Tainted Chicken

1.

To the tune of “Tainted Love” I sat there drowsily, if not deliriously singing in the dark to myself. “Tainted Chicken oh oh oh oh Tainted Chicken.”

A fat sow wanders out of the jungle and up to the log I was sitting on. At any other time the site of a pig this large emerging from the bush would have been enough to send me scurrying but I was exhausted. Spent. My skin cold, perspiration beading in the humidity.

“Go away pig” I mutter as it nudges me with its large head and tries to access the pre-digested remnants of last nights dinner. I push its head, “pig please, go away.”

The fire in front of me now showing only one or two embers. I haven’t the energy to re-stoke it. I just sat there. A pathetic lump in the dark, depleted, being nudged by a pig.

2.

We had met Sam and Sarah at a hostel in Chiang Mai. We required two more to warrant a guide leading us on a hiking excursion through the jungle to the Burmese border. These poor unfortunates were the closest by. So I approached them, an enthusiastic exponent of the trek, promising an experience that would charge their dinner conversation for years to come.

As a first point of call, we stopped for supplies at a flyblown market where Sam and I found lizard for sale. Sam was tall and thin with a Southampton accent, a wicked laugh and a burning desire to join me in a lizard entrée that evening. After eventually concluding that the chuckling lady behind the wooden table was vending this lizard as a food option we made our purchase and gave it to our guide Sumate to add to our meal with the Karenni people that night.

Proud of our procurement, we imagined we would be the toast of the village. Bringing with us such a delicacy would surely see us accepted as honorary Karenni. The girls looked at us with a hearty derision. “You boys are going to be so sick tonight.” they echoed each other.

Sumate smiled and threw the lizard into the open woven basket he carried on his back. Right next to the cling film wrapped chicken.

3.

I must say I didn’t even give it a thought when we stopped at the waterfall. Maybe after hours of walking through the jungle pathways I was too concerned with diving under the coolness of the falling water. Maybe I naively trusted our guide or maybe I am just dumb as an ox. Either way, as I sat there in the darkness to the harmony of retching coming from the rest of my party I recalled distinctly seeing the chicken laying in the sun, next to our lizard on the top of Sumate’s basket.

Up hills, through bamboo jungle, with every foot fall, for eight hours our market chicken breast sweated with us in the Thai heat.

4.

It struck me first, then Sam. Both ends, the grip and release of stomach and bowel bending us over in exhaustive expulsion. The validation of the girl’s earlier warnings about our lizard delicacy and smug “I told you so’s” gave away to disquietude regarding the uncontrollable violence of our nauseation. We lurched and staggered between our mosquito net and a small wooden outhouse. A macabre game of tag. For about thirty minutes the girls could only watch on with worry.

Then as if their sympathy had forced their participation they joined the sick dance. No longer was one toilet enough, the boys forced to tumble through the light foliage of the jungle’s edge to semi concealment.

Eventually, when I had no more to give I retired to my log. Turning around only once in concern for my companions to see Sam crawling sans pants slowly towards his bedding trying in vain to avoid the repulsive patches that laid in wait for his hands and knees. I never turned around again for the rest of the night.

Instead I focussed my exhausted gaze to the fire pit, shivering, weakly singing in a catatonic state to myself  “Tainted Chicken oh oh oh oh Tainted Chicken.”

5.

Sumate walks over to me as the sun starts to peak through the tousled tops of the bamboo. I was still sitting there, alone on the log. The pig by now had returned to the bush in search of better company.

“Drink this, it will make you sick one more time or no more times. Then you will be better.” Sumate handed me the local brew.

“We have all been very sick all night Sumate.”

“Yes I know, every time people sick” he replied. “I take this trek for four years, every week or maybe two weeks. Every trip maybe 90% of people get sick.”

I did some lethargic math in my head and shook my head at the hundreds of tourists Sumate has poisoned. “Why do you think that is Sumate? Do you not think that chicken in glad wrap sweating on your back for 8 hours might be the cause?”

“No, not chicken, I think people are not used to their mosquito repellent.” I shake my head and walked away to drink my tea and throw up one last time.

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Santorini

White.

The salt crusted cliffs, concrete buildings dripping from the hill tops like icing. Fedora hats, shirts and dresses, the garb of those walking the lofty paths with sluggish curiosity past white signs, white walls and monuments, electricity poles and painted trees.

Blue.

The domes and the doors. The window frames and shutters. The deep blue of the crystal clear water. Blue flags and towels flutter against the pale blue sky.

White and Blue.

White wash sprays from boats and jet skis carving their path through the blue. They stroll the white streets to breathe in the fresh air and finger through blue fridge magnets and wrist bands. Blue busses pick up white dust that dances in eddys behind them. Men wear blue and white chequered shirts that match perfectly the blue and white chequered table cloths in the blue and white restaurants they eat in.

Something Else.

The sun drops, the blue sky blushes, the blue sea follows suit. The white buildings blush a pinkish hue. I look into my wife’s blue eyes and tell her I love her. Her white skin blushes…. or maybe it was today’s sun.

Santorini.

Great White Place

We drive through the Mopani scrub. Kudu and Rhinoceros browse on the Koedoebos. The scene framed by the multiple trunks of the African Moringa which emerge from its swollen base. The truck skirts out onto the Etosha pan, a Bantu word meaning great white place. A fitting description for a 1000 million year old salt mineral pan stretching the Kalahari Basin.

Originally this was a lake fed by the Kunene river but the river changed course and thousands of years ago the lake dried up. The San people believe in a legend that a village was invaded and everyone except for one woman was murdered. She was so upset that she cried and her tears formed a huge lake. When her tears dried the great white pan remained.

In the far distance on a clear day you can make out the outline of the savannah bushland bordering the pan, but today the white earth collides with the grey sky and the dust and heat is belied by the oncoming rain.

The warm rains of the storm lightly lashing the sides of the truck as Rod reaches over and grabs my Discman, fumbling with it for a moment. A couple of false starts. Then he smiles and turns it up as high as our speakers would go. We wind down the windows the rain cooling the mugginess of the day and breathing a freshness through the cabin. We pull up in the middle of the basin. Toto’s Africa now streaming out into the air.

“We getting out?” I ask.

As was customary with Rod he surprised me continually by making profound statements that contradict his looks and sit juxtaposed with his usual conversation and overall demeanor.

“Robbo, in life you can’t wait for the rain to stop, sometimes you must learn to dance in it” and with that, he was out of the cabin, arms stretched to either side, like Andy Dufrane from Shawshank Redemption allowing the rains of Africa to wash over him, touching him both outside and within.

I leap from the cabin also, calling to the passengers to join us, hitting repeat on Toto and bounding past Rod into the rain along the salt encrusted earth. The music blares from the truck’s cabin “It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you, that’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do, I bless the rains down in Africa, gonna take some time to do the things we never have”

We all stand out on the white pan singing Africa at the top of our lungs, passengers moving past their initial confusion embrace the moment. The cooling breeze against the rain falling on our faces, soaking through our clothes as we spin around and laugh and dance in the storm.

As if by some evolutionary leap, we are able to feel our surroundings, the soul of the African wild embracing us. Here we connect, in this instant, opening the page of our travel adventure to a moment of truth. To a moment of understanding of the true meaning of journey and exploration. We embrace each other, miles away from the chattering of keyboards and the demands of business meetings. Each of us living, really living. Experiencing Africa in the way you would in the movies, like you would in your dreams.

We return to the truck, our spirits wide awake, each of us knowing we were all a part of something that enriched each of our souls and left us with a feeling that will stay with us long after this moment has passed.

Angkor What?

“Buy my book… hey mister, buy my book!”

Chasing me up the stony dirt road was Ahn. Barefoot, torn trousers showing scarred knees, his older brother’s ripped and dirty hand-me-down shirt and a posse of sales assistants hot on his heels. We were by now desensitised to the obvious poverty and the cuteness of their grubby cheeky little faces. This scenario had played out a countless number of times this week and we had managed in most cases to avoid engagement. We continued towards Ta Prohm with eyes forward and unaltered pace.

Catching up, Ahn swung around the front of us blocking our forward path. Stepping off to our left we attempted to motion around him. Too late, a sales assistant had made her position, blocking our escape with outstretched arms, clutching at her variety of Angkor Wat fridge magnets. I pivoted and lurched towards our left catching the look of fear in a fellow traveller’s eyes, but as quick as it was open the escape route was closed down by two of Ahn’s 6 year old disciples, grappling at lukewarm cans of cola and sweaty plastic bottles of water. It was then we felt the wave of reinforcements cut off our retreat, their hands pawing at the back of our shorts and tugging on our backpacks. The jig was up, we were trapped.

Ahn our head captor was 10 years old and obviously small for his age. Without hesitation he repeated his mantra “Buy my book, buy my book, buy my book.” With precision he displayed his wares, from Pol Pot to the history of the Khmer empire. I wasn’t about to be bullied into buying souvenirs I didn’t want  by a 10 year old and began politely negotiating our escape. But like a true professional, Ahn had already sized me up.

“What you name? You Australian?

“Yes, you know Australia?

“Melbourne or Sydney?

“Melbourne” I answered. Ahn grinned

“Australia, population 22 million, land area 7.6 million kilometres square, capital city Canberra, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd… Kevin 07.”

I had seen this building rapport routine before. The Marketing 101 lessons I had been subjected to in countries like Egypt usually consisted of a standard rehearsal of rudimentary cultural icons that for Australians ranged from the current Prime Minister to Red Kangaroos, Ned Kelly or Captain Cook. This 10 year old boy was next levelling it.

I looked at Ahn narrowing my eyes. He looked back at me, narrowing his. “What if I said I was from …. um, England?”

Ahn propped his eyes towards the sky as if in thought. “England, capital London, Prime Minister Gordon Brown, area 130,000 kilometres squared…. “ I cut him off.

“Spain?”

“Capital Madrid” Ahn replied almost immediately.

“Estoy apprendiendo Espanol por seis or siete somanas” I responded by testing out some of my Spanish on him.

“Muy Bien” he replied “Hablas bien espanol” This kid was incredible.

“Parlez-vous parles francais?”

“Oui, tu parles mal” he said informing me I obviously do not.

“Capital of Finland?”

“Helsinki” he shot back rising to my challenges.

A little girl who looked younger than the rest tugged at my shirt, clutching at a single fridge magnet. “If you don’t know the capital of Madagascar will you buy from me?”

I crouched down to her “Ha ha do you know the capital of Madagascar?”

“Yes it is Antananarivo, now you must buy from me” She stumbled across the sentence in the cutest way.

“Ok little girl, I’ll do you a deal, if you can tell me the capital of South Africa I will buy your magnet.” She growled at me, a long low guttural growl, stomped her foot and started to walk away muttering that I was a bad man.

“What is wrong with her?” I asked Ahn.

“You are trying to trick her and she didn’t like it.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“She knows South Africa has three capitals. Pretoria is the Executive capital, Bloemfontein is judicial and Cape Town legislative.”

I looked at Ahn in astonishment and called the little girl back. Ahn eventually released us from our captive state and allowed us to continue on our way. The sun beat down heavy on us as we continued walking the dusty trail. My backpack heavier with two bottles of water, a magnet from each of the children and of course Ahn’s book.

I passed Ahn an hour or two later, he was engaged in some banter with a couple of German tourists… in German of course. He looked over at me and gave me a wry smile. The young girl by his side tugging at the German’s shirt sleeve, asking “Do you know the capital of Madagascar?”

Ganesha’s Gift

Part One:

It was “locals day” at Ranthambore Fort and as the temperature bounced high above 40 degrees a flood of saris of different colours mantled the temple to Ganesha. Accompanied by Grey Langur and a peppering of flies we meandered the fifth century steps and took shelter beneath the twist of tarp and thatch that rooved the wooden stalls outside the temple. The devotees slowly migrated through the thickness of the heat to the long line leading through the faded pink temple arches.

We purchased our offerings of laddoos, modaks and incense. As sweat droplets swelled on our brows, I looked to the locals waiting in the heat for their turn to gain favour from the god who removes obstacles. Obviously Ganesha has granted us his favour prematurely as Sawai grabs at my wrist and leads McGee and I straight past the line up to a hidden entrance behind the stalls.

“It’s working already” I whispered to McGee. She gave me a look to behave.

We took our shoes off and washed our hands and feet before entering the temple antechamber. We approached the shrine, decorated with garlands of orange and yellow flowers across drapings of red folded cloth. We reverently made our way to the shrine where a holy man accepted our offerings in turn, placing them systemically beside some picture frames of Lord Ganesha and some ornate silver jars.

The holy man then returned some of our offerings to us so that we may worship elsewhere in the fort. I looked at the remnants left in my bowl and asked him what they were. He motioned back that it was a food offering by raising his hand to his mouth. I nodded politely and turned to McGee. She however, seeing the holy man’s gesture thought he wanted us to eat Ganesha’s offering and was already munching down on a laddoo ball.

Asia mat karo! The holy men beckon McGee to stop eating Ganesha’s gift.

Part Two:

We were anxious to leave our tented farm stay accommodation on the border of Ranthambore National Park. Not because our glamping experience was negative. It was anything but. Our hosts at Maa Ashapura had treated us to viewings of Tiger, Leopard, Nilgai and Hyena up close in the wild; we rode horseback under the stars; and we were guests of the manager and his friends for dinner at the incredible Aman-I-Khas. But our train back to Jaipur was leaving soon, we still had over an hour to get there and inexplicably the EFTPOS machine wouldn’t accept any of our cards to settle our bill.

“You had to go and upset Ganesha didn’t you.” I winked at McGee

We still have time. We had drawn cash from the ATM in the village before, we will quickly detour and be back en route in no time. We dash to the village but the ATM machine was blanking out and needed to be rebooted. This was not a promising sign.

“Ganesha, the remover of obstacles! Why couldn’t you have picked a fight with one of the other gods? Maybe eaten some of Shiva’s bananas or Krishna’s gourds?”

We were back on the road but desperately behind schedule. Our driver suggested it was unlikely we would make our train, a point assisted by the fact that he was the most conservative driver in the whole of India. Unlike anyone else in the entire country he was sure to keep to his lane and resisted honking his horn, even when a number of camels set up shop in the middle of the road or when the seemingly endless parade of cows and pigs blocked our path.

“We are really feeling Ganesha’s wrath here babe, can you please make up with him or something?”

“Careful” she replied “Ganesha may turn on you if you get too cheeky.”

We crawled into the station car park, McGee and I on tenterhooks in the back. Gave our hurried thanks and tips to our driver, grabbed our backpacks and raced up the ramp, across the footbridge, skidding into the first carriage of our train as the doors closed.

It seemed there was some obstacle delaying our train out of the station. As the train pulled away we thanked Ganesha for this gift.

Part Three:

A day later we entered the Marriott at Goa. It was to be a treat to mark the end of our journey through India. We were at the swim up bar for less than an hour when we had made friends with the best man of a wedding being held at the resort. The families of the bride and groom were well to do and had hired out the whole resort… except it seems for our room.

Typical of Indian hospitality we were of course invited to join the festivities, an invitation we gratefully accepted. That night we made our way across the footbridge, down the red carpet and through the luminous canopy of linen to a beach full of tables laid in white tablecloths aglow with fairy lights and oil candles.

Photographers and Indian high society mingled and posed and my best travel runners were now feeling rather conspicuous as we were introduced from table to table by the bridal party, drinking Kingfishers and partaking in incidental rounds of prawn canapé roulette. It was about three in the morning when we cut away from the dance floor glow sticks and Bollywood lessons and made our way back to our room.

McGee rose late the next morning, rolling towards me to ask if I was ready for breakfast. “I can’t.” I whimpered. “I have had Delhi-Belly all night, I can’t be away from the bathroom for more than a few minutes.” I lay back on the bed, exhausted, the sheets sticking damp against my clammy skin. The fan providing no relief as I simultaneously burn up and shiver. “I’m going to need to stay here babe, I can’t go anywhere” I squeak. “There is absolutely nothing stopping this diarrhoea.” My eyes widen and we look at each other.

“Ganesha?”

Night Streets of Rome

This is an excerpt from thetravellingdiaryofadippydottygirl – I love the imagery she creates of Rome at night…

We drank plenty of wine, munched on bruschetta, pizza, cacio e pepe and aglio e olio pastas, walked arm-in-arm down the streets so softly lit, the old buildings casting half shadows, the occasional pair of lovers around the corner caught in a passionate embrace, men zipping down the cobbled streets of the alleys on Vespas with alarming speed and recklessness, the Carabinieri posted everywhere with their rifles and enough male beauty to make you go ooh. We sat with a fashion designer friend of mine and her half-Italian prince, drank into the night with stories of faraway places and times, and it felt heady, all those stories with sips of prosecco.

An Italian artist from Florence possibly got Rome in a heartbeat when he noted sometime in the 14th century that it is the city of echoes, the city of illusions, and the city of yearning. Because that is what it does for us, produce the yearning to walk its cobbled streets for a long, long time till you want to walk it no more. But how can that even be?

Read more from the Dippy Dotty Girl at http://thetravellingdiaryofadippydottygirl.com/2017/12/24/night-streets-of-rome/

The Hummingbird

Light pooled and dispersed between the shadows, containers of cool air vaulted beneath the broad leaves. Through the canopy vines we bathe in the greenery and soak up the wildness of nature surrounding us. I look across at Choco, sitting on a wooden bench sipping his Belikin, with the beginnings of a smile and finally a look that bordered on contentment.

I started out this morning with Choco. Round head, dewlap like flap at the base of his skull, large belly, Mayan descent. I knew little more about him despite the fact he had picked me up every day since I had been in Belize. He was very pleasant but also very quiet and he had a look as though the monotony of daily life had worn him down a little.

Each morning he would arrive at 6am to take me to the dive shop. Mostly our 10 minutes together was consumed by my excited ramblings of today’s scuba diving excursion, my sub-aquatic adventures from the day before and if we had time, what happened last night at the pub. I didn’t get much by way of a response from Choco, he nodded and responded with brief sentences like “very good” or “what will you do tomorrow?”

Today though I was going on a road trip to explore a large cave system about 3 hours from Placencia and I faced the proposition of over six hours alone in minivan with Choco. As usual he was on time. I was keeping company at the top of the road with Miguel, a security guard from the guest house at which I was staying. “Good luck with the Hummingbird” he commented as I jumped into Choco’s van and waved him goodbye from the window.

“What is the Hummingbird?” I asked Choco.

“It is the road we will be driving”

“Is it dangerous?” I asked

“No” he replied and with that we slipped back into our usual early morning one directional discussion. However, not feeling like driving in silence for six hours and tiring of my own voice, I started pressing him for conversation.

I pried from him an update on the border dispute with Guatamala and his view on whether I should hitch there the next day. Teased from him details regarding his family life and growing up in Belize. Investigated the Mayan peoples and the remnants of their rich culture; and when we had exhausted all standing topics I pressed back in my seat and felt the warm morning air flood through the window as I commented on the postcard perfect scenery along the Hummingbird Highway.

By the time we got to our destination Choco had relaxed and was now starting to initiate some discussion. I almost wished we could drive a little longer, thinking I had nearly cracked him.

About four hours after he dropped me off I found Choco diligently waiting for me for our return journey. He was leaning back against his van with his shirt off. The Belizian sun reflecting off his protruding round smooth belly. He saw me emerging from the jungle and quickly whipped his shirt back on and gave me a wave.

I had spent the morning hiking through the jungle, zip lining through its canopy, exploring an extensive cave system and floating down a stream. Wet and filthy dirty I grabbed a change of clothes and beckoned Choco to join me for lunch. I handed him a beer and we sat along a wooden bench quietly admiring the tumble of rapids in the nearby stream.

We jumped into the van and a discernibly more jovial Choco declares “Guinness is my favourite. I like Belikin but Guinness is the best.” It seems as though beer has acted as a social lubricant for the now much chattier Choco. I suggested I might want to get some beer for the trip back. “Guinness is the beer I drive best on.” Choco adds. “ I know where we should go!”

A local toothless man with a weak chin stepped from the verandah of the general store as I exited with my bag of Guinness. “You’re gunna need something to get you back through the Hummingbird.”  He quipped, following this statement with a booming laugh as he scratched his head and looked out towards the jungle.

“I wonder what he meant by that?” I asked Choco as I handed him his first can of Guinness. Choco shrugs. His beam widening as he cracks the top of his can. We swerve off down the road with Choco chuckling aloud. “I like Guinness”

At first Choco’s chuckles made me smile at him enjoying himself so much. Then I couldn’t help joining in. Both of us chuckling like school children, Choco’s whole body shaking, as we cruised the Hummingbird. Then I saw a sign by the road that said “Prepare to meet thy maker.” I still hadn’t determined the nature of the threat of this road. Needless to say it was a little disconcerting seeing that sign as Choco cracked another beer with another high pitched chuckle.

I searched the road up ahead for signs of danger but it gave me no hints. It seemed like a perfectly safe road. Perhaps there were tight turns that fall away to plummeting ravines or cliffs with loose shoulders that I hadn’t noticed on the way here. Maybe bandits that lay in wait; or could the warnings I had received be the universe cautioning me about my increasingly intoxicated driver. My vigilant watch for impending disaster was broken by Choco opening up and giving me the run down on his girlfriends. In fact now that Choco had started talking I couldn’t shut him up.

Choco it turns out was 44, had a wife and 4 kids and despite appearances was an unscrupulous seducer of tourist women. Didn’t see that coming. He started with his relationship with a Canadian tourist that he became, in his words, “overly friendly” with. He was going to run off with her, except there was a problem with his papers that required his wife’s signature. That was the end of that one he lamented.

After cataloguing a number of star crossed affairs he talked me through his relationship with a Spanish tourist who agreed to be “on the side” until she got his wife’s number from his phone and started texting her that Choco was going to leave her.  Choco denied everything and then “gifted” his wife a new smart phone, with a new number of course and broke it off with the Spanish lady.

He told me he was a bit hurt by the Spanish girl because he trusted her and she broke his trust. I tried to explain there may be some irony in a married man feeling betrayed by his lover but he didn’t grasp the concept and besides he was now having such a good time on this trip back home I didn’t want to spoil it for him. Choco and I were finally connecting. It may have taken half a day and a good deal of Guinness though.

I imagined what it would be like if I could always take the time to connect with the people around me. People I usually pass in my day that I don’t have words to say to or perhaps just no time to say them. Choco and I had little in common but for the next couple of hours we laughed, we drank beer and we ate some of the Namibian Oryx biltong I had in my bag.

By the time we pulled back into Placencia, Choco leaned over and patted me on the knee and told me he was very happy with the drive home, he had never had such a good time working and he felt like the day was for him.

We pulled up in front of my accommodation, the lady at the front desk called out “I see you survived the Hummingbird.” I looked at Choco, he shrugged again. I never found out what if any risks there are driving the Hummingbird. I did find out a lot about my driver Choco though.

Choco. Guinness lover, chuckler…. lothario.

Crown of Palaces

The sun is dipping behind a stretch of cloud, cooling the air to a temperature more inviting of indolence than traipsing one of the seven wonders.

We waited in line with the monkeys, venerated the soft blue of the background framed by the cylindrical minarets, took the view from Princess Diana’s seat, roamed the antechambers and paraded the monument lawns…… and now we sit.

The hum of insects hang on the breeze replacing the no longer audible car horns. The white marble changes hue and the intricate inscriptions demanding reverence. A dreamy languor descends as we soak in the splendour, hand in hand. Resting our tired feet and watching the people go by.

A group of Polish girls are taking turns at being photographed. One by one they all strike the same poses. First they present with one leg bent and a hand on the hip which makes them look sort of like a lame dog. Then they turn around for the bum pose. Facing away from the camera, then hand on hip they glance back over their shoulder towards the camera. Finally the very structured stroll across the Taj Mahal’s marble plinth. This pose comes complete with false starts and specific casual hand gestures.

A group of Chinese girls and boys join the Polish girls at the monument’s base. The poses of Chinese tourists have a uniformity that seems to change through the years. There was a time about twenty years ago when Chinese tourists all seemed to stand straight, arms straight down their side. Then about fifteen years ago, presumably because slide shows back home became too monotonous the same pose but side on with a look across the shoulder seemed to be all the rage. Then about a decade ago this pose seemed to give way to the enduring V for victory sign. Hip kicked one way, shoulders the other and the peace sign held up near the side of their head.

Tourists are now encumbered by the selfie stick. Not wanting to miss a moment where the selfie is required, the selfie stick is now permanently attached to their phones. Some of the boys text with their selfie stick laying awkwardly; out of place on their shoulders. They stop texting long enough to pose for a group selfie. The congregation rotating turns, each vying  to use their own phones to capture the moment.

A young man with a Canadian badge on his back pack spends the best part of his next hour trying to take the perfect shot of his girlfriend. She dances and leaps across the promenade. He adjusts the shutters and sends her back to her starting position to repeat. Holding her up when an unsuspecting tourist stumbles into the scene.

A French couple take turns at sitting and staring into the distance. A beautiful reflective moment broken as they jump up and rush back to the camera to see if their partner perfectly captured the serenity. They didn’t. Back they run to sit again with their legs folded and to reset their far off gaze.

We surreptitiously approach these sites of monumental importance and for a brief moment immortalise ourselves in the shadow of their significance. Perhaps to remember how it was when travelled to sites of social consequence, perhaps to remember how it should have been. Maybe to deceive our future selves or others about our time there.

I raise my camera to the air. High enough so as to reduce the double chins but whilst still getting the onion shaped dome into the shot. I cheekily cut my wife’s head out of the picture. We reset as she stretches up to kiss my cheek.

Click.

Perfect.

I guess we all want to be immortal.

The wind whispers “beware”

The evening is coming.  I walk through the dance floor, the sun retreating, sucked from the darkening corners, leeching itself from the dusty floor. Lunging and fleeing at the horror of the disco lights being switched on.

“Got your gloves on boys? I think we’ll have trouble.”

I step onto the street and light my cigarette, looking up the walk towards Guildhall. Save for two chavs trying to bum some cigarettes from a passer-by, the strip was dead…. for now.  A deep sigh and I start to prepare myself mentally, to stand on the door for another night in deep analogy. As a backpacker turned publican to support my travels, my shaking over the past few months is diminishing. I hope to god it is still only visible from the inside.

It may be a desolate evening on Guildhall Walk but it is still early and the wind rushing past the door is whispering “beware.”

“I just heard the Fleet haven’t got any security on tonight” Chandler comments, shaking his head as he lights his cigarette. “She must have forgotten the game was on or something? Maybe she’s closing up? Some of the other pubs in the street are, not worth the trauma.”

It was the calm before the storm. Portsmouth were playing Southampton in the local derby. I had bulked my security to six and told them to be extra vigilant on the door. That meant checking everybody’s ID. Not to ascertain age but to ensure that we were not letting any Scummers into the pub.

I had nothing against anyone from Southampton. In fact those that I knew were quite pleasant. But fitting in meant using terms like moosh, supporting Harry and Jim to take the Blue Army to the top of the league, and of course referring to everyone from Southampton as Scum. If we accidentally let some in, history has taught me they will inevitably make their city of origin apparent to everyone in the vicinity, provoking a mass brawl. A lapse on the front door would almost certainly result in carnage.

“Come on, lets duck around and see what’s going on, we’ll give her a radio to call us if she gets into trouble.”

****

I moved to position on the door through the sweaty grindings of an inebriated sea of dancing peroxide in strobe and coloured lights. Here I have somehow found my home, hopefully temporarily, inside the bottled and released actions of angry young men.

All under control, I thought as Chandler put in the call on the radio “Robbo, trouble at The Fleet. What do you want us to do?”

Shit, I spoke too soon. I press in my mic “Meet me out the back in the lane, keep two on the front door and one inside, bring the rest.”

The short cut across the lane allowed us to be at the front steps of the Fleet in seconds. It was kicking off well. At first glance there was two separate fights each consisting of about four or five punters. We split into twos and made short work of it. Barging into the middle of the fray we collared the main trouble, worked out who was fighting who and ushered one lot out into the lane.

The baddies on the street wanted to go on with it for a bit but having one publican with a mile of front and three security guards who didn’t need it, seemed to settle them down reluctantly until their supporters inside kicked off again with the same group of guys.

They were dealt the same apparent injustice as their comrades and were also relegated to the alleyway. All seemed to be calm inside with the antagonists now pacing the laneway between The Fleet and the back of my joint. After checking the manageress was ok I left Chandler and another guard on the door of The Fleet to ensure the bad guys didn’t get back in and start things off again. I needed to get back to my gaff to ensure it wasn’t suffering the same fate.

We were not in my bar twenty minutes when Chandler put another call through “Robbo receiving?”

“Go ahead”

“Ah Robbo, I think you had better get back over here…..and bring help.”

One of my bouncers heard the call and met me at the back door, we poked our heads out into the lane, the crowd had swollen to over fifty and Chandler was pushing some back onto the street.

“Crap, lets go” We jogged quickly along the fence line and onto the steps of the pub, joining our other two guards. The crowd had lathered themselves up into a frenzy. Shouting. All the bad words. The guys inside were just as bad, banging on the windows riling them up further with every jeer.

‘What the hell happened? They were calm?”
“As soon as you left these guys called in their mates, we’ve had our hands full keeping them outside and then these pricks in the bar started taunting them. We’ve got to shut the doors, we can’t take all of them.”

“Do it, close ‘em.”  It perhaps wasn’t my call but this was getting out of control. Adam grabs a door but the angry mob rush at us in an attempt to force their way past. We were four guys standing on the steps of the pub, pushing the crowd back. A bottle smashes above our heads and a fist glances my cheek. “Shut the door” I yell.

The onslaught was relentless though and none of us could remove ourselves long enough to unhinge the doors. Our pushes became punches to try and protect ourselves before the mob lunged as one, busting through us.

I am forced to the left of the door, my security all to the right and a sea of aggression divides us. The next few minutes was a free for all, like a medieval war scene, two opposing forces collided as the wave of baddies flooded the door. Terror sets in, your instinct to survive heightens prickly on your skin as you duck and throw haymakers in futile attempts to avoid the flurry of fists, boots and bottles.

A guy rushes me with his fist cocked, I throw one, hitting him worse than flush and then wrestle him past me against a pool table as another one follows him, punching me in the eye. The adrenaline pumping through my veins, a natural anaesthetic. I ward him off the best I can, my arms feel like they are restrained as we jostle, my punches ineffective.

We spin, someone has picked up a pool cue and swings it at me, he is just out of reach. I am punched in the back of the head. I fail to turn to see my new opponent, instead I palm the second guy in the face and launch myself at the snooker fan forcing him backwards onto the second table with his cue lost from his grip. One massive elbow across his head and he stumbles back off, hesitant to reengage.

I look up breathless, stricken with fright. The battle was lost. My shirt ripped, hair wet with sweat and beer. My bouncers each had their hands full, and were being pushed back towards the bar by the animalistic horde. Men were now leaning across the counter grappling at the terrified bar staff. I make my way through the frenzy of fists, lashing out at anyone and everyone in desperation for survival.

I see Chandler and grab his attention, pulling him back towards me “get the guys, protect the bar staff and let these idiots punch themselves out” I yell. He grabs the other two bouncers and we span the bar face, kicking and punching off anyone that came close, staff behind us in a mix of fear and excitement.

Someone ripped a radiator out and hurled it, a glass ash tray took a gash from someone’s head and pool cues were the weapon of choice at the far side near the tables. It was hard to see whether anyone knew which side they were on anymore or if they were just caught up in the exhilaration of the moment.

Fights however never last long, for starters I don’t think anyone really enjoys getting the daylights kicked out of them and it is a fact that kicking the daylights out of someone else is a very tiresome exercise. The fight began to peter out and we moved back in, grabbing the weary combatants and throwing them out onto the street one by one. This time their obnoxious stance of defiance was fleeting and they all walked away, no doubt to tidy themselves up to enter another pub somewhere to celebrate and retell tales of their gallant and bravery in battle.

We empty the bar, shut the doors and to the shaken thank yous of the manageress we ambled back to my pub…… no doubt to retell of our gallant and bravery in battle also.

Real Neat Blog Award

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Petrel41 from the wonderful “Dear Kitty. Some blog” has kindly nominated “robboworldtraveller” for the Real Neat Blog Award. I encourage you to visit her Dear Kitty blog for very interesting posts on politics, science, social justice and much more.  Thank you so much Petrel41, I have very much enjoyed your site and it was so nice to receive this nomination.

The ‘rules’ of the Real Neat Blog Award are: (feel free not to act upon them if you don’t have time; or don’t accept awards; etc.):

1. Put the award logo on your blog

2. Answer 6 questions asked by the person who nominated you.

3. Thank the people who nominated you, linking to their blogs.

4. Nominate any number of bloggers you like, linking to their blogs.

5. Let them know you nominated them (by commenting on their blog etc.)

Petrel’s six questions are:

1. How do you advertise your blog to others?

I don’t. I love telling travel stories and I’m really surprised that my site has received the following it has. I follow other blogs that I’m interested in or that I feel I can learn from in terms of style and I have found some of those I follow will in turn follow my site but I don’t seek to gain followers, just happy to tell my story to anyone keen to listen.

2. How long do you spend blogging per week?

About 2 hours at most. I am writing a book and tend to post blogs on stories that don’t fit into my book. I’m not looking to publish anything, just writing because I find it enjoyable so maybe I will end up blogging all my stories.

3. How many posts do you post per week, on average?

Usually only one.

4. Which of your posts is your favorite so far?

Probably An African Morning. That has seemed to have inspired the most comments and likes. I didn’t like it when I first posted it but then I don’t like any of my writing at first. It takes a while for me to enjoy my own work.

5. Why did you choose to create the blog you did?

I started blogging just over three months ago because I wanted to understand how blogs work and also share some of my adventures. I plan to keep blogging until it becomes a chore.

6. Are pictures or words more important to you? Or are they equally important?

Words, only words.

My questions for my nominees are the same as Petrel’s.

My nominees are a for some travel writers who I think are really talented. They take care not just to document but to take you with them. If you enjoy travel writing I encourage you to check them out:

1. Ryan, No filter necessary
2. Fresh Brew
3. Nikki: writer, kind of
4. Searching for Elsewhere
5. Traveholics
6. The Travelling Diary of a Dippy-Doppy Girl