea of a four-by-four on real roads. Okay for discovering the route to a country supermarket in Dorset; in Africa it’s a joke. That Land Rover of his is a piece of shit. We’d better go get him. He’s been jacking himself up and digging himself out for six months, all the way from Egypt, through the Sudan and Central African Republic, poor bastard.”</div>
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I pick up the hand-set but don’t much like using it. Apart from the radios being illegal locally, it was here, in Eastern Zaire, in the 1960s that the walkie-talkie became the symbol of the mercenary. I rein in the other Africar. We turn round on the muddy narrow potholed jungle track. Not a manoeuvre I would choose to do with a Land Rover. We drive back a few kilometres to find John thoroughly stuck on an uneven water logged stretch of road which we had passed without noticing half an hour before.</div>
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It is all a question of ground clearance and axle articulation. That is the ability of the axles and suspension system to allow the wheels to conform to the road surface and so maintain drive. John has one front and one rear wheel rotating free of the road and the rear differential is resting in the Laterite.</div>
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All five of us try pushing to no effect. We try pulling with the Africar Wagon. Nothing happens apart from a lot of wheel spin. John jacks up the rear axle and puts a tall thin block of wood under it. Removing the jack leaves the axle free of the Laterite and precariously balanced.</div>
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We try pulling again with the Africar. This time the Land Rover lurches forwards, the axle falls off the piece of wood and finds grip. The Africar keeps pulling, maintaining a taught tow rope. The Land Rover, wheels spinning and griping and spinning, edges forwards until it is off the deformed section and all four wheels are back on the ground.</div>
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These conditions, unpaved roads in the equatorial and tropical rainy seasons, are precisely the conditions the Africar test vehicles were designed to cope with. Even in 2-wheel drive and fully loaded they were proving the concept every day and every hour of every day. Now that we are thousands of miles away from the prejudices and silliness of European 4x4 enthusiasts the Africars are truly proving their concept. It's what proof of concept vehicles are for!</div>
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We are late arriving at the mission station where we hope to make our camp. With the rain and the mud, a mission compound is preferable to camping under the dripping roadside jungle trees. They are Protestants; Norwegian, Belgian and British. They invite us to share their dinner. During the meal I reminisce about travelling these roads in the 1960s. The mission director puts a finger to his lips.</div>
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“You were here in the troubles?” He whispers.</div>
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“Yes,” I say, not getting the message. “As a photographer, I worked a lot in Africa. <i>Wind of Change</i> and all that. I was here in 1960 after the first elections and briefly in ‘64. Mercenaries, Lumumba and Thsombe.” </div>
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“Shsh! You’d do well not to mention that here, in public, or at all.” Assuming the worst, he is shocked. He looks around cautiously at the long-robed “house-boys” coming and going with our meal and standing about waiting for orders or tasks. </div>
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I, in my turn, am shocked anew at the facility with which even Protestant missionaries take to a life with servants, almost the moment they set foot in Africa. There are several households within the mission compound. All have cooks, cleaners and “house boys” who wait on table. There are drivers and gardeners, doormen, guards and water carriers, nannies and washerwomen.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSEY7rPoezZtZLmYV9A_haHHYlrdKOifgGraO_RGeuXzJNTrvXMN8h44ge24jxjUpjALF6BupjBGC6UT6REDZtx_fRMBeDFHTbSk0crlDa3UDDnaC2arKW6_yoOvDVKlXhAYUdcTMohcS/s1600/bbdehedf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSEY7rPoezZtZLmYV9A_haHHYlrdKOifgGraO_RGeuXzJNTrvXMN8h44ge24jxjUpjALF6BupjBGC6UT6REDZtx_fRMBeDFHTbSk0crlDa3UDDnaC2arKW6_yoOvDVKlXhAYUdcTMohcS/s1600/bbdehedf.jpg" height="320" width="236" /></a>Academics speak of the <i>Sea Change</i> - The way in which European emigrants of varying backgrounds</div>
and professions changed, perhaps regressed, in their outlook and habits, their very culture, as they progressed across the Atlantic to start a new life in the Americas.<br />
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I think one can equally talk of the <i>Sahara Change</i> or the <i>Desert Change</i>. For the most part completely reasonable people, missionaries, doctors, teachers, peace corps, and especially modern NGO staffers in the aid business, change, once south of the Sahara and regardless of their colour, into people who resemble colonialists or <i>white settlers</i> more than modest church workers from Leeds or Haarlem, bent on good deeds. </div>
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The missionaries graciously give us rooms, challenging my ungracious thoughts. The mosquitoes are fierce. I sleep under the net as I had done then. A net supported on a box of thin rods fixed to the legs of a canvas camp bed. Exhausted, sleeping deeply beside the river, the Congo, right in the centre of Stanleyville...</div>
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2. Fear Is In The Anticipation</span></div>
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bike. It was clear what they wanted. They demanded our papers, and our walkie-talkies.<br />
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“Oh, dear.” I said to <i>People</i>.</div>
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“Let’s hand them over.” She said. “I don’t think that gun’s got the safety on?” </div>
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Embarrassed, I had to extract the radios from plastic bags hidden behind the head lamps of each vehicle. But that was not enough. They wanted all of us up, out of our beds and dressed. Waving their guns around, they demanded we get into our vehicles and follow them.</div>
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This was bad. They set off down the hill from the mission, one steering the motorbike the other sitting side-saddle on the pillion seat while erratically pointing both automatic rifles at our windscreen.</div>
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“We could run them off the road.” I mused aloud. “I doubt he can hit us with either of those guns.” </div>
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“You serious?” asked <i>People</i>.</div>
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“You don’t mess about in Eastern Zaire,” I replied. “You don’t tangle with the Zaire army. These are Mobutu’s boys. I have no idea what they want but I know they’re dangerous.”</div>
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“No way!” Said <i>People</i>, “We would never get away on these roads. Probably just want to check our radio licences.”</div>
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“That’s the problem, we haven’t got any.”</div>
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“Yes, but they don’t issue them either, so we couldn’t have any.”</div>
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“That logic’s a bit circular, <i>People</i>!”</div>
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“Anyway the rest of our papers are good.”</div>
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“Except Charles. Don’t forget Charley, his passport was stolen and that bit of paper from the Greek at the consulate in Niger is getting out of date.”</div>
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“What do you mean, ‘getting out of date’?” <i>People</i> asked.</div>
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“Okay, it is out of date, it got out of date and it will never be in date again!” </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
Irritable and gloomy and very nervous, I follow the motorcycle and the two gun toting pillion passenger out of town. At first we travel along the narrow and broken main road and then we turn off, to the left, onto a tiny jungle track. I, once again, get that ‘mass-grave lost in the jungle’ feeling. I begin to anticipate every possibility.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
We arrive at a small clearing and a long low brick building. There are more soldiers, hanging about, smoking, listless. Dead eyes glance our way. We park the vehicles and stay in our seats. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
There is a conference on the steps of the building. Soldiers turn out their pockets. Various keys are tried in the large rusty padlock securing the chain through the slide bolt on the steel doors.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“They’ve locked themselves out of prison.” I say.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<i>People</i> doesn’t reply. She is concentrating on the situation. <i>People</i> tries to always be ready, prepared for anything one might call <i>a situation</i>. I, too, watch. I study the demeanour of the soldiers. You can tell a lot from how someone puts out a cigarette. And a fair amount from how they open a door!</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
They find a steel bar to break off the padlock. The doors swing open. There is no light inside. I am certain we are to be incarcerated in that building. To what end, I have no idea.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
I have little hope. There are six of us including two women, there are now about ten of them, a ‘section’, all armed with automatic rifles. Whatever chance we had, was behind us, back there on the road. But <i>People</i> said, “No” and I trusted <i>People</i>’s sixth sense more than my own.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The highest rank present is the corporal who had ridden pillion. He walks languidly over to my window, props the barrel of his gun on the window frame, </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Si vous voulez, descendre?. Nous attendons un officier</i>.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
So that’s the next move. We are waiting for an officer. My mind goes into overdrive as, with this new fragment of information I re-assess our position. In general, I know it’s better to be in the hands of an officer than a group of soldiers of uncertain discipline, without a command. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
There are three likely possibilities. The worst is an Idi Amin type, a bully holding his position by terrorising those around him. There are plenty of those in this army and this region. Come to think of it there are plenty in the British or American armies.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The best would be a trained officer, perhaps educated in Brussels, to whom I could explain that we are just passing through and are in no way involved with local disputes or rebels. He might believe me, he might even want to believe.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
In between would be a career soldier who would probably not want to make any decision without higher authority. He would detain us until a ruling could be obtained from Kinshasa. That could take days, weeks or, more probably, months.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The last time something like that had happened to me, I had been imprisoned on the Tanzania – Zambia border. It had taken seven long days to get a clearance to enter Zambia by radio and those are relatively friendly, organised and disciplined countries when compared to the later out of control status of eastern Zaire.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqEulVqTv9km-o7CiSgdXh7OjVeM02KzIIkaqGY644tKc-lP-66VzTxwv9OkeDbHigF5YOXmgS4-I7patXXwuOpPswq6T2xjH57Fmd7SkC-lThOLudabQB3VGfEg4aChmPT8WLIHVVpIbl/s1600/cahccchg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqEulVqTv9km-o7CiSgdXh7OjVeM02KzIIkaqGY644tKc-lP-66VzTxwv9OkeDbHigF5YOXmgS4-I7patXXwuOpPswq6T2xjH57Fmd7SkC-lThOLudabQB3VGfEg4aChmPT8WLIHVVpIbl/s1600/cahccchg.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a>We waited in the heat and the humidity. We had little to say to each other. Everyone knew the </div>
danger. The body language of the soldiers who so casually surrounded us said it all.<br />
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
I try to divert my thoughts to Africar. To my ideas of local manufacture of appropriate vehicles throughout the euphemistically called developing countries. Mostly the fourth world, I think, as I look around me. Our proof of concept vehicles which have brought us safely from Lapland in northern Sweden to the jungles of the Congo basin, are indicators of what makes an appropriate car. But local manufacture? Here?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
I jump as I wake myself from my reverie. Of course here, why not. They bottle Coca Cola. Building cars may be a much larger enterprise but hardly more complicated. Just needs a well designed factory, training and corporate discipline. The last had been hard to establish at our development workshop in Coalville in England. My earlier experiences travelling south of the Sahara had suggested that it might be easier in Africa than in Leicestershire.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
After four long nervous hours the officer arrived. He strode briskly into the building.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
Bingo! I would put my money on Brussels. A few minutes later <i>People</i> and I are escorted inside.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">
3. Recklessness</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The Major sat behind a large desk in an inner room at the back of the building. There was electric light and the faint hum of a generator nearby. The interior was not a prison, it was a sophisticated command centre in miniature.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
He had our four walkie-talkies lying on the desk in front of him. Beside them were our passports and car papers. He held my passport and glancing at it, said,</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Bonjour, monsieur...’Owarth. C’est vrai, ‘Owarth?</i>”</div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Non, pas exact</i>. Howarth.” I replied as firmly as I could. <span class="s1">He</span> nodded.</div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici en Zaïre?</i>”</div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Nous sommes</i>, we are passing through from <i>Centre-Afrique</i> to Uganda. That is all. Our carnets will confirm that.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“Yes?” He looked at me, a long practised look. Then, putting down my passport, he took a cigarette</div>
from a polished hardwood cigarette box on the desk. He tapped it firm on the nail of his left thumb and leaning back in the leather executive armchair he took a gold lighter from a top pocket, just above his medals. Before he lit the cigarette he said,<br />
<div class="p2">
“And what are these?” Pointing at the radios.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
I was ready, at least I hoped I was ready. “<i>Ils sont rien important</i> - they are nothing important, just toys. They help us keep in touch between our vehicles on the road but they have no range. <i>Seulement un kilometre</i>, one kilometre, not far.”</div>
<div class="p2">
“Is that so?” He said, smiling. He lit his cigarette and then leaning towards the door he called,</div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Jean Claude</i>.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The pillion corporal came into the room. The officer gave him one of the radios and picked up another for himself. They were familiar with the on/off buttons, the frequency selector and the squelch. Pressing the transmit button, the officer said,</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Jean Claude</i>, I want you to get <i>Philippe</i> and his <i>moto</i>. You ride on the back and you talk to me every few seconds. The bridge is just a kilometre away, I want you to go that way continuing on until we lose contact. Then return. Understand, Over”</div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>Oui? Mon commandant</i>. Over.” Jean Claude, curious, looked questioningly at the major who nodded, indicating the door. The Corporal left. The Officer put his radio on the desk and turned up the volume.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“‘Ello, ‘ello, <i>ici c’est Jean Claude</i>, we are starting.”</div>
<div class="p2">
“‘Ello we are climbing the first ‘ill.”</div>
<div class="p2">
“‘Ello, we are passing the stream.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
Each time the officer responded by clicking the transmit button twice, rapidly.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
“‘Ello ‘ello, I can see the bridge, a hundred metres...”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
That was the last we heard. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
I waited, nervous. The officer watched me closely, then looked at the radios,</div>
<div class="p2">
“It seems you are honest Mr. ‘Owarth. You can go. Take your toys with you. But, I suggest you don’t use them anymore, in Zaire.”</div>
<div class="p2">
“Thank you,” I said and smiled. Then I added, “Sir.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
He smiled back. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The whole incident, which in anticipation threatened mortal danger and which had seriously scared me, had lasted almost a day. Everything had been <i>propre</i>. Our treatment had been lenient. After all, we had broken the law of the land. It was a lesson. I wondered if he wanted a job managing a car factory when peace came to Zaire.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOGB3oj8VlsZVyJxM12sqKHHX2lDXcFk9B8BoZHXiWRH0CQWbxj0kjCtdqsSYByfI4V1xPlk-Fzea2pmtfHshK_4MX49Fv3X-X9ok3aUJ6rdU83JXrq67pSLsULZvj34XtZcfwGRrzRDz/s1600/accjedde.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOGB3oj8VlsZVyJxM12sqKHHX2lDXcFk9B8BoZHXiWRH0CQWbxj0kjCtdqsSYByfI4V1xPlk-Fzea2pmtfHshK_4MX49Fv3X-X9ok3aUJ6rdU83JXrq67pSLsULZvj34XtZcfwGRrzRDz/s1600/accjedde.jpg" height="270" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
We are back on the disintegrating main road, heading south towards Kisangani, banging through pot holes and swishing through the deep mud and standing water, when <i>People</i> asks,</div>
<div class="p2">
“How did you do that?”</div>
<div class="p2">
“What?”</div>
<div class="p2">
“Those things are quite powerful, the range is easily three to five kilometres and in the desert sometimes a lot more.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwGB8_bLsB1gmrLPTOnDSGgq91ngzyrQ5ZiYoVr0fLsv2Qfd4rU34iP2AVvhBm3Z6sRZ7re63FIbI_hbmAOLTgQL3Qo2GgjtUSlpLP72QodjyReq7mw-3ukp3hBs26CP2zfJth-ERSQ-s/s1600/ghgdgbdi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinwGB8_bLsB1gmrLPTOnDSGgq91ngzyrQ5ZiYoVr0fLsv2Qfd4rU34iP2AVvhBm3Z6sRZ7re63FIbI_hbmAOLTgQL3Qo2GgjtUSlpLP72QodjyReq7mw-3ukp3hBs26CP2zfJth-ERSQ-s/s1600/ghgdgbdi.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a>“Really?” I leave it hanging a while in the steamy Congo basin air. “It was what you might call an </div>
un-calculated risk. In these trees and hills the range can be much reduced.”<br />
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<i>People</i> frowned for a moment.</div>
<div class="p2">
“Hell of a way to make a movie!” She said.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
I smiled and after a few minutes asked,</div>
<div class="p2">
“<i>People</i>, are we not supposed to be testing cars? Making a movie is peripheral, just an inconvenient side issue.”</div>
<div class="p2">
“As I said,” she said, “hell of a way to make a movie or cars, or the universe or everything. Thank you Douglas Adams, you are always there to rescue me when I need you. Was it 42?”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<i>People</i> says things like that.</div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks Tony.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Books by Anthony Howarth are available on Amazon:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthony-Howarth/e/B001K8DQ3O">http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthony-Howarth/e/B001K8DQ3O</a></div>
</div>
Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-22907636367413228642015-02-08T12:39:00.000-08:002015-02-10T10:18:54.887-08:00Tokyo - Blade-runner City<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKg4c6wIGREPoBPrVasJft0P8V_-gcK2s8UiZDV4SM798i3jkNgxDEjOyGDui49Vh2X8dRF6PXVJio1716VvMtlAMfQlXdZRI3GepB6RZEvqnZ7C2V86wuukbn5Op-T4asxlpSklcigmlR/s1600/BladerunnerRoy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKg4c6wIGREPoBPrVasJft0P8V_-gcK2s8UiZDV4SM798i3jkNgxDEjOyGDui49Vh2X8dRF6PXVJio1716VvMtlAMfQlXdZRI3GepB6RZEvqnZ7C2V86wuukbn5Op-T4asxlpSklcigmlR/s1600/BladerunnerRoy.jpeg" /></a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">BLADE-RUNNER CITY</span></b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I once lived in Tokyo (30 years ago) for a couple of years. I have been back fairly regularly since then, so I know it pretty well by now. It is probably still my favourite city and the place I first saw the epic film Blade-Runner on the big screen. Like the city, the film has had a lasting effect upon me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYooQ4tlk2bQ9uuUlJ5gx9P9z8qO0NCY7UiDrlLqTNHKzVnMRLFMYSsvEfcnMCdJPS4weJtNXIw3SYYQ4C40iIDnjeM6u8BFw7kqs0RIXu-tnzVFkzZns6lpLNJ62lv9IYt_YOvUoMD500/s1600/P1010793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYooQ4tlk2bQ9uuUlJ5gx9P9z8qO0NCY7UiDrlLqTNHKzVnMRLFMYSsvEfcnMCdJPS4weJtNXIw3SYYQ4C40iIDnjeM6u8BFw7kqs0RIXu-tnzVFkzZns6lpLNJ62lv9IYt_YOvUoMD500/s1600/P1010793.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">West Shinjuku. </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;">High-rise defines the Tokyo Skyline.</span></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjENGWA5hBXVYmcltrjMH2SHf7UNVhO8DfXqktc8w412WhycK0j1jc0iOvmkt4QiSm4gqahKjt9hymMwGtSBMNNZ2t0Iq20OG2WLuKIghZQYFpROtuVFBUu3i0SYEaXYLEiPY6QKTZSxE08/s1600/P1010797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjENGWA5hBXVYmcltrjMH2SHf7UNVhO8DfXqktc8w412WhycK0j1jc0iOvmkt4QiSm4gqahKjt9hymMwGtSBMNNZ2t0Iq20OG2WLuKIghZQYFpROtuVFBUu3i0SYEaXYLEiPY6QKTZSxE08/s1600/P1010797.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sumo is still a big part of Japanese life</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">The Culture</span></b> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Tokyo has of course changed vastly since I first lived there, but mostly for the better. The people are more accessible -they actually express opinions now and travel far more than they did back then. The Americanisation of the culture is still apparent, but it seems to be tailing off. Young Japanese now realise that their own traditional culture has much to offer and to be proud of without assimilating someone else's. </span></span></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Greater Tokyo is the world's largest city. Unless you take one of the legendary 'bullet trains' or fly, it seems to take forever to get out of the city. The concrete and shopping-mall street-scapes seem to go on forever before you get to anything remotely rural. There are parks, but they are few and the visitors to those parks are many. Watch them politely competing for a place to picnic in. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Tokyo city is made up of many distinct historic areas. There are few really old buildings that are not reproductions. This is due to the tendency for earthquakes which may be the catalyst for the Japanese liking for all things new. It is perhaps contradictory in a culture with such deep reverence for their ancestors. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Japan could not be said to be a religious country but the people certainly value a strong spiritual centre to their lives. Temples and rituals tend to be either Shinto or Buddhist. This lends itself to a liking of minimalism in visual arts and to the commissioning of some superb and courageous examples of modern architecture that so many visitors are impressed by. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">For me, probably the biggest attraction to Japan, and especially to Tokyo, is the cuisine. It is simply exceptional. Their own cuisine is generally subtle, sophisticated and meticulously prepared. Few leave Japan without falling in love with Japanese food. The vast variety of international food one finds in Tokyo can be overwhelming at times and the Japanese tendency to try do everything really well (if you are going to be bothered to do it at all) provides great rewards in the way of foreign dishes. I dream about Japanese food all the time I am away from Japan. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Where To Hang Out</span></b> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">Tokyo centre is generally accepted to be around Nihon-Bashi (Japan Bridge) /Tokyo Station area. In fact, like many larger </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">cities, there are many centres depending on what you are looking for. Tokyo Station area is a business area but is also full of bars, restaurants (the still ubiquitous 'salarymen' have to go somewhere after work) and is close to some key museums as well as the historic and surprisingly tranquil Royal Palace.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The young flock to Harajuku for teenage fashion shops, fast food etc and to nearby and slightly more mature Shibuya, where the big fashion houses intermix on Omotesando Dori with the usual Irish Bars, Sushi Restaurants, Chic Coffee Shops and Ferrari dealers. Just east of here is Hiro-o and then Roppongi, both well known for trendy night clubs and Karaoke bars. Try 'Smash Hits' in Hiro-o for a great Karaoke bar with an incredible menu of western music and a seedy atmosphere possibly aimed at somewhere like Liverpool's original Cavern Club. It stays open until around 03.30am and has a proper stage with banked seating. </span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Not far to the North West of Shibuya lies the truly Blade-runneresque Shinjuku (it is said to be Ridley Scott's inspiration for the movie setting). This is a busy shopping, bar and cafe area with great street food. Unfortunately the older area behind the station where the best street-food could be found has been redeveloped. Shinjuku has a young hi-tech feel like Shibuya. It is busy 24hrs a day, but then so is much of central Tokyo. The more traditional area of Shinjuku is Kabukicho, which is one of my favourite areas of Tokyo with small cafes, bars, cinemas etc. This area has changed relatively little in the last few decades, which is fairly rare in this city of constant change. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I am particularly fond of the area around Tsujiji wholesale fish market. This is a very traditional area bordering onto Ginza and not too far from Tokyo station etc. They have been threatening to move it to a new modern location since 30yrs ago when I lived there but something keeps it where it is. Superstition is common in Japanese culture. In the fish market itself one will be astounded by the quantity and size of fish. You need to be there in the early hours to see it although you will make yourself unpopular if you get in the way of the frenetic trading and logistics of shifting such enormous quantities of fish in so little time. Nearby, however, you will find plenty to interest you in the street markets selling (unsurprisingly) fish, seafood and cooking equipment. There are some excellent restaurants around here and all reasonably priced. Needless to say the big selling point is the freshness of the ingredients.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Within easy reach of Shinjuku lies Ikebukero to the North and Nakano to the West. Both are vibrant areas to hang out, shop, eat, drink etc. In between lie smaller characterful areas such as Okubo and Takadanobaba (another of my particular favourites). </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">These are just a taste of some of the more vibrant central areas that I know best. There is as much to be found in most of the other Tokyo areas like Ebisu, Kanda, Akasaka, Ueno, Otemachi, chic and somewhat traditional Ginza, Meguro, the latest electrical gadgets shops and the "Maid Cafes" of Akihabara, before you venture any further out. City life extends a long long way and you can experience it even without going to a single one of the places I have mentioned above. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>Food and Drink </b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;">As I have said above, Japan has great traditional food, but Tokyo caters for international tastes and you can find the best </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">quality in most of the world's cuisine here. There are many guides to help you. </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; line-height: 16px;">Time Out Guide to Tokyo</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px;"> is particularly good and generally kept up to date. There are also many websites and magazines but best to just ask as things change quickly in Tokyo. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I adore sushi and sashimi (raw fish). I have never met a westerner (apart from dedicated veggies) who did not adore raw </span><br />
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fish once they had tried it. Don't be shy. You will be missing one of life's great treats. The fishmarket in downtown Tokyo, as I have mentioned, is a great tourist sight in the early morning but also an opportunity to eat really fresh (the best sashimi obviously). However the fish is quickly and efficiently transported far and wide, so sashimi everywhere should be super fresh in Tokyo. Prices vary,sometimes only due to the kudos of the establishment in which it is served. Take your pick. It depends upon whether the affluence of the location outweighs the consideration of price vs quality. Personally I like the experience of eating in a market straight from the boats. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Sushi is similar in terms of the price versus quality equation. You needn't pay a lot but you can if you want to eat at the most chic places. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">At the bottom end of the sushi establishments (apart from what you get in plastic boxes in convenience stores) is the ubiquitous Kai-Ten Sushi Ya. These are the places with sushi on plates revolving on a conveyor belt. You sit at the counter (or sometimes at a connected table) and pick plates off as they go by. They have spread to other countries now so you may well be familiar with the system. There may be some subtle differences in Japan, however. Here you call out for the sushi of your choice, once you know what to ask for. But the big benefit for beginners is that it is good to be able to 'try with your eyes' before you pick things. Dishes are <u>almost</u> always delicious. In some places all plates cost the same (as low as 95Yen for two pieces). In others, more often there are different coloured plates signifying differences in price. Some plates can be up to 500Yen, so be careful. These places are relatively cheap but you can find good quality and they are almost never bad.You can often order miso soup and many of them these days have veggie sushi as well as cooked meat and stuff with mayonnaise etc. These, I have noticed, are popular with kids. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 16px;">Traditional Japanese Breakfast (no buttered toast)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Coffee Shops are a whole speciality culture in Japan. They vary from high-tech classy places in Shibuya where they </span><br />
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prepare the coffee like a religious ritual, to 1960's style cafes with formica tables. At the extremes you will find things like one place I know that is an ageing wooden tree-house serving home-made cakes and pasta also. The old woman who runs it encourages squirrels to come in from the trees and eat her delicious cakes. Many coffee shops serve breakfast food and snacks. 'Morning Set' usually consists of thick buttered toast, a small salad, eggs of some sort (often in a sandwich) along with tea or coffee and iced water. Starbucks has made inroads over the last 15 years but thankfully many of the traditional places survive. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">A Japanese beer is going to cost you around 500 yen for a large bottle in a street bar and 650 in a restaurant. A draught Guinness or Bass (yuk) will cost you around 1000 yen a pint in an Irish / English Bar. In an Issakaya type street bar you will be expected to eat as well (small dishes such as barb'qued chicken - Yakitori, salad, tofu steak, fish etc). In recent years a number of micro-pub style bars serving craft beers from around the world have sprung up. These are popular with locals as much as with homesick ex-pats.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">What To See</span></b> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">This is a hard one for me because I am not a great fan of the museum and gallery type of tourism (huge understatement). However, I would say that the best exhibitions of paintings I have ever seen (Van Gough, Modigliani, Monet, Vermeer, 20th Century Pop artists to name but a few) have been in Tokyo. They do it so well. As I said previously, if they bother to do something here, they do it well. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">On that basis there are numerous museums, historic buildings, some of the best modern architecture, galleries and botanical gardens etc here and they are all done well, so it is a great opportunity. I would just say though, save plenty of time for hanging out in bars, cafes, restaurants etc. because that's where you will find the people at their most alive and natural. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Living On Tokyo Time</span></b> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">For the sake of observance, or for those planning to stay and maybe work for a while in Tokyo (and many do) it is probably </span><br />
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worth my giving you an idea of how people tend to live their days and nights here. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">When I come to Tokyo I switch to a totally opposite time clock. My English friend (who I usually stay with) and I get up at around midday and go out for brunch (often sushi, sometimes soba or quality ramen noodles, or 'morning seto' if we are up earlier). After this we tend to go and visit somewhere, or meet someone in the afternoon to hang out in coffee shops or bars, and then pop home to check our e-mails, change clothes, watch a movie etc before heading out </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">at around 10pm </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">to an Issakaya (traditional bar with good food consumed slowly plate by plate over the evening, like tapas). We may go to more than one but generally we hangout there until around 3am, during which time various friends may or may not turn up - it is generally left open as a week to week thing on certain days, although sometimes specific arrangements are made to meet on a specific day / time. We go home at 3am (this is usually walking distance home). On other nights where we go further afield we tend to stay until 5.30am when the tubes start running again. We make toast, check e-mails, maybe watch another movie or UK Premiership Football live on cable TV then we fall asleep.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Believe me this is a good and healthy life and a common one amongst young (or not so young) ex-pats in Tokyo. One can still find time to work on certain days or at selected times of day or night. Many still teach English, while others work as technical re-writers or as models. But even the locals work at odd times in Tokyo. This is a truly 24hr city. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Getting Around</span></b> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Tokyo has an excellent transport network. It is not cheap but is reasonable given the cost of living here. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The Metro maps are written in English (Roman script names) as well as Japanese. Announcements on the trains are also generally in English as well as Japanese. People are helpful and it is hard to go very wrong. There is a circle line known as the Yamanote Line (green) then many bisecting lines, many of which head way out of Tokyo, giving tourists ample opportunities for discovering less well-known places as well as visiting the known attractions. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Taxis are pretty expensive but the only option after around 1am at night when the metro closes for a while. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Buses are a fairly cheap option but harder to understand if you don't speak / read Japanese. Try though, it can be fun if you're not in a hurry. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">There are weekly tickets etc but this is more for convenience than cost since they don't often work out so much cheaper. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">A bicycle is a great way to get around Tokyo of course. The roads are congested and can be frightening on a bike, but most Japanese cyclists use the pavements. Call me a traditionalist but personally I prefer to take my chances on the road. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Useful Lingo</span></b> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">It is worth learning some Japanese. Like the English in particular, Japanese people are somewhat obsessed with politeness and formality (even young people). </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Many words (nouns mainly) are adopted from English (some from other languages also) so it is easy to guess - Hotel = Hoteru, Cake = Caykie, Beer = Biru, Airport = Airporto etc (no really!). </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Learning the 'Katakana' written script is useful for longer-term visitors since it is used for all foreign words and is a pretty easy phonetic alphabet to learn. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Many people in Tokyo speak some English but as always, an ability to show you are trying to speak their language will take you a long way. In fact, being one of the world's most hospitable races, they will bend over backwards to help you. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">BASICS:</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Excuse me - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Sumimasen</span> </span><br />
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</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I'm sorry - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Gomenasai</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Thank you - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Arigatto Gozaimas</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Do you speak English - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Eygo wah, hanashimaska? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Do you understand? - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Wakarimaska?</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I understand - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Hai wakarimas </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I don't understand - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Wakarimasen</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Hello - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Konichi wah</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Good morning - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Ohio Gozaimas</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Good evening - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Konban wah</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Yes - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Hai!</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">No - (rarely used alone) <span style="color: #93c47d;">Iyeh</span> (or verb / noun plus <span style="color: #93c47d;">nai</span>) </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Good - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Ee des </span>(Good eh? -<span style="color: #93c47d;"> Ee des nih?</span>) </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Bad - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Warui des</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">How much / many - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Ikura deska?</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">What time is it? - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Nanji deska?</span> </span><br />
<u style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Where is</u><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> the </span><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">station</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> - </span><span style="color: #93c47d;"><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Eki</i><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> wah, </span><u style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">doko deska</u></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #93c47d;">?</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Goodbye - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Sayonara</span> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Delicious - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Oshi des!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Cute - <span style="color: #93c47d;">Kawaii</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #93c47d;"><br /></span></span>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>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. </i></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
</div>
Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-24122178812143174202015-02-02T01:45:00.000-08:002015-09-21T11:53:39.745-07:00Magical Marrakech<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Marrakech</span></b><br />
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I first went to Marrakech in the late seventies. I knew then that it was a special place for me. Back then it seemed I had stepped back to medieval times. It was the atmosphere of the place as much as the look of it. Yes, there are quite a few ancient walled cities in the world where the walls and the old city within have remained over centuries – my home town of Canterbury in the South-east of England, with it's ancient cathedral, St Augustine's Abbey and the first christian church in Britain (St Martin's) is one. But nowhere had I found the ancient culture of a walled city so intact as I did in Marrakech.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Storyteller - Djemma El Fna 1980's</span></div>
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Morocco has modernised a great deal since the late seventies. Most Moroccans would say it was for the best. In some respects I feel that is true but not in others. When I first visited Marrakech all those years ago as a young man of twenty, it was a mystical place. Dark eyes peeped out from under cloaks and made many foreign visitors very nervous. Beggars pestered you wherever you went. I quickly found that there was little to fear, hence I miss that mysterious element when I go there now. Locals have changed. They have become more friendly and no longer look upon foreigners with suspicion. Neither do the hawkers in the bazaars chase you along the street, trying to push you into their shops. They are more relaxed and they've learned that they will do better business if they are less pushy. It makes for a more relaxed atmosphere but I miss the old ways. In the old days the locals seemed telepathic. They knew all about you, even at a distance - where you were from, what you were interested in buying, whether you were hungry or not. They had never set eyes on you before but they would astound me with their intuition. They could also tell easily how well you knew Morocco, even though you'd just arrived in town. Somehow after you'd been there for a few weeks they knew you were not the best prospect for spending money. After a month or two you'd arrive in a new town and they would hardly notice you beyond a friendly nod and a 'S'bah al hair' (good morning). I liked it that way.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Djemma El Fna these days (on a quiet day)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Djemma El Fna buzzes at night</span></div>
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The Djemma El Fna is still the centre of it all. This medieval Moroccan market square still feels like you are in a time warp with its bustling food stalls, snake charmers and spinning-top makers. At night the place is packed with locals racing around on mopeds. They wind in and out of pedestrians, donkeys, terrifying tourists. When I first came here it had traditional storytellers with crowds of old women roaring with laughter at the teller's risqué tales. There were skinny young boys with boxing gloves who took on all-comers for a dirham a time and nearly always won. Visitors stayed away for fear of getting their pockets picked. Dark young men constantly whispered 'hashish' in your ear. People laughed uproariously when a well-dressed foreigner failed to get out of the way before an over-burdened donkey let loose a shower of urine over them as they pushed past in a crowded street. You needed more experience to survive back then. Now it is an altogether more pleasant experience, where shopkeepers invite you into the workshop behind their shop to see them making leather goods with ancient tools, then invite you to take a mint tea with them and barely hint at the idea of you buying anything at all.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Streets are so narrow in the Medina </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">often a mule or donkey is the best delivery vehicle</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Khutubia is said to be the world's most perfect mosque (architecturally)</span></div>
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It would be a mistake for me to give you a 'What to See in Marrakech' list. The whole raison d'être of this city is one of search and mystery. There are so many little back streets in the Medina (old city) and a visitor rarely finds their way home by the same route twice. This can be a little unsettling at first, but many people resist the temptation to accept a taxi or a guide and are rewarded highly for it. Most places of interest are within walking distance and locals will happily send you in roughly the right direction. This is how you will discover the things I regard as most worth seeing. What one might dangerously call 'the real Morocco'. Mysterious lives you can hardly imagine. Be reassured that everything in Marrakech radiates from the Djemma El Fna (the square of the dead) so if you get lost, then failing all else you will more than likely end up back there.<br />
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A few places worth knowing about if you tire of wandering around lost are:</div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b> Hotels & Riyadhs</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOtmy12ZOuL5Oqxem8wjZyEqJ7qTC9XCMqhuv8EXS_SbaJg8rgiWc4CqXuJZh3nAITcWBZYzlz048SohQy_XkAJ1clx7weRc5Z8f4axXzkzXUky0VI1F1a_dtd36NSTKpLS3fWUbePnCI/s1600/Image(55).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxOtmy12ZOuL5Oqxem8wjZyEqJ7qTC9XCMqhuv8EXS_SbaJg8rgiWc4CqXuJZh3nAITcWBZYzlz048SohQy_XkAJ1clx7weRc5Z8f4axXzkzXUky0VI1F1a_dtd36NSTKpLS3fWUbePnCI/s1600/Image(55).jpg" width="300" /></a><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">THE MAMOUNIA HOTEL (old center of city - Medina)
for tea / drink and a walk around the huge inner-city gardens (orange groves).
Churchill’s favourite hotel. Five-star plus opulence.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There are now lots of beautiful Riyadhs to
stay in for a traditional Moroccan experience. Parking is always difficult and it’s
easy to get lost in the warrens of narrow old streets. Many have small swimming
pools. Dinner in private dining rooms – sometimes open to non-residents also.
They are a little inconsistent from year to year. Plenty on the net with recent
reviews on Trip Advisor etc.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>Interesting Places to Eat</b></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"> A MA BRETAGNE – This is in Ain Diab (by the
beach) – Fabulous food. Modern French restaurant. Michelin star.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">DJEMMA EL FNA STREET
STALL CAFES – Can be great. Look around first. Don’t be persuaded into the
first one (staff are persistent but pleasant). Fresh food. Clean, so safer than
you’d think. Spectacular – especially at night. Cheap but not as cheap as in
the past.</span></span><!--EndFragment-->
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="EN-US">There are hundreds of good restaurants so check at the time. In my opinion the most luxurious are often not as good as what you will eat with the locals on the street. Ask to look at what they have on the stove. I recommend simple Harrira - a delicious split pea soup and you cant go wrong with Chicken Tagine or Couscous with merguez sausages. The round flat-bread is incredible. Don't be palmed off with French-style bread which they believe tourists prefer.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;"><b>Places to See</b></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4_0lv8qD3-28SqUDrkPIJoMJoRm4o4APYsfvrbQqd_-hrqkUvTTbexR2vS_GjMtiBpjIxOo_zQWlwr18TYVn-ggkV_OE3LJdHds1X0M3OzIidLCYZOCA437pW6k3X-dX2NCeFhLZNxWJ/s1600/Image(27).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL4_0lv8qD3-28SqUDrkPIJoMJoRm4o4APYsfvrbQqd_-hrqkUvTTbexR2vS_GjMtiBpjIxOo_zQWlwr18TYVn-ggkV_OE3LJdHds1X0M3OzIidLCYZOCA437pW6k3X-dX2NCeFhLZNxWJ/s1600/Image(27).jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">DJEMMA EL FNA SQUARE – This remains a
traditional medieval type market square with snake charmers, storytellers and
numerous other attractions. Affected by tourism but it’s still incredible. The
old city (Medina) centres around it. You could spend every day and night around
this square for a week and not get bored. If it’s your first time in Marrakech
then you could do worse than plan to spend most of your time around this square
and surrounding souks. Very crowded and enclosed so can make new visitors quite
nervous at first. Remain calm and you will be fine. Horse and carriage rides
are in plentiful supply. Over-priced unless you bargain hard, but a nice way to
return to your hotel. There are still snake charmers here! Plenty of cafes here to sit and watch the world go by. And what a magical world it is.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">YVES SAINT LARAUNT’S HOUSE – Pleasant,
tranquil place to visit not far from the center of the city, but realistically best reached by taxi.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">THE LEATHER TANNERY<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(main souk off Djemma El Fna square) is
interesting, ancient and very smelly. Boys will pester to take you. Unofficial, so take care.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">THE DYE WORKSHOPS (same area as above).
Fascinating, historic and less smelly. Same unofficial arrangement as above.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">BEN YUSEF MADRASSA – An ancient Islamic
place of study.A stunning ancient building in the old city centre, not far from the Djemma El Fna.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">LA KOUTOUBIA – This is said to be the world's most perfectly formed mosque. It is just outside the Djemma El Fna square. A beautiful sight while eating the excellent ice-cream at the famous cafe on the corner as you approach the Djemma El Fna.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">PALACES etc. There
are plenty of spectacular palaces around the outskirts as well as some small
historic mosques (some with traditional Hamam public baths attached). The can be a little
lacking in atmosphere. I find it preferable to explore the back streets in the
old city (The Medina) where you can find many smaller places of interest that
are not on the tourist trail. It is a gigantic maze, so take a map (from your
hotel). A compass on your phone can be helpful and usually locals will direct you
honestly. It is safe but can feel intimidating to many foreigners.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="EN-US">Dorling Kindersley's Eyewitness Guide is my particular favourite. The Rough Guide has more detail on history but is a bit heavy (in content and weight) for a holiday.</span></span></span></div>
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<b style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Trips</b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">ESAUIRA – Around 2hrs by taxi. Beautiful old
port town by sea. Can be done as a day trip but overnight is better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">OUALIDIA – Spectacular views. Traditional
little holiday town (mostly Moroccans) on a huge lagoon with stunning scenery, beaches
and big waves outside the lagoon. Oyster park with the best oysters in N.Africa.
3hrs away from Marrakech by taxi so best for a night or two away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">IMLIL – Nearest place
in the High Atlas Mountains. About an hour plus by taxi. Spectacular and
uncommercial. Nice walk for an hour or two then return. People say it’s like
Switzerland. They do proper guided treks from here if you have more time.</span><!--EndFragment-->
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipocuhYsUhooM5mKYaFDw04L4gPI0OfOX15LIvrqaB2izKtMM6HwGO25xnqRa9RJ7cIw7iq9GA9aKnGYXnkEbCYWZApz-tfsa0B7HbE1D0xIo2yqkFUay78GWNMd_J42afXc1rTwhUin3U/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipocuhYsUhooM5mKYaFDw04L4gPI0OfOX15LIvrqaB2izKtMM6HwGO25xnqRa9RJ7cIw7iq9GA9aKnGYXnkEbCYWZApz-tfsa0B7HbE1D0xIo2yqkFUay78GWNMd_J42afXc1rTwhUin3U/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" width="257" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>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. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-18848300314023489382015-01-26T07:26:00.001-08:002015-01-29T12:04:46.616-08:00A SPELL IN GOA<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Goa - India</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Fishermen on Palolem Beach</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Typical Beach Cafe in Palolem</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">A few years back I was fortunate enough to spend a few weeks in Goa, on the west coast of India. Unlike most tourists and travellers I arrived there by bicycle having cycled there with my teenage son all the way from the West of Ireland, on our way to Japan. I have discovered that arriving in a place by some unusual means (on foot, on two wheels or by boat, for example) gives you a totally different perspective on a place – usually a more positive one, so please bear this in mind if I sound somewhat over-enthusiastic at times. This account covers several key locations of interest in Goa. It includes the state capital Panji (Panjim), the southern resorts of Palolem, Patnem and Agonda, along with the northern resorts of Anjuna and Arambol. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The perspective is largely from an overland / backpacking point of view but will also be of interest to those on shorter 'package' holidays who are looking to experience more than that which can be found on organised tours in the more well known tourist spots. Sam and I had the luxury (a matter of opinion, I realise) of travelling around Goa on bicycles for a month. It meant we got to see things other visitors couldn't, but most of the places we visited are accessible cheaply by means of local busses or taxi</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Palolem</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Palolem is still a relatively small beach resort in the very south of Goa at the edge of the Western Ghats. It amounts to a single street about 1km long, leading down to a lovely sweep of white sandy beach (in a bay about 2km long). The beach ends in Green Island Point to the north and Neptune Point to the south and is backed the entire length by dense palm trees, within which are sited numerous collections of what are generally called 'coco-huts'. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">These huts came about in the sixties when hippy backpackers would get locals to build them somewhere to hang out and smoke weed for a few month before they moved on and continued their hallucinatory roaming about the Indian Sub-continent. Gradually since then these places have come to catered for more 'respectable' backpackers and gap-year travellers. There are an increasing amount of more mature travellers, many of whom are revisiting memories of their youth. Many others are simply seeking the dream they have read about in books about that flower-power era of peace and love. I will not disclose into which category I fit. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">San Pedru Coco-huts on Palolem Beach (Moksha cafe to the left)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: x-small;">Cuba Bar - Palolem</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Most of the bamboo and thatch coco-huts have no planning permission. In the past these were bulldozed every year by government order if they were not dismantled first. The huts and bar / cafes returned each new season since they are a vital source of revenue for the locals. This system has become a more formal one now and bulldozers are less often required. This means it is difficult for anyone to give fixed recommendations on which huts are the best since things vary from year to year. Suffice to say that they always vary in quality and facilities, with prices tending to match the specification list more than the location. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Most of the coco-hut accommodation consists of a single room with a double bed and partitioned shower-room with running luke warm water. Most have a ceiling fan and a few have perspex windows. They are basic but comfortable in a kind of Robinson Crusoe way. We stayed in San Pedru Huts around the middle of the beach, which was bottom end budget (In 2008 400 Rupees per night, but I know by 2013 it was already double that). I would also recommend San Francisco Coco Huts nearby, Brendan's Huts and at the southern end Papillon, run by an English lady and her Indian husband and priced at the upper end of the middle band. Further to the south-east one can now find more luxurious and trendy huts in what is worryingly termed an eco-village. These are at least twice the price of the more basic huts, but for short-term holidaymakers are still perceived as fairly cheap.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The beach at Palolem is fairly clean given its popularity but varies as the season progresses. The local dog population has become a somewhat unpleasant hazard. The sea is clean enough, but not what you could call crystal clear. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Along the beach there are numerous beach restaurants and bars, mostly associated with groups of coco-huts behind. These also change in popularity, atmosphere and ownership from season to season but a few are regular features and worth recommending: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><b style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Moksha</b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> is a well run restaurant and bar with consistently good food at reasonable prices. It caters for those wanting Indian food and tourists missing home who want burgers or full-english breakfast etc. The burgers are pretty damned good actually. We were always told that the beef was actually water-buffalo due to Hindu rules. The same family also run <b>Cool Breeze</b> on the main street. The menu is the same here but the chef at that time was one of the owner/brothers so the food was slightly superior. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Cuba Beachbar</b> was the current favourite when we were there. There was a second on the main street. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Cieran's Camp</b> used to be the most upmarket when we were there last. The menu is pretty much the same everywhere but here you could get proper napkins and more attentive service at a premium price. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Banyan Tree Beach Restaurant</b> had a wholefood orientation and served superb spinach and mushroom burgers etc. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Chaudi</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Chaudi is the nearest main town to Palolem and is just beyond the railway station. Cancona railway station is about 3km away from Palolem and Chaudi another 2km further. It is a bustling small town with a fruit and veg market and a couple of good, cheap restaurants. Udipi Hotel (Veg Thali very cheap) is excellent but grubby as you would expect, since it does not cater for tourists. Their onion ravi masala (pancake) is superb and used to cost 20R. All the long-termers can be found here at lunch. Their fresh sweet lime soda may be the best in Goa. Udipi Krishna is a smaller and cheaper alternative nearby (Veg Thali there used to be 25R!) Sam had a birthday haircut in Chaudi. He was less than impressed.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Patnem</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Patnem is the next village on the coast, 2km down from Palolem. It was quieter but I understand has become more developed. Many of the long-termers rent houses here. It has become a bit dirty and for some lacks the atmosphere of Palolem itself. If you were going to Goa and you wanted it quieter with less short-term tourists then this may be for you. Bahti Katir Eco-huts were very nice huts in a self-sufficient hamlet on the edge of Patnem. The price for being ethical, however, is significant premium over other places. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Nearby was a guest-house called 'Home' which is popular, as was Ocean Hotel (run by Brit's). Lonely Planet sings the praises of Seaview Restaurant. It used to be run by a Canadian couple a few years back, but apparently they were too successful so were run out of town. Bear this in mind if you have business ideas. Seaview Restaurant was run by a slovenly collection of locals when we were there, so had lost its charm somewhat. This is apparently a common scenario so do bear </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">in mind </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">when you read or hear reports from books or other travellers, that good places run by foreigners may suddenly take a dive in quality.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Agonda</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">12km to the north of Palolem is Agonda. It is smaller like Patnem and was also popular with those seeking to 'bliss-out' in peace and tranquility. There were a few beach restaurants just starting to go up so I'm guessing things will have moved on in development by now. There is a bus here from Chaudi but many people rent scooters, or the ubiquitously charming but notoriously unreliable Royal Enfield. We found Franco's Guest House or Jasmine to be the best huts at the time. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Panji</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Heading north you arrive at the historic small state capital of Panji. This was previously known as Panjim and most people still call it that. Panjim is notable for it's decaying Portuguese colonial architecture (wooden colonnaded balconies overlooking narrow atmospheric streets). Many travellers pass through it on their way to the beaches but it is worthy of a longer stay. It has a pleasant municipal market, some decent shops and restaurants and a safe, calm atmosphere. It is located along a wide estuary which opens onto the Arabian Sea, so it has large ships passing close to the promenade. The old colonial government buildings really add a delightful air of history. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Panjim has a a bit of a traffic problem</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Colonaded buildings in Panjim echo a Portuguese past</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Food lovers will love Panjim and should head, without delay to a restaurant named <b>'Viva Panjim'</b>. This is a small family restaurant, run by a charming lady named Linda de Sousa, is an absolute delight. She earned a lifetime achievement award (2007) from the Goan International Cuisine Festival and in our experience it was well deserved. The largely regional Indian food was subtle, well cooked and very reasonably priced. The atmosphere in the small dining room or outside is quite relaxed, but with well-dressed waiters and a tempting top-quality menu. My son Sam and I came back every day for 4 days and never tired of it. You will find it just off 31st January Street. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Sam and I stayed in the </span></span><b style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Comfort Guest House</b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> also on 31st January street. It was well priced (300R at the time for a spacious twin room with shared clean bathroom but prices will have increased since). It had a pleasant airy atmosphere along with kindly though strict staff. Checkout is at 8.30am and they expect you to stick to it. Laundry used to be 10R per item. There was TV in each room (72 channels even back then). The well known </span><b style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Hotel Venite</b><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> is further up the street and serves good food, although prices have increased as more tourist guide-books have recommended it. Worth a look round or at least a cup of tea on one of their tiny balconies though. At the end of the street towards the post office you will find </span><b style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Vihar</b><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">, a local Indian cafe serving vegetarian staples to a lower to middle-end Indian clientele. They have a good menu of dosas and bahjis along with a very good fresh juice bar. Prices should still be low and the pancakes are great. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Mapusa</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Mapusa is </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">a busy junction town north of Panjim where many travellers change buses, go to banks etc. It may be worth delaying here to experience a bit of 'real' Indian small-town life. It has a good Friday night-market which is well known to 'Long-termers'.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-weight: bold;">Anjuna</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Anjuna is a well known resort on the northern end of Goa's coastline. It was once a chilled-out small seaside village but has suffered from popularity with westerner holidaymakers. Consequently it has an oversupply of beach hawkers, hustlers trying to clean your ears (and often pick your pocket at the same time) and now such pursuits as para-scending etc. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">There are some pleasant beach restaurants / bars here but it is less relaxed than either Palolem to the south or Arambol to the north. There is still an undersupply of accommodation in season despite some new modern (ugly) hotels. Sticking with traditional Indian hotels, the mid to higher end of the market is well covered by <b>Villa Anjuna</b> (proper stone and brick with windows). It is a good hotel on the main road into town. Rooms are comfortable and still affordable for most. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Lower down the range but still a proper building is <b>Mary's Holiday Home</b> overlooking the beach from the cliffs. This is very popular so booking required. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">On the beach there are a number of Coco-hut collections. <b>Manali guest house</b> was also popular with backpackers at the time and was cheap.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The main attraction in Anjuna is the all too famous Friday market. It takes a whole day to see every stall, although after you have seen 20 you have basically seen everything. Only if you are bargaining hard for something do you need to see it all. However, it is a colourful and entertaining day out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Anjuna Friday Market</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Restaurants /beach bars to recommend form a few years ago in Anjuna are <b>Agnello's</b> and <b>Janet & John's</b> (which used to do an all you can eat seafood buffet on Saturdays and Thursdays after 8pm at a budget price. Also <b>Baba Beach Restaurant and Guest House</b>. At that time <b>Sea Queen Restaurant</b> on the main road has movies every night and good food. Hopefully this information remains fairly current. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Oasis Cafe</b> has good German bakery. <b>Shiva Cafe</b> is by the bus stand and is an airy rooftop location. Nearby on the way to the beach is '<b>Yash</b>' a traditional and cheap Indian cafe / restaurant serving good biryanis. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000;"><b>Arambol</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Arambol is still a fairly chilled-out place which is preffered by long-termers. We met some really nice western semi-residents there who come each year for a 5 month season and fall into a day to day / week to week routine of breakfasting together (<b>Akram cafe</b>), lunching together (<b>Ganesh</b>) and playing guitars / singing on the beach at night. It really is the late 60's revisited. The Beatles came here during their Buddhist period. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Arambol Main Street in late 2008</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Arambol beach comes alive at night</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">There are some good restaurants in Arambol that suit most tastes. A few we would recommend from that time are: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Ganesh</b> - on the main street. It majored on basic Indian thalis etc. It is at the bus stand end of town.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Akram</b> - had a good menu of typical Indian fare with superb pancakes and fresh fruit salads at good prices. They also showed football and cricket matches in a low-key, local community kind of way. It was run by the <b>Piya Guesthouse</b> people / vice-versa. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Rice Bowl</b> is at the headland end of the beach and served decent, predominantly Chinese food along with a few Tibetan and Japanese dishes. Prices were mid-range, which means cheap if you are a westerner. It had snooker tables and a healthy mosquito population at times. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Double Dutch</b> was famous locally for excellent steaks and fitted into the upper-end of the market but was still reasonable for what you get (Arambol is still cheaper than Anjuna or even Palolem). It had a better selection of deserts than most restaurants we came across in India. Their apple pie is was our favourite. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Accommodation in Arambol is generally well priced but often basic (which is what the typical visitor here likes it would seem). <b>Piya Guest House</b> (next to <b>Akram</b> restaurant) was very popular. It was very basic - the classic Indian Guest House of backpacking 30 years ago I'd say, but had twin rooms with basic en-suite bathrooms at very cheap prices. The management (Piya and her family) were pleasant and very relaxed. People we spoke to seemed to come back year after year. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b>Residensea</b> was a largish collection of coco-huts at the north end of the beach. No doubt it has grown since. Huts were mostly cheap, but the popularity of these huts at this end of the beach had already started to create a light sewage problem back then and contributed, no doubt, to the mosquito population in that location. <b>Om Ganesh Huts</b> and <b>Sunny Guest House</b> nearby were also popular (with travellers as well as mosquitos). </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">There were various yoga / beach-paradise-oriented huts along the beach to the south which were quieter and priced similarly. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The beach goes on from here to <b>Mandrem</b> to the south which also has coco-huts. These were for those wanting to be further away from the busier and more social atmosphere in Arambol. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Arambol in those days already had plenty of internet cafes and some provisions shops (mainly fruit, vegetables and sun cream) so I can imagine it has grown significantly since then and not (in my mind) for the better. Buses back then went to the nearby towns of Mapusa and Pernem every hour. It was a paradise back then to many who yearned for the sixties of their youth (or their parents' youth) but could be irritating to some who find this commune-oriented lifestyle passé or naïve. Personally I find it reassuringly different to be in a place where everyone is trying to make good things happen for each other, but each to his own. It will no doubt have moved on and be more commercial now.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Rumours that Goa is ruined are probably premature, but I urge you not to contribute to it. If you are looking for cleanliness and home comforts it is not really the place for you. If the developers manage to persuade the local planners / government that a more local international airport is a good idea or that Panjim airport should be enlarged, then sadly things will change quickly. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPGaEfUfhp_j3D3WRGOyeMzxfbGYT5dO3f5WqWcdaXR-XGqD1qFVyVtA_mD-LLs-wlYlvnRXrMwOorlDiaug007nZ_xgQBVAeLuN2V4C-GuDogOte2JaRNkABaAE1V94FRZlI59vfu9-T/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUPGaEfUfhp_j3D3WRGOyeMzxfbGYT5dO3f5WqWcdaXR-XGqD1qFVyVtA_mD-LLs-wlYlvnRXrMwOorlDiaug007nZ_xgQBVAeLuN2V4C-GuDogOte2JaRNkABaAE1V94FRZlI59vfu9-T/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>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. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-20475577972781051942015-01-19T03:40:00.002-08:002015-01-26T13:54:45.864-08:00Istanbul Experience<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">ISTANBUL - TURKEY</span></b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I'm lucky enough to have visited Istanbul a number of times in my life. It is without question one of my favourite cities. My most recent visit was a few years back with my son. On this occasion we actually arrived by bicycle, having just cycled 2,444 miles from Dingle in the west of Ireland on our way to Japan (see the "Long Road, Hard Lessons" book link, and older blog posts about that trip on the list in the right-hand margin). We stayed there for 2 weeks while we waited for our Iran visas and we enjoyed every moment of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Istanbul arrived 2 months into a 10,000 mile cycle trip with my 18yr old son</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">During that visit we stayed centrally, at </span></span></span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Nobel Hostel</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> in the Blue Mosque area (Mimar Mehmet Aga Street No 32 Sultanahmet to be exact). </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">I had got to know Istanbul well when I stayed there for a while as a backpacker aged 19-20 in 1978 and I was hoping that the hostels were still mainly in that Blue Mosque area, scattered around Sultanahmet Square. Sam and I were delighted to find that they were. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">View from Nobel Hostel's Rooftop Breakfast Cafe</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Having crossed the border into Turkey from Bulgaria, we found the road into Istanbul to be a very treacherous one, with heavy trucks and no real alternative smaller route, so we decided to play it safe and take a train through the last section. Exiting from the central station and seeing tram-lines everywhere, we decided to walk our bikes up to Sultanahmet square and it was there we came across Antique Hostel. This hostel had been recommended by backpackers as one of the best in Istanbul but it was fully booked when we arrived. However the helpful guy on the desk sent us to their sister hostel (Nobel Hostel) around the corner, which despite being smaller is equally friendly. If you have the chance I suggest you stay at Antique Hostel which is bigger with a beautiful lounge and superb rooftop bar etc. Nobel also has a rooftop where they serve great breakfast but it is more basic. Both were 12 Euros (20 Turkish Lira)</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">at that time </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">for a Dormitory room or 40E for a double room with en-suite and air-con. Prices have risen but it is still cheap. The staff in both hostels are helpful, friendly. There was a lovely guy we got to know at Nobel named Jimmy who was full of wicked humour. The hostels and hotels in this area mostly have roof terraces with superb views of the busy waterway where literally hundreds of large cargo ships are stacked up waiting to be allowed to load / unload onto Istanbul's many cargo docks. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Istanbul is huge and spreads for miles, encompassing several very different areas. The official population is around 16 million but it is reputed to be nearer 20 with the tourists and travellers who are drawn to this the ancient crossroads of East and West. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Sultanahmet is the main tourist centre on the Eminonou side and it is swamped by big tour groups in the high season (Aug - Oct). Coaches clog the roads around the square due to tourists' unwillingness to walk ten minutes to the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia Mosque etc from their hotel or outer drop-off zone. They can be found smoking 'sheesha' pipes in the tourist cafes and being ripped off in the many tasteful carpet and 'antique' shops nearby. This phenomenon naturally pushes up prices in </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">local</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">shops and restaurants so perhaps go further afield if you are looking for a bargain.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">The old Pudding Shops (shack type street restaurants famous in the hippy era) that once lined the main street along the west side of Sultanahmet square are now proper restaurants and priced accordingly, but the food is still delicious. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">When you're ready to get away from the bustling centre, you'll find ferry boats running frequently from the waterfront, near the Galata Bridge, which is just along from the main railway station. These go to the Asian side (Uskudar) for around 1.7YTL (around a Euro) and tour boats take people on 2hr tours of the Bospherous river (probably the busiest waterway in the world - it borders on manic some days). The Princes Islands (just 10 minutes away) have a lovely old-world charm and some good fish restaurants. The Asian side is busy but far more relaxed and decidedly cheaper. It is home to the famous Fennerbache football club. The Turks are football (soccer) crazy. Sam and I managed to see a game at a reasonable cost while we were there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Fennerbache Stadium</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">On the opposite side of the Galata bridge is Karakoy (pronounced Karakui - not to be confused with Kadakoy ferry port on the Asian side). Here there are big fish restaurants on the bridge and along the waterfront by the ferry stage. Good but a little touristy for my liking (with the many cruise line passengers who dock nearby). </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Vintage cars and trams are common. This is in Istiklal Cadesi, Taksim.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Walk up from this side of the Galata bridge past the very noticeable Galata Tower on the steep hill. This narrow road becomes Istiklal Cadesi (Street) in the Taksim area and is one of the busiest and best shopping streets in Istanbul. You will find individual tourists wandering along this street but thankfully not tour groups. Istiklal street is wide with great bookshops, cafes, fashion shops etc. and is mostly aimed at wealthier Turks. There is a tramway up the centre (it can be dangerous) of the wide pavement with the antique trams once used throughout Istanbul. The wide shopping street begins just above the Galata tower and can be reached by a funicular railway from Karakoy (Galata Bridge). Taksim became our favourite part of Istanbul. It is quite calm, not expensive and has a huge number of cafes, bars and restaurants as well as backstreet markets and excellent music venues, bookshops etc. At the top end is where a lot of the recent political protests and blockades took place. There is a really nice hostel on this street (on the narrow steeper end of the main street to Taksim - Istiklal, near to the musical instrument shops alongside the Galata Tower). It's called World House Hostel. Dormitory beds start at only 12E including breakfast in their relaxed street level cafe. Double rooms range from 30-60 Euros. Check the prices on <a href="http://www.hostelworld.com/">www.Hostelworld.com</a>. Personally I would prefer to stay in this part of the city away from to tour groups and gift shops. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Fish features strongly on Istanbul restaurant menus</span></div>
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">RESTAURANTS</span></b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">There are many good places to eat but I particularly recommend the following from when I was last there: </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>Sultanahmet Area:</b> </span></span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Doy Doy</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">. This is a traditional Turkish restaurant with a superb roof terrace overlooking the back of the Blue Mosque (best view). It is cheap for this area and the food is good. You will hear plenty of American and English accents on the terrace since it is listed in the Lonely Planet guide. Main course (e.g. Kebab with salad) around 12 YTL (6E). It is near to Hotel Sarnic. </span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">7 Stars Hills / Restaurant</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">More expensive end of the market. Well known for good food and probably the highest roof terrace in the area so superb views. 30YTL average main course or basic set menu. Next to Four Seasons Hotel. </span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">4 Seasons Hotel</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Beautiful Hotel with rooftop bar and courtyard restaurant. Reputedly the most expensive hotel in Istanbul. It is a fairly recently converted prison with a lovely courtyard garden restaurant and is very central but in a quiet street. Very expensive. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><b><span style="color: #990000;">Taksim / Istiklal Cadesi Area:</span> </b></span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Ara</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">A friendly and quite trendy cafe / restaurant serving mainly Italian style pasta dishes with Turkish influence. Food is excellent and service good. Prices are reasonable for quality. About 20YTL (10 E) for a main dish. It is at the junction of Istiklal Cadesi and a street that leads downhill towards Tophane (modern) tram stop which you can get to direct from Sultanahmet Square very cheaply. They have lovely old B&W photos of Istanbul from the 1940's / 50s on walls and place mats which they will give you copies of if you ask. </span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Refik</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Beyoglu (South Taksim) just above the Galata Tower. There are numerous street cafes between buildings in the backstreets. Refil is one of most famous as a hangout of Turkish intelectuals but there are many others to check out. Main courses around 15YTL but recommend a Mezze selection of starters which can be enough with a plate of Borec cheese and meat parcels. </span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Cetin Gurme</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">A chain I believe and very popular with Turks. This is one of the many traditional Turkish restaurants that display a large selection of delicious dishes in their window and cook in an open kitchen. It is cheap and but be warned that it all looks so delicious that you will find it difficult not to over order and spend more than you intended. This one has a baked potato stand in front (Kunpir) with huge potatoes and a selection of fillings which are generously heaped over the potato. It is a great way for budget travellers to fill up at 8YTL including a fizzy drink. A fairly nourishing if not exactly gourmet experience. </span><br />
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<b style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"><span style="color: #6fa8dc;">ISTANBUL LIFE</span></b><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Istanbul is one of the world's most vibrant busy cities, where it would be difficult to get bored. People go out a lot. This can be opportune since many overland travellers get stuck here waiting for visas to places east, such as Iran. Be warned though, I have met very presentable foreign travellers here who claim to have been robbed and in need money to get home, from where they will return your money. It is a scam. Don't be put off. You will meet great people staying at the many delightful hotels and hostels. I have made many lasting friendships here and few people leave without wanting to return. Turkish people are very helpful and often quite self-deprecating. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">Local traders are far less pushy about encouraging you to buy than they used to be.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">They are clever though and in Istanbul notoriously good at making money out of tourists, but in my opinion they do it in a nice way. The Turks are quite nationalistic. Turkish flags fly everywhere, you will notice (it is such a beautiful flag) but this is usually discouraged (apparently) by the government. Especially when they are going through a period of seeing their future in the EU (although many Turks are getting tired of waiting for acceptance). Don't worry about wandering off into backstreets or poorer districts. As in all cities it is wise to walk purposefully and not to display your wealth, but it is fundamentally as safe as most European cities and a lot more exciting.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-e73rulpqJdBR16htyUS0sh9Xl6knBLWsJ3ZAZiwMGgH9G0PlkV8iGae733OYEpOsJ6XJR4-rGdjOJCKA2LQvgnHUiYUidhjvvSzeHQLZX1ATEC3JYvmtPw3Kr4_4X2-y5CxPjl4WlM7/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-e73rulpqJdBR16htyUS0sh9Xl6knBLWsJ3ZAZiwMGgH9G0PlkV8iGae733OYEpOsJ6XJR4-rGdjOJCKA2LQvgnHUiYUidhjvvSzeHQLZX1ATEC3JYvmtPw3Kr4_4X2-y5CxPjl4WlM7/s1600/Small+cover.jpg" /></a><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><i>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. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-14764946671400496192015-01-12T01:05:00.001-08:002016-03-04T14:24:42.594-08:00Icelandic Encounter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I had long wanted to visit Iceland. Finally it was my wife who brought it about.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Wife</span>: "Flights to Iceland are quite cheap after Christmas and there's an inexpensive B&B here on-line... if we were to book it quickly..."<br />
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<span style="color: #6aa84f;">Me</span>: "Hmm." Continues reading the day's tweets.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Wife</span> later: "About Iceland. I could see you weren't going to make your mind up in time, so I've booked it. I'm paying. You'd better put the dates in your diary."<br />
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I was grumpy about it at the time but as the departure day approached I felt increasingly positive. I'd taken the trouble to do some research. It sounded interesting - rather unusual even.<br />
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Landing at Keflavik airport the sun seemed to be going down already at 10am. The quality of light told me it was dusk. I knew about short days in winter but wasn't expecting this. And yet it didn't get dark. For another four and a half hours it stayed like dusk and then it got dark. Very dark by around 15:30. It was not only the time / daylight thing that threw me. The landscape of the place - we seemed to be on an alien planet. No trees to speak of. Very little normal grass. Moss and slime over black rubble seemed to be the main topography from the bus window. I felt excited - a little strange but certainly a positive experience and an unusual one for a man so used to world travel off the beaten track. But there was no sign of any ice, nor any snow. I had made this observation too soon, however. The weather here changes in an instant. Within twenty minutes driving snow had covered everything in a white blanket. We slithered about as we walked to our bargain B&B in outer-central Reykjavik.<br />
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Askot B&B was a private house with a modern kitchen and bathroom. All other rooms had been converted to bedrooms. Perfectly comfortable but 12+ people queueing for the bathroom next morning was no fun.<br />
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Getting up at 9am next morning it felt like the middle of the night. Looking out into the dark I saw that more now had fallen. It was to stay like this for 3 days, followed by sudden heavy rain on day 4 which washed all the snow away. On day 5 the snow had fallen again in the night and remained until the rain on the 7th day when we left. Quite a surprise. The Icelanders say, if you don't like the weather here, just wait 5 minutes and it will change.<br />
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<b>Our days in Iceland were spent as follows:</b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Day 1:</span></b> Walking around Reykjavik. Booked some trips at the beautiful Harpa Building (concert and conference hall / restaurants / bars etc). Relaxed at homely 'Stofan Cafe' near the centre. New Year's Eve dinner opposite the nearby harbour at top rated restaurant Forretta Barrin (excellent & reasonably priced). Drinks in a cool but friendly basement bar (Tiu Droppar), before walking up to the cathedral to watch the incredible fireworks and midnight bells chiming, along with most of Reykjavik. Everyone was so pleasant. Heavy snow was falling as we walked home. A pretty perfect day.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Harpa Concert Hall Building</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Hallgrimskirkja Cathedral gathering on New Year's Eve</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Day 2:</span></b> Coach tour (The Golden Circle + Geothermal energy plant visit) leaving at 08:50 (very dark) from Harpa Building. Interesting to learn about geothermal energy in Iceland. This one little (clean) plant about the size of a basketball stadium produces all the hot water and electricity for Reykjavik and more. Incredible! They have become world experts on the technology which has transformed their economy. The tourism (recent) has done the rest. Life here seems affluent in a country that was once dirt-poor. The rest of the day was mind-blowing. Various stops at stunning natural locations in the white-out of snow (they filmed Game of Thrones here), then a big waterfall that the guide called a 'small waterfall'. Then an area named Geysir, with (unsurprisingly) geysers exploding left right and centre, and then... the BIG waterfall. Gullfoss is absolutely astounding. A huge quantity of water flowing into an enormous cavern. Giant icicles. A dazzling, enormous, thundering panorama that takes your breath away (and I've seen a lot of big waterfalls). This full-on day ended with a visit at dusk to the Pingvellir National Park, where the ancient parliament (the world's first) was regularly held and where the Eurasian Plate and the North American Plate of the Earth's crust meet (or rather separate), regularly spewing out magma and boiling water. They are moving apart by 2cm per year. Iceland is sinking every year yet strangely each year it grows due to the magma eruptions. I willingly take back all I've said in the past about organised coach tours. The tour was run by Sterna, whose office is in the Harpa Building next to reception. 10/10.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Gullfoss Waterfall - Gigantic, raging, unbridled and a real feast for the senses</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The ridge / chasm running through the island where two continental plates meet</span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Day 3:</b> </span>My wife visited museums and galleries while I preferred to wander around the docklands and absorb the culture in traditional cafes and bars. More snow was provided.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Reykjavik Harbour is picturesque in a kind of brutalist way</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Viking Sun Sculpture on Reykjavik Waterfront</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Day 4:</span></b> My wife's birthday. Coach trip to the Blue Lagoon, Grindavik and the Viking Ship Museum. I was sceptical about the Blue Lagoon spa experience. It is technically man made - utilising natural rock pools in the larva-fields and excess hot water from a nearby geothermal power-plant. There is a hotel, restaurant, shop etc. The kind of thing I detest. But this was different. Subtle, sustainable, low-key, chic, tranquil and not too obviously commercial. A really relaxing experience actually, especially in the snow. But be warned - it's big, but I hear it is so packed in summer they have to let people enter in shifts. I shudder to think. Dinner at Reykjavik's renowned Grillmarka Restaurant.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The tranquility that is The Blue Lagoon (in winter anyway)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Icelandic Horses - Free of all disease therefore no import of horses is allowed</span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Days 5 & 6:</span></b> Hanging out in some of Reykjavik's many cafes, bars and a few restaurants. Wandering around the seedy dock area - great old cafes but still expensive. Try The Coocoos Nest. The only cheap place to eat we discovered in Reykjavik was (Thai) Nudluhusid at Laugavegur 59. Almost everywhere else is an arm and a leg except hot-dog stalls and the two fish & chip cafes (Reykjavik Fish at Tryggvagata 8, is good) opposite the harbour. Good local beer (stout especially good) but no atmosphere in the well stocked Micro-Bar within the City Centre Hotel, Austurst Street. Cafes like Stofan serving alcohol, tend to have a better atmosphere and happy-hours after 5pm. Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) coach trip at night was interesting but didn't see much. Under these circumstances they give you a free repeat trip or a voucher valid for 3 years, so best to do this trip first we realised. We did see the northern lights properly for free, walking back to our B&B after the New Year's Eve celebrations but light pollution in the city meant the colours were a little pale.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The chic Smurstodin Cafe within the Harpa Building</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Aurora-watching. We did catch a small tantalising flash here in centre of picture.</span></div>
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All in all a memorable and out of the ordinary experience, and one which I highly recommend. Summer is completely different in terms of landscape, with bright green colours. The Icelanders are most hospitable and very easy going. Two interesting cultural pointers about them:<br />
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1. Their police are never armed and they post more video on instagram (of their day to day working lives) than anyone else in Iceland by far.<br />
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2. They are not immune to the modern trend of seeking celebrity-status. In their phone book (national population is only 325,000) they are allowed to give themselves a descriptive title rather like on social media, perhaps related to their job or their interests. I am told you find things like 'fisherman', 'stamp collector', or 'cake decorator', but also titles like 'inspirational speaker', 'devoted father' and 'big lover'. Our young and rather hyperactive tour guide told us she knows a guy who's entry says 'funny man', and that he is in fact anything but funny.<br />
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Prices in shops and restaurants is the only downside, therefore I'd say it favours shorter stays. Be prepared to be offered local fauna to eat (all very sustainable). Puffin, Whale and Horse are on most traditional restaurant menus along with the more familiar European meats and fish. My favourite local culinary discovery, however, was their 'Jar Cake'.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The incredible Icelandic Jar Cake (Smurstodin Cafe - Harpa Building).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Once tried, never forgotten. The special Icelandic cream is called Skyr.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">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. </span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px; text-align: left;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-33636408057377377402014-11-10T03:33:00.002-08:002016-06-12T12:04:03.174-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Cristobal<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Where To Look For Life</span><br />
I think it was in 1982 that I met Cristobal. I was working as a night bedroom steward on a<a class="KTTh4kn7jGl " href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=137456067396270981#38277234" style="z-index: 2147483647;" title="Click to Continue > by Advertise"> cruise ship<img src="https://cdncache-a.akamaihd.net/items/it/img/arrow-10x10.png" /></a> – The magnificent QE2. One morning we docked in Quebec, not far into the mouth of the gigantic St Lawrence river in Canada. It was a sunny autumn day and the light really intensified the colours of the painted wooden buildings, the maple trees with their leaves turned gold and the verdant green pine forests stretching into the distance against an azure blue sky. Strings of logging barges were stretched out along the St Lawrance heading inland towards the great lakes and there was already snow on the caps of the distant mountains.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcM_Sbuso8Q-tDYzo2w022TjoofSX6nuUemGAEoAU7OYzBjyEiU64vWbPBNRGno8U0qdv2KbAaHmGNK9Rcv2OD4pcwTlc-jTJyu8-u82Yxtn_udd0zLdmLU2RiCZ_ddwK-iEvF98-jE4X/s1600/Cristobal+QE2+harbour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivcM_Sbuso8Q-tDYzo2w022TjoofSX6nuUemGAEoAU7OYzBjyEiU64vWbPBNRGno8U0qdv2KbAaHmGNK9Rcv2OD4pcwTlc-jTJyu8-u82Yxtn_udd0zLdmLU2RiCZ_ddwK-iEvF98-jE4X/s1600/Cristobal+QE2+harbour.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">QE2 in Quebec Harbour</span></div>
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On days in port like this I tended to avoid hanging out with other crew-members. Their idea of a special day out ashore was to visit six waterfront bars rather than the customary two. In most ports we visited, I tended to head into the rougher fishermen's quarter or the poorer residential districts in order to experience a more genuine taste of local life. But Quebec seeming to lack much in the way of either. After breakfast in a small old-world cafe I decided to head on a small road out of town – up into the surrounding hills. And it was here that I met Cristobal.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Heading into the Quebec hills</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Met On The Road</span><br />
Leaving the city I had stopped at a small roadside shack on the outskirts to buy some bread rolls, an apple, a bag of nuts and some cheese. This was to be my lunch in case I could find nowhere to eat when the time came. As I sat down on a rock to eat that lunch later, I saw a man sitting right out on the edge of a rocky ledge that looked down over the surrounding countryside. I raised my hand in welcome and he returned the gesture but remained where he was. Hoping I wasn't disturbing a man with a desire for solitude I proceeded to eat my lunch and it was only after this that I decided to quietly wander over to the edge of the ledge close to where the man still sat, silently looking out. <br />
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"Impressionnant, no?"<br />
"Ah oui, tres impressionnant!" I replied. "Pardon, je suis Anglais. Je n'parle pas bien Francais."<br />
"No problem, mon amis, I<a class="KTTh4kn7jGl " href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=137456067396270981#69258957" style="z-index: 2147483647;" title="Click to Continue > by Advertise"> speak English<img src="https://cdncache-a.akamaihd.net/items/it/img/arrow-10x10.png" /></a>," he said, smiling.<br />
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Although this man had spoken in French, I felt fairly sure from his accent that he was neither French nor French Canadian. His skin was also dark and his wide high-set cheekbones suggested to me he might perhaps be of ethnic Canadian decent. A Canadian Indian. His face was creased and his dark hair was greying at the temples so I determined he was probably in his late forties or early fifties.<br />
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"My name is Mark. I'm pleased to meet you," I said. "So do you live locally or are you visiting like me?"<br />
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"Ah, I am always the visitor, mon amis. My name is Cristobal. I am originally from Columbia – Cartagena."<br />
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"Are you here on holiday?" I asked.<br />
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Cristobal laughed. "Hah, on holiday no my friend. I walk."<br />
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"You walk? So do you mean you have come here to walk?"<br />
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"No no! I walk everywhere. For many years I have been walking. I am, as you say, an addict. I cannot stop from walking."<br />
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"Oh I see. Wow, so you walked here from Columbia?"<br />
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"No. Or actually, I suppose yes. To be correct I did walk here from Columbia, but on my way here I walked through Argentina, Chile, New Zealand, Australia... Indonesia, Malaysia, Vietnam, Thailand, India, Pakistan... then Iran, Turkey, Europe and most of Africa. I go to North America soon I think. I am in Alaska before here. Okay, sometimes I take the bus. I mostly walk but hey, I am not crazy!"<br />
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I was dumbfounded. "How many years have you been travelling," I asked.<br />
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"Must be forty-four years this year I suppose."<br />
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"Do you mind me asking how old you are?"<br />
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"Sixty-three years on Christmas. I am born December twenty-four."<br />
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Again I was shocked. "Walking has kept you young Cristobal!"<br />
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"Yes I think so, but my feet are old!" He removed one boot and sock to reveal an extremely calloused foot with a very gnarled set of toes.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Where The Road Invites Me To Go</span><br />
"Tell me Cristobal," I said, "what drives you to keep on walking? Why have you not settled anywhere?"<br />
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"I told you, I am like addict. It is the road ahead that drives me. Invites me. Enchants me even. Not all roads, only some. For example look down here. Do you see this road? It is a good road surface I think, and straight. Easy with not too much hills or trees for stop the view. This road is good for cars and trucks but not good for me. But on the other hand, look over here. Can you see this road. Small and turning about and about. Many hills. Not a good surface I think. Sometimes the road goes around the hills or sometimes over. Many trees stop the view but in the spaces the view must be special I am sure. Ah yes this is a charming road, Mark, don't you see?"<br />
I thought about some of the lovely roads I'd seen in my life, and some that were less lovely.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Some roads are less inviting than others</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">But who could resist these two roads in Dingle, Ireland?</span></div>
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"Yes I can see what you mean," I said. "It's more interesting."<br />
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"Yes of course, interesting. Walking along a road is like passing through the life. It can be too much the same, only taking you from one place to the next place as quickly as possible, or it can be with much variety – changing all the time with surprising things and people. Life is for the experience no? Not for living your life as quickly as possible. So this is my obsession. When I turn around a corner in a town and I see an interesting road, stretching out before me, I must follow it. I cannot resist. I cannot!"<br />
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"So after North America, will you return to Columbia?" I said, pouring him a hand-full of peanuts.<br />
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"Maybe. Yes amigo, maybe. But it is not my ambition. I never am planning to walk around the whole world. I told you it is an obsession. But I am only going where the road invites me to go. The special road. In each place I look and when I see the special road, I know this is the road I must go, you see? No hesitation. I think it is like, my destiny. So yes, maybe I go to Columbia. But this time I go like a visitor. I was a boy working in a mine there you know. Work in the dark all day. Never see nothing beautiful. After one year I have two days vacation. I want to see another place from outside Cartagena so I walk into the hills. When I pass over the top of the first big hill I see a whole new world before me. And a road. A charming road. I begin walking down and along this charming road. And I am still walking on that road amigo. I am walking my special roads then, I am walking them now and I continue. Ah yes, I continue until there is no more charming roads. This is my life."<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Powers Of Observation</span><br />
It was lovely walking back into Quebec with Cristobal. His trained eye saw so much more than mine. Geese circling in the distance, looking for water to land on during their long migration journey, or so he said. An old man splitting cedar shingles to repair a visible hole in his cabin roof. Ruts in a field where a car had been driven at speed. Joyriding kids or a criminal being pursued by the police. A bear's footprint. A woman dowsing for a spring watched by a farmer and a group of children. Ordinary people like me would have passed along that road and seen none of them.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Enchanted Road</span><br />
Waving goodbye to Cristobal was painful. Not so much because I would miss his company, but because I had learned what he meant about the invitation of especially charming roads. I left him at the other edge of the city, after he had shared a beer with me in a small tumbledown bar. As we reached a road junction we stopped and he bid me farewell, before heading across the road and into a small housing estate. Wandering back in the direction of the docks I was wondering where he might have been heading when I happened to look around over my shoulder. It had not been visible from where I left him, but now, looking up I could see the unmistakable signs of a road through the gaps in the bright green pine trees. A small cabin, then what looked like a sawmill. A rocky outcrop where I could only guess what a stunning view it would afford down over Quebec harbour. Yes this was indeed a charming road. An Enchanted road. I felt a sharp pang of regret as we sailed that chilly evening. Regret that I had not thrown caution to the wind and followed it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUwjYZQ7geH4BZUJa__4bbWxxRe1zBVdv0eDtDUoQWiRDyhwTD78RcQu-sGQgvaRtrjmXfHeBtc0EbGR1zGXpmtd-lFniHLBpgC_jgQwdnfsTiwXZLYXYEcbX1O_6c8H6dKebQJw1WlvX8/s1600/Cristobal+QE2+night.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUwjYZQ7geH4BZUJa__4bbWxxRe1zBVdv0eDtDUoQWiRDyhwTD78RcQu-sGQgvaRtrjmXfHeBtc0EbGR1zGXpmtd-lFniHLBpgC_jgQwdnfsTiwXZLYXYEcbX1O_6c8H6dKebQJw1WlvX8/s1600/Cristobal+QE2+night.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The sea is a lonely road</span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #990000;">Some Other Charming Roads Cristobal Would Love:</span></b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_SX1C9ugZ4HMy_gItM2e1doW5QfNUb1sh5lycQRFVP1HHvFBdsj2dgVptG4rQZ69ES_NLbPy_zWKmQQVV0ZaDTX4x7ugYLh_LHicu9B6ZQzFexe2apVC5icaxmk5hfmWBfgnReOmuWJg/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_SX1C9ugZ4HMy_gItM2e1doW5QfNUb1sh5lycQRFVP1HHvFBdsj2dgVptG4rQZ69ES_NLbPy_zWKmQQVV0ZaDTX4x7ugYLh_LHicu9B6ZQzFexe2apVC5icaxmk5hfmWBfgnReOmuWJg/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+212.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">This inspiring road to Iran from Caldiran, Turkey, was used for the front cover </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">of the book (Long Road Hard Lessons) about the 10,000mile cycle journey with my son Sam.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Views like this constantly spurred us to carry on towards our goal - Tokyo.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcn7d5hambu7puHIzN6ndCauUWQod1gKII4mD20_yvAISfJIyS2g4OTToEvqV1A2oRKvXr2FduBaq0AbXNvzlKsE-AfePVvF7Ou49NYvdfgL3RrTy_VS1X9U2ybp8AySCQMixtgoJ1PVfk/s1600/IMG_1115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcn7d5hambu7puHIzN6ndCauUWQod1gKII4mD20_yvAISfJIyS2g4OTToEvqV1A2oRKvXr2FduBaq0AbXNvzlKsE-AfePVvF7Ou49NYvdfgL3RrTy_VS1X9U2ybp8AySCQMixtgoJ1PVfk/s1600/IMG_1115.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The tiny Slea Head Road in Dingle, Ireland, where our cycle journey to Japan began.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">N.B. The beach is where the movie Ryan's Daughter was filmed & where they are currently filming the next Star Wars.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpV8dxGprWkOgQGXIEj2z3ODr_azx9Yk2JaKIBCy7T0Vz0EbocEYve1GIZAZUnYpS0_w_a4MC_VrqgGXc2lbRnJz6mXNMFDv4df2wmBPdJDfr1zg5zzE_krljtlG8h2d0EOIbGygqjyvV/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKpV8dxGprWkOgQGXIEj2z3ODr_azx9Yk2JaKIBCy7T0Vz0EbocEYve1GIZAZUnYpS0_w_a4MC_VrqgGXc2lbRnJz6mXNMFDv4df2wmBPdJDfr1zg5zzE_krljtlG8h2d0EOIbGygqjyvV/s1600/Tokyo+cycle+set+1+200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cycling up this mountain road in Southern Turkey was hard but well worth the effort</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DKXNXbqa70dQzswt1HhWeb97fO1wyIBGJdPJVDXgxrhhaK5uZgGHltGormGxZ9NVmMQKCm5BTSgLv5ajSC67LARqu1sC3Og4xCScoYZjdOXsPdeNzoBkZ0nUhp1Pyt2Et-_vPZIMBKyS/s1600/Munar+Tea+Plantations,+Kerala,+India.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6DKXNXbqa70dQzswt1HhWeb97fO1wyIBGJdPJVDXgxrhhaK5uZgGHltGormGxZ9NVmMQKCm5BTSgLv5ajSC67LARqu1sC3Og4xCScoYZjdOXsPdeNzoBkZ0nUhp1Pyt2Et-_vPZIMBKyS/s1600/Munar+Tea+Plantations,+Kerala,+India.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Yellapatty Tea Plantations. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">This road through The High Ranges of Travancore </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">in Kerela, India, is one </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">of the most beautiful roads I've ever seen.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">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. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-38929640655226897102014-10-25T04:11:00.000-07:002016-08-01T08:15:28.709-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Herman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #e06666; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small; line-height: 1.4;">Given the amount of time I spend long-distance cycling, it is hardly surprising that I meet so many interesting people on the road. This is the third in a series of blogs about the more remarkable of those individuals. Enter your e-mail in the 'Subscribe' box on the right and you will be notified of each new blog post.</span></h3>
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<b><span style="color: #9fc5e8;"><br /></span></b><b><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">Herman</span></b></div>
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During the 10,000 mile cycle ride I did with my son, one of the most spectacular places we cycled through was Laos. Heading north, away from the more civilised little capital of Vientiane, it was largely undeveloped, but for about three towns. The countryside was made up of verdant mountains with fairly good roads and almost no traffic. It is well known amongst long-distance cyclists for this reason. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Sam takes a rest near 'The Hot Springs Place'</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">So little traffic, anything is a spectacle in Northern Laos</span></div>
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On the road Sam and I met a couple of other cyclists out in the wilds. One told us we simply must stay at a place he called 'The Hot Spring Place'. It was not marked on any map, however. Their glowing descriptions made me think it was something like 'The Hotel California' in the Eagles song, with a casino and 'pink champagne on ice'.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">After hours of climbing through jungle in oppressive heat, there was no sign. No civilisation at all in fact.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"How will we know it when we see it?" asked Sam. "We don't have a name, no address – not even the name of a village."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Oh it sounded pretty big and spectacular," I said. "Surely we couldn't miss it out here!"</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Just as the sun started to sink towards the peaks we came across it. Thankfully, the Hot Springs Place was not
what I had imagined. It was little more than a layby on the narrow mountain road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">The Hot Springs Place is only usually visited by intrepid cyclists</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Finding the old lady who ran the
place, we enquired about accommodation and were delighted to find there were
two wooden huts left (out of five) with a double bed and WC/shower shoehorned into the tiny space. </span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">We parked our bikes, paid the old
lady and scurried off down through the trees to the large stone-sided water
tank surrounded by jungle. Here several other cyclists had just jumped in and were busy soothing away the
day’s aches and pains in the steaming water.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Three or four local children, small and glistening brown, had climbed out and were sitting at
the edge watching.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">The Hot Springs with roadside cafe nearby </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">In this heavenly pool, we began chatting with a rather forthright German lady.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">
</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Sonja took pains to explain that the older man who had just gone back to
the hut was <u>not</u> her husband or her boyfriend.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">“I don’t have sex with him, oh </span><i style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">mein</i><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><i style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Got</i><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">, no!” she assured us, frowning.
“And anyhow, it is not possible; he is having a bad back problem."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Herman was just a friend, she said, and a very
annoying man to travel with indeed.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">After Sonja got out, Herman returned and seemed to us far from annoying.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> As we soon discovered,</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> he had cycled almost everywhere in Asia
over many years, between his job as a landscape gardener back in Germany.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">He proved to be a fascinating source of
information and had a great sense of humour – especially, when pressed, about
Sonja. It was obvious to us that he was completely exasperated with her and probably wished he had stuck with his usual habit of travelling alone. But although he chuckled to himself over my risque questions, he was reluctant to say anything. From the way he kept looking over at the path and into the surrounding jungle, I presumed she had a bad temper and a fearsome hold over him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small; line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Friendly children queue up to slap your hand as you pass</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">After an afternoon sleep to get over our day of steep climbing, we awoke feeling hungry. It was early evening and nearby, above the general hums and screeches of jungle fauna, we could clearly discern sounds of merriment. On the opposite side of the
narrow mountain road below us there lay a small cafe. Wandering over, we were surprised to find them serving pretty good food, well beyond the standard feu (Laotian thin soup),
bush-meat and rice we had become used to.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Our cycling neighbours were there and after we had eaten Herman came over to share a few Beer Lao with
us.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Having enquired about our route, he reiterated stories we had heard from other cyclists about
the terrible unsurfaced mountain roads ahead of us from northern Laos into North Vietnam.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">But where we were now was certainly a great place and we were so grateful to those other cyclists for guiding us
here.</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Loosened up by a few beers, Herman became great entertainment. After a few minutes I began to ask him more about his relationship with Sonja.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Herman, as you are German and used to direct questions, I'm going to ask you – does Sonja have a mental problem?"</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">All of a sudden Herman doubled up on his chair, as if perhaps he had suffered a burst appendix or some such catastrophe. He looked up at us, gritting his teeth, his face purple. Clearly he was struggling valiantly to hold in his screams of agony, but eventually he could hold them no longer. In an instant the whole cafe full of people came to a grinding halt as Herman's scream rang out through the jungle. A pot crashed in the makeshift kitchen. Bottles of beer fell over and glasses dropped from the hands of drinkers. People stretched their necks and stood up to see what had occurred. But Herman was not screaming now. Herman was laughing. He was in pain because he was laughing so much.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Herman, was machs du, dumkopf!" demanded Sonja.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Nichts, Sonja, nichts – one of the cats surprised me or some such." </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">After a minute or so Herman had calmed down. There were tears in his eyes as he sat there looking at me, smiling and shaking his head in disbelief.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Are you psychiatrist?" he asked, finally able to speak again.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"No, no, a risk management specialist. I work in crisis management and disaster recovery." I tried to keep a straight face. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Herman began to snigger again. It seemed about to grow. I looked over at Sonja who had also noticed the sniggering. Eager to prevent another outburst, I got up and placed my hand over Herman's mouth. Keeping his laughter inside was painful for him, the poor man. His body began convulsing. Sonja stood up.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"What is the problem with him?" she demanded crossly. Her concern was clearly not out of sympathy.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"A small epileptic fit," I said. "Do you have his medication?"</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Medication?" she shouted. "He is not epileptisch. Not so far anyhow."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Perhaps it's just begun on this trip?" I suggested. "The stress or something."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Stress!" she laughed. "Mensch, I am the one who suffers the stress – stress from his craziness! Got und himmel."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">At this Herman's convulsions became more desperate – although this could have been because my hand was too tightly over his mouth and nose. Beads of sweat had begun running down his balding head. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"Be calm Herman," I said gently. "Be calm. Now listen, I'm going to remove my hand but only if you're calm."</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">I felt Herman relax.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">After a few glugs of beer and some deep breaths, Herman seemed to have returned to his normal downtrodden state. He continued looking at us, smirking now and then and shaking his head. </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"I tell you, my friends, be careful about
taking passengers. I'm going to tell you how it happened, but first I need more beer." </span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Herman signalled and three bottles of Beer Lao arrived promptly. Sonja looked over, worried what he might do next.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">"</span><span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">So, this woman you see," continued Herman, more serious now. "She was
visiting a house where I was working in the garden. The householder introduced us and told her I
travelled very much in Asia. This woman
(Herman stabbed his finger towards Sonja accusingly), she told me she always has the desire to visit Asia. She asks my number, then she calls me later to invite me for
drinking. Like a foolish man I say okay. It's a common story I think. First she made me quite drunk, then
captured me with nice behaviours.” Herman fluttered his eyelids and stuck out his chest – with the addition of hand gestures, which we did not need. “This is how I am now broken down with this such difficult woman in Laos –
a woman who is complaining from waking until sleeping. No – that is incorrect. I believe she is also complaining during her sleeping. Believe me my friend, many times I think death is
better and wish to... to ride over the mountain ledge!”</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;">Herman was crying again now, but these were no longer tears of laughter.</span></div>
<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;">"I offer to pay her aeroplane to go home early but no! it is too easy. I carry all her luggages on my bike but she don't have fucking </span><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">gratitude</span><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;">. Excuse me. I pity her dog, my friend, if she will ever have one. She like to give men pain, that is clear. Two husbands have suicide, she tells me so. What for hell shall I do?"</span></span></span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;">Despite Herman's tears, it was a wonderful evening. The setting as well as the company. My wife and I always tell people that the best way to know if you are truly compatible with a partner is to travel overland with them for a few months. I assume Sonja and Herman knew they were incompatible after only a few days. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;">Should you be reading this Herman, please get in touch.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="color: #010726; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;"><span style="color: #010726;">If you would like to read more about the cycle adventure from Ireland to Japan with my teenage son, click one of the </span><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Long Road Hard Lessons</span></b><span style="color: #010726;"> links in the right hand margin of this blog, or enter the title into your internet search box.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="text-indent: 14.2pt;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.4;"><span style="color: #010726;">If you would like to read short stories by Mark Swain you can find these on Amazon, Smashwords etc. The paperback of Long Road Hard Lessons is available from Waterstones and other Bookshops in the UK as well as on Amazon UK.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #7479d0; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Mark Swain on Amazon</span></span><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a><br />
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-53222165214125603102014-10-05T06:56:00.000-07:002014-10-05T07:10:40.522-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Julian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Travelling As A Couple</span><br />
I often notice when I am travelling, how difficult many couples find travelling together. Frequently where one wants to go the other does not. What one finds interesting the other finds tedious. What one sees as a bargain the other thinks is a waste of money. It is a sure recipe for stress and arguments. Many couples dread these trips. Survival in many relationships relies upon one party being prepared to give-in to the other, or perhaps taking turns to be in charge. I don't want to gender stereotype but where holidays with children are involved, you will often find the man grumbling to himself in the background, while reluctantly going along with what the mother in the relationship has organised. I've seen a few hiking, cycling and adventure holidays where it is the reverse and the father is at the front driving a reluctant band of children followed by their unamused mother. In some extreme cases, separate holidays become the only way to survive this problem. I think this is the success of holiday companies like Club Med or Centreparks – something provided for all ages and all tastes.<br />
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I met my wife while travelling and later working in Japan (we are both English). It had been an uneventful day in downtown Tokyo. She appeared, intense green eyes peering at me suspiciously across the top of a large book in British Council Library. We had been on the same TEFL teacher training course back in Hastings, UK, but had never spoken, because she had had me down for a bad lot. Japan was a shaky start and we seemed to argue for much of the time. However when we went away for a few days camping in the mountains, I think we were both shocked by how well we got on. There was no question, we seemed to fit each other perfectly when we were travelling. This happened every time we travelled, and we travelled quite a lot – including, after a couple of years, a six-month overland trip back to the UK. In fact our first child is the result of our happiness together on that trip.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Travelling With Your Teenager</span><br />
In 2008-9 I cycled with my 18 year old son from Ireland to Japan. It was a tremendously exciting experience but a hard one. Not because of the cycling, but due to the conflict we faced between us on almost a daily basis. 10 months of my son resenting me, glaring at me. Not every day but quite a lot. I remarked upon this one day during that trip to a guy named Julian. We met him in a Vietnamese hostel. Julian was a tour leader who took groups of westerners mountain-biking through the mountains of North Vietnam, China and Laos.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Cycling through North Vietnam</span> </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Our extreme haircuts in Cambodia were a stark contrast to my no-cut beard</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The book about the adventure has become an Amazon best seller - so maybe the pain of the trip was worthwhile</span></div>
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"Travelling with your teenage kids is the worst mate," said Julian in his laid-back Aussie drawl. "It's a dangerous game that's for sure. They have an inbuilt desire to destroy you – really! Prove you wrong about everything and show you what a crap idea it was of yours to bring them on the trip. And they know all your weaknesses mate, oh yeah! No, I've seen it too many times in this job. Bad karma."<br />
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"What about couples?" I asked. "Do you get much trouble with couples on your trips?"<br />
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"What? I'd say so mate!" Julian sat up on his bunk with a face like an electrified exclamation mark.<br />
"Girls think bringing their guy on a trek will be a great way for them to get closer. I mean WHAT? Most guys would give anything to do a trek like that with their mates but not with their bloody girlfriend! All that time together? Injuries and breakdowns? Jeezus, they're gonna be a sure way to cause an argument! Sam with marrieds, except they probably already know it's gonna be a nightmare. They get bullied into it or they just sleepwalk into it 'cos the other one books it up. Disaster! I can spot 'em as soon as they get off the plane."<br />
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"But surely they're not all like that?" I asked. "Surely there are some success stories?"<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Mr or Mrs Right</span><br />
"Oh hey, yeah! There's always the odd couple now and again - hardened travellers usually - who really work well on a trip. Considerate of each other, you know? Understand each other's needs. Give each other space, that kind of thing. On the other hand you do see younger couples or couples who are newly together sometimes who travel well together. Not many but a few now and again. What's really interesting for us leaders though, is when singles come on treks and find that they work really well with another traveller. It's kind of a good omen you know? If they can get on together on a tough trek it's pretty sure that you'll make a great couple - well assuming the sex is OK, I mean that's a given eh? Yeah I can tell you, I've seen a few unlikely pairings in my time and a lot of them have stood the test of time. So it does seem to be a good litmus test. Like, take someone off travelling before you marry them 'cos it's a bloody sure way to know if it's gonna work out! Yeah you know I still get e-mails from some couples after they're all loved-up and married - kids even, you know?"<br />
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"I suppose you've been invited to a few weddings then, Julian?"<br />
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"Oh damned right! Been to a couple too. One gay couple from Paris. Another couple paid for me to fly over to The States. Put me up in a 'brill' apartment. Finance lady around forty. Nice woman, a bit, you know, straight. Hey I don't wanna say ugly, but not a looker. So yeah she hooked up with a guy who was a self-employed plumber. Mind you he was no oil painting either, but they were just, you know, great together. I think they've got like twenty vans in New York now and a kid. Yeah it's great when we see people get together. Makes it all worthwhile, you know? Yeah, my mates say I'm a bit of a romantic actually."<br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Unsurprisingly there are many guides on how to avoid arguments on holiday. Here is one:</span><br />
http://thecoupleconnection.net/articles/avoiding-arguments-on-your-summer-holiday<br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #990000;">If you would like to read the bestselling travel book <b>'Long Road, Hard Lessons' </b>by Mark Swain, you can find this along with his two collections of short stories on Amazon, Smashwords etc. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #990000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-31734664308310711542014-09-29T00:32:00.000-07:002014-09-29T00:47:37.134-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Bryn<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Those Who Stayed Behind</span><br />
I met Bryn in 2009 while travelling on business in the Kurdish city of Erbil, in Northern Iraq. The Kurdistan region has a troubled history, lying as it does between the Iran border and the rest of Iraq. I was staying in a hotel on the outskirts of Erbil (or Arbil) where I had been contracted to visit telecommunications sites and train local engineers. Needing to visit some fairly out of the way places, I asked the hotel to arrange a taxi driver for me who would be available for whole days at a time. They did better than this, they found me one who spoke English. I won't say perfect English. We were introduced by Aziz my very helpful hotel manager.<br />
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<br />
"So where is it you need to go today like?" asked Bryn.<br />
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"I have three sites I need to visit today," I told him.<br />
<br />
I handed Bryn a list of locations provided by the company who had commissioned me to do the work.<br />
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"I've looked on a map," I said, "I think the first three have been grouped on the west side of Erbil."<br />
<br />
"Oh I see. Yeah that's no problem I know these. We'll box off the nearest one first if that suits you?"<br />
<br />
"Yes any order's fine by me," I replied. "So where in Wales are you from?"<br />
<br />
"That obvious is it?" laughed Bryn. "I suppose my name would give it away though... I'm from the south just near to Ebbw Vale. Abertillery, I don't suppose you've heard of it?"<br />
<br />
"I have actually. I once went to the Wetherspoons there for lunch when I was driving down the valley."<br />
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"Ooh Christ! The Pontlottyn, that must have been quite an experience," said Bryn. "You must have been desperate like!"<br />
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"Actually I was, yes," I replied. "So what would bring a man from Abertillery to Erbil, if you don't mind me asking?"<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Pontlottyn in Abertillery, South Wales (in better days)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Site Visits – In The Line Of Duty</span><br />
The road was potholed and we were constantly engulfed by the clouds of dust thrown up by old trucks that roared past us as we made our way into the rocky desert land to the west of the city. Purple-tinged mountains I knew to form the border with Turkey loomed in the distance. It wasn't that Bryn was reluctant to tell me how he got here so much as the road conditions that hampered our conversation. A roadblock ahead appeared out of the dust and brought us to an abrupt halt. Bryn seemed unsurprised. I was not bothered by it either. I was not pressed for time and it was easier to speak once we had stopped.<br />
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"So I come here with the military, see," said Bryn. "I'm taking a risk tellin' you this mind 'cos they don't know I'm here like. Technically I'm a deserter, see. No straight up! That's how it is, now. You don't work for the government or nothin' do you, Mark?"<br />
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I told him I did not.<br />
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"That's good because otherwise I'd have to kill you like. No, just having a laugh with you now. I don't tell no-one normally like. Being honest, I got no family to speak of, but I can't tell my mates back home or no-one, otherwise that'd be me, banged up as a deserter for a few years. Then there's the risk I might end up used as an hostage. You can see me on TV like, can't you, wearing an orange boiler suit, you know what I mean?"<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Desertion</span><br />
I did know what he meant.<br />
<br />
"So can I ask, how did you come to be a deserter then, Bryn?" I said cautiously.<br />
<br />
"We was all down in Basra us lot. Welsh boys. It was nasty by anyone's standards. I'm not a wuss but they was killing us boys with roadside bombs and to be fair we could do bugger all about it. Half a dozen of my good mates was killed in my first tour, three in the second and then four more in the last one. I don't mind telling you I was only too glad when they sent a group of us up north here – to work covert like. SF – Special Forces. I was chose on account of I speaks a bit of the lingo like and 'cos I got the dark skin. Never thought in my life before that that'd be to my advantage but there you are!"<br />
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Bryn swerved hard to avoid a mangey dog in the road. The dog made no effort to avoid the car. It just stood and looked at us. Bryn cursed at it.<br />
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"Oh that's right you bugger, never mind my bloody tyres!"<br />
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For the first time at that moment I noticed a long scar, part hidden by Bryn's short hair. I assumed it to be a war injury but decided not to ask. Yes I could see with his skin he could easily be taken for a local, although he looked to me to be more likely of North African descent.<br />
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"Well I won't lie to you," continued Bryn, "it seemed alright up here for a while – cushty you might even say. We settled in well. But then we goes and gets ourselves ambushed in the hills like. Someone must have grassed us – obvious. I think there was two of us out of the seven what got away like. I dunno what happened to Mutton, the other one, but I lay low here in Erbil, on account of I had a lady-friend, see?"<br />
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"Jeezus! So when did this all happen, Bryn?"<br />
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"Oh blimey, it must be well over a year now, easy. All our boys have gone home now 'course, the buggers. I'm the bloke who got proper left behind."<br />
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"So do you think they're still looking for you?" I asked. "I mean I suppose the ones who got killed were repatriated?"<br />
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"Yeah you'd think so," he replied. "I mean stands to reason, that's usually what happens. Someone phones the local cops and says they found some bodies. Foreigners. They counts 'em and makes a few inquiries about any that's missing like. Informers and what have you. The Army don't tend to make a big thing about it though, right? The missing ones I means. Bad for morale, that's it. Oh yeah they makes their enquiries but it's all hush hush like, see what I mean? But that suits me Mark, look. Iraq's not the kind of place they'd really wanna come snooping around asking questions. We got our fingers burned here see. Fortunate thing for me though is I'm settled. I got no desire to go back home, no way. Abertillery's a bit of a shit hole, to be blunt, and as I say I got no family to speak of. An uncle who's in a home, that's all. End of message Like. I got a kid here now. He's coming up a year, little Hamid. He won't be doing no Army, that I can tell you!"<br />
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Bryn removed a photograph from his wallet and was handing it to me when all of a sudden there was a knock on the window. The checkpoint patrol. I eyed their machine guns as Bryn lowered the window and the man spoke to him in Arabic.<br />
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"Hello. You are from where? Your passport?" said the man, bending to look in at me.<br />
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I handed him my passport, which he studied carefully and then returned.<br />
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"Canter-bury," he said. "Very nice cathedral. Enjoy my country."<br />
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I smiled and thanked him, taken aback by his geographical wisdom.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roasted Carp is especially popular during Ramadan</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Carpe Diem</span><br />
The rest of the week was a surprising pleasure. Bryn took me to a few local restaurants that I would never have found on my own. A place that served only carp. Big golden fish roasted over bricks in the bomb-damaged car-park. On my last day he invited me to his home to meet his wife and son. It was a lovely evening but I left feeling really quite surreal. The thought had stayed with me – how many more men like Bryn might there be left behind? <br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #990000;">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. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #990000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-30884602066850398562014-09-21T14:46:00.000-07:002015-02-23T10:31:55.510-08:00People I've Met On The Road – Brent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">The Allure Of Companionship</span><br />
I had left home in late spring, tired of my bedsit-life in Southeast England. For a month I had hitchhiked my way down through France, sleeping rough. I had money, but I needed it to last. I had no intention of returning to the UK anytime soon. Making my way along the French and Italian Rivieras, I soaked up the sea and sun, sleeping on beaches before taking a ferryboat along the Dalmatian Coast. All this time I had enjoyed the solitude of travelling alone. It had given me time to think. But as I entered what was then Yugoslavia, I began to crave company. Sitting up on deck through the night, I hung out with a large group of students, singing songs accompanied by guitars and accordions. Unfortunately none of them were going my way. From the port of Dubrovnik I intended hitchhiking west towards the monasteries of Meteora. They were from a college in Ljubljana, back up north. Walking down the gangplank, squinting into the bright morning sun, my eyes met a tall man with a fedora hat and sunglasses. He seemed to know me.<br />
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"Hi," he said, holding out his hand, "Brent Wagner, how was the journey?"<br />
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"Sorry," I said, "do I know you?"<br />
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"Feels like it don't it?" he replied, laughing. "I said to myself as I saw you walking down there, I swear I know that guy from somewhere. So where you from?"<br />
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"Er, I'm from England. Mark... Mark Swain." I put down my shoulder bag and shook his hand, causing something of a jam on the gangplank.<br />
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"Step over here Mark," said Brent. "So are you here on business? You're not the backpacker type."<br />
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Aged a little over nineteen, it had been a deliberate decision of mine not to carry a rucksack or dress like a backpacker. It would make people more likely to give me lifts or help me out, I had thought. I was not completely sure if that had worked out to be true. Sometimes it gave me confidence, but at different times, when I was with other young people, it made me feel like a bit of an oddball.<br />
<br />
"I'm just travelling," I said hesitantly, "making my way to Salonica and Meteora. I don't really have a fixed schedule, I decide where to go and where to stop when I get there. How about you?"<br />
<br />
"Oh I'm heading to Istanbul on business," said Brent. "I work with my father back home and he sent me to meet some of our nuts and dried fruit suppliers. Negotiate some new business, pick up some saffron and date samples, that kind of thing. I thought I'd have a bit of a vacation while I'm here. In fact I was thinking of stopping off in Meteora to look at the monasteries. I'm looking for someone to share fuel with me though. I have a hire car. I don't suppose you'd think about...?"<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">The Easy Life</span><br />
Travelling in a car where you weren't facing being dropped at some half-deserted junction outside the next town was a real luxury. I had agreed to go as far as Istanbul with Brent, for him to have his business meeting and then we would return through Greece together, stopping at Meteora and Ephesus on our way to Athens, whereupon he would fly back to the USA. Fuel was pretty cheap so it wouldn't cost me much this way and there was always the advantage of being able to sleep in the car if it rained hard in the night. We got on fairly well together, although I have to say I never truly felt connected with him.<br />
It took around a week to reach Istanbul. It made life easier for Brent that we shared the driving. Despite telling Brent plenty about my life during this time though, he told me little about himself. I'd guess he must have been around thirty, though he never said. He had been living in San Diego so I assumed this was where his father's business was, although he never actually said. He always seemed vague when I asked questions.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">A Change Of Plan</span><br />
Arriving in Istanbul we checked into a budget hotel, pre-booked by his father's secretary. Brent made a few phone calls from a booth at the cafe across the street and the following morning he went off for his business meeting. I could see he was nervous about the meeting, despite his efforts to appear cool and businesslike. It was the older guy trying to look more mature thing, I told myself. But he was trying too hard. The stiffly pressed white shirt and shiny shoes were a giveaway for someone who was naive in this situation. We agreed to meet at a cafe by Hagia Sofia.<br />
Brent arrived late, looking harassed. His negotiations had obviously not gone well. Probably the people he was meeting had spotted his naivety and taken advantage of him, I presumed.<br />
<br />
"How did it go?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Oh the business side of things went well," he replied. "The old man will be pleased, but when I phoned the old man he told me I have to go to Ankara for a day or two to meet another potential supplier he's been talking to. His secretary's booked the damned flight. Problem is my pop doesn't take no for an answer, y'see."<br />
<br />
"That's fine," I said. "I can wait for you here, then we can head off for Meteora."<br />
<br />
Brent explained that this would not be possible. He couldn't keep the hire car here in Turkey after the following day due to some ruling on the hire contract and it needed to be handed in to one of the Greek hire company's depots by Friday. There was insufficient time.<br />
It didn't take long for us to work out a solution. He would fly off to Ankara the following morning, while I drove the car to Alexandroupoli in Greece to hand it over. He could join me there a day later.<br />
Brent looked relieved. Only an hour before it had looked impossible to him. I couldn't deny that it felt good as the junior partner there, to have sorted the problem out for him.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">On The Road Again</span><br />
It seemed mean to let Brent take a taxi to the airport but I was unsure of the route to drop him off on my way. We stood in the car park waiting for his taxi while I put my bag in the boot.<br />
<br />
"Take care Marky-boy and I'll see you Friday," Brent said, cheerfully. "So, the papers for the car are in the glove box. I've left my small bag with my old jeans and trainers and I've put this box of samples in the trunk. I hope you won't be troubled by taking care of them until I arrive. The dates and saffron are fairly light, but just take care not to forget 'em and don't leave 'em in the sun. Pop wouldn't take kindly to me arriving home empty handed."<br />
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Brent climbed into the taxi. It was good to see him smile again. I'd grown quite fond of him as a friend. Glad to have been the agent of this change in his mood, I shut the boot and climbed into the driver's seat.<br />
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The journey from Istanbul to the border seemed to pass quickly, despite my getting lost and ending up on a smaller road through semi-desert. At least it passed quickly until about six in the evening when I felt a rumbling from under the car that was heavier than the persistent rumbling I'd been experiencing from the numerous potholes on the poor road surface. I pulled over.<br />
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Examining the vehicle I saw that the rear driver's-side tyre was flat. On closer examination I found a large screw driven right into the tread. Trying to remain positive I opened the boot to take out the spare. First I had to remove the luggage. Piling it carefully against a roadside rock, I lifted the boot mat and saw what passed for a spare wheel. The tyre was not only soft, but completely bald. It would not get me Alexandroupoli, but it would probably do to get me to the next town. Unstrapping the jack and wheel spanner I immediately spotted a more serious problem, however. The jack had obviously been misused at some point and had broken at the pivot, rendering it completely useless. My mood deteriorated quickly as I began to realise how little traffic there was on this road at this time. Having made doubly sure the jack could not be used, I sat on a rock to wait for someone to pass. I tried several times to lift the car and place a rock under it but it was impossible. I waited an hour... then another hour. I had eaten nothing, not even breakfast in my hurry to get going and I was starving. What had seemed like a small inconvenience at first was now beginning to look like a bit of a disaster. Might I have to wait until morning, I wondered? Would I reach Alexandroupoli before the five o'clock deadline tomorrow?<br />
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It was probably around eight o'clock at night when I got into the back seat of the car and lay down. Although it was getting dark now, I could see for miles around and knew there was nowhere nearby to walk to. My stomach ached now with hunger. Why had I not bought some sandwiches or something before I set off, I asked myself?<br />
It was when I reminded myself to put the bags back into the boot that I remembered Brent saying about dates and saffron in the sample box. Surely his pop would not miss a few dates?<br />
<br />
Carefully I slipped my pen-knife under the tape. There was an excessive amount of it, but eventually I unwound the last piece, removed the cellophane and opened one pack. What was revealed was certainly not dried dates, nor was there any saffron in the box. No, there was no doubt in my mind, from both the smell and the consistency, that what the box contained was a substantial quantity of prime marijuana. Hash. Nevertheless I broke off a lump and ate it, convinced that it would at least stave off some of my hunger pangs until morning.<br />
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It was around six in the morning when I finally gave up on trying to sleep. The dope had probably kept me awake rather than helping me to relax. I had eaten a large amount of it one way and another during the night, but it had hardly made a dent in the amount the box contained. My head felt like it belonged to someone else.<br />
<br />
Still unsure what I was going to do about the situation, I tried to focus. What I did know was that Brent had set me up. I was not a complete idiot, I had heard of these stories before. Had I not have got a puncture, I told myself, I would probably be languishing in a dirty Turkish jail by now.<br />
It was while I was thinking about my best course of action, that staring into the distance I noticed what I soon realised was the border post. It was probably about seven to ten miles away, I deduced.<br />
I traced the road with my eye as it wound back and forth between rocks and scrubby hillocks in the desert. It would be a lot more than ten miles by road. I was gathering my things together and putting them into my shoulder bag ready to start walking when I heard the buzz of an engine. Looking up quickly I could see a car coming from the direction of the border post. It didn't take much longer to identify it as a police car. <br />
<br />
I had no plan and my mind was still a blur, yet I knew I had to separate myself from the car. Grabbing my bag, passport, wallet, hat and glasses I made for a clump of dry bushes beside a rock, arching my back to stay low. The car was moving slowly and took some time to arrive. Laying there behind the big rock, listening to the police going through the car, I cursed myself for not bringing the samples box. Fingerprints, I thought. What else though? Car papers... they had Brent's details on them. Perhaps they could tie him up with me if they found which hotel we had stayed in?<br />
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It was probably nearly midday when I awoke. I had dropped off to sleep as I lay there in the shade of the rock and the thorny bushes. Poking my head up over the top of the rock I saw the car was still there where I had left it. My vision and my mind had at least returned to normal. After a minute or two examining myself – my skin, clothing, the contents of my pockets – I decided to move. I scanned the area right to the horizon but could see nobody. I was just turning to pick up my bag when I noticed the cigarette packet. It had been tossed down alongside the big rock. I am no tracker but it was so prominent I was sure it had not been there when I arrived. I stared at it and at the heavy boot-marks alongside – an indication of someone having paced about, as if trying to decide upon something I wondered? I dusted myself down. Without seeming to have given any logical thought to the matter, I knew what to do. Something had narrowly saved me from a terrible ordeal, I knew that too. Now all I needed to do was follow my instinct to remove myself from any further risk. I was free and I needed to stay that way.<br />
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Decades later I still find myself waking up with Brent on my mind. What happened to him? Did he know what had happened to me? Today, as always, I quickly drive it from my mind. What became of Brent was a problem for Brent alone – if indeed Brent was his name.<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">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. </span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i><span style="color: #cc0000;">In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
</div>
Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-32856699015285151862014-09-14T11:09:00.002-07:002014-09-16T02:43:53.183-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Frikushon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Teaching In Tokyo</span><br />
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.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> It was not hard to see where Ridley Scott got his ideas for Blade Runner</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Truck Mechanic</span><br />
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.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Wedding Guests</span><br />
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.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Japanese Massage</span><br />
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.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Slow Bus To Seoul</span><br />
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.<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Wild Journey Home – Tokyo Punks Knew How To Party</span><br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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"Dude, speak Engrish?" he shouted. "Where you go, fukkah... Tokyo?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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"Fuuuk you crazy boys. Samui des nih? (cold no?)"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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"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."<br />
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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:<br />
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"In a city one a thousan' thing I wanna say to you...!!"<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Punk Friction</span><br />
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!<br />
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Friction on Youtube: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwHDD2DRZo4">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IwHDD2DRZo4</a><br />
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i>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. </i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i>In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-73001715321652019382014-09-07T12:36:00.001-07:002014-09-07T13:03:10.629-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Kiriyakos<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Forested Thassos</span><br />
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.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Thassos - The larger town of Limanos back then</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">I Too Much Young For Work</span><br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"Kalimera," he said, holding out a hand.<br />
"Kalimera," I replied, although it was now afternoon rather than morning.<br />
"America?"<br />
"No England. My name is Mark, have a seat."<br />
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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.<br />
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"I am Kiriyakos. Say me Yakos. Jour friend in Prinos!"<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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"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?"<br />
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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?<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Prinos People No Pay</span><br />
"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."<br />
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"Is that your job – your work I mean – fishing?" I asked, miming the casting of nets and pointing to the boat.<br />
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"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."<br />
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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.<br />
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"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!"<br />
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We sat and Yakos explained how life was, in his opinion, too full of opportunities for pleasure to be exerting oneself.<br />
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"Too much working, Yakos die young man, same like Yakos father."<br />
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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.<br />
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"He has forty years. Too much working, working. Try to make money, money. Athini, Thessaloniki, Germany. Heart..." Yakos clutched his chest and grimaced.<br />
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"My father too," I said. "Thirty-seven years. Heart." I too clutched my chest and adopted a pained expression.<br />
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Yakos looked hard at me. "Your father same? Die thirty-seven years?"<br />
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"I was fifteen years old," I told him.<br />
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"I ten years. Too much small boy," he replied, tears in his eyes. "We are brothers, Mark. Yakos and Mark, brothers no?"<br />
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"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.<br />
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"My brother," said Yakos proudly, presenting me to the waiter. The waiter shook my hand. "Metaxa. <br />
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Greek brandy. Drink!"<br />
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">The Carrot & The Donkey</span><br />
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.<br />
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"Come, we greet my mother!" said Yakos, jumping up.<br />
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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.<br />
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"You sleeps here on Prinos beach this night, Mark?"<br />
"Yes I sleep on the beach, absolutely, yes."<br />
"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."<br />
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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.<br />
"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.<br />
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"Mark. Yakos like very much to sleeping on the Prinos beach this night, yes? Same like brothers!" he told me.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
"Yakos bruder, jah? Guss Gott!" Said Papa. "Komen sie hierein bitte."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Ah, barter," I said.<br />
"Yes yes, sometime shoes also," he replied, pointing at his sandals.<br />
<br />
Yakos asked what I would like to do for the day.<br />
<br />
"You like to fishing?" he asked. "I am like too much fishing, my friend. We go fishing yes?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Seega seega, Kiriyakos!" the man said, "Seega seega!"<br />
This was, I learned, an important expression in Greece. Slowly slowly!<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Mark, my friend. You can to find me one England girlfriend?" asked Yakos, lying back against the crates and gazing dreamily at the sky.<br />
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.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A vision of Yakos in years to come perhaps?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Gone Fishing</span><br />
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.<br />
"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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i>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. </i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i>In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</i></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
<br /></div>
Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-137456067396270981.post-58994915738459385332014-08-30T12:00:00.000-07:002014-08-30T12:00:08.985-07:00People I've Met On The Road – Rainer & Eva<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">Necessity Is The Mother Of Invention</span><br />
<br />
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.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Finding places to pitch a tent was never hard along the river heading south from Prague</span></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">An Encounter With Rainer</span><br />
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.<br />
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"Hallo, ich bin Rainer, guten abend!"<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"Ach so, perhaps you can help me," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder to guide me, "commen sie mit."<br />
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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.<br />
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"Come look please," he said, "you must come closer please, closer."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"I am making this from small pieces. Some I must buy but most of them I am finding to the rubbish, hah!"<br />
<br />
"Amazing," I said, taking care not to cause offence. "So, why are you doing this?"<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
"Her shoulder?" I suggested.<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
Rainer made a pedalling motion with his hands in case I had failed to understand him. I nodded in accord, trying not to smile.<br />
<br />
"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!"<br />
<br />
"Unstable," I suggested.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
"But I can go by bicycle," I told him. "It will take me half an hour. One hour to go and come back!"<br />
<br />
"Can you do this?" he asked, his eyes widening.<br />
<br />
"Of course I can," I assured him.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">My Encounter With Eva</span><br />
Back at the camp I met Eva.<br />
<br />
"Guten abend, you are Mr Mark, jah?"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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?"<br />
<br />
"Jah, hunchen gut, danke!" I replied. I was not about to turn down chicken stew after my hard day's cycling.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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!"<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"It is because his fur!" chuckled Eva, pulling at the forrest of grey hair on one of Rainer's arms.<br />
<br />
"Jah, they are thinking I am a wolf maybe!" responded Rainer.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #6fa8dc;">First Sea Trials</span><br />
"The first sea trials Mark, jah!" laughed Rainer.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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"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.<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i>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. </i></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.4; text-indent: 14.2pt;"><i>In the UK his books can also be found in all Waterstones Bookstores.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;">Mark Swain on Amazon<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">.com</span></a></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mark-Swain/e/B008DRKT2G" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Amazon UK</span></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #010726; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MarkSwain" style="color: #7479d0; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">Mark Swain on Smashwords</span></a></div>
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Mark Swainhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17777878797576856411noreply@blogger.com0