I Heart Olomouc

Balloon seller at the Christmas markets. He has a cheeky grin!


During our stay in Prague, Anouska and I became increasingly tired of the 'big cities'. Since our trans-continental adventure began, we have craved authentic experiences. We got our wish in Vietnam and India, but in Europe it was harder to find. This is due to the highly developed nature of European cities and also because many European cities are geared towards attracting tourists, which basically means creating an artifical simulation of what is authentic. This is the reason we like to stay outside the city centre. Here, you get a better feel for a place. The pubs and cafes are where locals frequent, and as a result, you get better food, which is also significantly cheaper. My friend, Christina, hearing my plea to get away from the urbanised jungle, suggested we would find what we wanted if we visited one of the small Czech towns. After a search on the Lonely Planet forum, Olomouc kept coming up. People were commenting that it was a lovely, student town, cheap and untouched by tourism. It sounded almost too good to be true. So, we packed our things once again and caught a train out to the town that is apparently a modern utopia.


The hostel was called "Poet's Corner" and was on the 5th story of a building near the centre of town. Anouska unable to carry her her pack up, graciously allowed me to carry it as well as mine up for her. I cursed all the way up. When we finally got to the floor, having climbed innumerable step, I was expecting to see the St. Peter and the Pearly Gates, but all we found were more Australians. The hostel was run by ex-pat Australians. Unlike previous experiences, they were very pleasant and gave us a run down of the town and things to do and places to eat. It is also here that I met Jarrod, one of the employees from Melbourne, who was a kindred spirit in all things silly and who shares the same enthusiasm for 80's pop songs and the Beatles as I do.

"Hey Daniel, let's request "Come on Eileen" again! I don't know the words, but that doesn't matter".

Greg, the owner of the hostel is a mad ice-hockey fan. Every home game he rounds up his guests and takes them to see his beloved Olomoucs in a league game. The Czechs are masters at this sport. When Canada, the world champions lose, it is usually to these people. So we were expecting a good game. We found our seats, hugged ourselves tighly against the cold coming from the rink and sipped on our 1.5 Au beer waiting for the game to commence. Coming from a country where ice skating is a rare novelty and anyone who wished to pursue a career in it would be laughed at, I was amazed at the skill and dexterity these athletes displayed. I was also enthusiastic about the promise of brutality, of men being forced up against the barrier, in their mad frenzy to get the puck. The defining difference between a lot of sport in Australia is that it is fast paced. The game is divided into three periods of 20 minutes. The puck travels at great speeds, so it can be one down one end in a number of seconds. Being Australian, it wasn't long before my competitive spirit came out and I was cheering for the red-white Olomoucs and screaming at the opposition, calling them 'those wankers in blue'. The game lagged for the first half, but I didn't mind that too much as I enjoyed the cheap beer and the occasional man being squeezed into the glass. The second half yielded more entertainment with Olomouc holding out their lead against the blue wankers to take the game 4-3.

Anouska, taking an 'interest' in the sport.

Following the game, the group of travellers, consisting mostly of Australians, headed to a local brewery for a meal. Anouska and I ordered some potato pancakes and 3 pints, to go with the 3 we had already consumed at the game. From there, the group headed out into the snowfall to go to the best student bar in town, "Vertigo", which takes its name from the 1958 classic Alfred Hitchcock film starring Jimmy Steward and Kim Novak. It even has a print of the film on one side of the wall. It is a smokey, bohemianesque bar, which has 1.5 Au pints and plays a lot of rock and roll music from the 1960s. It was here Anouska and I further downed 3 pints, making the grand total of the evening 9. That is almost 5 litres of beer each. The night went from mild to wild when Jarrod and I initiated the trend of chair standing when "Come on Eileen came on". From here the night descended into a rowdy rabble with a group of very drunk Australians and Czech students dancing and singing along to classics. We went home as the sun was rising. I woke up feeling fine, despite the indulgance of the night before. Anouska however, could not manage to leave the hostel before late afternoon. We didn't learn our lesson obviously. Two nights there we were there again doing the very same thing.

Jarrod standing, me with a stupid face, Alex at the back and Simply Red in the foreground. He didn't like being called that, or being told (by me) that Simply Red is really ugly. I wonder why?


Judge for yourself.

If you're an architectural enthusiast like myself, you will find yourself leaving your travel companion to deal with their self imposed sickness to walk through the cobbled streets for a few hours to admire the design and beauty of the buildings and the statues of Olomouc. It is very similar to Prague with old Gothic buildings nestled in narrow laneways, except for one noticeable difference. Tourism has not touched upon the innocent beauty of this town. There is only one Macdonalds in the town centre and no Starbucks,

Burger King or Kentucky Fried Chicken. Where many cities have large metal structures twisted into indiscernible shapes and called "art", Olomouc has stuck with baroque stone structures, a mark of its cultural refinement. I think the true character of Olomouc comes out at night. Walking down the dimly lit streets is like being in a Franz Kafka story. The absence of neon lights in place of low watt floodlights brings out a nocturnal atmosphere that is unique to this place. The picture to the right emphasises the errie mis-en-scene that would probably occur in a David Lynch film, but which happens every single night here. But when one finds themselves separated from the drinking group at 4am in the morning, somewhat intoxicated and lost, the streets turn into a Gothic nightmare, where demons lurk in the shadows, the tortured facs of stone gargoyles seem almost alive and every face you pass stares at you in surreal disbelief. It might not seem so from the comment just made, but I am completely in love with this place. It is just so interesting. Give me some money and something to do and I would never leave.

Town Square at night.

You would not expect a small town in the Czech Republic would be home to an amazing cultural life. When you travel, you learn to assume a little less, because the world is so large and diverse, that anything is possible. The arts scene in Olomouc is like a university campus. Something is always on. If it's not jazz, then it plays, art galleries, independent films and tribute bands. They even have performance art at pubs. At pubs! I swear! Imagine seeing all that in Perth! I know, it's hard. And when you hear tribute band, you automatically think substandard, but the Doors group we saw was fantastic. The lead man came on stage, with long locks like Morrison himself, spoke to the audience in Czech and launched into an almost 2 hour set, doing the best impersonation I have ever seen. This little place in the middle of the Czech Republic with a population of 102000 should be renamed the cultural capital of Europe! It is absolutely brilliant.

I praise this place so much that the mayor should save his time and hand me the keys to the city now. If this place wasn't ideal enough, a paragraph concerning the cuisine will further promote this city as a modern day utopia. My favourite dish here was "Gossiping Aunt's Potato Pancakes", which was potato pancakes cooked with spinach, pork and cheese. The quality of the food overall is, like most things, better than in Prague. If Anouska wasn't drooling over pig knuckle, then she was exclaiming the culinary prowess of the pork stuff with cheese or the peach chicken. They not only make fine food, but sweets as well. Cafe '87 is home to the famous Chocolate pie, a delicious dark chocolate sensation that will wet your mouth and melt your heart. You can also pick up a lovely honey cake or even different cheeses covered with fruit sauces from the jazz club. There is an established dining culture here, which accounts for the reason why eateries can be found all over the city, from pubs to cafes to restaurants. Even one of the tea houses do food. I suspect the abundance of food is why Anouska has taken so well to Olomouc. I am very surprised that we have not gained any weight.

The perfect coffee companion.

Christmas is a time of friends and family. This doctrine is strongly followed in the Czech Republic. This can be seen in the festivities at the Christmas market of the town square. Hundred of small, wooden stalls are erected selling all kind of seasonal treats from hot wine punch to children's toys. The Olomouc christmas markets has a loving and warm atmosphere that I have never seen before. Families come to celebrate the joy of Christmas, while couples kiss under the lights. Old friends share a hot wine punch and pass on their season greetings. It is a beautiful display of human interaction. It is sad to think that if this kind of event was staged in Australia, it would be hijacked by drunked youths. I am glad to see that there are places in the world that Christmas still means something other than material gain. I believe we still practice that believe individually in Australia, but as a society the spirit of Christmas is nothing more than a excuse of excess.

Give me that one, and that one.

The Unbearable Coldness of Being (in Praha).

My poor frozen ear lobes.

Our bus ride from Amsterdam to Prague was 16 hours. For once Anouska let me sit by the window and I drifted in and out of sleep with my head hitting the glass as the bus rolled along through Germany. Some turks behind us played horrid Turkish pop music and the Germans complained about the seating arrangements. It was worse than the United Nations. When we arrived, it was the afternoon and I was as tired as I had been in a long time. Not just physically tired, but world weary. I was hungry as well and I felt, for the first time, like packing up my stuff and going home. When we got to "Hostel Elf" we had a long nap, which restored my energy and frame of mind. I suddenly realised I was in Prague, in the Czech Republic, home of Franz Kafka and a novel I am quite fond of, "The Unbearable Lightness of Being". It is also a country where beer is so plentiful, that it is cheaper to buy beer then it is to purchase water. I have a child-like fascination when I arrive in a new place. I am excited like a dog being told WALK! After our nap, we hit the streets near the hostel and found a pub where we settled down for dinner and beer. One of remenants of communism in this country is that they state on menus the weight of the meal. This has to do with the now defunked rationing system. Displaying the weight of the meal on the menu is very deceiving. When we ordered a meal of 200 grams, we were not sure whether it was going to be enough. Should we order a side to accompany? What about an entree dish? These were questions we asked ourselves. Of course, that immediately changed when the dish was served. Instead of the menu stating "duck, potato pancakes and cabbage, 200 grams (which is what I had)", it should have said, "a fu&king big duck, served with a field of oil drenched potatos, with a large truck filled with cabbage. And this is a traditional Czech meal? How are they not the size of houses? How do their digestive systems survive against such a gluttoneous onslaught? I learnt after a few of these meals that the stomach is a miraclous thing. That after a while, you can get used to anything. By the end of our stay in Prague, Anouska and I could easy eat a meal like this, as well as downing several litres of beer with it. We were in the Czech Republic, where quality and quantity are not so different.

That aforementioned meal was just a small example of what is on offer in the Czech Republic. When I say small, I do not mean that there are a lot of different things to eat, but there are a few things that can be eaten a lot of different ways. Pork for example, can be served roasted, smoked, grilled, stuffed in dumplings, fried, beaten and wrapped in cheese and bacon, made into soup, crumbed and stuffed inside potato pancakes. Now I am starting to sound awfully like Forest Gump's friend Bubba. Lovely as their meat intensive diet may be, it was not long before we were crying out for vegetables. What I would have given for some beans, pees and carrots. I dreamt vividly of pumpkin, asparagus and brocilli flowing plentifully into my comically sized mouth. I would have even digested a large bowl of brussel sprouts and been thankful. One thing I would never tire of is the Czech potato pancakes. This food is a common side dish to traditional Czech meals. It is the most wonderful food imaginable. Words are terribly insufficent to describe the joy of eating this food.

The Czech people are blessed by God. They have the best beer in the world and it is also the cheapest, bar the odd Vietnamese draught beer. The Czech beer is exported throughout the world and is known for its quality. Despite having beer that is fit for Jesus to kick back with after a hard day at the office, they charge a pittance for it. The usual cost of a pint of beer is between 20 and 35 Crown, which works out to be 1.5 - 2.5 Au. That to an Australian is unbelievable. How are the Czech people not intoxicated all the time? Anouska and I found ourselves drinking much more than we usually do. Waitresses asked me if I wanted a beer with lunch and I found myself, more often than not, saying yes. A day wouldn't go past when I wouldn't consume at least 2 litres of it. Even if you are not a fan of beer, like Anouska was, you will find yourself falling in love with this heavenly elixar. I doubt very much that the exported product to Australia would taste as good, because the great thing about Czech beer is that most of it contains no preservatives. That's right! That means no feeling bloated and as long as you are hydrated, no hangover headaches.

The original Budweiser. Bohemian style.

The hostel we were staying at was, we learned too late, a party hostel, where scores of Eastern Europeans come to get very drunk and go to stripshows and prostitutes. Since it wasn't our scene and we spent our nights cooped up in our room. Of course, we were still privy to what was going on outside our room, because we could hear it very clearly. Like the nasally Australian girl, who was 4 foot 11 and wore novelty sized stillettos. As well as being a general loud mouth, she made breakfast very loudly at 3am after a night out. She also attempted to seduce every male there, despite having a 41 year old German boyfriend, 20 years her senior. Another colourful character was the French guy, Oliver, who looked like a neo-nazi, never left the hostel, drunk constantly and gave you filthy, murderous looks whenever you walked past him. I called him 'le asshole'. And who could forget those delightful, drunken Ukraines, who looked at pornography together on the public computer. Fun times, great people.

It snowed on the second day we were there. The city was dusted in icing sugar. It was the first time I had seen snow, but I think Anouska, who had, was more excited, as she open the window and grabbed handfuls of snow and said "LOOK SNOW!" as if I didn't have eyes to behold it myself. I have to admit though, that my child-like fascination did arise and it was not long before I joined her in moulding snow balls and throwing them. When we walked in to town that day, a few hours later, we were still amused by making snow balls and throwing them. Except, by this time, the snow has transmutated with dirt into a muddy mush. When I was a child, I remember watching cartoons where the snow looked so beautiful and light to the touch. No one told me that after a few hours of sunlight and exposure to dirt, it starts to look like runny dog shit from a very sick puppy. But when it stays cool enough after a snow fall, Prague looks magical. The picture depicted is of the town square. It is a poor indication of the je ne sais pas quality snow brings to the cobbled streets of Prague.

Icing sugar, not dog turd.

Prague is yet another example of a beautiful city marred by globalisation, turning our planet into a gigantic corporate cookie cutter. Praha, as it is also referred to, is known as the Paris of the east. It is gorgeous like Paris, but when you see McDonalds and Starbucks (I call it something else that sounds similar) every 100 metres, you start to question what makes a city unique in this ever-increasing capitalistic world. Surprisingly, the architecture, especially in the old part of town, is largely untouched by modern development. I spent half my time looking up at the wonderful buildings. The inner city is also very pedestrian friendly, which I admire. The streets are mostly too narrow for vehicles and they are cobbled. I am not sure why I love cobbled streets in a city so, but I think I am it might have to do with the old world romantic in me. I can envisage Franz Kafka walking along these streets on his way to the insurance firm where he worked thinking up the bizarre plots to his stories. That, in fact, is a sore point of mine. Franz Kafka memorabilia is every in Prague. I find it ironic they are making a lot of money out of someone they didn't give two hoots about in their lifetime, but now that he is a literary icon, they idolise him. They even have a museum. I didn't go, mainly because I didn't want to pay 10 euro to read biographical information on walls that I could in a book from the public library. How often do we hear the narrative of the unappreciated artist? Well here is one more to add to the long list. But I digress - back to the discussion on architecture. The town square, although littered with tourist traps like 8 dollar hot chocolates, is very impressive with its large expanse of cobbled stones and statues, with a very old astronomical clock on one side of it. For some reason tourists like to gather around the clock on the hour to see a very uninspiring clock performance. They like to film it and take photographs as well, just to capture that special moment when it went from one hour to the next. Out of the inner city, you notice the soviet influences a lot more because development in these areas took place after the Soviet occupation in 1968. I love Soviet buildings. It is not because I consider them aesthetically pleasing. Anyone with a sense of taste does not. They are, however, very good at stating themselves as functional and authoritive, which I suppose, is the whole point of communism. The Sovietesque state buildings are very intimating to look at, mainly because of their grandeur. Looking up at one of these buildings makes you feel rather small and insignificant. Again, this is the objective.

Nice town.

One magical, snowy day, Anouska and I decided to hike up to the Gothic-style Prague castle, situated on a hill by the Vtlava river. It was orginally built in the 9th century and rebuilt in the 12th. The "Guiness Book of Records" considers it to be one of the largest castles in the world at 570 meters in length and an average of about 130 meters wide. It was the seat of power for a score of different empires, including Bohemia and the Holy Roman Empire. It is a glorious castle, with a history that is likewise. The photograph here shows the St Vitus cathedral, which is situated within the castle. Its beauty matches that of the Notre Dame. The trek up to it was not arduous as Anouska would have you believe. It took us half an hour from the town square, but the journey was worth it. From here, you have an amazing vantage point of the entire city and the title, "Paris of the east", starts to make a lot of sense.

Lovely.

Absinthe has a myth-like status attached to it in Australia because, extract of wormwood, is illegal. I have always been curious to know what it is and how it affects you when you consume it. We first saw it in shops and on menus in Amsterdam. It was quite amusing to see Van Gogh´s image on some of the bottles. I doubt very much whether a chemically imbalanced, ear hacking man who later committed suicide is the best spokesman for their product, but if I could paint like him after drinking that, well, that might be a good selling point. A few people who have travelled have related stories of reckless and strange behaviour induced by this liquor, so we were determined to be responsible with it. I even googled it. It has quite the history. After a bacterium wiped out half the vineyards in Europe, wine became painfully expensive and only the very rich could aquire it. The middle class was looking for an affordable substitute and Absinthe was it. It was a popular drink, especially amongst the bohemian crowd. Oscar Wilde and Ernest Hemingway were also very fond of it, as were a number of afluent painters. Now it was our time to try it. We purchased a small bottle from the corner store and smuggled it back into the hostel. In our room, we set up the scrabble board and begin to play. The internet informed me that it would make you intoxicated, while giving you a sense of clear headnesses. From scientific observation, this premise is incorrect. After five glasses I was just talking a bunch of crap. Anouska, who had less than me, was not amused. I made stupid jokes, laughed a lot and at one time started seeing colours move on the scrabble board. I even composed a poem, which was panned by my one and only critic, Anouska. I thought it was very good personally. It was about Absinthe, surprisingly, and I discussed my thesis through a number of ingenius metaphors such as pork legs that only speak Czech and missing ear lopes. It was rather inspired I thought, but then again, you can't please everyone.

Absinthe. Brought to you by Van Gogh's missing lobe.

Meet me at the Coffeeshop: adventures in Amsterdam.

Byronic man, deep in profound thought about the possibilities for lunch.

Warning: this blog entry contains references to drug use. As if you didn't know that.

The first impressions of Amsterdam is that it is a playground designed for men. The Red Light District in particular hosts an army of physical distractions; prostitutes, coffeeshops, sex shops and Absinthe bars. People come here to lose themselves in experiences that would end them up in jail in their own country. Studies indicate that the largest cliental of prostitutes are the English, a fact that surprises no one. Walking through this heaven of gratification could give you the distinct vibe that all Dutch people are filthy degernates. However if you walk a few hundred metres in any direction away from the Red Light District, you will come across the splendor of the canals, which are so idylic and pictureseque, you wished you lived here. Besides having an almost perfectly designed city with canals and streets co-existing in a grid like formation, the Dutch, like their fair-haired, Northern friends, are extremely socially progressive, have clean streets and have the best transportation system I have encountered with bicycle paths, trams, trains and buses, which make travelling a breeze. Amsterdam was the first city we neglected the transport system for old fashioned bi-pedal motion that our grandparents ensured they did over boiling tar roads. We developed our walking legs quickly with the one and a bit hours walk into the beating heart of the city, while watching the romantic canals unfold before us. To further add to the scene, Autumn had deposited a sea of brown leaves over the city, making the streets resemble the dull coloured beauty of a painting from one of the Dutch masters.

Very pretty.

Likewise.

Bicycles. A very uncommon site in Amsterdam. Ha!

Unlike our previous experience with the Parisians, the Dutch people are very homely. I wouldn´t call them down-right lovely, as their talent for sarcasm florishes like their tulips, but they have no hang ups about speaking in English, which I must say, they do better than the bastardised tongue that a lot of Australians use. Our curiousity as to why the people were so relaxed and placid was quickly answered when we saw a small a group of businessmen in a coffeeshop, smoking, at 10 in the morning. I hope they don´t ride their bikes afterwards. If people did that in Australia on a regular basis, conversing with them would liken itself to chatting to a lobotomy patient, but for whatever sociological reason, it works here. Let us not forget while the rest of the contient was in turmoil during WW2, these relaxed folk decided killing people was not their thing and remained neutral. Although they were occupied by the Nazis, their city was undamaged, so they invested money, not in rebuilding like the rest of Europe did after the war, but in establishing an envious economy. So, the lesson that can be learned from this is not only is peace desirable, it can be very profitable as well.

Do not operate while stoned.

One day we stumbled upon the Heineken brewery. I had heard that the Heineken tour, dubbed the `experience´, was well worth a visit. As soon as I saw the large neon sign on the old brewery building, I had to see it. Anouska was not very enthuastic. I pleaded and whinged to her like a spolit child until she caved in and agreed. Not only were you treated to the mechanics of mass-producing beer, you were also educated in the ingredients of the golden ambroisia. Then you got to taste it, which was by far the least educational and best part of the tour. Sure it was a 10 Euro extended advert for how good Heineken is, but a little doctrination every now and then cannot hurt, right? It was here that Anouska discovered that she quite enjoyed the taste and texture of beer (naturally under my guidance).

Never say never, Anouska.

Being in Holland, there is of course a gallery dedicated to Van Gogh. A receptionist at our hostel informed us how to correctly pronounced Gogh, which is basically by bringing phelm up in your throat (Gaaarrcckk). It is a terrific gallery, filled with apt descriptions of his work and his life. My appreciation for this mad genius increased manifold in the three hours that we spent there. His work is sublime and he has definitely cemented himself as one of my favourite artists. The staff also enforced a no photography rule, which made me so deliriously happy, I could have cried. Finally, here was a place where I got to concentrate and appreciate the work without incessant flashes distracting me and working me into a red rage. A few doors down was the Rijks museum. I found it to be rather small for the sum they asked for, which in any tourist destination of Europe is not an uncommon complaint. Despite that, there were some fantastic Dutch works. The draw card for the museum is Rembrant. I found myself less than impressed with his light and shadow work, which was, I am told, very innovative for the period. After our share of art, we went across to the Anne Frank Huis, where Anne, her family and four friends, hid from the Nazis for two years. After seeing the annex in reality, it is hard to image that eight people lived here for two years in secret, while people ran a jam business downstairs. They had to be completely silent during work hours to avoid detection. It is here that Anne wrote her now famous journal detailing her thoughts on Jewish persecution, the war and living in what can be described as a self imposed prison. They were sadly betrayed and the Nazis herded them into concentration camps, where they all perished, except for the father. After being liberated, he searched for his children, only to find they died from typhoid. He found the journal upon returning to Amsterdam and got it published post-humously and the rest is history. It was a very emotionally draining experience, but rewarding all the same.

Now, let me tell you a little story. I know some of you out there will enjoy it, but others will 'tsk' disapprovingly. But hey, you can't be in Amsterdam and not go to ...

THE COFFEESHOP.

Entering the coffeeshop was like transgressing into a stoner's room. It stunk like a bogan's party. Smoke hung lazily in the air, while a small group of stoned men loudly played a dice game in the corner. The bar attendant checked our passports and let us through an electronic turnstyle. We found a place to sit and took off our coats. Other people looked us over vacantly and returned to staring at the walls. Anouska turns to me and says,

"You do it."

"No, you."

"You know what to ask for."

"What, like I am experienced in this?"

So, I go up to the woman at the bar.

"Can I have two coffees please".

"Sure. Take a seat"

I try and supress a smirk. The thought of purchasing pot, especially in a cafe, is hilarious to me.

"Oh, and we'll have two joints and a lighter."

We pass the time smoking and pretending we are not absolute novices at it. After a while, I start to feel stoned and became fascinated with tandem figure skating on television.

"I wonder who makes their outfits. They must be very clever, because it doesn't interfer with their routine at all."

Several hours have come and gone since arriving and Anouska complains that she is so hungry that she will gnaw her arm off. I believe her. We head off to a kebab shop down the road, our mouths already wet from the prospect of the impending meal. Having a kebab shop so close to a coffeeshop in Amsterdam is criminal. We order kebab slices and wait 15 minutes to be served, which to a stoned, famished person, could as well be a year. It finally comes and it is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life. I am now familar with a stoner's obsession with late night snacks.

"This is the best meal I have ever tasted," I said through a pile of masturcated meat.

"Every mouthful is like a moment of ecstacy".

After I had eaten everything on the plate, I start putting spoonfuls of mayonnaise on my plate. Anouska asks me what I am doing with it. I pick up my fork and start eating the mayonnaise sauce. When that is gone, I gather up some more and eat that as well. People in the take away shop don't seem to care, they must see this sort of behaviour all the time. We head back to the the hostel, our clothes are covered in the stench of skunk. Anouska let's the tap run while looking at her face. This goes on for some time until I break her out for it. We settle down to sleep and have the most vivid, colourful and disturbing dreams we have had in a long time.

The End.

By the second day in Amsterdam, I would have had friets, either by themselves or accompanied by a meal, about half a dozen times. I was in friet-overload agony. I didn't want to see another chip for as long as I lived. But the strange thing is, by the fifth day, I really started liking them. Once you break the friet-pain barrier, you're fine. It's not as if they taste bad or anything, quite the opposite. The Dutch make the best chips in the world. And they have every sauce you can think of to accompany them, but I stuck to their mayonnaise, which was delicious. If you liked deep fried food, than Holland is the place for you, because literally everything on the menu is soaked in a bathtub of oil. We stopped at a charming little cafe, where we had coffee, fried cheese sticks and meatballs. It wasn't the most nutrious meal, but it sure tasted good. Mostly, we stuck to more basic meals, like soups, out of fear that our stomachs would revolt against the the large quantites of fat we forced into them. Saying this, their take-way crumbed sausages are worth a visit to their take away chain, " Febo".

Big Mouth Strikes Again.

.

With the Dutch Christmas (5th December) approaching we are starting to notice the preparations for Christmas. The streets are decorated with beautiful lights and store´s merchandising stresses to the consumer the connection between love and spending. Children squeal with excitement and couples walk lovingly hand in hand. If you are in the Netherlands, you will also see Sinterklaas or St. Nicholas walk town the main road giving lollies to soon to be hyperactive children, with of course, his moorish helpers. That`s right! Sinterklaas doesn`t have have Elven helpers, he has black people. Obviously, the Dutch people have not caught onto the political correctness craze that has swept Australia. I am searching the internet trying to locate the origin of such a tradition, but I cannot find any information. I will assume that it dates back to colonial slave days. For all those screaming `bloody racists´, I have some more information that will further enrage you. The Moorish helpers are not black people. No,they are white people doing black face. Children coming to this event join in the fun by going black face themselves. I bet when they grow up, they will not think it is so`cool´to be the colour of the oppressed.

Australians are everywhere like a plague

Paris: the city of loathe.

Not quite the hunchback of Notre Dame.

Paris is a gorgeous city. There is a reason that it was romanticised by a horde of writers. The narrow, partly lit streets full of gothic architecture and gobbled stones were exactly how I pictured it. However, there is one fundamental problem with Paris: it is full of Parisians. There have always been preconceptions about French people being arrogant. I can declare to you that is it absolutely true. Their rudeness extends much more widely then their demeanor. Upon discovering you are not a French speaker, not only do they think you are some genus far below Homo Sapiens, but what's worse, in my opinion, you get extremely bad table service. I agree with Bill Bryson’s sentiments (in his book, "Neither Here nor There") that a waiter should never get snobby, considering they are fetching you stuff. The waiters were generally unfriendly, we always got served after French people and one time our Burgundy Beef came out less than lukewarm on a cold plate. It is hard to be positive about a place that is unwelcoming as Paris is. It is even more of a strain to enjoy yourself when a coffee costs you 4.4 Euros. Okay, I don’t regard myself as tight with money, but 8.8 Australian Dollars for a flat white is simply outrageous. Alternately, an espresso only cost 2 Euros. Therefore, the adding of milk to a shot of coffee costs 2.4 Euros. WHAT THE HELL? What are they doing? Milking the cow themselves? How can they justify charging that much? You can probably discern the tone of this blog from the opening paragraph. Paris is hyped up to be a great city, of fantastic café life and trend setting shopping. But all we found was disappointment.

I just know that some reading this blog will find it offensive. But they will probably be French themselves or have a French background, so that doesn't really matter. Anyway, I am allowed to be affronted when, upon arriving at Gard De Nord train station, we asked (and in French I might add) for directions to our flat. Not only did the person give us the wrong direction, but sent us the opposite way, when the street we wanted was literally 20 metres from the point of inquiry. I am sure they found it funny, but that little detour cost us 30 min. And if the needless shoving and bumping on the Metropolitan train line was not enough, when walking down a street, some awful Parisian creature flicked ash on me. I hope she knew English, because I gave her a dish of it for that little incident. I thought these people were supposed to be refined and eloquent? And, despite the glamourisation of the French in novels and films, they have to be one of the most unattractive and miserable specimens on the face of the planet. Just sit on a train You can justify such a claim by examining the people they chose to admire, like Gerald Depardieu and Jean-Paul Sartre. If these too people don't epitomise, ugly, then who does, I ask you.

Jean-Paul Sartre. A.k.a ugly bastard.

There are a lot of great things about the city, despite my rather passionate rant and I will get to them: eventually. For now, let me vent a few more things to you, dear readers. The Eiffel Tower. What a piece of shit. Gustave Eiffel was the unfortunate soul that brought this so called masterpiece of modern architecture in existence. Anouska and I have renamed it the tacky tower for not only does it look like an large radio antenna or an abandoned oil rig, but some genius decided to place large, gold-neon stars on the front of it and install thousands of lights to go off at night - every hour, on the hour, for 5 minutes. Epileptics must love it. It was nearly torn down at that start of the twentieth century, when major protests against this mental asparagus was made by a number of prominent French artists: "this truly tragic street lamp" (Léon Bloy), "this belfry skeleton" (Paul Verlaine), "this mast of iron gymnasium apparatus, incomplete, confused and deformed" (François Coppée), "this high and skinny pyramid of iron ladders, this giant ungainly skeleton upon a base that looks built to carry a colossal monument of Cyclops, but which just peters out into a ridiculous thin shape like a factory chimney" (Maupassant), "a half-built factory pipe, a carcass waiting to be fleshed out with freestone or brick, a funnel-shaped grill, a hole-riddled suppository" (Joris-Karl Huysmans). (http://www.tour-eiffel.fr/teiffel/uk/documentation/dossiers/page/debats.html) The tower was saved because it was discovered it made a fantastic antenna. I swear I am not making this up. This catastrophe, which will forever taint the Paris skyline, is now considered the most iconic building in the world. The Parisians are supposedly known for their good taste, but if they admire the tacky tower, perhaps that is questionable. If their abhorrent choice in clothing is anything to go by, maybe what they say about them is wrong. We had already learned a number of myths about the French were untrue. The only one that seemed to hold mustard was that they were assholes that ate a lot of bread. Okay, not all French people are bread munching jerks. We met some nice French people. Three in total. Our landlady, a guy selling crepes on the street and the French man who lives in London.

I am showing my disapproval.

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You are probably appalled with me. I am too. I had such high expectations for Paris and they crashed like the Icelandic economy. The thing is I really wanted to fall in love with Paris, but there was just too much that struck me as inconsistent with a bubbling, democratic metropolis. We saw homeless people and beggars much more often then expected. Army personnel carrying Clarion machine guns patrolled the train stations and trains themselves. Trash cans do not exist because of the 'threat' of terrorism. Instead they have plastic bags attach to metal rings. Does this sound like the home of the first modern democracy? I became conscious of a disturbing mood prevailing throughout the city and it made me very uncomfortable. However, there were many things about the city I genuinely liked and enjoyed experiencing. Firstly, the Seine River is beautiful. Much more so than the Thames. You only have to walk by the banks to realise it is probably the most beautiful river in the world and when the sun goes down and the neon lights appear, it's breath-taking. Anouska and I were continually drawn to the gentle meander of the Seine, either to watch a small band of American buskers play some great rock tunes on a bridge, to have some terrible Rose we purchased from the Monoprix, or just to take a relaxing stroll. Secondly, the Musee de Orsay and Lourve are cultural giants. The de Orsay has some brilliant Rodin sculptures and many fine examples of impressionist and naturalist art. My favourite thing about the Lourve is the ancient antiquities. After feeling somewhat obligated to see people take photographs of the Mona Lisa, thinking they will never see that image again, or muscle for room to eye the Venus De Milo, I spent most of the day looking at the sculptures of a foregone era.

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Buskers on the Seine.
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If you're searching for the macabre, Paris is the right place to be. The whole city encompasses the gothic spirit. From a distance the Cathedral of Notre Dame just looks like a typical gothic church. Up close, you see the detailed work that covers the huge expanse of the building. There are sculptures of saints, devils and gargoyles all over it. It dawns on you why it took over two centuries to build. In the 14th century it would have been made such a presence over those who saw it. It must have been as if God built it himself. In keeping with the gothic mood, we took a train out to the Pere LaChaise Graveyard on a overcast Sunday. Being fall, leaves covered the streets, further adding to the atmosphere. Here we saw the final resting places of many great spirits including; Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Proust and someone called 'Sextoy'. Jim Morrison's grave was littered with flowers and packets of cigarettes, in case he needed a smoke, which I thought was a kind gesture. Wilde's gravestone was covered in lipstick kisses. I don't think he would have appreciated that much attention from females. There were also some fitting tributes to fallen soldiers and victims of Auschwitz. Amongst all the reminders of death, there was a lot of beauty about the graveyard. I think all graveyards should be as charming as this, because in the face of death, don't we need some confirmation of life? I am not sure that the Catacombs are such a thing, but it was definitely worth a visit. In the 19th century, a plague ripped through Les Halles, killing many inhabitants. As a result, their graveyard became too full. So, they exhumed the bodies already there and decoratively placed them inside an abandoned stone mine. Walking the one and a bit kilometre walk underground, you pass the bones of millions of deceased Parisians. It was very bizarre to say the least.

Memento mori.

I cannot discuss Paris, without in some way, mentioning the food. A lot of the meals we had were quite decent and not too expensive, despite the Parisian trend to charge a lot for very little. They are very big on baguettes, filled to the brim with meat and with as much cheese as they can safely pack into it. Pastries of every size and description, naturally. I personally liked the spinach and goat cheese quiche. On their meat, they do fantastic sauces and I fondly remember a particular pepper sauce that accompanied a steak extremely well. There were food vendors on the street as well, which was a surprising discovery. Most of them sold Crepes in delectable chestnut spread. Others sold grilled corn, which tasted just like popcorn. Oh, and who could forget the bread. With everything meal, anytime of the day. And I am a celiac. Damn them! Anouska and I are of the opinion (and this may sound blasphemous) that although the food was pretty good, you could get the same quality at one of the better French restaurants in Perth, especially the "Loose Box". And the pastries were definitely on par with the famous stand at the Subiaco markets, run of course by French people (but polite). It is a shame to say that when our week had expired, we were actually happy to move on to our next destination: Amsterdam. Paris became the first major disappointment of our trip. But when you are travelling, you don't always know what to expect. Half the time you are thrown into a culture very different to the one you have grown up in and the way people live can often surprise and even shock you. But, that, in essence is what travelling is for. Not marking off what destinations you have been to, but learning what life is like outside your very small backyard.

Outside Gard De Nord, near to our apartment.

Londontown and the Occasional Blue Sky.

No witticism or sarcasm attached. I just like this picture.

We were sitting in Bahrain International Airport for six hours, when we were supposed to be there for two. Keeping with their proud tradition of lengthy delays, Gulf Airways left us to amuse ourselves in a country I could not even locate on a map. I now know that it is a small Island kingdom in the Gulf Sea, with their very own Monarch. And that don’t have to pay taxes. I thought it, like death, was a certainty. The beginning of travel legs never seem to progress smoothly – for what reasons I cannot discern, as you are soon to discover.

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The delay made our evidential arrival to Heathrow Airport far behind schedule. We arrived at 10pm, four hours after the latest possible check-in time to our accommodation, thus incurring a 25 Pound late fee. Striving on regardless of the British cold and the many, many steps in London’s tube system, we found Willesden Green, the suburb of our destination. We hauled our 20 kilogram-a-piece luggage several kilometres through the London streets, feeling the biting cold seep through our multiple layers of clothing. I wasn’t wearing gloves and I could see my hands were turning an unhealthy blue. Finally, after much tribulation, we found the street and the place where I could finally lay my head down to rest. By this time it was past 12am and the last time I had slept, I had only managed 5hrs. That was over 24 hrs ago.

The late check in fee, which was 25 Pound (roughly 60au) was for a combination lock box that held our set of keys. What logical was behind the cost of this device I cannot say. At that point, I didn’t care, I just wanted to sleep. But no, rest would have to wait for this weary traveller because the lock didn’t function. The numbered keys were all jammed, so inputting the right combination was impossible. After debating on what to do, one of the permanent tenents of the building arrives home. He was an Australian. He very generously gave us the landlord’s number, who he described as “a real wanker” and asked us if we “ wanted a beer for our troubles”. I believe the Cultural Stereotypes Committee is after this man for questioning. So, Anouska calls the landlord and feigns damsel distress as only she can and the man, under the impression she was by herself in the dark streets of London, rushes straight over. Sucker. He was very apologetic, naturally, about our situation, but when we sorted out the financial arrangements for the week, I noticed that we had been charged the late check-in fee. I enquired, “The late fee. Is this for the lock that didn’t work?” Which he replied, “I suppose you are going to tell me you are not happy with it”. I simply retorted “yes”, and that sum was detracted from our total bill.

London is a very liveable city. It has a certain charm that you can’t specifically describe with words, but I am sure the people who have visited this city can confirm that encompassing aura it has. I can understand why people reside here and why so many Australians emigrate. I seemed to recognise the familiar Ocker of my homeland everywhere and it filled me with a sense of pride. Well, not pride exactly. If you heard the idiotic ramblings of my fellow countrymen you would suddenly employ a British accent very quickly, to distance yourself from the pack of ‘flaming galahs’. But seriously, I love Australia, I do. I just wish many of the other Australians I have encountered on my journey would renounce their citizenship and head south for a prolonged winter in Antartica.

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Unlike Anouska, I simple adore cold weather. I must have a genetic disposition to it, because I take to it like Greeks to young bo … what I meant to say is that I take to it very well. There is nothing better in this world than stepping out into the refreshing, brisk air with your attire of coat and scarf and perambulating down the wet streets looking for a coffee. When you are in colder climates you start to see the practical side to the traditional meals. What better cuisine can one have in London than soup, Sunday roast, Bangers and Mash and Shepard’s pie. It filled my body and my heart with warmth. Sure, eating these rich foods on a consist basis will probably increase your waist by a full tire size, but you could just look at it as sufficient insulation to the cold. In this context, you start to question why Australian’s carry on the English tradition of certain meals. We don’t experience the same temperature as England, yet we are ever so ready to sit down to a Sunday roast while the harsh sun outside bakes a few things of its own. Is it really refreshing to eat a hot meal in summer? Is it good for our constitution? Just some food for thought.

If you haven’t chewed life over with a pint of lager at the pub, or sat reading a trashy newspaper on London’s underground, then one thing you should experience is the tranquillity of Hyde Park. Only knowing the place from novels, I drastically underestimated the size of this park. But, to my defence, the writer’s never indicated, with accuracy, the measurements of this location. Oscar Wilde might state that the characters took a leisurely walk, but he never suggested that a walk around the park would take over an hour. Despite being misinformed, I found Hyde Park to be a quiet haven hidden away from the excitement of the city. When you’re standing in the middle, and if you ignore the distant hum of traffic, you could almost believe you were no longer in London. I think that is what the planners had in mind. It has some very lovely little lakes and a surprising amount of wildlife. One could pass a very agreeable morning here, stopping to rest on a bench every now and then before settling for a lengthy midday picnic. We passed the Princess Diana memorial, which is absolute hideous and adds weight to the argument that Australia should be a Republic.

Anouska outside Buckingham Palace. Stupid Monarchy.

Naturally, you can’t be in London without making your way to the Thames. If you avoid, or at the very least limit the time you are under the tourist deathtrap, otherwise known as the London Eye or as I like to call it – the big ferris wheel that cost more than a night’s accomodation, then having a casual stroll along the banks and over the bridges is very pleasant. But with certain, one of the most fun aspects about London is playing physical Monopoly. We walked around admiring the weath of Piccadily Circus and Mayfair before jumping on the tube, bypassing King’s Cross Station to go to Euston Road for a few drinks. I didn’t know where Old Kent Road was, so I was unable to see if it is as crappy as its land value on the Monopoly board stipulates.

You landed on Trafalgar Square. I have three houses. That will be $320, please.

Like all civilized travellers we ended up at the colossal complex of the Tate Modern ( it was big until we saw the Lourve, but I digress). An unnamed friend, who will cry out that an injustice has been committed to his name, stated in his travel blog, “[W]e've been to the Tate Modern (which ******* dislike (sic) considerably - in all fairness a lot of it didn't make any sense). How anyone with a nearly completed university degree, or anyone who knows even the most basic rudiments of art history can think this is beyond my understanding. The gallery is brilliant and the curators should be applauded on their well thought our installations. It tracks the progression of art from the impressionist era, to the post-impressionist and then to the modernist fields which detract from the symbolic logic of their predecessors and employ completely new methods and subject matter for their works. When you look upon the genius of Picasso’s cubist paintings or Bacon’s disturbing depiction of sexuality, you to start realise that you have absolutely no talent next to these giants. Although this conclusion made me considerably depressed as my artistic endeavours have paled in comparison, it was nevertheless an intellectually profitable experience. The occasion was soured slightly by, of course, the remarks and actions of stupid tourists. The question I put to people who wish to repeatedly photograph an original painting is, why bother? If you an image of the piece, surely you can see it in a book or on the internet. Also, in doing this, not only does your flash damage the product, but you really piss off genuine art lovers like Anouska and myself. In addition to this ever-increasing rant, why do people feel the necessity on sprouting their ignorant opinions at a consider volume, so that everyone in the room can hear. I heard one woman remark that art was subjective and that the point of a particular art piece was that she should decide whether to touch it, even though there was a plague clearing stating, “Do not touch”. Jean Paul Sartre was right when he said, “Hell is other people”.

YOU SEE THAT! IT MEANS NO PHOTOGRAPHY! DAMN YOU, YOU FILTHY GOTHIC HORDE.

The National Gallery is of such a considerable size and design that I found myself getting lost more than I care to admit. Sure, I saw more religious paintings to last me several lifetimes, but seeing the works of Monet, Manet, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Da Vinci, Raphael and Pissarro in the flesh was awe inspiring and left me with a strong impression that I really needed to learn to draw something more complex than stick figures and silly faces. However, I was very disappointed in learning that one of the paintings I wanted to see, ‘The Ambassadors’, which was on permanent display there, had been temporarily moved to a exhibition. Oh well, I will have to make a special trip to see it when we return to London in January shorting before flying home. We also went to the British Museum, full of artefacts the glorious English Crown has stolen in its imperialist past. I have to admit, regardless of the questionable methods how they attained these pieces, the museum housed some terrific Egyptian relics and objects of Antiquity. I wish I was able to stand the flash photography, loud talking and incessant murmur of hyperactive children for longer than a few hours, so that I could absorb it better. But I can say that I tried. Twice, in fact. I gave it two goes, but it still didn’t improve my misanthropic self.

And of course we went to see a West End show. Our choice was a difficult one. Watch a play based a Monty Python film, or see some muppets, based on characters from Sesame Street sing and be offensive? We chose the latter. We scored cheap tickets on the day for only 25 Pound and they were for the second row. The show was amazing. The basic plot is that Princeton, a muppet, graduates for college and moves to the slums, a la Avenue Q. From there he tries to find his purpose in life and learns from valuable lessons about life from other tenants including a shy teacher’s aid, an interracial couple, a muppet obsessed with internet porn, a gay republican muppet and Gary Coleman, who laments his washed-up, child star profile. You quickly recognised which Sesame Street characters they are derived from, which made it all the more humorous. The songs were very catchy. This isn’t necessary a good thing, when you find yourself on the London tube, absentmindedly singing, “Everyone is a little bit racist sometimes … it’s not as though we go around committing hate crimes” and “the internet is for porn”. If at that point, you assumed that the creators of the show couldn’t further destroy those lovely childhood memories of Sesame Street, think again. After I saw two muppets having sex on stage, I thought, “now I have seen everything.” I can hear your thoughts from here. You’re thinking okay Daniel, you saw one crude show on the West End. Why didn’t you see something else? That would be a valid question and my answer is that both Ivanov (Chekhov), starring Kenneth Branuagh and Oedipus with mile high Ralph Fiennes, was sold out! Kenneth is one of my heros and to hear that there would be no way I could see him act was a terrific blow. Still, as I stated earlier, we are going back to London, so perhaps I will get the chance to see some other great thespian figurehead. I can only hope.

Some lucky swans.

A Horde of Moustaches and Holy Cows

Holy or wasted steak? You decide.

On the way to Mumbai Domestic Airport, our driver mumbled something and pointed vaguely to the left. As we could not understand him, we assumed he was pointing out some landmark and we responded with a nod for our heads and a ‘ah’, as if we were very interested. On a closer inspection of the area to our left we suddenly noticed what he was referring to. A rickshaw (a three-wheel taxi with a carriage – don’t worry, I have more to say about rickshaws later on) was on fire with police in riot gear in close proximity to the burning vehicle. Our artificial ‘ah’ soon transformed into a genuine ‘oh!’ Our Orwellian experience was only just beginning. Upon arriving, we went through a series of strict security measures including; having our ticket checked at the door by an army official, the luggage being screened before it was processed and we were both frisked and electronically scanned. Army personnel casually strolled through the terminal equipped with pistols and machine guns. It was clear that the Indian Government had everything under control. Or did it? Now this is the worrying thing. Not once during this whole procedure did someone inquire to check our passports. Perhaps everyone was too engrossed with the news unfolding on every television at the airport. A prominent political figure had just been arrested for inciting violence in Mumbai and his followers, not particularly agreeing with his incarceration, took to the streets and set fire to taxis, just like the one we saw earlier. Well, the Mumbai police responded to the situation with some of the most energetic uses of a bat outside the American Baseball League. The way Raj, the political figure, was depicted by the media reminded me of Goldstein in the novel, ‘1984’, Who knew all that solitary reading I did as a teenager, instead of getting drunk and experimenting with drugs, would finally come in handy. The workings of India are surely beyond the confines of fiction.

A few hours and half a book later, we hit the tarmac at Kochin and made our way to our home for the next two days, ‘Costa Gama Home Stay’, on the outskirts of Fort Kochin. That is to say we thought we would stay two days, but we so enjoyed ourselves immediately upon arriving that we extended our Kochin leg to four days. It’s called Fort Kochin from the colonial days, when the Dutch seized the land from the Portuguese and built on the harbour. After the British took over they dredged up a large section of land and made an Island across for the fort – they probably had too much time on their hands. However, all three imperial powers contributed by building large and magnificent testaments to God (churches idiot). The Jews even made an appearance after the destruction of their temple by the Romans in 2nd century Jerusalem and built a Synagogue in a part of town aptly named Jew Town - great work guys. Apparently there were even supposed to be some Jewish descendants there, but all I saw were Indian rugs salesmen who called me friend.

The home stay was run by two lovely guys, Benson and Shi, who were very friendly and recommended some terrific local and authentic vegetarian places to eat. When you taste the Indian cuisine Kochin has on offer, you don’t miss meat at all. They also suggested things and places of interest and were generally lovely and welcoming. How did Anouska repay this said kindness? Well, she killed Shi’s pet Indian parakeet, Ammu by feeding it tapioca chips. Sure the vet said that the bird’s death was caused by a dramatic change in temperate, but can anyone deny the evidence of a bird dying less than a day after feeding it a fried product? Shi was visible upset, holding back tears, as he explained to us that Ammu had passed away while we had gone into town. Anouska will defend her position, saying that a tapioca chip couldn’t possibly kill a bird that frequently ate rice and chillies, but we know the truth. I have since dubbed Anouska with the title of “Ammu Killer”. She doesn’t like it much, but maybe it will quell her birdicidal tendencies.

Ammu, a few hours before he went to Heaven.
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Never get into a rickshaw. Never. Even if it’s a really hot day and you see a road sign which states, water - 100km. Do not get in even then! Not only does this practical joke of modern transportation feeling like you’re going through the spin cycle in a washing machine, but the drivers are so commission hungry that they will take you anywhere, except where you pay them to go. This is a transcript of one experience I had with a prick - sure.

Daniel: Hi, can you take me into Fort Kochin?
Driver: Okay, Four Rupees.
Daniel: Four.
Driver: No, Four. Four, zero.
Daniel: Oh, forty. Okay then.
Anouska and Daniel hop into the rickshaw.
Driver: Where from?
Daniel: Australia.
Driver: Austria. Good cricket team. You see elephant?
Daniel: No.
Driver: I take you to see elephant.
Daniel: Not today.
A few minutes later, the taxi stops.
Driver: I go see if elephant is awake.
Driver leaves the rickshaw and walks off, leaving Anouska and Daniel alone in the vehicle.
Anouska: Why did you tell him you want to see the elephant? He only wants commission. This is going to cost us a fortune. We’re not even going to have enough money.
Daniel: I said no, but he brought us here anyway.
Driver returns.
Driver: Elephant is gone out. Sorry.
Anouska: Thank God.
The rickshaw moves for a short distance and then stops.
Driver: This is temple.
Daniel: I don’t want to see the temple. I want to go to Fort Kochin!
Driver: It’s okay, It’s okay. Now the temple… (at this point, I stopped paying attention) blah, blah, elephant. Blah, blah, blah, water …
The rickshaw starts up again.
Driver: This is a good rug shop, full of very nice things to buy. We stop now.
Anouska/Daniel: NO!

Finally, we get to our destination with our sanity barely in tact and I pay him the forty Rupees. Being a civilized person, I thank him and wait until after he leaves to issue a string of expletives. Apart from this very annoying experience, rickshaw drivers have an infuriating tendency to call their rust bucket contraptions Porsches and Ferraris, which might have been funny the first few times, but irks you terribly the umpteenth time you hear it.

F%&k you richshaw.

So, after that, I ignored my mother’s wishes of not riding a motorbike and hired out a mo-ped to get around town. As you can see from the photo below I look really cool donning shorts and a turquoise helmet. A bike in Asia is a great way to travel. It runs on the whiff of petrol, you don’t have to deal with pushy rickshaw drivers and when shop owners try and herd you into their establishments, you just accelerate off. You are free to wind in and out of the little streets and see a lot of different things you wouldn’t normally on the tourist trail. There is a lot of freedom when you have the ability to go where you want. One day we decided to take a ride out to the beach on the man-made Island. The journey was 60km return and took a few hours on the small, busy roads of Kerala. It is difficult to exceed more than 40km/hr in speed as you are constantly trying to avoid potholes, cows (because they are sacred in India, they are free to roam the streets. They often like to stand or sit in the middle of the road and there is nothing you can do about it. Hitting them is a serious offence.) and other motorists, especially psychotic bus drivers who are not hindered by road lanes or speed limits. If you don’t get out of their way, I doubt very much that they would brake to avoid you. There seems to be a universal tendency of bus drivers being raving loons. I have encountered this trend in Australia, Vietnam and India. Perhaps like water, their egos have taken the shape of their vessels, which in their case is quite large, and they simply refuse to believe that they are just a bus driver and not the King of Bahrain or something.

97 per cent of all Indian men have a moustache. Okay, perhaps that is a made up statistic, but still it is probably much more accurate then something written in a Michael Moore publication. Coming from a country where only a small proportion of baby-boomers, like my father, tend to grow them, it just seemed really funny to me. I know it seems irrelevant, but I just had to tell you. The young guys are extremely vain, combing their hair in the bathroom every chance they get, while the older men are ragged and unkempt, and simply do not care if they have 3 day growth. The old men have a bit of a boys-club going with their chai carts on the street, standing around sipping on 10 cent tea, which incidentally, is the most wonderfully strong and sweet drink you will ever come across, while munching on a number of fried treats. They were very entertained to see Anouska and myself asking for, what is essential a poor man’s drink, but we absolutely loved it. Over the week we stayed in Kochin (yes we extended our stay again) I became terrible dependant on these places, often visiting the cart half a dozen times a day. It was the cheapest addiction I have ever had.

Photographic evidence of man with moustache.

The plan was that we were to only stay in Kochin for a few days and travel around Kerala for a week or so before we were due back to Mumbai to fly out to London. The more we extended our stay, the less time we had to travel around the state. But we did manage to get to Varkala, a beach getaway, amongst our tea guzzling and yellow stained, finger experiences with food for a few days. Although it was nice and relaxing, it no way compared to the joy Kochin gave us. The food was average and it was filled with the most bigoted and unfriendly tourists on the face of the planet. Anouska and I got into a bit of a verbal confrontation with a pair of English twats who thought it was funny to say things like “Hey Kumar. Isn’t there a bar of electricity in this whole country? Why don’t you make Diwali come early and put the fuckin’ lights on”. I admit, it wasn’t a really good idea of mine to tell them to shut up and enquire how England could possibly have become, at one stage, the great empire it was, with people like them at the helm. But it was even less of a good idea for Anouska to call them deplorable, uncivilised philistines, considering they were built like you know what kind of house and looked like they were extras out of “Lock-Stock and Two Smoking Barrels”. But when people act in an abhorrent manner, you just can’t sit idly by, even if it puts you in physical danger. It was a good thing they were too drunk to respond properly, or else I would have really had to show them … ah … how fast I can run away.

Boys at play.

Mmm, Fish