Short Sun Breaks

It’s not a film set, it’s all real… Vegas exists

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 10:26:47 +0200

The first thing I noticed when I touched down in Las Vegas Airport was the 1,234 pokies machines they have in the terminal. They’re everywhere, from service stations to fast food joints. I’m surprised they don’t have them on the street next to the vending machines.

The casinos bustle with revellers looking for a good time and the call girls follow them like lap dogs. Lovers gather to watch the water show at the The Bellagio while across the road you can get a cocktail in a replica of the Eiffel Tower. When you drive down the strip for the first time, all of the bright lights flashing, Vegas is everything that you expect it to be. All of the tacky casinos, the swanks ones, the dancing Elvis drive through weddings, the Pyramid, the neon cowboy, everything. All of the movies you’ve watched, all of the photos you’ve seen, they’re all real. Some friends of mine were celebrating their birthday at a club in an upscale casino where we had our own private cabana above gorgeous women gyrating around a pool – it was as if I’d stepped right onto the set of Entourage. Actually I think this was the thing that stuck with me the most when I got here, it’s not a film set, it’s not a mirage, it’s all real… Vegas exists.

People in service positions are extremely friendly, a little too friendly for my liking. After checking into the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino I went across the road to the superette and even the shelf packer asked "Morning Sir, I hope that you’ve had a good day. Are you're finding everything alright?" as he walked past me, boxes in hand. After the sixth person asked me how I was I just wanted to yell at the whole store that I was fine and can people just leave me alone. It made me long for the snobby Parisians, at least they don't pretend they care.

I hired a scooter on my last day off and took to the roads. Destination – anywhere out of Vegas. As the mega elevated freeways give way to highways and eventually single laned roads, the landscape changes drastically. You leave the hotels and casino of the strip behind, filter through suburbia with their plethora of fast food establishments and Wal-Mart’s before and eventually the last of the real estate developments become a speck in your rearview mirror. The roadside becomes sand and the vegetation scarcely reaches above your hip. Amazing red rocks spring up out of nowhere, scattered across the landscape. The vistas are all supported by grand ridges that stretch across the horizon. On a good day you’ll be lucky not to reach 40 in Vegas, but out in the desert, wearing leathers, the sun beats down on you at an unbelievable temperature making my flask of water spurt steam when I open it.

Riding back along the interstate, the lights of Vegas seem like a mirage. After spending the whole day in The Valley of Fire it makes you realise just how absurd it was to build a city in the middle of the desert, but they did, and it’s really not as bad as people make it out to be.

Unanswered mysteries floating in my head

Tue, 8 Jun 2010 22:52:31 +0200

My father was almost crying when I called to invite him to accompany me where I left off and come across to the highlands of Peru. A trip that took in more trains than you could poke a stick at, highlighted by the majestic city of Cusco and topped off with a trip to the most impressive ruins in the world – Machu Picchu.
Our journey began with the historic highest railway in the world – creeping from the Peruvian sea level capital of Lima, along stunning scenery of baron highland landscape, to a dizzying height of 4781m as we broke the spine of the great Andean range to arrive at Huancayo. A height more than double that of Mt. Kosciuszko, Australia’s highest mountain.
We flew across to Lake Titicaca, the word’s highest navigable lake where we were to board our second luxurious train. We were spoiled on our journey with silver service, delicious food, an observation car with bar, some very nice Pisco Sours and traditional Andean musicians.
But the most pleasurable part of my trip was seeing dad smiling to himself, writing in his notebook all the things I make fun of him for; train gauge, switchbacks, engine model and construction date, miles post, and number of trains we pass. Most of all, I’m just glad that because he is here himself, it means I don’t have to do my usual requests like measure toe to toe the rails to try and figure out what gauge the track is, he can do that himself! But to see him smiling like a schoolboy on an excursion was more warming than all of the scenery out the window could ever be.
At one point our train went through a market. And by through, I mean the market was on the actual tracks. There were piles of oranges and books people left in-between the rails and the train just ran over the top of them. The stalls’ owners would remove their tarpaulin shade cloth for the train to pass and erect it seconds after the train went through. My photos taken from the back of the train as we were passing through don’t even show a hint that a train disrupted their market merely seconds ago.
I had cut myself short on my last trip to Peru and I wanted to spend more time in the places I liked this time and consequently ate some of the best food in South America while dining in the stunning city of Cusco. It was French and Andean style fusion cooking at its best. I was also determined to climb Huayna Picchu, the imposing mountain seen in the back of the classic Machu Picchu photograph. They only let 400 people up daily, so this meant lining up at 4am in the dark cold streets of Machu Picchu Portobello to catch a bus up to Machu Picchu to line up there to get a stamp to walk to the entry gate of Huayna Picchu and line up again.
The one-hour gruelling trail seemed not to wind its way around the mountain, but instead go directly up the steep slippery steps to the peak. I was huffing and puffing let alone my poor father, but slowly together we made it to the amazing view of Machu Picchu together and could look out over the Inca walls to ponder what fate left the abandonment of this incredible site. The mystery enthrals everyone that comes in contact with it and we were just left in awe.

From Nazca, 400km south of Lima along the coast, we boarded a small Cessna acrobatic six-seater plane to view another of Peru’s great mysteries, the Nazca lines, a series of ancient geoglyphs drawn into the desert rocks some time about 2,000 years ago. They overturned sunburnt rocks and cleared small paths that form pictures of monkeys, spiders and condors to name but a few. The bizarre thing is that these masterpieces, created so carefully can only be appreciated from an elevation, but there is no mountain to view them from. We marvelled at them from our plane as it banked hard to give us all a good look – but how did the Nazca people view them?

I was glad I had the opportunity to go back to Peru, an amazing country I felt I had missed out on during my last trip, even if it did leave me with all of these unanswered mysteries floating in my head. I did however find out that it wasn’t Peru I had missed out on, but rather spending time with my father.

The Best Pesto, Focaccia and Nutella Mousse in the World

Fri, 30 Apr 2010 00:00:03 +0200

Genoa was our first port of call, well, the first intended stop at least. After changing trains at the Italian/ French border we started seeing French station signs again: we were lost and had ended up back in France. Eventually we did get to Genoa, a town famous as the home of Pesto, and old people. At least that's what we thought as every person we saw climbing the steep cobbled stairs through the labyrinth of a town was a pint sized stereotypical Italian grandmother. It wasn't until after dark that the youth swamped the city, gathering around unmiced performers and traditional dancers inside quaint squares and down dimly lit alleys where girls flicker into the darkness.

Cinque Terra can be best described as the most spastically beautiful place on earth. Superlatives just don't give it justice. Five little traditional villages hug the rugged coastline 100kms south of Genova in the Italian Riviera. Focaccia is the local delicacy so Ash Koek and myself munched down on one as we started our trek along the small coastal pathway that links the "Five Lands". It was so good that by the time we reached the next village we promptly bought another one. The path keeps winding through the narrow carless streets until it pops out the other end of the town and the amazing coastline once again comes into view. The next terra was a good place to pick up another Focaccia and some more amazingness. By the time we hit the 4th terra our legs had grown so tired, my shoes had died so we thought we had better fill up with more amazing Focaccia. We were too stuffed to walk to the last Focaccia, um, terra, so we just caught the train home.

Dana, Ash and myself hired a car, our destination: Bussana Vecchia, a little town destroyed by an earthquake in the late 19th century, left decayed, and re-birthed by a bunch of hippies and artists in the 60's. They decided to leave the crumbling appearance intact and set up studios and workshops and brought lots of lap dogs. We talked, we walked, I bought a chess set and Ash wasn't even dignified enough to let me win my first game on my new board… or my second.

As I'm sure you're all well aware, I collect national football jerseys from all the countries I travel to. One of the reasons is that it's something EVERY country in the world has. From South Africa to Scotland, Australia to American Samoa and of course Italy and Monaco.
Monaco has a very famous club team that plays in the French league, but it was the more elusive Monaco National team jersey I was after. They're not FIFA recognised, so they play against other non recognised teams like Tibet, Zanzibar and Somaliland. Most people I asked didn't even know that there was a national team, but the gentleman at the AC Monaco Pro shop told me his friend was the coach and he would call him for me. I returned later and he gave me the coach's number and told me "when he doesn't drink too much, he can to speak English language". I called him and he passed me onto another gentleman who lives in Nice, possibly a player, or someone involved with the team. He drove across to Monaco and dropped off the jersey at the place I was working, chucked in two free tee shirts and told me to come along to the next national game. So it took a while to get it, but with the help from some very lovely Monegasque people, I was able to get the jersey!

Contrary to popular belief, most Monegasque don't deserve the reputation they have, nor does the Principality. It might have a few more tools than a workshop, but it's a beautiful city and there are times you catch yourself just staring at the wonderful buildings, the numerous sculptures in the city and across the beach, to all the beautiful people, and there are quite a few. It's like all of the rich men married all the beautiful women, had gorgeous kids and dressed them in the most spectacular way. Ash and I went for a walk one morning and stepping two streets up from the main road ended up back in France; this country never seems to escape us. But it's literally that small, 1,95km squared to be exact. From the Prince's castle on the hill you can look out at an amazing view, see over the million dollar yachts, the formula one barriers, and there is France. The other direction is the football stadium, the heliport and then France. Width ways it's even shorter. Beach, Casino, France! The one thing burnt into my tastebuds, even now, weeks after I was there, was the dreamy Nutella Mousse I ate every night at the restaurant on the beach next to the beach volleyball court. It was like pure Nutella pumped with air bubbles. The icing on the cake was in the form of a helicopter transfer to Nice airport - whatever, it's Monaco.

The Hills Are Alive... with the Sound of Alexander

Wed, 31 Mar 2010 16:12:06 +0200

Walking down the little cobblestone streets of Salzburg was like strolling in a fairytale. The UNESCO listed old town has been preserved so beautifully it’s hard to imagine you’re in the 21st Century. Salzburg’s most famous resident, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's birth house has been converted into a museum about the prodigy and from the museum’s window I could catch the activity in the world below me. Little nuns were waddling past and I can’t help but imagine them singing “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”

I must admit I went on the Sound of Music tour. I like to tell people I was dragged, but I rather enjoyed it. I got to see some of the countryside and sing along to Edelweiss. The medieval castle was pretty inspiring as well. Just the thought that at one point there was actually knights, with full heavy armour and a gigantic broad sword, is kinda cool.

The Berlin Wall

Fri, 12 Mar 2010 15:56:20 +0100

So we were minding our own business when 25 heavily armed robbers wearing full swat gear and armed with AK47s and machetes abseiled down the side of the Hyatt, crashing through the windows to the tournament area. Pandemonium ensues. Boris Becker jumped onto a table proclaiming, "I can dodge bullets baby" and tore open his coat revealing a plethora of hand grenades that he started shelling over the white flags the French were frantically waving. He single handedly defended the prize pool that was in a bucket in the middle of the room.

So this is the version you might have read in the over embellished media, what really happened will remain only speculation in a collection of fragments of different peoples memories and interpretations. The facts remains that in the first week of being in Berlin I saw a man in a balaclava wielding a gun and, let's just say it was a good thing I was already wearing brown trousers.

Unfortunanety or not, depending on which way you look at it, the rest of my time in Berlin wasn't as colourful as that day, but I thourghtly enjoyed myself regardless.

I visited the iconic Brandemburg gate, walked through the maze of pillars at the holocaust memorial, had my passport stamped with an East German stamp at Check Point Charlie and paraded through the wonderful gardens of Potsdam Castle, but these were only a shadow to my experience with the Berlin Wall.

It still amazes me to this day that the idea of barricading in a people could be done in such a developed nation. Understandably a very broken nation, but not one of those of Asia, Africa or Eastern Europe, but of a once proud and feared nation. These people were literly walled in like a caged animals. A wall that not only divided a continent and a country, but also a city, dividing family and friends without prejudice.

It's difficult to try and assert how much reunification has impacted the social conscience. Of course there is a starbucks past every former East Berlin checkpoint, they seam to mock, "We won, and don't you forget it". The streets are filled with Hugo Boss and Louie Viton, but ask a local where they are from, and most likely the answer will be "East Berlin" or "West Berlin". Indeed it appears the only people that say they are from just "Berlin" are the immigrants.

I must admit that my walk around the wall and Check Point Charlie and accompanying museum humbled me a little. Reading the stories of various escape attempts, some creative, some simple, some successful, some fateful make me grateful for the freedom I take for granted. As flawed as our system is, we have such simple things as the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion and the right to freedom of opinion and expression, a basic right set forth under the UN Declaration of Human Rights, article 18 and 19 respectively. But as a member of the free world, just as JFK once famously said "Eich bin ein Berliner" (I am a jam doughnut).

On the Path to the Freetown Christiania

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 11:30:47 +0100

From the 20th floor of my hotel I had a beautiful view over København (Copenhagen), the snowy Danish capital. The mercury had been dropping for a few weeks before my arrival and the snow falling enough to freeze over the lakes, something my friends in Denmark had never seen before. The tops of the churches and cathedrals puncture the skyline in a city renounced for it's environmental conscience and progressive attitude. Across the moat there is one place in my view with a rather interesting history and I was glad that it was within walking distance of my hotel, an escape from the constant riffling of casino chips.

A friend and I donned our warmest jacket and braved the snow. We slid across the frozen lake and stomped out a message for all in the hotel to see when they woke. The snow crunched underfoot as we marched towards our destination, the Freetown Christiania, where the aim of the evening was some cool jazz. We let our ears guide our way past the the flaming 15 gallon drums in Pusher Street, famously called so for the marijuana pushers that trade openly there, into an inconspicuous jazz club. The musicians were playing a very loose jazz jam that filled the intimate space. After his solo the saxophonist walked off stage, past the crates that made up half the bar, and started serving customers. There was a meat slicer pushed to one side of the stage that was lit predominantly by fairy lights and the whole place just had a atmosphere of what a real jazz club looked like in my mind.

While the only thing you might have heard about Christiania is the dope, this is but a tiny fraction of what the Freetown is about. It's a unique story that started in 1971 when a bunch of disgruntled Copenhagener unhappy with the lack of real estate decided to move into an old abandoned military complex in the centre of Copenhagen and proclaim it a "self-governing society whereby each and every individual holds themselves responsible over the wellbeing of the entire community". So basically a hippy commune with no rules except that of love, baaaaby. The hippie movement was so strong at the time that the government was too scared to take any action, so they went along with it, calling it a social experiment and just watching from the sidelines as more and more people seeking an alternative lifestyle flooded in.

The Freetown hasn't been without controversy, and after a number of people died from taking heroin the community decided to expel the pushers and create four steadfast rules:

- No hard drugs
- No rocker badges
- No weapons
- No violence

The fact it's prime real estate in the centre of town, where the residents only recently and reluctantly started paying for electricity, water and rent, has agitated some politicians. After the government tried to demolish some buildings within the collective in 2007 they were met with some very violent resistance when residents threw Molotov cocktails at police, fearing that any demolition might spark the beginning of the end. The police patrol Christiania four to six times a day. We came across some whilst exiting the club, kitted up in full combat uniform, but after they'd passed, the cannabis stalls on pusher street were erected once more.

I wanted to get away from Pusher Street so when I returned to Christiania I had a coffee and croissant in a trendy café, warming my mitts as others played backgammon and chatted. Once I was suitably thawed I pushed on into the cold once more. I passed through the car-free streets to a trail that skirts the perimeter of the Freetown. In only a third of a square kilometre they house some 800+ residents including a large number of families, a few in the former military buildings and others that had created some colourful houses from very resourceful materials. As I was walking along the in the tranquil environment, the trees drooping over my pathway, the snow crunching underfoot as I gaze over the frozen lake, I had time to reflect on Christiania. Although I may have missed the boat by some 30 years, or at least 10, I didn't find it as hopeless as it had been explained to me. Through the workshops, cafes, restaurants, business and live venues there is still love, creativity, social living, experimentation and defiance. I wonder where these things have gone from our society. It saddens me that we live in a watered down society that would rather accept our fate rather than try to change it.

All too soon, when my trail let me back to the entrance where a sign painted on the inside of the gate reads "You are now entering the EU" I wasn't sure I really wanted to.

I kan ikke slå os ihjel - You cannot kill us

You’ve now left the Philippines and entered the Mactan Resort and Spa

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 11:37:44 +0100

We drove through the gates, being stopped briefly for security to sniff out the vehicle, before proceeding up the manicured, tree lined gravel driveway, leaving the flurry of activity around the street vendors and touts on the main street. I declared to those in the private airport shuttle “We have just left the Philippines and entered the Mactan Resort and Spa.” Some people were quite happy about this, but I, not so much.

I had been given the good fortune of working for a tournament situated in a five star luxury resort in Cebu, the Philippines, a job most people world dream about, but it was such a change from my bohemian backpacker travellers that I felt a little peculiar and couldn’t get used to the service that I was showered with. I did pull my head out of my ass to enjoy some of the going-ons about the resort, in particular the amazing food on offer, swimming in the beautiful temperate ocean every day and also a chance to dive amongst some amazing fish and coral and over a small but fascinating wreck.

Resort life was good, but I didn’t want to remain in this sanitised version of the Philippines for my whole journey. I felt dirty just being there; living like a king when just outside those big iron gates was a world of real people. I made it my mission to get out of the hotel as much as possible.

I had found a fellow minded colleague named Andrew and tried to ask the concierge where we should go of an evening. Knowing it was a fancy place; I needed to be careful with my words as not to be directed to the usual touristy parts of town, so I specifically asked where I would be able to buy chicken’s feet and intestine on a stick, knowing only street vendors would offer such food and hence my part of town. He pointed us in one direction and we were on our way out of the Mactan Resort and into the Philippines.

Our foray around town took us to nightclubs, discos, a comedy club where the hosts said on our arrival “Hello Tourists, where do you come from, the sea?”. On account of my vegetarianism I managed to get out of eating any chicken’s feet, but Andrew was game enough for a crack and said it tasted like… um, chicken. We dodged the street kids who begged for money, one of which was not discreet at all when trying stick his hand in our pockets. But the real sight that stuck in my mind was the homeless. It wasn’t just one or two, but whole families surrounding the monument. Father, Mother, and two or thee children all curled up on cardboard boxes, no shelter, blankets or possessions of any kind. It was this that made my night on my luxury king size bed with fluffy blankets and poufy pillows all the harder.

Our greatest adventure arose from an organised night on the town. We had all piled into the minibus and headed to a tourist bar that was filled with more cocks than a farm. Andrew and I took advantage of the free Jonny Walker Black Label before deciding to split to find a billiards hall. We had very little idea of where we were and asked some people on the street the direction to the closest billiards hall. They pointed us in the right direction and looked a little shocked when we declined their offer of a taxi and started walking instead.

The tourist area stopped rather suddenly and a residential area arose along side the main highway. We passed the almost obligatory stray dogs you see in third world countries on every corner before passed a dingy alley leading into a residential area. Peering down it I could make out lights and a few people in the centre of the street. I thought there might be somewhere to drink and possibly a pool table, so I convinced Andrew to take a walk on the wild side.

As the lights of the main street got further and further away, my shadow disappeared into total darkness. I thought that this was either the best idea, or stupidest idea I’d had. We got to the light unharmed and there was a bunch of old men sitting around a plastic table. We ordered a beer through the metal cage that acted as a bar, candy store and grocer and were immediately invited to sit with the old men.

They were they most friendly, warm, entertaining fellows and soon we found ourselves in deep discussion about anything under the sun. They asked us what we thought of Philippino people as we told them we didn’t know, but we’d let them know at the end of the night. We spoke of the Maldives sinking, and political opinions, the large boxing match between a Philippino and American that was coming up, what Australia was like and why we were in the Philippines. Then finally they cracked out the guitar and we all started singing Simon and Garfunkel.

The best thing about the night was not only how friendly these men were, but also the fact that we were all on the same playing field. Our offers of drinks were refused as they insisted on buying us drinks instead. “You are our guests here in the Philippines”. In a country where it’s difficult to find some locals to talk to that don’t want your money, it’s refreshing to chat freely and just submerge yourself in the culture and environment.

Our night came to and end all to quickly as they had to get up to go to work the next morning, as too did we. They walked us back to the main street and helped us get into a taxi where that took us to the Mactan Resort and Spa and we left the Philippines sadly once more.