ME
I'm feeling pleasantly upbeat tonight, after almost three weeks of internally moaning to myself about being here. Just ain't my city, ultimately, although I do really think that me and Saigon can learn to get on once I adjust to the heat and learn to ignore the pollution. It doesn't help that I'm living in a hotel room and have to wait another month for a full paycheck to be able to afford a deposit for a better place. Oh well. Serves me right for living on a dream so long in Asia and Europe this summer, surviving off of human kindness and my credit card. Wouldn't change a thing about it. Anyway it seems that the little things, this week at least, are paying off. A gig to go to tomorrow (on a school night!!) and a muso to meet that wants to put a band together (it might go nowhere, but it could go somewhere...), a nice day at work... good music in my ears as always (listening to lots of Beatles and Lennon at the moment). A papaya for breakfast. I thought it was high time I wrote about some of the things, little and big, that are making my world what it is at the moment...
MY 'HOOD
I live on a small side street off of Bui Vien, which is Saigon's answer to Khao San road in Bangkok. It's actually pretty quiet, and has no chickens on it as far as the eye can see - I overheard a work mate's conversation about getting woken every morning at 4am by his neighbour's roosters, and I don't envy him... Every morning at 7.30 I walk out, grab my shoes from the rack downstairs and wait for my local 'xe om' driver (motorbike taxi) to finish his smoke (as if the pollution ain't enough, right??) and whisk me off to work, expertly weaving through the traffic, driving on the footpath against the flow on a one way street if need be - it's just what you do here... I keep meaning to take some photos of all the beautiful high heeled women riding to work every morning, but I'm not that balanced yet - don't want to stop traffic by making an ass of myself and falling... We fly by various parks with their early morning jazzercise classes and locals with their limbs flying on the free-for-all cross training machines that line the precious green spaces, until he drops me at the door of 41 Duong Nguyen Thi Minh Khai about ten minutes later (luckily I live pretty close to my work).
THE OFFICE
I never thought I'd be working in an office again, but I suppose it's just like a really big teacher's work room, with little cubicles and photocopiers and the like. It's not bad at all really, and we get free lunch (of questionable quality) every day - mine usually consists of some fake meat substitute with rice, only slightly wilted greens and this kind of clear soup thing in a sealed plastic bag which I'm still not sure what to do with - I just mix it in with my rice and hope none of the Viets are looking strangely at me... where I sit I am surrounded by them and they are sweet, always smiling and doing their best to include us in their celebrations - offering us their gelatinous desserts coated in coffee flavoured jelly (weird...) or plasticky rice paper to chew before the yellow lunch trays are delivered. Everyone eats at their cubicles (the kitchen is tiny) before the Vietnamese in the room drop their heads onto their desks for an hour or so and take their accustomed siesta. I usually try to attempt a walk in a park nearby but just end up sweating and that's never a good look for a teacher...
SCHOOLIN' IT
All the teachers work in various schools across town and I'm lucky enough to be limited to two, one of which is designed for gifted children. We either climb in the company minibus or get taxied to the door, although most of the people I work with have joined the motorbike squad and make their own way there. As far as teaching goes, it's really so cruisy - every afternoon (and three mornings a week) I teach a 2 1/2 hour class to 11 or 12 year olds, all with English names. I have no idea where they got them but I do wonder, teaching two boys called 'Messy', one 'Strawberry' and one 'Harry Potter'. Seriously!!! If I'm lucky my classroom will have air conditioning, but sadly, not a whiteboard in sight - it's chalk all the way baby... my hands feel disgusting by the end of 2 1/2 hours.
The kids are mostly really well behaved although I'm still learning to get used to the sheer amount of surrounding noise - as I teach, various gongs are being hit for classes to have their breaks at different times, and teachers are speaking through loud speakers, and drills are going off... I found out today that I could ask for a microphone if I wanted to, and as crazy as it may sound, I'm considering doing it - it's just really hard to be heard over the cacophony. I've noticed that the kids I teach are really good at rote learning, and can read whole pages aloud without understanding a bit of them, so I'm constantly stopping to explain this or that. Thinking for themselves seems to be a problem, which is worrying considering the schools will be putting them through Cambridge English exams eventually.. oh well! We do the best we can... They call me 'Miss Sharon' mostly, or 'teeee-cher!' and I'm hoping to have the same classes until the end of the school year in May. The best thing is that I never have to take work home with me - the scheduled hours are plenty, especially considering I never teach two classes in a row - I don't know if anybody does?
THE AFTERWARDS
To be honest, the afterwards is still what I'm figuring it out at the moment - after working all day I'm either exhausted or unsure of where to go in this fumy city so I usually head back to my hotel warren. I miss walking, actually! Not really something I want to do much here... but I know there are places that do yoga classes and the like, I just need to muster the energy to find them. I can honestly say that this is the most physically alone I have felt in my life, in a city of 6 million people! But it's not necessarily a bad thing - its just the beginning of a new phase. And everything changes so quickly - ridiculously quickly - that it's useless to feel any kind of up or down, really... things transform in an instant. What's the point of labelling onesself as being lonely or unhappy - or ecstatic and over the moon for that matter? More and more these days, I'm discovering equilibrium, and being content to be on the outskirts for a short while. George Bernard Shaw once said "Just do what must be done. This may not be happiness, but it is greatness" and I've always admired that quote - right now, what must be done for me is get outta debt, and any fun I might have I'm going to see as an added bonus. Simultaneously in my ears as I write, a folk singer named Peter Mulvey is singing "It's just your tender blindspot, and from that tender blindspot you will grooowww..." Perfectly put I think - for there is a time for everything - to be broke, to be rolling in it, to be partying, to be monk-like, to sleep, to dream... and I am happy, or rather, content with this strange period of my life, which will probably change the minute I walk out of this internet cafe. Bring it on, I say - life, and whatever it holds...
Monday, October 31, 2011
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Here and Now - Saigon at last...
This blog entry is named after the fact that for the past few weeks I've been attempting to catch up with all I didn't write about over the past months. Twas an admirable effort, but one which I'm abandoning as of HERE AND NOW , BABY! Cause it's time to put the presence back in the present, dig?
SO... for the past two weeks I've been learning to like Saigon after a rough start here, arriving half heartbroke and... well, broke, actually. Totally void of any 'real' money, a fact which I have been lucky enough to fix straight away with a job offer that came flying in at exactly the right time. Anyway, it was hot, the pollution gave me asthma, I knew absolutely nobody here... and coming as I did from the summer of my life, I didn't take to it too well...
But enough of that! I am here NOW and started teaching in local schools today, employed through a well paying company who taxis me to my classes and gives everyone free lunch (admittedly of varying quality...). After three days of induction and loads of time to plan I walked into my first classroom of smiling bespectacled Vietnamese faces (about a third of the kids in my class wear glasses, and another third need to - I've been told it's the lack of Vitamin A in the diet because eyesight is pretty bad in general... correct me if I'm wrong here!) and taught a two and half hour session on Frankenstein. Such a cool and gory tale, particularly the graphic novel the kids have been doing...
Surprisingly enough, it IS actually 'real teaching' that I'm doing. I had imagined myself teaching 5 years olds how to sing the alphabet, but I've been put with kids aged about 11-13, most of whom have a pretty good grasp of the English language. SO I'm teaching what I would teach to a normal intermediate age. Horror, folk tales, non fiction, autobiography... exciting stuff, particularly as I've now tested my brain function and am happy to say that after a ten month break from teaching, my brain does still work! And I'm so glad now that I'm back in the classroom. It wasn't until I got back here that I realised how much I missed it.
Because, to be honest, I've hardly given it a second thought these past few months, completely on holiday on all levels and loving it. And although I adored my last school and my three years there, I did suffer from stress quite a lot. It's my personality - intense and somewhat highly strung, brain going 100 miles a minute and stopping me sleeping at night with thoughts about how I could modify lessons for my five classes, what I could do, some behavioral issue that was going on and how I could fix it... All of this stuff has been coming back for me this week, all of the waking up in the middle of the night too unfortunately.. but thankfully the work I am doing here is so stress-free that I am gradually learning that there's nothing to wake up for.
I've also realised that I really love teaching - I love it! But seriously, I don't know if I would go back to full-time teaching in New Zealand or any other Westernised nation again. I'd do it part time of course... but I don't know if I could 'fulltime myself' again. Some things are just not suited to some people, and I just feel like I compromised my own enjoyment of life too much when I was working 60 hours a week. Honestly, I've still been having the same old anxiety dreams of not being able to control students and missing classes for the past ten months of holidaying! It's unbelievable...
So here I am in this nice air-conditioned office, planning my lessons before I am chaffeured across town to teach. I never teach more than one class at a time, which means that even though I often teach 2 1/2 hour sessions, at least I have time after each class to go back and debrief with myself. I teach 8 long sessions a week to four different classes in two different schools, always with a Vietnamese assistant in the class which I don't use cause the kids are all well behaved, if a little noisy. And they WANT TO LEARN!! It's so wonderful... even though they have difficulty thinking for themselves, they are total sweethearts and call me 'Miss Sharon' or 'Teeecher!'
So, even though this city is disgustingly smoggy from the thousands of motorbikes that crowd the roads... I think I can learn to like it more and more. Exhausted after work every day, I catch a 'xe om' (motorbike taxi) home each day and am whizzed through the rush hour traffic, getting an adrenalin rush through my face mask (you need one here, believe me...). And when the monsoon hits, I love it...
The Vietnamese staff in our office are so cute, all curling up and going to sleep on their lunchbreaks despite the airconditioning (old habits die hard...) and they seem so happy with their lives. Outside perspective of course, but I see it in the kids I teach too - there is none of the surliness I was used to, or the refusal to work... there are many many reasons for this of course, and they're not all good - I bet some of them are threatened if their marks aren't good enough... but my point is, in a nation that has been so screwed over in the past, people still seem happy with what they've got, which is much less than what we Westernites have come to expect and whine about when we don't receive. None of my students complain about being given homework, or having 2 1/2 hour classes, or about going to school from 7- 4.30, six days a week! It's just an accepted part of 'the way things are' here, one which I think everyone could learn from - not that quantity equals quality by any means, I'm more getting at the ability to just get on with things whilst still keeping a smile on ones face...
Anyway, it's the end of my first week of full time work and I'm exhausted so am going to sign off. I've been in bed before 9pm every night this week and, besides waking up in the early hours of the morning (old habits die hard...) am having no problems falling asleep even with the traffic noise coming through the toilet paper stuffed into my ears (note to self: buy proper ear plugs this weekend). I'm yawning as I write this, so I know it's time to get back to my cute little top-floor $8 a night hotel room.
xxxx
SO... for the past two weeks I've been learning to like Saigon after a rough start here, arriving half heartbroke and... well, broke, actually. Totally void of any 'real' money, a fact which I have been lucky enough to fix straight away with a job offer that came flying in at exactly the right time. Anyway, it was hot, the pollution gave me asthma, I knew absolutely nobody here... and coming as I did from the summer of my life, I didn't take to it too well...
But enough of that! I am here NOW and started teaching in local schools today, employed through a well paying company who taxis me to my classes and gives everyone free lunch (admittedly of varying quality...). After three days of induction and loads of time to plan I walked into my first classroom of smiling bespectacled Vietnamese faces (about a third of the kids in my class wear glasses, and another third need to - I've been told it's the lack of Vitamin A in the diet because eyesight is pretty bad in general... correct me if I'm wrong here!) and taught a two and half hour session on Frankenstein. Such a cool and gory tale, particularly the graphic novel the kids have been doing...
Surprisingly enough, it IS actually 'real teaching' that I'm doing. I had imagined myself teaching 5 years olds how to sing the alphabet, but I've been put with kids aged about 11-13, most of whom have a pretty good grasp of the English language. SO I'm teaching what I would teach to a normal intermediate age. Horror, folk tales, non fiction, autobiography... exciting stuff, particularly as I've now tested my brain function and am happy to say that after a ten month break from teaching, my brain does still work! And I'm so glad now that I'm back in the classroom. It wasn't until I got back here that I realised how much I missed it.
Because, to be honest, I've hardly given it a second thought these past few months, completely on holiday on all levels and loving it. And although I adored my last school and my three years there, I did suffer from stress quite a lot. It's my personality - intense and somewhat highly strung, brain going 100 miles a minute and stopping me sleeping at night with thoughts about how I could modify lessons for my five classes, what I could do, some behavioral issue that was going on and how I could fix it... All of this stuff has been coming back for me this week, all of the waking up in the middle of the night too unfortunately.. but thankfully the work I am doing here is so stress-free that I am gradually learning that there's nothing to wake up for.
I've also realised that I really love teaching - I love it! But seriously, I don't know if I would go back to full-time teaching in New Zealand or any other Westernised nation again. I'd do it part time of course... but I don't know if I could 'fulltime myself' again. Some things are just not suited to some people, and I just feel like I compromised my own enjoyment of life too much when I was working 60 hours a week. Honestly, I've still been having the same old anxiety dreams of not being able to control students and missing classes for the past ten months of holidaying! It's unbelievable...
So here I am in this nice air-conditioned office, planning my lessons before I am chaffeured across town to teach. I never teach more than one class at a time, which means that even though I often teach 2 1/2 hour sessions, at least I have time after each class to go back and debrief with myself. I teach 8 long sessions a week to four different classes in two different schools, always with a Vietnamese assistant in the class which I don't use cause the kids are all well behaved, if a little noisy. And they WANT TO LEARN!! It's so wonderful... even though they have difficulty thinking for themselves, they are total sweethearts and call me 'Miss Sharon' or 'Teeecher!'
So, even though this city is disgustingly smoggy from the thousands of motorbikes that crowd the roads... I think I can learn to like it more and more. Exhausted after work every day, I catch a 'xe om' (motorbike taxi) home each day and am whizzed through the rush hour traffic, getting an adrenalin rush through my face mask (you need one here, believe me...). And when the monsoon hits, I love it...
The Vietnamese staff in our office are so cute, all curling up and going to sleep on their lunchbreaks despite the airconditioning (old habits die hard...) and they seem so happy with their lives. Outside perspective of course, but I see it in the kids I teach too - there is none of the surliness I was used to, or the refusal to work... there are many many reasons for this of course, and they're not all good - I bet some of them are threatened if their marks aren't good enough... but my point is, in a nation that has been so screwed over in the past, people still seem happy with what they've got, which is much less than what we Westernites have come to expect and whine about when we don't receive. None of my students complain about being given homework, or having 2 1/2 hour classes, or about going to school from 7- 4.30, six days a week! It's just an accepted part of 'the way things are' here, one which I think everyone could learn from - not that quantity equals quality by any means, I'm more getting at the ability to just get on with things whilst still keeping a smile on ones face...
Anyway, it's the end of my first week of full time work and I'm exhausted so am going to sign off. I've been in bed before 9pm every night this week and, besides waking up in the early hours of the morning (old habits die hard...) am having no problems falling asleep even with the traffic noise coming through the toilet paper stuffed into my ears (note to self: buy proper ear plugs this weekend). I'm yawning as I write this, so I know it's time to get back to my cute little top-floor $8 a night hotel room.
xxxx
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Shuffling along in Saigon
WELL, this is interesting. I'm LOST in the middle of Ho Chi Minh city in peak hour traffic. AGAIN! And not only that, but the daily thunder and lightning have begun to rumble and flash in the smoggy sky above me, pregnant with its daily monsoon. Leaving me feeling rather foolish in my slippery shoes.
Inwardly cursing my love of colour co-ordination which has influenced this impractical matter, I quicken my pace and search the street signs for a familiar syllable or two. I vaguely know where I am at least - I'm on a huge street that I had a job interview on this morning. It's close to a huge park, but I'm just not yet sure which end of it I'm at, or whether I'm walking in the right direction.
I'd been doing so well, too. My sense of direction has been so lacking for much of my life that I'd taken to chanting in my head mantra-like whenever I took a turn "right then left then back, right then left then back" but somewhere along the way I forgot how many lefts and rights I was up to, stopped and ate some spring rolls with noodles, and found myself at once in another district to the one I thought I was in and surrounded by 10,000 motorbikes all trying to get home from work before the skies opened.
Anyway, I'm on Nguyen van Thi street(or something similar...) and pretty sure I'm going the right way when the little droplets of rain I've been ignoring suddenly become BIG and MANY. I've never been caught till now, and have often wondered what happens to the throes of bodies on bikes congesting the road. It seems they are all prepared and seem to somehow co-ordinate a huge group pulling over to the side of the road, all pull full body rain coats out of secret motorcycle pockets and then jump back on board and assume their place in the traffic chain.
I find a balcony to shelter under, although it's attached to a starkly lit bright white cafe with various fishy meats hanging up - to dry??? - on hooks outside the 'shop', and motorbikes and other vehicles are coming onto the pavement now to try and sneak up the traffic chain. Across the road is a "Lotteria", Vietnam's version of McDOnalds and I vow not to give in and take shelter there. I wait it out a bit longer, enviously watching a local dude hail down the only free taxi while nearby shopkeepers expertly bundle their wares into plastic sheets and wrap themselves tighter in their tee-shirts.
I give in. I approach the Lotteria, wringing out my face mask as I go, and enter even though I feel disgusting and it smells like deep fried hell. EWWW. Even before I went veggie I hated the smell of these places and now is no different. But I've got a camera in my non-plastic handbag so right now I'm choosing practicaility over morality, and it's either the Lotteria or the anonymous fish factory - both are reeking.
It's SO WEIRD!!! So brightly lit, red and white and kind of fake-happy, with a technicolour menu and uniform plastic chairs. I point to the least fried looking thing, a kind of a green tea shake, probably made with soya milk anyway and tiptoe (carefully) upstairs to find a good vantage point at least.
It's not too bad actually. I sip away and write this down and I see that already, the monsoon is getting over itself. Such violent rain, every day, for months, but over and done within 5 or 10 minutes if we're lucky... I can tell that the rains have calmed the atmosphere down somewhat - it'd been my hottest day here so far, with my only good interview / teaching shirt now in dire need of wash. I'd shopped for about two hours today in search of more suitable things to wear teaching, but try as I might I just ain't Vietnamese size baby, so it's proving to be quite a challenge. After a week here I'm well aware that my 8 months of carefree travelling have come to an abrupt end, especially when my potential employer laughs when I ask her whether my (rather smart looking!) black flip flops would be okay for the classroom. THEY'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR NEW ZEALAND SCHOOLS, LADY! I want to tell her but instead smile sweetly and play the good teacher game, hoping she'll give me the job.
Back in the present moment, it's stopped enough for me to leave the scent of grease behind, and I see that I've just turned down the right road so should be home in ten or so minutes. Time then for me shuffle off into the night then, VERY CAREFULLY in my impractical shoes. I'm inching down the street the way the locals do when they cross the road in rush hour traffic - one step at a time. Kind of a good metaphor for me at the moment, having just overcome my shock at being here in such a strange hot place after the summer of my life. After almost despising this place for my first few days I think I can begin to like it little by little... as it is now though, I'm stuck between two hyperactive young men playing virtual football and calling across me to each other in this crappy internet cafe, masters on the keyboard but each with a sniffing problem which is driving me crazy, so I better wrap this up and inch myself home...
blessings...
xxxx
Inwardly cursing my love of colour co-ordination which has influenced this impractical matter, I quicken my pace and search the street signs for a familiar syllable or two. I vaguely know where I am at least - I'm on a huge street that I had a job interview on this morning. It's close to a huge park, but I'm just not yet sure which end of it I'm at, or whether I'm walking in the right direction.
I'd been doing so well, too. My sense of direction has been so lacking for much of my life that I'd taken to chanting in my head mantra-like whenever I took a turn "right then left then back, right then left then back" but somewhere along the way I forgot how many lefts and rights I was up to, stopped and ate some spring rolls with noodles, and found myself at once in another district to the one I thought I was in and surrounded by 10,000 motorbikes all trying to get home from work before the skies opened.
Anyway, I'm on Nguyen van Thi street(or something similar...) and pretty sure I'm going the right way when the little droplets of rain I've been ignoring suddenly become BIG and MANY. I've never been caught till now, and have often wondered what happens to the throes of bodies on bikes congesting the road. It seems they are all prepared and seem to somehow co-ordinate a huge group pulling over to the side of the road, all pull full body rain coats out of secret motorcycle pockets and then jump back on board and assume their place in the traffic chain.
I find a balcony to shelter under, although it's attached to a starkly lit bright white cafe with various fishy meats hanging up - to dry??? - on hooks outside the 'shop', and motorbikes and other vehicles are coming onto the pavement now to try and sneak up the traffic chain. Across the road is a "Lotteria", Vietnam's version of McDOnalds and I vow not to give in and take shelter there. I wait it out a bit longer, enviously watching a local dude hail down the only free taxi while nearby shopkeepers expertly bundle their wares into plastic sheets and wrap themselves tighter in their tee-shirts.
I give in. I approach the Lotteria, wringing out my face mask as I go, and enter even though I feel disgusting and it smells like deep fried hell. EWWW. Even before I went veggie I hated the smell of these places and now is no different. But I've got a camera in my non-plastic handbag so right now I'm choosing practicaility over morality, and it's either the Lotteria or the anonymous fish factory - both are reeking.
It's SO WEIRD!!! So brightly lit, red and white and kind of fake-happy, with a technicolour menu and uniform plastic chairs. I point to the least fried looking thing, a kind of a green tea shake, probably made with soya milk anyway and tiptoe (carefully) upstairs to find a good vantage point at least.
It's not too bad actually. I sip away and write this down and I see that already, the monsoon is getting over itself. Such violent rain, every day, for months, but over and done within 5 or 10 minutes if we're lucky... I can tell that the rains have calmed the atmosphere down somewhat - it'd been my hottest day here so far, with my only good interview / teaching shirt now in dire need of wash. I'd shopped for about two hours today in search of more suitable things to wear teaching, but try as I might I just ain't Vietnamese size baby, so it's proving to be quite a challenge. After a week here I'm well aware that my 8 months of carefree travelling have come to an abrupt end, especially when my potential employer laughs when I ask her whether my (rather smart looking!) black flip flops would be okay for the classroom. THEY'RE GOOD ENOUGH FOR NEW ZEALAND SCHOOLS, LADY! I want to tell her but instead smile sweetly and play the good teacher game, hoping she'll give me the job.
Back in the present moment, it's stopped enough for me to leave the scent of grease behind, and I see that I've just turned down the right road so should be home in ten or so minutes. Time then for me shuffle off into the night then, VERY CAREFULLY in my impractical shoes. I'm inching down the street the way the locals do when they cross the road in rush hour traffic - one step at a time. Kind of a good metaphor for me at the moment, having just overcome my shock at being here in such a strange hot place after the summer of my life. After almost despising this place for my first few days I think I can begin to like it little by little... as it is now though, I'm stuck between two hyperactive young men playing virtual football and calling across me to each other in this crappy internet cafe, masters on the keyboard but each with a sniffing problem which is driving me crazy, so I better wrap this up and inch myself home...
blessings...
xxxx
Monday, October 17, 2011
August = South Austria, London, Brighton
It's been five years since I last saw my fire twirling friend and journeyed through Slovenian forests together but his pixie face hasn't changed a bit. We fill in the gaps as we drive from the train station in Villach, Austria to his farmhouse 45 minutes away and once I'm there I'm amazed at how good it feels to be in a HOME again after a month of hostels and B&B's of varying qualities.
Bhak's cooking is as good as ever - we eat fresh guacamole, vegetable rice and halva at 2 a.m, my friend still a night owl. We do get come rest though, important because we both have gigs busking in a swanky tourist town the following evening - he has organised fire shows there and managed to get me a slot too. Easiest 60 Euros I've ever made, all given willingly by smiling strolling tourists staring at the beautiful lake view - beautiful that is, until an enormously ugly hired out yacht docks near me, blasting terrible techno and bearing revolving disco lights and hysterical drunk people using their money in the worst way possible - is this what we call status these days?? Can't they see they're embarrassing themselves and polluting everyone's ears, shrieking between disco thuds? They almost drown Bhak out too so he turns his own soundsystem up, something the hotel manager nearby doesn't like too much. His show is amazing, all energy and dragon fire breath resulting in a full magic hat at the end of it.
A few days later I find that my flight to London is coinciding with the riots going on there in early August. Mia, who I'm staying with for the first night, assures me not to worry and meets me at Liverpool Street station before we catch a bus to her home suburb.. of Tottenham!! (one of the areas of unrest for those not in the London know). It's all quiet here on a Tuesday night however though, the streets eerily deserted and shops shut early just for safety's sake.
She takes me around the city the next day and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the riots haven't dampened London's spirit too much - we sit in Hyde Park drinking hot chocolate (she) and wine (me, the lush), and the sun is out and everyone is smiling and happy.
I catch the tube right across town to Vauxhall, to visit my blue eyed Russian friend from India - 30 minutes from north to south all underground, it's quite amazing really - and the night that follows is huge: 3 of his friends are around playing music and it's an absolutely amazing evening. I'm at home straight away in this 5th floor apartment with a view of Battersea power station (from the Pink Floyd 'Animals' album cover) and a very cool and hyperactive cat chasing everything that moves in between songs... we sing everything we know from "Sweet Dreamas are made of this" to "Go Lassie go" to "Cum on Feel the Noize" and "Let it Be". Eclectic and so wonderful.
I end up staying four nights, visiting other friends in between but always coming back for more music and beauty. On my last day there, I walk with my Russian to Clapham. We lie on the common there to sleep off our deli lunch (and cake - there is always cake where he is concerned) and I get a strange sensation that angels are beating their wings on us - it's all very soft and floaty and magical in my half conscious state and makes me wonder at the significance of this meeting. It just feels to me like there's something more to explore here... and I leave reluctantly to spend my last night in London in my Kiwi friend's dirty squat near King's Cross before jumping on a train to Brighton the following morning. Luke and Emma are there by now and have a house to themselves to sit for three weeks, so it's perfect. They assure me the busking is great and they turn out to be right, which is lucky as it's my sole income by now.
Brighton is wonderful: stoney beach dotted with sunbathers and families, garish pier in which I discover the joys of the penny arcade, burned out memories of the old pier whose remains still stand rusting in the sea, fat seagulls eyeballing the salty vinegary chips on their way into tourist's mouths. AND the busking is better than good - it's possibly the best place I have ever played and I make 40 pounds in just over an hour in Hove, Brighton's neighbouring city (not really neighbouring, they're right next to each other and are pretty much the same thing. The city is known as 'Brighton and Hove') . I discover that Nick Cave, Paul McCartney and David Gilmour all apparently live in Hove, but try as I might I never see any of them ; ) Instead of rockstars, all the attention I get busking seems to be from the local madhatters who all seem to hang out on George Street in Hove all day long. One short man with a combover, too-high trousers and thick, thick glasses stoops along, periodically throwing pound coins into my case and spitting out such inspired advice as "not bad for a beginner" or "You're allright, but you're using too much vibrato". He starts to inch closer whenever I sing a Joni Mitchell / Dylan / Cohen number and knows all the words too, correcting me whenever I get them wrong. He comes back again and again, buying me some glucose tablets cause he thinks I look tired (!!Just tired of you, brother!!) and proclaims that he's going to write a song about me. It never appears and I never see him again in the weeks that follow, but I don't mind ; )
A man in black known as Ben sketches me twice and tries to engage me in his philosophies about withcraft. A dude with a head injury and a backpack containign everything he currently owns tells me I've stolen his spot, although the long street is empty and there is plenty of room for other buskers (who all, by the way, adhere to an unspoken busker's etiquette of not playing too close to one another). On my final outing, a heavy set man swollen with alcohol shuffles along dragging a child's toy police scooter behind him and sits behind me, producing a small djimbe drum from the depths of his black coat and begins to play along with me, in time I might add! When he introduces himself as Keith Moon I know it's time to split, particularly because the police have approached him and he proudly shows off his new wheels (the toy police car) to them. As I'm packing up, another wild eyed, big haired oddball strolls up and lets me in on a little something behind his hand when he whispers to me that "that man behind you.. is not really a busker!!! Hes a BEGGAR!!!" as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. Thanks dude, and thanks Hove, you've been kind to me - seriously, it has been; there may be a large amount of mental illness there by the looks of things but they are all harmless and I feel very protected by the punters in the local cafes.
Halfway through my stay there, our friend Ricketts drives us in his super cool 70's campervan to Small World festival about an hour out of Brighton - it's in the Kent countryside I think... Small World is a travelling festival that has a tent at bigger festivals such as Glastonbury and Bestival, and this is their own end of year knees-up. It's cooler than I ever imagined - reminds me of Luminate festival in New Zealand but in a much wilder way - these English know how to party!! Not that we Kiwis don't, just that we're not quite as...umm...outlandish (meant in the best possible way - I absolutely loved Small World and can't wait to go back one day). I love it all and meet many amazing movers and groovers there... all the 'streets' are given thoughtful names such as 'Harmony Terrace', and Small World is famous for having a mostly solar powered stage, so I'm quite at home with all the hippies. Other travelling tents are there too, 'Full Circle' sells good veggie tucker and has a hilarious sign that I have on facebook somewhere, advertising their "vegan wholegrain organic lesbian freetrade inner contemplatory probiotic ethical karmically cleansing recycled compostable alkalising carbon neutral shamanic" food in the best tongue-in-cheek way possible. Love it!
I am lucky enough to get a slot on the main stage, thanks to my friend Luke and it's an honour to be part of this institution in a small way - the audience is so receptive even though I am nervous - still not used to miked gigs. The street is where I do my best, I reckon... I discover some incredible musical acts here - a Welsh band named 'Heal the Last Stand' who look like they're right out of the 60's, singing about peace and love and stuff, and doing the coolest cover version ever of 'Grease', only changing it to 'Peace is the word, is the word, is the word..' They are unbelievably cool (groovy, even!) and I'm an instant fan.
We leave the four day festival reluctantly, although I feel I'll be back next summer somehow... it's just too good to miss! Highly recommended to all - lots of accordion jams around the bonfire, lots of playing dress-ups and other general playfulness.
With Daisy (who owns the house we're sitting) due to come back from the States, we're all left without a home once again, all three global wanderers and all teachers too interestingly enough... I plan to head up to Scotland via a small stop in London to visit the blue-eyed Russian. It's a connection worth exploring, so I mail him to see if he'll be around for the two days I'm planning to stop over there. It's a plan I think might just work, although it seems that there are other things in store for me...
Bhak's cooking is as good as ever - we eat fresh guacamole, vegetable rice and halva at 2 a.m, my friend still a night owl. We do get come rest though, important because we both have gigs busking in a swanky tourist town the following evening - he has organised fire shows there and managed to get me a slot too. Easiest 60 Euros I've ever made, all given willingly by smiling strolling tourists staring at the beautiful lake view - beautiful that is, until an enormously ugly hired out yacht docks near me, blasting terrible techno and bearing revolving disco lights and hysterical drunk people using their money in the worst way possible - is this what we call status these days?? Can't they see they're embarrassing themselves and polluting everyone's ears, shrieking between disco thuds? They almost drown Bhak out too so he turns his own soundsystem up, something the hotel manager nearby doesn't like too much. His show is amazing, all energy and dragon fire breath resulting in a full magic hat at the end of it.
A few days later I find that my flight to London is coinciding with the riots going on there in early August. Mia, who I'm staying with for the first night, assures me not to worry and meets me at Liverpool Street station before we catch a bus to her home suburb.. of Tottenham!! (one of the areas of unrest for those not in the London know). It's all quiet here on a Tuesday night however though, the streets eerily deserted and shops shut early just for safety's sake.
She takes me around the city the next day and I'm pleasantly surprised to find that the riots haven't dampened London's spirit too much - we sit in Hyde Park drinking hot chocolate (she) and wine (me, the lush), and the sun is out and everyone is smiling and happy.
I catch the tube right across town to Vauxhall, to visit my blue eyed Russian friend from India - 30 minutes from north to south all underground, it's quite amazing really - and the night that follows is huge: 3 of his friends are around playing music and it's an absolutely amazing evening. I'm at home straight away in this 5th floor apartment with a view of Battersea power station (from the Pink Floyd 'Animals' album cover) and a very cool and hyperactive cat chasing everything that moves in between songs... we sing everything we know from "Sweet Dreamas are made of this" to "Go Lassie go" to "Cum on Feel the Noize" and "Let it Be". Eclectic and so wonderful.
I end up staying four nights, visiting other friends in between but always coming back for more music and beauty. On my last day there, I walk with my Russian to Clapham. We lie on the common there to sleep off our deli lunch (and cake - there is always cake where he is concerned) and I get a strange sensation that angels are beating their wings on us - it's all very soft and floaty and magical in my half conscious state and makes me wonder at the significance of this meeting. It just feels to me like there's something more to explore here... and I leave reluctantly to spend my last night in London in my Kiwi friend's dirty squat near King's Cross before jumping on a train to Brighton the following morning. Luke and Emma are there by now and have a house to themselves to sit for three weeks, so it's perfect. They assure me the busking is great and they turn out to be right, which is lucky as it's my sole income by now.
Brighton is wonderful: stoney beach dotted with sunbathers and families, garish pier in which I discover the joys of the penny arcade, burned out memories of the old pier whose remains still stand rusting in the sea, fat seagulls eyeballing the salty vinegary chips on their way into tourist's mouths. AND the busking is better than good - it's possibly the best place I have ever played and I make 40 pounds in just over an hour in Hove, Brighton's neighbouring city (not really neighbouring, they're right next to each other and are pretty much the same thing. The city is known as 'Brighton and Hove') . I discover that Nick Cave, Paul McCartney and David Gilmour all apparently live in Hove, but try as I might I never see any of them ; ) Instead of rockstars, all the attention I get busking seems to be from the local madhatters who all seem to hang out on George Street in Hove all day long. One short man with a combover, too-high trousers and thick, thick glasses stoops along, periodically throwing pound coins into my case and spitting out such inspired advice as "not bad for a beginner" or "You're allright, but you're using too much vibrato". He starts to inch closer whenever I sing a Joni Mitchell / Dylan / Cohen number and knows all the words too, correcting me whenever I get them wrong. He comes back again and again, buying me some glucose tablets cause he thinks I look tired (!!Just tired of you, brother!!) and proclaims that he's going to write a song about me. It never appears and I never see him again in the weeks that follow, but I don't mind ; )
A man in black known as Ben sketches me twice and tries to engage me in his philosophies about withcraft. A dude with a head injury and a backpack containign everything he currently owns tells me I've stolen his spot, although the long street is empty and there is plenty of room for other buskers (who all, by the way, adhere to an unspoken busker's etiquette of not playing too close to one another). On my final outing, a heavy set man swollen with alcohol shuffles along dragging a child's toy police scooter behind him and sits behind me, producing a small djimbe drum from the depths of his black coat and begins to play along with me, in time I might add! When he introduces himself as Keith Moon I know it's time to split, particularly because the police have approached him and he proudly shows off his new wheels (the toy police car) to them. As I'm packing up, another wild eyed, big haired oddball strolls up and lets me in on a little something behind his hand when he whispers to me that "that man behind you.. is not really a busker!!! Hes a BEGGAR!!!" as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. Thanks dude, and thanks Hove, you've been kind to me - seriously, it has been; there may be a large amount of mental illness there by the looks of things but they are all harmless and I feel very protected by the punters in the local cafes.
Halfway through my stay there, our friend Ricketts drives us in his super cool 70's campervan to Small World festival about an hour out of Brighton - it's in the Kent countryside I think... Small World is a travelling festival that has a tent at bigger festivals such as Glastonbury and Bestival, and this is their own end of year knees-up. It's cooler than I ever imagined - reminds me of Luminate festival in New Zealand but in a much wilder way - these English know how to party!! Not that we Kiwis don't, just that we're not quite as...umm...outlandish (meant in the best possible way - I absolutely loved Small World and can't wait to go back one day). I love it all and meet many amazing movers and groovers there... all the 'streets' are given thoughtful names such as 'Harmony Terrace', and Small World is famous for having a mostly solar powered stage, so I'm quite at home with all the hippies. Other travelling tents are there too, 'Full Circle' sells good veggie tucker and has a hilarious sign that I have on facebook somewhere, advertising their "vegan wholegrain organic lesbian freetrade inner contemplatory probiotic ethical karmically cleansing recycled compostable alkalising carbon neutral shamanic" food in the best tongue-in-cheek way possible. Love it!
I am lucky enough to get a slot on the main stage, thanks to my friend Luke and it's an honour to be part of this institution in a small way - the audience is so receptive even though I am nervous - still not used to miked gigs. The street is where I do my best, I reckon... I discover some incredible musical acts here - a Welsh band named 'Heal the Last Stand' who look like they're right out of the 60's, singing about peace and love and stuff, and doing the coolest cover version ever of 'Grease', only changing it to 'Peace is the word, is the word, is the word..' They are unbelievably cool (groovy, even!) and I'm an instant fan.
We leave the four day festival reluctantly, although I feel I'll be back next summer somehow... it's just too good to miss! Highly recommended to all - lots of accordion jams around the bonfire, lots of playing dress-ups and other general playfulness.
With Daisy (who owns the house we're sitting) due to come back from the States, we're all left without a home once again, all three global wanderers and all teachers too interestingly enough... I plan to head up to Scotland via a small stop in London to visit the blue-eyed Russian. It's a connection worth exploring, so I mail him to see if he'll be around for the two days I'm planning to stop over there. It's a plan I think might just work, although it seems that there are other things in store for me...
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Early European days - Holland, Germany, Slovenia, Croatia, Italia (July/August)
(Written from Vietnam three months later, monsoon rains abided but still glued to this internet chair)
AMSTERDAM
The usual hazards of cows and Punjabi laden jeeps have turned into trams and bicycles, all of which are operating on the wrong side of the road. I stay with Saskia and her mother in the nearby village of Aalsmeer and within hours of arriving am cruising the canals on her friend's boat and drinking local beer. I first met Saskia whilst busking in Budapest five years ago - she approached me and we ended up playing together before I moved to her much nicer guesthouse and we hung out for a few days, so it's great to see her again, and especially being a traveller herself, she knows what it's like to readjust to a place. Quite simply, I am loving the clean! And little things like there always being toilet paper in the bathroom, and an abundance of fresh salad vegetables that I don't have to worry about bacteria hiding in.
I turn 32 on the 4th and after a typically Dutch breakfast of bread, cheese and Fruchtenhail (sugary fruit hail), head into the capital to do a spot of busking. But things have changed since I last played here five years ago (yes, it has been five years since I went anywhere in Europe. Once in New Zealand, it's hard to leave the pond, being so far away...) and it seems that busking is not allowed now! Someone tells me this whilst throwing me two euros during my first song ('Angel From Montgomery' by John Prine) and I thank him but decide to play the innocent tourist card if caught.
Which I am, the following day, by two kindly horsedrawn policewomen, damnit. Oh well. I take the train to Utrecht to catch up with Annemiek and play for half an hour in the busy streets there. The busking, my living for the moment, seems to be going pretty well when the police don't catch me, te he! Although it's probably fine to do in Utrecht.. no-one bothers me anyway...
GERMANY
Visiting Doro's family in Hildesheim is always a treat - they are lovely and their house is simply amazing. We walk the sausage dog ("Daschund!" as Helgard would say, thinking Paula would be horrifed to hear herself described so) around the rivers and parks before heading to Bavaria the following day on a family holiday.
Bavaria is all onion-headed churches and Jesuses on the cross to the untrained eye. Once I stay there a few days I get to know the Bavarian reservation and seeming unfriendliness - just another culture, probably the furthest possible one from India... but the landscapes are beautiful, and we stay in a family farmhouse close to a gorgeous swimmable lake and unwind as much as possible (unwind from the holiday?? Now there's a thought..) Every day around 3 pm we go for a family walk or drive and always find a place to eat cake and iced chocolate in - I protest at first, but when in Germany... ; ) Doro's folks don't want us to leave when we do, bound for three weeks in Slovenia / Croatia / Italia, but although the Bavarian nature is beautiful, we're excited for the unknown...
LJUBLJANA, AGAIN
... which begins in my favourite capital city in the world! I discovered this place five years back and fell in love with it, returning twice before I left Europe for good. Thankfully it is just as cool this time around. Amazing cafes, the Ljubljanska river, super chilled vibe.. we visit Metelkova Mesto on our first night, the famous squat-turned-fully functioning artist's community and get drunk on some very bad red wine as well as a bottle of Malibu that some Belgian dudes returned from a climbing holiday have in their bag. Who'd guess we were both professional teachers in our thirties??!! Not a soul...
The busking in Ljubljana is difficult at first, due to the fact that there are so many others out there on the streets, but I do have an amazing solo busk one day where I play to the prime minister of Slovenia! I had just met Josip, a very Paulo Coelho looking fellow who I'd been talking to in between songs about life and the spiritual journey (NO rolling of the eyes please!) when a bit of a procession rocks up to where I'm playing, right by one of the famous bridges over the Ljubljanska. Josip's eyes widen and he tells me to play something special for the prime minister, but although I play 'Waiting on an Angel' by Ben Harper I don't think anyone cares too much: all of his cronies are too busy taking photos and protecting him from harm, as if any would come to him in this peaceful wee country?!?! Who knows though... anyway, it's still an absolute pleasure to play for him and the general public, and I do pretty well from it before I leave to meet the grumpy Doro who is fed up of drinking coffee by herself... we are planning to busk together but haven't quite got it sorted yet...
That night we are walking home when yet another Belgian couple approaches, telling me they'd seen me singing today and could they buy us both a drink? I accept and end up having an amazing night with them and some locals, and even do an impromptu gig in the graffitti laden outdoor bar, borrowing a beautiful nylon strung number to do so. Three Irish girls are there too and it's one of those great traveller moments where everyone becomes instant friends - all of the three Irish girls are wearing green tee-shirts funnily enough, as is the Belgian girl whose fiancee has just proposed to me as well. Hilarious... they are staying in the same hostel as us so walk me home to creep into a darkened dorm with a sleeping Doro inside...
CROATIA - KORCULA AND DUBROVNIK
Croatia is stunningly beautiful, and on the island of Korcula we meet an Italian couple who lead us to an incredible double room with a balcony, not a stone's throw from the beach opposite, in a house owned by a local woman who speaks only Croatian and Italian. We manage to communicate however, and end up staying there three days because of this room as well as the fact that busking here is a hit...
I go out by myself at first and have a great night, meeting a bunch of Polish teenagers on holiday, one of whom plays 'Nothing Else Matters' for me to sing along to. It's a great moment... and the following night, Doro and I go out together after a quick harmony practise on the balcony. It's actually really amazing to play street music with another person - we work out some mean harmonies and get a great response from the crowd especially when we do our angelic Nirvana impressions, singing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and 'Lithium' in perfect harmony. Korcula is good for us; busking wise things just get better and better and by the third night we're raking in the kuna and drawing good audiences too (we always make sure we find a place where people can sit down and watch). I guess this is why Dubrovnik comes as such a disappointment...
Sure, it is a beautiful city but, writing this two months later, I don't have many good memories of this place. It's money hungry and we can feel dollar signs in people's eyes. The beaches are filled with 'beautiful people', and although the water is clear and sparkling, I don't really rate it as a city. It's too soulless, and has no time or space for such scruffy looking buskers (sorry Doro, I'm speaking for myself here). It seems that playing on the street is near impossible - we have one good night on a bridge leading into the old town at night, but mostly people walk past us, blinded by the beauty of the white marbled city (yes, it is a stunner of a place, aesthetically at least). Relief comes when, after our first failed musical mission, we go to commiserate with a glass of wine at a bar we passed earlier, and end up being persuaded to play for a free bottle by a table of locals who'd seen us earlier. It's an amazing place - Du'Vino wine bar, run by an Australian who knows his stuff when it comes to wine. In fact, it's the best drop I've had in ages, and we return every night that we're there, doing two impromptu gigs there to an audience that gives a damn. It's a redemption of sorts, and I'm very grateful to meet both Sasha the owner and Kruno, a local street musician that actually makes a living off busking and selling CDs - he dresses up like a villager (?? a Village person?? Ha he'd be horrified to hear that...) and is amplified, as well as being sponsored by the Council to be there and he deserves it - he's got a great thing going on.
ITALIA
During the 8 hour ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari in the south of Italy, it strikes me that we have arrived in a new country before we even seen the land. Families are clustered together singing loud songs and speaking fervently to one another in a language very different from the Slavic tongues I have become used to. My travelling companion and I have a huge argument on the boat and to be honest, it's the first time I can argue with someone while all the while knowing it will be allright - I have known Doro for ten years and she is more like a sister. Anyway, we each stare at the sea and grump away to ourselves, and eventually it passes and we get off the boat to a new land.
Bari is a sweet town, hot and cheap and friendly. We spend an evening and morning there before taking a train to Rome, and spend it eating gelato, ravioli, and hiding from the heat...
Rome is a trip. I'm too hot and bothered to properly enjoy it, and our hostel is the worst I've ever stayed in - broken air-con, outside noise,and inside noise from three drunken Spaniards who arrive at 3 am and proceed to giggle to each other whilst opening and closing every plastic bag they own. So, in our only full day in the city we spend much of it resting in the shade, avoiding the heat of the crowds and I don't actually end up seeing many 'sights' as such. I'm cool with this though. We busk once and it goes okay... someone who I'm assuming must have been a Kiwi hears our medley of Pokarekare Ana / Te Aroha and gives us a tenner. Sweet! And we meet a troupe of Spaniards all dressed up to the nines and wielding about 6 guitars between them. They're a university band from home who are going around the restaurants playing for customers and passing a hat around - this is where the money is, but both of us are too chicken to follow suit. Instead we make enough money to pay for our gelato habit and take the bus home, a bus which seems to be free, at least no-one ever asks us for tickets all the times we ride it and we never enquire. Oh well...
We train on to Siena, an incredibly beautiful town which is a sight for tired Roman eyes. We LOVE it! Although, sick of noisy hostels (our age is hitting us, and it is a good thing) we have booked a B&B that although gorgeous, is run by some helluva temperamental Italian women, all 'Ciao!' and smiles one minute before rapping on our door in the morning barking at us to get up for breakfast! Hilarious really, although we don't think so at the time... Thankfully they are only there in the mornings, so we are left mostly in peace.
The busking is great in Siena, and we play for hours, three nights in a row, until the police drive slowly past and give us the old finger wag before pointing at their watch to signal that it's after 11. Great times... Siena is so beautiful, all rustic stone and old temples. We discover an ancient chapel one day dedicated to Saint Catherine, a local saint who had her first sacred vision at 6 years old, in 1353. I sit alone on a wooden pew there, breathing in the ancient wooden-ness while a black nun in brilliant blue prays silently nearby. We differ in our religions but have the same god heart, and it's so, so beautiful. We are surrounded by friezes depicting life back then, and in the pictures I see local women tugging at each others skirts and whispering behind each others palms and can almost feel the petty quarrels they would have had back then, so similar to the ones we all have in our human lives now, and I feel that not much has changed really. Despite all of our technological advances, unless we really go inside ourselves, we can't really expect to evolve much on a human level. Wars are still going on, history is repeating itself. But I for one choose consciousness over disillusionment, so don't get down about it - I draw my hands together in prayer position, giving thanks to whatever god led us here today.
Verona, Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a whole lot of beautiful buildings. Being two months later, this depiction is all far too brief and I feel I haven't yet done the beauty of Italy justice. Verona for me was the ultimate in crumbling beauty. My jaw was constantly dropping at every crumbling Veronese frieze and we played music outside the 'House of Juliet', historically where the Capulet family actually did live in times gone by, and now probably the biggest tourist hotspot, where thousands came every day to pose on 'Juliet's balcony', to get their photo taken with a gold statue of Venus (I think?) and to declare their love for someone on the graffitti wall, covered in grotesque hearts and arrows in red and blue marker. On our final night playing music there, a man comes out from one of the touristic shops selling synthetic love hearts and shapely red balloons and gifts us an embroidered card (red, of course) reading 'Gracias'... particularly poignant as it was our last night together before going our separate ways in Venice the next evening, and it still lives in my guitar case now.
Yes... not 24 hours left together now, we train to Venice, our final stop before Doro flies home to Germany and I take the train up to Southern Austria to catch up with Bhak. We spend half a precious hour of our short day queuing up to stow our luggage in the train station for the day. It's damn expensive too, but I do a doubletake when the man who has just taken my pack returns, smiling and beckoning to me. I go with him to the back room, and can't quite work out what we means at first when he points towards a corner where moaning sounds are emanating. Then I realise they are actually coming from my pack! And I bend over laughing when I realise that somehow in the journey from my back to the back room, the portable tape recorder in my luggage has switched itself on, and my old Hindustani singing lessons are replaying themselves and there is NOTHING devotional about the way they sound! I can't quite feel the sacredness of the 'Om' right now, and I share a laugh with the porter before delving into my stuffed pack to rectify the situation.
Yeah, we see Venice on this day, and it's as beautiful as I imagined, as well as super dooperly touristic and somewhat disillusioning in this sense. My best memories of Venice though are the three hour lunch we had together, two bottles of wine in the sun and our last big sisterly slurred conversation after a whole month together, and a rather tipsy boat ride back to the station to get our luggage and say our goodbyes. Quite simply it is an amazing last day, and we play together on the bridge to the busstop for old times sake, made about two euros (again from a Kiwi who heard our Maori songs)and waved goodbye.
Alone again for the first time in a month, I board the train to Villach, hoping that Bhak would be there to pick me up from the station at 1 a.m (he was) and what kind of magic was waiting for me in Austria...
AMSTERDAM
The usual hazards of cows and Punjabi laden jeeps have turned into trams and bicycles, all of which are operating on the wrong side of the road. I stay with Saskia and her mother in the nearby village of Aalsmeer and within hours of arriving am cruising the canals on her friend's boat and drinking local beer. I first met Saskia whilst busking in Budapest five years ago - she approached me and we ended up playing together before I moved to her much nicer guesthouse and we hung out for a few days, so it's great to see her again, and especially being a traveller herself, she knows what it's like to readjust to a place. Quite simply, I am loving the clean! And little things like there always being toilet paper in the bathroom, and an abundance of fresh salad vegetables that I don't have to worry about bacteria hiding in.
I turn 32 on the 4th and after a typically Dutch breakfast of bread, cheese and Fruchtenhail (sugary fruit hail), head into the capital to do a spot of busking. But things have changed since I last played here five years ago (yes, it has been five years since I went anywhere in Europe. Once in New Zealand, it's hard to leave the pond, being so far away...) and it seems that busking is not allowed now! Someone tells me this whilst throwing me two euros during my first song ('Angel From Montgomery' by John Prine) and I thank him but decide to play the innocent tourist card if caught.
Which I am, the following day, by two kindly horsedrawn policewomen, damnit. Oh well. I take the train to Utrecht to catch up with Annemiek and play for half an hour in the busy streets there. The busking, my living for the moment, seems to be going pretty well when the police don't catch me, te he! Although it's probably fine to do in Utrecht.. no-one bothers me anyway...
GERMANY
Visiting Doro's family in Hildesheim is always a treat - they are lovely and their house is simply amazing. We walk the sausage dog ("Daschund!" as Helgard would say, thinking Paula would be horrifed to hear herself described so) around the rivers and parks before heading to Bavaria the following day on a family holiday.
Bavaria is all onion-headed churches and Jesuses on the cross to the untrained eye. Once I stay there a few days I get to know the Bavarian reservation and seeming unfriendliness - just another culture, probably the furthest possible one from India... but the landscapes are beautiful, and we stay in a family farmhouse close to a gorgeous swimmable lake and unwind as much as possible (unwind from the holiday?? Now there's a thought..) Every day around 3 pm we go for a family walk or drive and always find a place to eat cake and iced chocolate in - I protest at first, but when in Germany... ; ) Doro's folks don't want us to leave when we do, bound for three weeks in Slovenia / Croatia / Italia, but although the Bavarian nature is beautiful, we're excited for the unknown...
LJUBLJANA, AGAIN
... which begins in my favourite capital city in the world! I discovered this place five years back and fell in love with it, returning twice before I left Europe for good. Thankfully it is just as cool this time around. Amazing cafes, the Ljubljanska river, super chilled vibe.. we visit Metelkova Mesto on our first night, the famous squat-turned-fully functioning artist's community and get drunk on some very bad red wine as well as a bottle of Malibu that some Belgian dudes returned from a climbing holiday have in their bag. Who'd guess we were both professional teachers in our thirties??!! Not a soul...
The busking in Ljubljana is difficult at first, due to the fact that there are so many others out there on the streets, but I do have an amazing solo busk one day where I play to the prime minister of Slovenia! I had just met Josip, a very Paulo Coelho looking fellow who I'd been talking to in between songs about life and the spiritual journey (NO rolling of the eyes please!) when a bit of a procession rocks up to where I'm playing, right by one of the famous bridges over the Ljubljanska. Josip's eyes widen and he tells me to play something special for the prime minister, but although I play 'Waiting on an Angel' by Ben Harper I don't think anyone cares too much: all of his cronies are too busy taking photos and protecting him from harm, as if any would come to him in this peaceful wee country?!?! Who knows though... anyway, it's still an absolute pleasure to play for him and the general public, and I do pretty well from it before I leave to meet the grumpy Doro who is fed up of drinking coffee by herself... we are planning to busk together but haven't quite got it sorted yet...
That night we are walking home when yet another Belgian couple approaches, telling me they'd seen me singing today and could they buy us both a drink? I accept and end up having an amazing night with them and some locals, and even do an impromptu gig in the graffitti laden outdoor bar, borrowing a beautiful nylon strung number to do so. Three Irish girls are there too and it's one of those great traveller moments where everyone becomes instant friends - all of the three Irish girls are wearing green tee-shirts funnily enough, as is the Belgian girl whose fiancee has just proposed to me as well. Hilarious... they are staying in the same hostel as us so walk me home to creep into a darkened dorm with a sleeping Doro inside...
CROATIA - KORCULA AND DUBROVNIK
Croatia is stunningly beautiful, and on the island of Korcula we meet an Italian couple who lead us to an incredible double room with a balcony, not a stone's throw from the beach opposite, in a house owned by a local woman who speaks only Croatian and Italian. We manage to communicate however, and end up staying there three days because of this room as well as the fact that busking here is a hit...
I go out by myself at first and have a great night, meeting a bunch of Polish teenagers on holiday, one of whom plays 'Nothing Else Matters' for me to sing along to. It's a great moment... and the following night, Doro and I go out together after a quick harmony practise on the balcony. It's actually really amazing to play street music with another person - we work out some mean harmonies and get a great response from the crowd especially when we do our angelic Nirvana impressions, singing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' and 'Lithium' in perfect harmony. Korcula is good for us; busking wise things just get better and better and by the third night we're raking in the kuna and drawing good audiences too (we always make sure we find a place where people can sit down and watch). I guess this is why Dubrovnik comes as such a disappointment...
Sure, it is a beautiful city but, writing this two months later, I don't have many good memories of this place. It's money hungry and we can feel dollar signs in people's eyes. The beaches are filled with 'beautiful people', and although the water is clear and sparkling, I don't really rate it as a city. It's too soulless, and has no time or space for such scruffy looking buskers (sorry Doro, I'm speaking for myself here). It seems that playing on the street is near impossible - we have one good night on a bridge leading into the old town at night, but mostly people walk past us, blinded by the beauty of the white marbled city (yes, it is a stunner of a place, aesthetically at least). Relief comes when, after our first failed musical mission, we go to commiserate with a glass of wine at a bar we passed earlier, and end up being persuaded to play for a free bottle by a table of locals who'd seen us earlier. It's an amazing place - Du'Vino wine bar, run by an Australian who knows his stuff when it comes to wine. In fact, it's the best drop I've had in ages, and we return every night that we're there, doing two impromptu gigs there to an audience that gives a damn. It's a redemption of sorts, and I'm very grateful to meet both Sasha the owner and Kruno, a local street musician that actually makes a living off busking and selling CDs - he dresses up like a villager (?? a Village person?? Ha he'd be horrified to hear that...) and is amplified, as well as being sponsored by the Council to be there and he deserves it - he's got a great thing going on.
ITALIA
During the 8 hour ferry from Dubrovnik to Bari in the south of Italy, it strikes me that we have arrived in a new country before we even seen the land. Families are clustered together singing loud songs and speaking fervently to one another in a language very different from the Slavic tongues I have become used to. My travelling companion and I have a huge argument on the boat and to be honest, it's the first time I can argue with someone while all the while knowing it will be allright - I have known Doro for ten years and she is more like a sister. Anyway, we each stare at the sea and grump away to ourselves, and eventually it passes and we get off the boat to a new land.
Bari is a sweet town, hot and cheap and friendly. We spend an evening and morning there before taking a train to Rome, and spend it eating gelato, ravioli, and hiding from the heat...
Rome is a trip. I'm too hot and bothered to properly enjoy it, and our hostel is the worst I've ever stayed in - broken air-con, outside noise,and inside noise from three drunken Spaniards who arrive at 3 am and proceed to giggle to each other whilst opening and closing every plastic bag they own. So, in our only full day in the city we spend much of it resting in the shade, avoiding the heat of the crowds and I don't actually end up seeing many 'sights' as such. I'm cool with this though. We busk once and it goes okay... someone who I'm assuming must have been a Kiwi hears our medley of Pokarekare Ana / Te Aroha and gives us a tenner. Sweet! And we meet a troupe of Spaniards all dressed up to the nines and wielding about 6 guitars between them. They're a university band from home who are going around the restaurants playing for customers and passing a hat around - this is where the money is, but both of us are too chicken to follow suit. Instead we make enough money to pay for our gelato habit and take the bus home, a bus which seems to be free, at least no-one ever asks us for tickets all the times we ride it and we never enquire. Oh well...
We train on to Siena, an incredibly beautiful town which is a sight for tired Roman eyes. We LOVE it! Although, sick of noisy hostels (our age is hitting us, and it is a good thing) we have booked a B&B that although gorgeous, is run by some helluva temperamental Italian women, all 'Ciao!' and smiles one minute before rapping on our door in the morning barking at us to get up for breakfast! Hilarious really, although we don't think so at the time... Thankfully they are only there in the mornings, so we are left mostly in peace.
The busking is great in Siena, and we play for hours, three nights in a row, until the police drive slowly past and give us the old finger wag before pointing at their watch to signal that it's after 11. Great times... Siena is so beautiful, all rustic stone and old temples. We discover an ancient chapel one day dedicated to Saint Catherine, a local saint who had her first sacred vision at 6 years old, in 1353. I sit alone on a wooden pew there, breathing in the ancient wooden-ness while a black nun in brilliant blue prays silently nearby. We differ in our religions but have the same god heart, and it's so, so beautiful. We are surrounded by friezes depicting life back then, and in the pictures I see local women tugging at each others skirts and whispering behind each others palms and can almost feel the petty quarrels they would have had back then, so similar to the ones we all have in our human lives now, and I feel that not much has changed really. Despite all of our technological advances, unless we really go inside ourselves, we can't really expect to evolve much on a human level. Wars are still going on, history is repeating itself. But I for one choose consciousness over disillusionment, so don't get down about it - I draw my hands together in prayer position, giving thanks to whatever god led us here today.
Verona, Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet and a whole lot of beautiful buildings. Being two months later, this depiction is all far too brief and I feel I haven't yet done the beauty of Italy justice. Verona for me was the ultimate in crumbling beauty. My jaw was constantly dropping at every crumbling Veronese frieze and we played music outside the 'House of Juliet', historically where the Capulet family actually did live in times gone by, and now probably the biggest tourist hotspot, where thousands came every day to pose on 'Juliet's balcony', to get their photo taken with a gold statue of Venus (I think?) and to declare their love for someone on the graffitti wall, covered in grotesque hearts and arrows in red and blue marker. On our final night playing music there, a man comes out from one of the touristic shops selling synthetic love hearts and shapely red balloons and gifts us an embroidered card (red, of course) reading 'Gracias'... particularly poignant as it was our last night together before going our separate ways in Venice the next evening, and it still lives in my guitar case now.
Yes... not 24 hours left together now, we train to Venice, our final stop before Doro flies home to Germany and I take the train up to Southern Austria to catch up with Bhak. We spend half a precious hour of our short day queuing up to stow our luggage in the train station for the day. It's damn expensive too, but I do a doubletake when the man who has just taken my pack returns, smiling and beckoning to me. I go with him to the back room, and can't quite work out what we means at first when he points towards a corner where moaning sounds are emanating. Then I realise they are actually coming from my pack! And I bend over laughing when I realise that somehow in the journey from my back to the back room, the portable tape recorder in my luggage has switched itself on, and my old Hindustani singing lessons are replaying themselves and there is NOTHING devotional about the way they sound! I can't quite feel the sacredness of the 'Om' right now, and I share a laugh with the porter before delving into my stuffed pack to rectify the situation.
Yeah, we see Venice on this day, and it's as beautiful as I imagined, as well as super dooperly touristic and somewhat disillusioning in this sense. My best memories of Venice though are the three hour lunch we had together, two bottles of wine in the sun and our last big sisterly slurred conversation after a whole month together, and a rather tipsy boat ride back to the station to get our luggage and say our goodbyes. Quite simply it is an amazing last day, and we play together on the bridge to the busstop for old times sake, made about two euros (again from a Kiwi who heard our Maori songs)and waved goodbye.
Alone again for the first time in a month, I board the train to Villach, hoping that Bhak would be there to pick me up from the station at 1 a.m (he was) and what kind of magic was waiting for me in Austria...
Back on the blog, and learning to bridge the worlds
Hmmm... I see that somehow over three months have passed since I've made an entry... how could this be, I wonder?? Although I know that it was Europe that did it...
When in India one has so much more time to write, it seems... and now that I am back in Asia, swapping India for Vietnam (Ho Chi Minh / Saigon), and I seem to be stuck in this internet cafe while the monsoon buckets down in the street outside (very interesting - this is the first time it's hit and I haven't been trapped inside a hotel room. I'm interested to see that there are still motorbikes around, although the riders seem to be more often than not covered head to toe in some kind of blue plastic...), it seems that the time to write again has... arrived!
So how shall I begin? I have no idea whether I'll be able to capture the events of the past three months now that they are well and truly in the past... but I might touch on a few things. It seems fitting to write about how I left India all those months ago (... three...) and how the world I was in started to change right in front of me.
Early July. I reluctantly leave the Bhagsu valley and all its nurturing late night jam sessions and take the usual shitty night bus to Delhi. Particularly shitty I remember as it leaked on a couple of Portuguese travellers I met there, and the drivers did nothing but laugh for the first hour and then begrudgingly sellotape up some cardboard... but what to do? This is India...
Anyway, I had expected my one day in Delhi to be the usual hot, bored day of somehow surviving the humidity, catching up on sleep and late minute shopping. I never meet anyone in Delhi - why should this day be any different? But, ever since what I consider a definite 'soul-evolution', for want of a better word, in the Himalayas this year, it seemed that life just didn't work in the same way anymore. A bunch of Bhagsu-ites that were all flying out the following day were congregating in the aptly named 'Nirvana' cafe so we spent a good few hours reminiscing about the place, swapping a wee bit of gossip (tis true) and preparing ourselves for the culture change in front of us. Someone mentioned that like it or not, Europe (where most of us were headed) was going to knock this peace out of us eventually and from this conversation onwards I became determined not to let this happen. I mean, it's all inside of us, right? Surely we can't cling to the bosom of India forever... there comes a time when we have to step back into the world, and I chose to do so whole heartedly.
Anyway, regardless of my determination to hold my peace, I couldn't argue that things were starting to change before we had even left India. It turned out that one of the Bhagsu-ites was on my flight so we shared a cab to the airport at around 2 in the blurry-eyed morning and actually had a great airport experience together. Normally something I do alone, like the last day in Delhi, my world was changing and I was finding I didn't need so much alone time anymore... anyway, there was a point where I realised that we were leaving India before we even left India so to speak... I'll just retrive my journal entry from the time in order to convey it better...
"Your pending balance 340"
Oh, my final impressions of India.
I sit with Adam in the super bland "Costa Coffee" and drink the shittiest and most expensive chai I have EVER had! Just a teabag in water with some frothy milk and no masala to speak of. I am aware that we are about to re-enter the world of chains and brands, which modern India seems to be trying to emulate in the worst way possible. I want to take it by the scruff of its devotional neck and beg it not to change, but I know it will. I know there will always be the chai walla on the side of the road, which has been my reality for the past three months, and we joke about the unlikelihood of one of these guys setting up shop in the Delhi International airport, serving their sweet milky spiced chai out of little clay cups as a kind of Indian farewell, bit we both know it will never happen.. they would never afford the rent for starters! Such a shame. Airports are so soulless and culture-void... so bland, so monochromatic.
And this world is where I am going to, but I am determined to hold my own in the midst of it. I sit and look at the fading henna on my hands - a chessboard pattern covers much of my left palm while vines grow up the fingertips. My right palm is much darker and here a small flower adorns the centre with lacey patterns emerging in bright henna orange all around it. I wonder what people in Europe will think of this... but I don't care. I am bound for another world... and although I welcome it, I know that it's gonna be a change that won't always come easy.
When in India one has so much more time to write, it seems... and now that I am back in Asia, swapping India for Vietnam (Ho Chi Minh / Saigon), and I seem to be stuck in this internet cafe while the monsoon buckets down in the street outside (very interesting - this is the first time it's hit and I haven't been trapped inside a hotel room. I'm interested to see that there are still motorbikes around, although the riders seem to be more often than not covered head to toe in some kind of blue plastic...), it seems that the time to write again has... arrived!
So how shall I begin? I have no idea whether I'll be able to capture the events of the past three months now that they are well and truly in the past... but I might touch on a few things. It seems fitting to write about how I left India all those months ago (... three...) and how the world I was in started to change right in front of me.
Early July. I reluctantly leave the Bhagsu valley and all its nurturing late night jam sessions and take the usual shitty night bus to Delhi. Particularly shitty I remember as it leaked on a couple of Portuguese travellers I met there, and the drivers did nothing but laugh for the first hour and then begrudgingly sellotape up some cardboard... but what to do? This is India...
Anyway, I had expected my one day in Delhi to be the usual hot, bored day of somehow surviving the humidity, catching up on sleep and late minute shopping. I never meet anyone in Delhi - why should this day be any different? But, ever since what I consider a definite 'soul-evolution', for want of a better word, in the Himalayas this year, it seemed that life just didn't work in the same way anymore. A bunch of Bhagsu-ites that were all flying out the following day were congregating in the aptly named 'Nirvana' cafe so we spent a good few hours reminiscing about the place, swapping a wee bit of gossip (tis true) and preparing ourselves for the culture change in front of us. Someone mentioned that like it or not, Europe (where most of us were headed) was going to knock this peace out of us eventually and from this conversation onwards I became determined not to let this happen. I mean, it's all inside of us, right? Surely we can't cling to the bosom of India forever... there comes a time when we have to step back into the world, and I chose to do so whole heartedly.
Anyway, regardless of my determination to hold my peace, I couldn't argue that things were starting to change before we had even left India. It turned out that one of the Bhagsu-ites was on my flight so we shared a cab to the airport at around 2 in the blurry-eyed morning and actually had a great airport experience together. Normally something I do alone, like the last day in Delhi, my world was changing and I was finding I didn't need so much alone time anymore... anyway, there was a point where I realised that we were leaving India before we even left India so to speak... I'll just retrive my journal entry from the time in order to convey it better...
"Your pending balance 340"
Oh, my final impressions of India.
I sit with Adam in the super bland "Costa Coffee" and drink the shittiest and most expensive chai I have EVER had! Just a teabag in water with some frothy milk and no masala to speak of. I am aware that we are about to re-enter the world of chains and brands, which modern India seems to be trying to emulate in the worst way possible. I want to take it by the scruff of its devotional neck and beg it not to change, but I know it will. I know there will always be the chai walla on the side of the road, which has been my reality for the past three months, and we joke about the unlikelihood of one of these guys setting up shop in the Delhi International airport, serving their sweet milky spiced chai out of little clay cups as a kind of Indian farewell, bit we both know it will never happen.. they would never afford the rent for starters! Such a shame. Airports are so soulless and culture-void... so bland, so monochromatic.
And this world is where I am going to, but I am determined to hold my own in the midst of it. I sit and look at the fading henna on my hands - a chessboard pattern covers much of my left palm while vines grow up the fingertips. My right palm is much darker and here a small flower adorns the centre with lacey patterns emerging in bright henna orange all around it. I wonder what people in Europe will think of this... but I don't care. I am bound for another world... and although I welcome it, I know that it's gonna be a change that won't always come easy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)