Irresistible Istanbul

 Are you Australian? I know these things. I can see. yes, even from way over there, I can see. Your face. Freckles. You need to use my umbrella? But you are getting wet. Very wet today. You are sure? I am going to Sydney soon. An Australian lady I know, she invite me. She lives near the Opera House, I don’t really know if she has money or not, but she invited me. I helped her buy some carpets. For her house. I do carpets.

Anyway, I helped her to buy for the whole house. Sixteen million she said she paid for the place. Though it’s worth 18 now. Anyway, she wants me. Real bad. I know this. That’s okay, why would I mind? Maybe I like it. I’m married though. Not to this one here. She’s my cousin. I give you some advice. You listen to this you will not regret. When you are looking at the carpet, what you do, you ask them to hold a match to the carpet. If they refuse, you know they’re no good. It’s the fibres, you see. Natural fibres, they won’t burn. If it burns, its not good fabric. If its good, they won’t mind.

My pleasure, my pleasure, I am happy to help. You leave this place, you want to take something of quality with you. We’re Turkish. Well, I live in America, in L.A., but I’m Turkish. I’m here to buy carpets. Sellf or, say $7,000 in US, buy for 2-3000 here. I have a shop just down the road. Anyway, this Australian lady, she rings me up and says hey, why don’t you come and stay with me for a while? I say, thankyou, sure. Can my wife come too? She says Oh my god you have a wife? She really wanted me, you see, and she didn’t know.

But she’s a nice lady, so she says, okay, if that’s how it is. Bring your wife. So I will see where she put all those carpets I helped her with. I think she was a bit disappointed, because she really wanted me. Women want me all the time. You know why? It is because I am quite a sensual person. They can see that and they respond. Hey, I’m not complaining.

I’m just here to meet some American friends, show them around. I must go soon and meet them. But yes, women they are always chasing after me. Never leave me alone. Even lesbians. You know about lesbians? I tell you a story. I met this woman and her girlfriend. You tell them. Go on. Tell them. You tell them. It is better.

No, no, no. That’s not right. I’ll tell them. I’ll take it from here. I’ll tell it now. This one she is all over me, you know, oh your so great, I want you so much, you’re so sexy, you know, and I’m just saying hey, I’m married and she’s well that’s no big deal we can just have some fun. And I’m like, you are serious? You are telling me you never in your life have been with a man and you want to be with me? And she’s saying , yeah, I never been with a man but I want to be with you. So that was okay, but I say no.

But they beg me, you know, they saying come on, come on, it will be fun. But I am married, so no. Anyway, a couple of days later, the girlfriend rings me up and you know what she says? She’s begging me, she’s saying please come and sleep with us, me and my girlfriend, we can do it all together, you have to do this for us, and I’m saying no, no, I’m married and she goes on and on and you know what? Then she says but you have to. You have to sleep with my girlfriend. We want to have your baby. I’m not kidding. Can you believe it? This is how much they want me.

What? They just want me for my what? DNA? That’s um…my…Anyway, I must go and meet my friends from America. They are waiting just up at the gate for me. But they beg me, you know, They saying come on, come on, it will be fun. Of course I say no. But this is what I mean, you see, women and me. They just can’t resist.

Why? Well, who am I to say. You are a women….you can see. Something about me, maybe. The way I look. I mean, look at me. Look at this. I know I am not very tall, but I am strong. You don’t need height if you have a good solid frame, you know. Muscular, I am. Its because I look after myself. The women can see that. They respect it. They like it. You know what I think it is? It’s the way I move. Yes, its because I dance. I am a dancer. No, really. A very good dancer. You may not see it from my shape, but women, they can see it in the way I move.

But I must go and meet my friends. They will be waiting. So you are only in Istanbul for a few days? Then where? Bursa? You will take the ferry? Very good. Inegoll. Yes. Inegoll. I know it.Good meatballs. Yes, Inegoll is famous for the meatballs. So you will need to talk to someone you can trust about the carpets. Just to learn. I must go and meet my friends. From America. But my cousin here, she can take you to the showroom, its just round the corner. Ten minutes. Less. Five. You can have a look, she will explain everything. It will be nice. Have some tea. Have you tried Turkey tea yet?

It is just around the corner. Why not? No harm in looking. She will explain everything you need to know. Go with my cousin and she will show you. Nice things no rubbish. You can hold a match. Best rugs in all Turkey. My friends will be waiting for me now, but it will be no trouble, really. No really. Really.

No, I don’t know the best place for halva. Halva you get anywhere. There is no money in halva.

Lesbians.

Malta buses go green

Image:Malta today

Its pretty hard to miss the Malta bus fleet. For a start, they make a hell of a racket. The major bus terminal at the Valetta gates is a swirling mass of very large vehicles lumbering around the magnificent central fountain, miraculously managing not to mow down the locals and tourists that squeeze through tiny cracks between them. I'm sure there was some kind of  system operating in the whole parking, on-loading offloading thing, but it was pretty hard for the casual observer to discern.

Judging by the constant cacophany that greeted us whenever we opened our hotel window, leaning on the horn seems to be an essential part of the recipe. The noise usually ensued when a driver brought the whole circle to a shuddering halt by simply slamming on the brakes wherever they stood to let their passengers off. Some of them had very jaunty horns, though. At least two played a tune that went for at least five seconds. And I have never, ever, seen a more miraculous driving achievement than executing a three point turn in the midst of 70 moving vehicles in less than three seconds without killing anyone.

The drivers most admirable acheivement,though, is the buses themselves. This is the Elvis of bus fleets. Vegas era Elvis. Its big, its beefy, its got a deep voice, and its not afraid of a bit of bling. You can forgive a lot of a bus if its chrome grill is as broad and sparkly and its make-up is expertly applied.

The tourists love them. A lot of people love them. They have their own Wikipedia and Stalkbook and photo archive pages on the interweb. They drivers love them, too, not least because the driver's own them. This is key to both the loving care with which they have been maintained, and the divine diversity of a fleet. In an era where for some reason we tend to equate efficiency with monotony, every one is different. The owner operator model in Malta dates back 100 years, and as of 2009 stood at nearly 500 buses operated by 400 licensees.

But its all over now, baby blue. The service has been tendered and the old buses, and a great many of the drivers, are all set to shuffle off this transport coil. While the new consortium, Arriva, claims it will hire 1,100 people, resulting in a net gain in jobs, it remains to be seen whether the existing drivers will be kept on.

Commuters don't exactly seem to be rallying to the drivers' cause. Early comments bemoaning the loss of this iconic living museum were soon drowned by the complaints of disgruntled commuters complaining of unreliable services, fictional timetables, rudeness, dirt, heat, and smoking. Malta's Ombudsman recent found that the transport association had ignored 49 complaints of driver smoking. A quick scan through comments on news reports such as the one here gives a good summary. Unfortunately the only people defending the drivers seem to be the drivers themselves.

According the the Malta Independant Online the new fleet with include 230 brand new Euro V buses and an additional 86 buses with Euro V engines between two and seven years old. Their introduction will take the average age of the fleet down to two years, compared to its current average of 30.

The government and the tender winners, Arriva, are keen to promote the green credentials of the new deal. The fleet will include 13 hybrid vehicles for use in historically and environmentally sensitive areas. A report commissioned by the government has suggested that this, along with the replacement of the rest of the fleet, including fitting eco-driving technology to vehicles, tyre inflation monitoring and turning engines off between journeys aim to improve air quality, and deliver a 48 per cent in hydrocarbons, 94 per cent reduction in particulate matter, a 70 per cent reduction in oxides of nitrogen and a 55 per cent reduction in carbon monoxide.

Commuters have also been promised air-conditioning, on-vehicle destination and ‘next stop’ electronic displays, be wheelchair accessible and have improved safety standards in an effort to incrase bus passengers by 54 per cent over the life of the 10 year contract. Arriva Malta has also said it would support, a heritage bus museum for retired buses if one was to be established, though the extent of, and enthusiasm for, such a project remains to be seen.

Maybe taking a big gulp of clean fresh air will make up for the losing the spectacle of a hundred orange leviathans flaunting their their chrome and badges as they dance around the fountain.

GSOI world domination proceeds according to plan....

My darlings hit the world wide interweb in all their glamour and gorgeousness and wit.

Pleased and proud to know you, I am. Pleased and proud.

Now all our good patrons at Sleepers need to do is release an Android version, and I will be happy.

Edinburgh on Lonely Planet

Hello!  Very pleased to have a little article on Edinburgh appearing on the Lonely Planet website at the moment. Swing by here to have a look.

I remember Paris ...

I have a rather fraught relationship with Paris. Or rather, I have no relationship with Paris at all. I have the kind of relationship with Paris that I have with David Bowie: I am rather smitten with it, but it doesn't know I exist.

Paris thinks (and yes, I do think cities are sentient, in their own funny way) I am a rather annoying colonial bumpkin from so far away that it barely matters. A badly dressed one who can't speak French, at that. In fact, the only person I really spoke to was a chap from a French Ministry who turned out to be Argentinian born and raised. We bonded over being from The South.

We stayed in Trocadero. A rather chic suburb replete with elegant looking apartments interspersed by Embassies and such. The Eiffel Tower looms up at you from unexpected angles when you walk the streets. Purty.The hotel was small but good and it had, as Paris tends to, an open air market with very good looking food. We may well have stopped to shop if my tallish Beloved hadn't nearly impaled his brain on a low-lying scaffold. The supermarket was nearly as good. As for restaurants, we would have been fine if we wanted to sit outdoors drinking, eating oysters and being seen in tourist-traps where everything cost way too much. Apart from that, we were pretty much confined to Italian. Also good, but not exactly what I head to Paris to eat. At the high end of the scale, they managed to squeeze us in to Sgabetti, where the food, like the prices, were top-notch. It was a far-cry from my previous visit staying in the Marias, where we ate good provincial French food nearly every night of our brief stay.

The Trocadero, mind you, has a damn fine line in museums, including the Musee du quai Branly, which is an architectural wonder and had a fantastic exhibition of new artists incorporating folk/traditional practice into their work. The highlight for me, though, was an installation by Charles Sanderson. It was a  light show set up so that the long, swirling ramp that led to the upper gallery spaces was flowing with words that twisted and tumpled over eachother on the floor. Earthy, geographical words and place names, they were. It was, literally, a babbling brook, and really quite beautiful.

If you are having a flying visit to France and don't get a chance to venture forth from the capital, Cite du l'architecture & du Patrimoine, is also well worth a visit. Here you can walk around faithfully rendered models of various architechural glories, including full sized medieval arches and doorways, spires and other assorted fiddly bits, as well as some subterranean frescoes. Modern architechture also gets a look in, with models illustrating key trends and changes in design.

Ah, yes. I remember Paris. It will never remember me.

Giving it away

I am now officially enrolled in a beginners drawing class. The shopping list just arrived in the mail, with lovely things on it like "willow charcoal" and "putty rubber".  I barely know what they are, to be honest, but they sound nice. The confirmation e-mail is very reassuring in stating that you don't have to know what you are doing. That's good, because it would be embarassing to be expelled from a course that is only five days long.

So, further to my previous about soul-selling, in the absence of a buyer for my artistic soul, I have just decided to go and give it away. Fans of Adam Smith out there may well conclude that this is a perfectly demonstrates the demand curve in action. Hence, I have started another blog. Well, less of a blog really than an on-line drawing diary. I don't actually expect anyone to look at it, but I probably will, occasionally, and you are welcome to if you would like. Its listed at the blog-list side thingy on the left here.

Its mostly so I can track what happens next. Having started at the absolute bottom with no knowledge or experience whatsoever, the improvement curve is still feeling steep, which feels good.  This is in stark contrast to the whole Writing Thing, where the law of diminishing returns has cut in to a truly alarming degree. Drawing, I have no expectations whatsoever of producing anything of any value at all (again, unlike The Writing Thing) so its absolutely impossible for me to be disappointed by the outcome. I don't even care whether or not its original, so I can draw little pictures of Batman to my hearts content, if I like. So there.

More importantly, as my recent personal history has demonstrated, sooner or later all one's belongings end up in a mini-skip far away, so cyberspace seems a pretty good place to stow them. And you don't have to pay excess baggage.

P.S. Adam Smith is, by the by, another of Scotland's many contributions to the world. 

The Athiest's Dilemma

Here is my dilemma. To whom am I supposed to sell my soul if I don't believe in god or the devil?  Because I gladly would for even a slither of the talent currently on display at the Edinburgh College of Art Annual Show, which runs until Sunday 20 June.

Particularly impressive this year were the offerings from the animators. I have stolen some of their images below to give you a little taste of the depth and breadth of brilliance. Click the hotlink in this para for further information about the whole cohort of talents, only a few of whom are listed below.

Congratulations to the whole talented lot of you.

Bastards.


Coyote and the Stars by Claire J. C. Stewart




If We Meet by Jaimin Lui (try www.missbowtie.com, but it didn't work for me)

 

Savage Mountain by Steve Warne



Noel by Peter Greeves



I also bought a couple of editions of a very fine and somewhat disturbing zine calle "Toasty Cats" by Magda Boreysza. You can find some more of her phantamagorical imaginings here.

Brontë Sisters Power Dolls

Many thanks to the magnificent Ms Jane O for bringing this little gem to my attention.

Putting your best foot foward

Question: What do you do when holed up in a hotel in a foreign land when both you and your partner have a gastro bug?
Answer: Sit there and draw your own feet.

Sheik it

So, there I am in Wadi Rum. I have climbed down from the rock where I have watched the sun set behind huge monoliths of roll-topped sandstone, the spindly legs of camels throwing length shadows across the red sand.  I have drunk hot spicy tea from a tiny cup.I have eaten hummus and tabouli and lamb slow-roasted by being buried in an iron pot deep in the desert sand. We have gone for a walk in the dark to look at the stars, until J started frightening me with stories of djinn that had be jumping at every moonlit shadow, and scurrying like a desert rat back to the deep reds and brown of the rugs spread around a warm and fragrant fire.

And then, in what should have been the pinnacle of an otherwise gorgeous evening, the music starts. This is the moment. But can I remember a single thing from my Melbourne CAE belly dancing lessons? No. I get up and jig about for a little while, while a travelling companion to my left flails his limbs so desperately that I have to duck to stop him taking out an eye. I retire from the fray as soon as it is polite to do so, just one more frozen-hipped anglo in a very fluid desert.

Whippet good

Fashion Bulletin: Match making in Incheon Airport, Korea

The first instance was while I was still wandering the bewilderingly indistinguishable halls of the Incheon Airport, dazed after the first 10 hour flight, and walking to stay awake until I got on the second. There they were: young, be-jeaned, and both wearing black zip-up hoodies. Nothing notable in itself, except that "All American Girl" was emblazoned across her chest in pink, and "All American Boy" in a baby-blue equivalent across his.

At first I assumed it was a one-off, a sartorial flourish that - from my cultural perspective at least - had decided to leap-frog "quirky" to leap headlong into "insane". Perhaps my lagging brain was seeing double?  But no, as I headed to the boarding gate I spotted another couple, also locked in garmented betrothal, this time with white hoodies with "love by [heart symbol]" written on the front, which seemed to make made neither fashion nor grammatical sense.

I entertained myself for a while trying to conjure a mental picture of the shock and horror that would disfigure J's handsome visage if I came home with, say, a his-and-hers pair of "Hello Kitty" hoodies. I was mentally filing his likely reaction just after his likely response if I get Born Again and before his reaction to me committing some grisly forms of serial homicide, as a his-and-hers pair of matching Ralph Lauren orange polo shirts with green lettering sauntered by hand-in-hand.

Seated at my gate, the trickle became a flood. Now that I had my eye in, I could see they were everywhere. To my left, matching white bomber jackets with gold dragons. To my right, silky blouson baseball-style zip-up jackets.  A couple near the plastic plant had eschewed the matching wardrobe, but gone with themed dressing instead: different clothes and colours, but both wearing jeans, converse sneakers, t-shirts, baseball jackets and baseball caps. Another couple had decided to go with the radical notion of swapping contrasting colours: his polo shirt was white with purple lettering, hers purple with white lettering. Some were closet (excuse the pun) match-making, hiding identical t-shirts under distinct and individual jackets. Another more shameless pair had decided that matching t-shirts weren't enough, and had paired them with identical jeans, right down to the black and red jewelled"V"s stuck on to the right buttock.

It went on and on. By the time the flight began to board, I had identified at least 15 couples committing public displays of purchasing unity. I could only speculate how this fitted into the complex rituals of young adult romance. Was there gender-based demarcations regarding who did the buying and the gifting, or was a mutual decision, a retail-based consumation? Did splitting up involve ceremonial return of the t-shirt?  Or maybe it was de-rigeur to to keep each one so that in their respective dotages they could sort through their t-shirt drawer on wet Sunday afternoons and reminisce about youthful romance? Maybe it was just that they were all going to Sydney on a holiday, and that taken the whole "Aussies are sporty" thing a little bit too seriously.

On the return trip two weeks later, the airport was again littered with matching couples.  But hitting the streets of Seoul that evening , there was nary a match to be found. The young hipsters cruising through the neon streets on a Friday night would have looked at home in any of the major cities of the world.

A better class of travel

So here I am kicking back in the first class carriage on my way to London. Free wi-fi, as well as free cups of tea and biscuits. I also have a seat tucked next to the window with a powerpoint for my PC and a little table. Its a single seat, so I don't have to rub grubby shoulders with anyone.


Not that any of the shoulders here are grubby. There are a few occasional travellers - retirees with pre-GFC indexed pensions I would guess - and worker-bee types. Everyone is looking rather pleased with themselves, the retirees because they are getting their rocks off on the free tea (as am I), the businessy types because they travel like this all the time, and they are all so terribly keen for their success to be noticed. They keep looking around to make eye contact with eachother and establish themselves as "us" rather than a "them".


I suspect that a number of the retirees are also feeling rather pleased with themselves because, like me, they have paid less for the free tea, wi-fi, and big comfy seats than they would have paid for a seat down in the other carriage with the plebs and the free air. Its one of the wierd peculiarities of the ticketing sysetm here in the UK that the price of the tickets vary from day to day, depending on demand. For some reason - I suspect because they operate as totally different booking systems - this means that if you are lucky, you can score a first class seat cheaper than a bog-standard one. Such was my luck today. Ten quid cheaper, in fact. Happy as a dog in a side-car, I am.


It also reminds me, however, that I have a little stored up pustule of disillusioned rage that I need to lance....


You may recall some time ago I had a little rant about the arrogant class-ridden elitism which seems to permeate every nook and cranny of British politics.  Well, it continues, even though we are now careening headlong into an election. That's similar to careening headlong in to a brick wall, except the wall is made of Tories. Recent recommendations in response to The Expenses Scandal suggested that MPs shouldn't travel first class. On planes, I totally agree. Trains, given the above weird pricing, I am ambivalent. At least I was, until I heard the response of one Tory MP, Sir Nicholas Winterton, who complained that this would prevent him from working on the train because "people would be looking over your shoulder the entire time, there would be noise, there would be distraction."  (Welcome to our, world, sunshine! Apparently no-one has appraised him of the ubiquity of the open plan office.)  

He added: "They are a totally different type of people." (my italics).

Apparently, ones that never need to work or concentrate. Perhaps its all that paying for our own transport to work that makes us so rowdy and unpleasant. The complete conviction that there is some qualitative difference between the 'them' and 'us' would be funny if it wasn't so sad. Well, in the words of The Great Jarvis "I don't see anyone else smiling in here".

Did you ever hear a more convincing argument for never letting any of the fuckers near any first class travel again? For that matter, did you ever hear a more convincing argument for never letting Tories near Government again? 

I just wish I was a little more confident that Sir Winterton was an unrepresentative sample of the House.....

See the Beeb for further detail, if you need it.

A rose by any other name

Cities smell.

In Vientiane, it was primarily woodsmoke. Wood is still the most common fuel, so the city always had at least an undercurrent of smokiness about it, though at mealtimes on particularly still days, it became so thick and heavy that it must be an asthmatic's nightmare. A nice smell, though. Probably terrible for your lungs but kinda homey.

Flying out of Laung Prabang, where the air is fresh and damp, except for the odd drift of incense coming from one of the many temples, we flew straight into Bangkok. I had only actually visited once before but the minute we got out of the cab it all came rushing back - mostly via my nostrils. Its a funny smell, Bangkok: complex and polyvalent as befits the massive, sprawling metropolis that is it. Its kind of sweet and kind of dirty. I would guess at a recipe that is 2 part sweet chilli sauce, 2 part fish sauce, 1 part lemon grass, mixed in with 1 cup of sump oil, a smattering of mildew, a burst of neon and seasoned with an occasional sprinkling of open drain and lightening. Not unpleasant, but not exactly something that you would dab behind your ears.

Just as homey as the aromatic woodiness of Vientiane is Edinburgh's distinctive but sporadic pong. One of the things I really love about Edinburgh is the smell that comes over the city - and I mean the whole city, including inside your own house if the window's open - when the brewery is brewing and the wind is from the west. Its a kind of yeasty baking smell, which always reminds me of the very fine beef burgundy pies that I used buy at the Schwobs in King Street decades ago as an indulgent winter treat. Its a kind of wholesome, warm smell which gives you an appetite. Makes your stomach rumble if you are hungry, though.

I am not sure the same applies to one's home town. I think you are blind to it, like you are blind to the distinctive aroma of your house. There are a few that stick in my mind though. One is the salty assault of a southerly change as it sweeps up the bay. The other is the smell of wheat or grass tinder dry and baking in the heat.

The third was responsible for one of the worst pangs of homesickness I have had since I left. I was out for a post-dinner stroll in the old part of Boulder City. This part of town is the deco era creation which sprang up as they were first building Hoover dam. Walking through the quiet streets with its palm tree-ed parks and deco houses  in the dark, I guess I had already been subconciously lulled back into an Elwood frame of mind. Suddenly there was a huge, suffocating billow of jasmine blossom. How many evenings had I got off the train or tram, or stumbled home from parties and pubs and bands and friend's houses, or driven through a summer evening with an elbow hanging out the window of my faithful car, and known that once I started smelling jasmine I was home. Being hit with it there in Nevada seemed like some cruel hallucination intended to trick me into getting lost. I think I burst into tears.

An America Legion bowling hall appeared just in time to remind me that home was still safely where it belonged, down there at the bottom end of the southern hemisphere.

Lao PDR and the Lonely Planet

Woo hoo! One of my Lao PDR photos in the Lonely Planet mosaic.

Share your favourite travel photos with Lonely Planet and win over $170,000 in prizes! | home

Tokyo Year Zero

Tokyo Year Zero by David Peace


My rating: 4 of 5 stars
A very long time ago, someone close to people I cared about got murdered. For weeks, every lurid headline made me shudder, hoping they hadn't seen it. I swore off crime fiction for years afterwards, no longer having any tolerance for the death of someone's loved one being reduced to a plot device. And for exactly that reason, there's a lot of crime fiction I still really can't bear.

What I admire most about David Peace his ability to convey what is real about these events: grief and hurt and loss. Yes, there are murders, but in a David Peace book they matter. And the fact that they matter, that they are tragedies, means that reading Peace ain't no picnic. He is a master of his powers, its his skill that lets the reader understand tragedy. Characteristic stylistic techniques such as intruding internal voices, section introductions using different font, layout and voice in almost stream of conciousness flashes, and stark, short-sentence prose all work so effectively that there are bits that are hard to read, because you know that you probably should look away. And, perhaps because Peace draws from history to write his fiction (in this case a real case in immediate post-WWII Tokyo), redemption is hard to find. It you read crime for the satisfaction of justice and order being restored at the end, then this is not the book for you.

If there is redemption here, it is in a book rendered powerfully enough to make the reader see things they would rather ignore, the things that will continue for as long as we continue to look away.

I would rank it as good as GB84, better than The Damned United. The rest of the Japan trilogy is now on my list. (Might recharge the psychic batteries with something a bit fluffier first, though.)





View all my reviews >>

Stephen Fry V Catholic Church

Thought you might enjoy the attached YouTube clip of the passionate, eloquent and generally impressive Stephen Fry's speaking in support of love, and in opposition to the Church.

For all of my friends out there raised under the wing of the Big C (and most of you have been, lets face it), I would like to stress that I include this because of its succinct eloquence and passion. I would be equally happy to pick on the many other religious brandnames, protestant versions as well as ones with different other choices of deity, who are equally remiss on various matters of social and moral policy. Though generally speaking, they are not as powerful and therefore not as dangerous. And, yes, they do good things too....but I won't witter on. SF will explain much better than I can:

Bateman, you're a fiend

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis



My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A recent review (of another book) raised the possibility that this was another example of a narrator who was utterly unrealiable, and that Bateman never harmed a fly. Could this be true? I wish I had a copy handy so I could go and investigate. All I can say is that it has the distinction of being about the only book that has ever made me view my fellow commuters with a high degree of wariness and suspicion, nay, fear. It scared me.

Ultimately though, the driving force of this book is, in my view, a righteous rage directed firmly AT Bateman and all he represents. Very satisfying.

View all my reviews >>

"That hurts, doesn't it?"

In Vientiane, you can't go far without bumbing into an establishment offering massage.  Of the wholesome, theraputic variety, I hasten to add. The most rudimentary menu will offer you a choice of 'soothing', 'Lao1 (meaning a little more vigourous), facial and foot.  Depending on the size and ambition of the establishment, any number of variations may soon follow.

I had no real intention of indulging, having generally stuck to the principle of only sharing a massage with someone with whom I would be willing to share a bed. However, my firstThursday in the country, I woke to find my lower back completely dysfunction and the rest of me barely able to walk. By the end of the day, I could barely stand straight. It was disturbing. The next day, I was heaps better, but tap-dancing - or climbing in and out of large vehicles to go to my meetings, for that matter, remained completely out of the question. The top half of my body was tilting forward at 45 degrees like a giraffe in mid-stride.

Enter Mrs B. The minute our locally-based collegues heard of my demise, they had no hesitation in recommending her. She couldn't fit me in for two days, but it was worth the wait. A small Lao woman wearing jeans and a striped, long sleeved t-shirt, she agreed to meet me at my hotel.  I later realised I had put her in a rather akward position with this request, as it was not becoming for a massuer to be seen visiting hotels. If I had been a man she would never have agreed. I so glad she did. Within five minutes, she had not only pinpointed the spot in my lower back that was misplaced, she had also identified two other spots, including this little one at the base of my skull which I gave up mentioning years ago because no physio I had ever seen in Melbourne had made the slightest iota of difference to it.

" Mmm," says Mrs B. "That hurts, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does."
"That's hurt for a long time, hasn't it?"  I could have hugged her then and there. By the time she proceeded to make me completely better with forty minutes of massage and gentle manipulation, I was ready to dedicate my unborn children to her Genius. All this for the equivalent of about $15US.

Ms B happens to be a trained physical therapist, as well as a great massuese, so the session included helpful information about what number vertebrae were needing attention, and a little lesson in stretching exercises to begin the next day and stop the problem from re-occuring. Excellent health care in anyone's world. Unfortunately, public sector salaries for health professionals here in Lao reflect the GDP: they are at rock bottom. A doctor's monthly wage is not much more that a single Medicare session payment in Australia, and other health professionals earm much less.  As a result, this genius of life-giving goodness has to work in the private sector to earn enough to support her family, largely ministering to the aches and pains of  the employees of international NGOs and aid organisations i.e. those with foreign incomes.

If I am ever lucky enough to be back in Vientiane, the first thing I do will be call Mrs B. I might have to borrow someone's house for my visit.

This is Wednesday, I must be in an elevator

Locals here in Lao PDR  will tell you that the PDR may officially be People's Democratic Republic, but in reality means 'Please Don't Rush'. And after ten minutes wandering around the capital, I was totally on board. Yes, drivers will ask you if you want a tuk-tuk, but chances are they will do it without getting out of the hammock that they have strung between the uprights of their vehicle. It would seem almost cruel to accept.

So, when the carpet in the elevator takes the trouple to remind me, in big capital letters that its Sunday, one can only sigh a sleepy little thank you to the proprietors. Here, I don't think it will take long to forget what day it is.

Brasyl by Ian McDonald

My rating: 4 of 5 stars Who knew quantum physics could make such a good read. Slipping effortlessly as a Q-blade between the eighteenth century, an approximate present day and thirty years hence, this book is a great trip of sharp, riffing prose and well-rendered worlds (or should I say realities). Very much nestled in a S-F kind of tradition, and an enjoyable read. My only reservation is that I found the denoument did not quite live up to the impressive beginnings. View all my reviews >>