The three books that never fail to make me laugh.

Some folks have asked me, because I reported on a book as ‘the third funniest book I had ever read’, to inquire about number’s one and two.   Always a slightly dangerous subject to suggest that any one thing is better than another: it really does not matter what.  (Did you notice that colon there ?  I like colons).  It could be the shape and size of an envelope or the the best store to find some aged Italian cheese or a TV show.   It is all relative.

SO … these are my top books for bringing a smile or a laugh or, in many cases with the top one, total meltdown mirth, so that sitting on the sofa, book in hand, I would find a passage that made me unable to read further, as I was shaking with laughter and then when I had sobered up, just reading two more lines, reduced me to a kind of helpless and childish mirth and the tears rolled down my face.  When that happens, it is great comic writing.   And I should add, none of these is remotely modern   The oldest was first issued in 1892 and the second oldest in 1932 and the third in 1956.


Bronze medal goes to  Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons.  Written as a parody of the Thomas Hardy earthy, provincial novels that he turned out by the yard, it relates the effect of a cool, very calm Flora Poste, orphaned and alone, who decides to descend on her relatives at Cold Comfort Farm, a chaotic place in the wilds of nowhere and in modern Brit parlance ‘Get them sorted.’.  She does this with ruthless efficiency.  All the characters, and there are many, are deftly drawn, each with their own strong character.  Flora is as cool as a cucumber, as you should be.   It was made in to a movie, about 20 years ago, with a fairly starry cast too, but the genius remains on the page.

Silver medal  goes to the oldest of the bunch, which has never been out of print.  The Diary of a Nobody by George and Weedon Grossmith, yes, they were brothers. A total, small scale joy.   Mr Pooter, a self admitted nobody, decides to record his family’s up and downs, as he tries to move up a mini-step in his London society.  He is a fussy, probably, little man but you know who he is and the ride is wonderful.  Tiny little pieces of Victorian life are here, including wife Carrie and the fairly deadbeat son, Lupin, and you ride with them on the heels of a very unimportant person.   He was almost 100 years ahead of Hyacinth Bucket.  I hope that you know who she is.  If not, there is a dragon in waiting, with her slim-line telephone, with instant last number recall.  

And the Gold Medal goes to ‘The Ascent of Rum Doodle’, by W. E. Bowman which is a glorious parody of books about exploring and climbing mountains.  You will join a truly hapless group, muddling its way up a mountain. Well, they have to get out of the UK first and as their route finder seems to be permanently lost on the London Underground system, it gives you a taste of what is to come. So often, parodies start to run out of steam halfway through, but this one does not.   It usually comes with an introduction by Bill Bryson, detailing how he came across it totally by accident and he states very accurately that ‘this is the funniest book you have never heard of’. Well, now you have, so no excuse not to find it and have a good time climbing a mountain.

And if it too much effort to read, they are all available as recordings, read by actors well versed in how to keep you amused.

How to enter the next Century and then return to the last one.

We had a great ‘Private Jet Around the World’ trip planned for the Millennium.   It was a time when all travel companies wanted to find something good and we hit the jackpot.   We were to become real time travelers

Around December 26, 1999, I set off on the long and I mean really long, flog to get myself to Samoa, in the South Pacific before they did.  This involved flying to Los Angeles and then to Auckland, New Zealand, where I managed a few hours in bed and then BACK to Samoa, which I had practically flown over about 15 hours before.  So I had crossed the dateline and jumped ahead a day and now I had gone back across it, so got the day back.  The dateline is one of those fictitious things which is on the other side of the world from the Greenwich Meridien.   You have to have somewhere where today becomes tomorrow, 12 hours away.    So, going from the USA towards the orient, you will lose a day.  Leave Samoa Tuesday and four hour later, arrive in Auckland where it is suddenly Wednesday.  Reverse that, leave Auckland on Tuesday evening and arrive in Samoa after a four hour flight and you are at the start of that same Tuesday all over again.   There are some people I have talked to and who never get it, so I hope you do.

Anyway, our masterly coup was that we would have our aircraft arrive in Samoa on Dec 30th, 1999.  It was coming from Easter island and flying west with the time, meant they left there at 10am and after a 9 hours flight, still arrived in Samoa at 3pm.   They would do some sightseeing in the afternoon.  Most important of which was the last home of Robert Louis Stevenson, the Scottish writer, who ended up there, as the damp Scottish climate was killing him.  He became a much-loved local celebrity and had a beautiful large and terraced house called Valima, which could be visited and you are guided around, all in bare feet, by young Samoan girls, wearing long kilts.  It is really surreal !

So next morning the punters would board our aircraft, it being Dec 31st 1999 and fly west, across the date line and arrive in Nuku’alofa, the sleepy capital of Tonga, one hour later and magically they had arrived in 2000.   I had already been there a couple of years ahead, to do what we called scouting.  In other words, go look and see what there is and can we do it and what should we do (or not do). You walk every route, look under every stone, count the steps, eat the food, sleep in the beds, try to make whoever will be involved understand: This a a gang of very spoiled babies, who have given us an enormous amount of money and we shall work together to make sure they have the most wonderful time. Can you do that ? To this end, I had endured a couple of days in a really 100% nowhere place.   All very sultry South Pacific warm, but slower than mud and with precious little that would have made a stop worthwhile, apart from being one hour away from yesterday.   And now not just a day or a year, but a century.

My coup turned out to be a royal audience.  I saw their version of Buckingham Palace, which was a large clapboard building that had been imported as a sort of early Ikea kit, from New Zealand.  I knew about the royal family, as did anyone alive in the UK for the Coronation Day of Queen Elizabeth on June 2nd 1953.  Sadly it was a very wet day, so the grand procession of horse drawn carriages that followed QE11 from Westminster Abbey all had their tops up.  Apart from one.  Queen Salote of Tonga,  a very large lady with a huge beaming smile, kept hers open and despite weather that must have frozen her to the bone, she waved very happily, though sopping wet and that day Tonga moved on to the UK map. We all loved her.  (I discovered many years after that there was some Tongan style protocol, which would have made it appear that she was disrespectful to the Queen by putting the top up).

So here I was in Tonga and her grandson was now king and I mentioned what I have just written to my guides and they said, well would we be interested in having an audience with the King ?  Would we ? Of course we would.  I had not thought about even suggesting it, but it seems here, with a discreet exchange of folding money, His Majesty the King would be at home.  His Majesty agreed.

Flying across the Dateline, even for an experienced flight deck crew from Air 2000, a UK airline, which operated our flights, was an excitement and we had a countdown over the p.a. and they took it off the autopilot and we had a little ‘bump’ to prove we were in the new century.   Everything worked fine, to begin with and the King was home and everybody, who had been told to bring some smart looking gear, lined up and shook hands with his royal highness.  He had inherited his grandmother’s size.  Several of the ladies even managed some proper debutante curtsies.   Unasked for by us, they had much in the way of food and drink waiting, even at 10am, which was unfortunate, as we were off to a very very expensive beach barbeque.  But my gang does like to consume and we could not be rude and just rush off, so our schedule started to derail. 

You have to understand, these trips are planned down to the last minute.  The person doing the scouting takes much in the way of notes and asks many questions: like, which is the best day of the week to be here and is the traffic always the same?  We check out public holidays in countries years ahead of when the locals there will know they are happening, national days, anniversaries of the Great Defeat and always lived in dread of some royal visit suddenly happening or a major strike or some civil insurrection.  Some you can plan for and some you cannot.  We knew that with Tonga, do NOT be there on a Sunday, when the whole place goes in to a religious lockdown.

Having escaped the palace, we went on a tour of the island, looking at flying foxes (or bats) hanging upside down and asleep in the trees. They are nocturnal, so not really much to get excited about.  We saw some blow-holes in the rocks on one part of the beach, where the sea rushes in and forces water up, so that it comes down all prettily.  It was not knock out, but there really was an awful lot of nothing there.

Eventually we reached the beach barbecue, about 45 mins after we had been scheduled to arrive.  This was not something I had fixed up on my scouting trip two years earlier, so all I had was a copy of the emails and invoices that had happened between them and our office in Seattle.

The woman running the place had managed to charge us the most astronomical sum, per head, but had promised this would be the beach barbeque to end all beach barbeques.  Sadly I was not aware of the figures until too late, as they were grossly out of line.   Both she and her staff were clearly exhausted.  The Millennium had stretched them all way beyond their normal work schedule and they had been doing it all for a week, with cruise liners, the lot, so when we arrived, all excited, they were on their last legs.  The meal was just the basic beach barbeque and lacked all the fancy stuff like lobsters and crab galore and exotic dishes and champagne and fine wine up the yazoo.  It really was very poor.   Even the dancing girls no-showed.

The payment for it had been made via a series of wire transfers, our bank to her bank, but of course, being an awful long way away in glacially slow Tonga, only two of the three had arrived.  Madame was less than happy when I told her what a disappointment this all had been.  We had been royally ripped off.  Her counter to that was it was WE who were taking advantage of her, by being there and still owing her a lot of money.  Fortunately, I was armed with copies of the bank transfers, so could show her how the last one had been actioned in Seattle on December 15th, a full two weeks ago.  Normally that would have been in the receiver’s bank within a day or two, but of course in slow, slow Tonga, it still was not showing up.  She demanded FULL PAYMENT NOW or you cannot leave. 

Well that was about USD8,000.  Of course, we did not carry quite as much with us in cash.  She was adamant.  Pay or I call the police.  I am normally fairly cool when things derail, but this was so blatant, we went practically into a slanging match across the bar, with me telling her what a rip off this was etc etc.   When the cork is out of my bottle, it is OUT.

Meanwhile the punters were being rounded up so that we could return to the airport and go back to Samoa and 1999.  Micheline, who was the Expedition Manager practically had to force us apart, but there was no way out.  In the end, I said you can have my credit card, which was bumped up always to be able to pay for something when things went wrong and I knew that I could be in touch with Seattle and they could contact my bank and make sure I did not get the bill.  Those were the good old days of the credit card being put in to the machine and the sales slip being impressed and it took no less than three different pieces of paper and we were released.  God, I was so pissed off.

But we escaped and one hour later, we crossed the dateline again and were back in 1999, our little space trip to the future had been completed.

And just to add a little excitement later on, back in Samoa, where we were to have another bash that night and be the LAST people on the globe in 1999, the captain of our aircraft, a rather dour Scot, came to Micheline and me and said that he had been looking at where they were going tomorrow, Papua New Guinea, and he could see it was not safe for him and his crew, so he could not go there.  Well, tra la.

Mich and I had been there many times and we knew a lot more about it then he did.  I told him that the hilltop hotel he and his crew would be staying in was 100% safe.  I had stayed there, they did not have to leave the premises, (there was really nowhere to go anyway), the food was good, the pool was great and they would be FINE.  He did not think so.  This trip had been planned for over two years and now a small man (he was, thus the big ego and an airline Captain too, a very bad combination),).   So I said ‘OKAY,  if you won’t go there, please contact  your operations and sales department in London Gatwick and have them make all the arrangements, all the overflying permissions and you find us hotel accommodation and sightseeing and guides and then we will go wherever.  Where are you thinking of taking us?  And don’t forget, it cannot be somewhere that we need visas’. 

I’d much rather have lopped his head off.   Mich looked at me and I said let’s go for a walk.  We went around the gardens at the celebrated Aggie Grey’s Hotel and kicked the palm trees and quietly had hysterics, knowing full well that he had no option but to take us to PNG and he did.   Just another day in sleepy Samoa.

From France to Dubai, via Ethiopia 2001

Be warned… this is long !!

In Bordeaux. I was met by our newly appointed French agent, whom I did not know. Always a bit fraught that, as you depend on this person and whoever he works for to do all the necessary and personal chemistry can be a large factor as to whether all goes well. Bizarrely enough the French domestic flights all arrive in the international terminal of Euro arrivals, so I carried my bag past a customs man again – don’t think the Brits would like like and the Amurricans would be apoplectic. Anyway it turned out to be a great fit – Bertrand, a fortyish guy from Aix en Provence was there and quite incredulous to find someone who could speak his language – we must all be regarded as v dim I spose. We drove off to take a look at Bergerac airport where our BIG plane would be turning up in 2 days.

Can hardly say a fever of great anticipation was in the air, but all seemed in order … one small point – WHERE WERE THE STEPS? Well, they had their 737 height steps and on top of them they had built a wooden box to serve as a extra top step – I had me doots as to whether it was tail enough (757’s have enormously long legs) but the moment would come in a couple of days time. Off then to the hotel I was to stay at, prior to moving into our chateau (which was actually closed and reopening just for us). The place I was in has a 3 star Michelin dining room, which I had sampled once before and was only too happy to check out again, so we did it that night. Somewhat posher than the Routiers (in fact about the opposite end of the spectrum), Madame on the front door was amply padded by years of what Monsieur had been creating in the kitchen. He looked like the twin brother of Rene in ‘alto ‘alto – I was very tempted to say Good Moaning. The decor was heavily ornate and the food ditto. Of course, it was all sublime and we licked our chops and wudda done our plates too, but it just wasn’t that sortta place.

An amazing table of six well turned out, middle aged, Amurrican ladies adjacent to us – came in sounding and looking like toute Texas on the move and then when the waiter and sommelier moved in, they all went into totally fluent, perfectly accented French. I had to pinch myself. but was polite enuf not to lean over and ask just who the hell they were and which side of the pond they started. They were even ballsy enough to send back a bottle of wine … I liked them a lot, as they were a)French speakers, b) were having a good time, c) knew their food and drink. They spend ages going over the menu with that intensity that only the French ever have. The Frogs examine a good menu as if they were checking for typos and then of course it all has to be put together in conjunction with their livers/kidneys/hearts etc etc, not to mention the wines that would go with what. It’s a ritual and not something to be taken lightly. A great hush can go over the entire table. I suspect the the Lycees in foreign cities probably run courses on it. as the deciding is half the fun. The wine list ran to some mighty expensive vintages and just ONE DAY, I’d love to sample one just to see if it was really worth it…. We burped our way to bed.

Next day was spent running around to the various cave sites that the pax would visit and we managed to fit in a lunch somewhere (just 3 courses and a cheery bottle of rouge – we can economise when we have to…) and a Iooksee at a couple of other hotels we may need to use sometime and all was good. And soon it was time for the BIG moment for Bergerac Airport to receive a 757 for the first time. It landed to the minute and suddenly looked absolutely vest outside the mini building that serves as a terminal. The stairs were positioned and guess what – we had a jump of about 2 foot drop for them to negotiate, but they did and soon they were off and running and 1 was with my new best friend Bruno, who drove the baggage truck. He could actually talk about Mali of all places, as he had been in the French military there in ye olde days – we agreed that it was a pretty desperate place and he had no wish to return.

Next couple of days were spent sometimes with the pax (a good gang several of whom I knew from previous trips) and sometimes looking at other places for future stops. And of course there was still eating to be done. Had a triff meal at a less than inspiring looking hotel in Sarlat, where for just an ordinary dinner they sat us down with a nice glass of champagne and little savory puff pastries, plus olives, then thick home made lentil soup with grated truffles in a dirty sprinkle across the top, then a WHOLE lobster thermidor each, a half of which wudda been a large enough portion, rich as it is and HOW good it all tasted too – then how about this nice BIG veal chop. smelling sweetly of herbs, glistening with a drizzle of deglazed buttery sauce and why not chose from this tray of cheeses and then a hot fruit desert of berries and a sabayon sauce . well why NOT ??????.. If we had told the pax the menu in advance, they would have all screamed about the fat content and heart attacks wudda broken out all over the place and great cryings out for glasses of seltzer water, just thinking about it – “whatcha trying to do ? – kill me ? “etc etc, BUT the reality is that they all scoffed it up, said it was totally delish and came home fat and happy. I’m just glad I brought extra Alka Seltzers with me.

All too soon, la France was over and I was on my way back to London for a night, so I could rush off to Ethiopia next day. It is quite normal for me to go north so that I can then go south.

Next day I was en route to Addis Ababa. THANKS to one reader here, a seat move was managed on the flight which made a HUGE difference – nice Brit Mediterranean crew – they are a friendly lot and were all smiles, even though going from LHR to Alexandria and then on to Addis gave them a duty day of some 9 hours (and when I think I used to walk 13 hours nonstop from Tel Aviv to NY with a much more demanding load … well this gang are just babies). They have only just started to run this route and the crew had never been to Addis, so I was able to give them some do’s and dont’s, which may just have just about saved their lives. Anyway, dead on time at 0145 we landed in Addis and my smiling minder was waiting there. This poor guy spends half his life at the airport, regardless of the hours and he’s the sort that just makes you feel better just looking at him – I’m back in Mr Teeeeem land.

The Sheraton Hotel still stands and amazingly is in excellent shape. I’m always a bit wary of newly established posh hotels in third world countries, which start off grand and then go into a slow decline. This one has not and will be happily received by our gang. I went off later to see the ground agents, who are rather slow shall we say and sometimes if 1 wonder if the message is getting through to them, but they did OK last time we were here, so inshalla’h all will be well. It’s a bit like an old Russian office with a lot of rather underemployed people sitting around, not even pretending to look busy. The place is exceedingly scruffy and someone would be well employed taking a bucket of water and a mop to the floor. The chief feature of the window display is a model of a 767 in Ethiopian Airlines colors, which has managed to lose both its engines – the first time I saw it, there was only one and now it is rather clean winged. I asked if Ethiopian was now into gliding, but it went right over their heads.

But at the office of Sudan Airways just around the corner, where I made a courtesy call in search of timetables for me mates (fruitless too, I should report. though I know they never believe me) – a place almost as sparse as our agents, filthy stained carpet, a torn poster on the walls and a long desk, drifts of dust at the unused end and a small female and a big blank computer at the other and THERE, in all its faded glory, was this absolutely spendidly HUGE cutaway model of a Comet 4, sitting up on a metal stand. A real live five foot by four foot Comet that no one ever looked at and just totally ignored Must have been about 40 years old and was getting a bit sad looking, but still, what a grand sight for old small boys who loves planes. This was something really special. I walked around it and looked through the cutaway perspex at all the seats – and how wonderful and powerful and hi tech it was and I yearned for the sound of it taking off with all four big Avons blasting (don’t think noise was a problem in those days – it represented how advanced we were then and therefore we shall all enjoy it. Far from the killjoys who decide to live around airports these days. They should all move to rural Nebraska and let planes show off their noise). There did seem to be rather a lot of toilets and not much galley, but this may have been artistic model making license. I examined it from every direction and it just became better looking and it was love at first sight. I offered to buy it off them at any price but the young thing on the desk. was absolutely dumbfounded at such a question. I was supposed to be buying tickets, not making unrepeatable offers on the decorations. The Comet had stopped flying long before she was even born, so here he was, as far as she was concerned, this rather pathetic white man offering to carry off the only good looking thing in the office. Kinda like it had been sitting there collecting dust for EVER and what would they put there without it ??? I would have taken it off to a much better home and shall remount this attack each time I return here. Perhaps I can get my minders just to walk in and waive bits of paper and say they have come to collect it and just take it and run. The previous owners would get over it’s loss quite fast, I’m sure. ldda bought them a pot plant, honest.

Anyway, evantualee, our plane arrived (some 20 mins early, I must point out to all you grumblers who always mutter about them being late…), Best thing was that its arrival came as a complete shock and surprise to Ethiopian Airlines, who were to handle its transit. They claimed to know nothing about it. Strange, says I, cos I know otherwise. Anyway we got over that hurdle and the pax were whisked through and I coped with their bags after they had left. Next morning we had them outta their beds at 0500 (well at the price they pay per day, you gotta maximise that…) and off to the airport at 0600 for our special (that’s my new word for charter) Ethiopian flight to Lalibela which was sked to depart at 0700 – and guess what – go on, guess ………… c’mmon on ……… well you were probably wrong, but the thing departed some five minutes EARLY – I’m worried that actions may be taken by senior management against the persons responsible for this breach of ET regulations, which require that even though pax are boarded in a timely manner, then there is a great hiatus when nothing discernible actually happens, but it ensures that all flights leave about 20-30 mins later than advertised.

Anyway we purred along in a Fokker 50, high wing 2 x 2 seats and two boys in the traditional dark green of ET provided us with a doorstop cheese sandwich (somewhat heavy on the bread and light on the cheese, a l’anglaise) and a piece of fruit cake and water or Coke, so we wanted for nothing well, kinda. 55 mins later we were in Lalibela, home of the celebrated rock churches and about a million flies. There wasn’t much I cud do about the former, as they have been there for +/- 1000 years, but the latter I actually HAD tried to do something to ease the pain inflicted on tender Amurrican eyes, noses and mouths by these pesky things_ At each stop we give our babies, a little pressie – something tasteful of course and not garish – must also be OK for males and females and not fragile or heavy – or expensive – you can see from that basic list, that the search can become difficult. Anyway when I went to Addis to set this thing up, one of my duties was to search for the perfect pillow gift (such are these things called in the trade) and suddenly I sees a Coptic priest with his traditional fly whisk and I had a eureka moment and off we went and stocked up on them. So when the babes arrived they found this waiting for them (along with a ready stamped postcard and also $10 worth of Ethiopian Birr – yes that’s the local money and very filthy stuff it is too and probably now has anthrax as well as bubonic plague on its surface) – after stuffing envelopes with it, I washed my hands much harder than normal.

So next day, in Lalibela, there were all whisking away and what a good idea it was etc etc and I let them know that it was MOI that was looking out for their welfare and they thought I was a good egg etc etc (if anyone is actually called a good egg these day ?? ). And there are the beggars. Oh dear such a sad sight to see – totally heartbreaking and I’ve tried to train myself just NOT to look. cos it just doesn’t get any easier to see again. Trouble is the churches also attract domestic visitors (tourism would be quite the wrong idea) and so they sit around on the ground with their hands outstretched, just hoping for something. Many are blind and others genetically deformed and some both and it’s a tough call to walk past. What I set up for them was for our gang NOT to try to do anything, as they would almost be too traumatised by the sights anyway and instead we have our ground agents distribute cash later, so at least we do give them something, but even so, it’s a haunting experience.

Our return to Addis had its problem though – mainly the simple fact that the plane that was supposed to come find us, was sick elsewhere and we were stuck. Lalibela airport, is, of course, undergoing a huge transformation so they have the builders in, which makes it far less attractive, esp when you have to sit there for 3 hours. I spent some of it in the ET office, trying to work on a plan B and C, just in case the missing plane was towed away and buried somewhere. The young lad there communicates with Addis by radio. That’s it. No phone, just a staticky radio. They proposed various skeds, which he wrote down, all in GMT so add 3 for Ethiopia and the boy was quite impressed that I could understand such ideas and I told him that I was doing things like that probably before not only he was born but his dear papa even, which made him look at me with wide eyes – fortunately I was seated or I’m sure he wudda given me his chair.

Anyway to cut a boring story short, our plane was eventually fixed and flew in and we departed. The highlight of the return to Addis had been planned to go to the museum to see the 2 MILLION year old bones of Lucy, who trolled around not far from Addis. We had the professor along with us who had found her (one of the carrots for coming on the trip was to meet him and the family) and we were going to see the real bones themselves rather than the plaster casts on view in the museum – this was a HUGE honor as they ain’t dragged out for anyone), but now we were severely off sked. The phone lines buzzed and we were told that cos it was HIM and they like HIM, they would wait -well we got there at 7pm in the end and guess what, the man with the key had gone home and they didn’t know where he was. Ahhhhhh such angst, almost tears from some punters – THIS WAS WHY THEY CAME etc etc and tomorrow’s sked was already tight with an 0800 departure down to Tanzania and we had to go home and start calling down south and rearranging like mad – but in the end we did it and they went to the museum at 8am and it was opened for them and they saw the celebrated girl herself and we all walked on water again. Honest, we’re frigging wonderful, even though I have to say so myself.

And I foxtrot oscared to Dubai for the night.. Fortunately ET decided that they would operate the flight to the original sked and routing (they often surprise their punters by arbitrarily changing both – I once turned up in Dubai to hear my plane’s engine starting in the distance – even though I had reconfirmed the flight the day before, they had overnight resked it to depart an hour earlier), so we zooted along to Dubai – flew right over the Hadramaut area of Yemen, which still has not received the honor of a visit from yrs truly – frustrating to be within 39,000 feet of it – then endless acres of the Empty Quarter in Saudi – what a godforsaken place it looks too – Lawrence of A had to be totally out to lunch to go wandering around there – masochism on speed I think.

And so into the efficient arms of DXB as the sun set – I’m met inside the terminal by a young lady waving a clipboard with my name on it and she sweetly asks if I had been there before and I looks at her and says “Honey WAY before u were ever thought of “which she finds Very Amusing and nearly drops the clipboard. She was from Beirut (everyone in DXB is from somewhere else …) and I could tell her about that before she was born too – I’m beginning to feel quite ancient again and may have to sit down and put my legs up for a while. So having refused all offers to part with $139 in the 1000 to 1 car raffle, and discussed the hopes of delivering bags speedily to arriving pax – this nice man from the airport authority was stood standing there (with another clipboard , another booming business in DXB must be the importing of these things and yet another stock tip for you) and I told him v sweetly that if this had been ever-efficient Singapore, weeda been outta the doors by now, which he felt was impossible and I promised scouts honor and all that, that I spoke the truth. Outside I am met by the Indian man who looked after me last time, but he was just there to press the flesh for an instant and pop me into a nice BMW (I think, you know I’m not good on cars – as long as they go, i don’t care what they are …) and off I goes to somewhere called The Royal Mirage, a VERY fancy schmanzy palace place along the beach and there is the Sales Mgr there waiting for me (I’m already getting slightly paranoid that wherever I go around here, there is someone lurking around every corner, almost all with a clipboard, who knows my name and presses his business card upon me – I’m getting quite a collection of these, which intend to leave to the nation eventualee).

This guy turns out to be a wandering Canadian with a spiffy haircut, lived all over the place, so we then dine alfresco, as this is the best time to be there for such pleasures. The hotel has a good choice of restaurants and the fish one virtually on the beach is full already and its not even 2000 and the locals don’t come out til 2200. We exchange airline horror stories – make a mental note not to patronise Air Gabon and stay away from Zambia too. We move to the kinda oriental courtyard, where there is a Moroccan musician playing what looks like a home made sort of stringed instrument, which he manages to pluck and tap out the beat too – sweet sounds under the palm trees and an apple water pipe to suck on, along with the obligatory the a la menthe. All v nice indeed. I’m invited to pop me head into the nightclub to view its beauties and v swish it is too, though I wouldn’t be caught dead going there. The man on the door is big and dark and ‘no worries’ for me take a look, which is Oz/Kiwispeak and I peg him as a Samoan and ask if he’s from Samwa, which is how they says it, and he nearly keels over from shock. He said no one has ever pinned him down that easily… I am invited to return anytime I want -thanks, but no. I am dead on the feet and go off to a nice bed in a v dark room and I sleep like the proverbial log (has anyone ever seen an awake log ?) til the alarm goes off at 0600 and I’m reinstalled in a Volvo). I’m sure about that one and retrace my steps to the airport. Another girt waiting for me on the kerb, holding her you-know-what and she swishes me to the check in and a sweet little Fillipina does the biz. Place, as usual. full of itinerant middle eastern and subcontinent visitors, some of whom have spread out newspapers on the carpet and are fast asleep – henna dyed feet stick out from a black burkha type of thing – feet are VERY gnarled and look more like they should be plodding along behind a water buffalo or similar, rather than having a kip in DXB. One day I’m going to get there early enough to carry out some interviews – if I carry a clipboard, that will make it official for sure, as there must be a feast of stories there. And while I remember, Addis airport always has a contingent of Chinese, puffing away on dreadful cigs, legs tucked up under them or giving each other ferocious pounding massages… gotta find out one day just what they are doing there. Perhaps they bring them in to make the place look more cosmopolitan and they actually never go anywhere ? Addis though has its own share of curiosities, like an ET flight going to N’jamena (Chad), Kano (Nigeria) and Bamako (Mali) which of course would win the international “Hand Baggage of the Year” award, (boom boxes still much in demand there and also a couple of family sized rice cookers, which would never go above or under a seat) not to mention the size of the ladies (not slim shall we say) or the aroma left behind them all. It’s a feast for watchers comme moi_

Boy this one is going on and on – sorreeeee

I’m gonna end it right now.

Tim

Life in Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam

Have had two lunchtime outing’s from Huy’s office, with the team.  First was for International Women’s Day, when we went around the corner and virtually took over a dim sum place.  Meal ended with frog congee, which may not be too everyone’s taste, but at least it cheered up the congee, which is exceedingly bland, like eating baby food.  The girls were much dressed up and one guy and one girl stood up and sang during the meal.  She does not have a future there, but the young guy had the sweetest voice. 

And the second to celebrate a staff member leaving, whom I shall miss, as she has been there as long as I have known Huy, called Jennifer (they all have Western names) and she is very kind and quiet and speaks good English.  I can wink at her and she might just wink back, which is fairly advanced for around here.  We piled in to cabs (extremely cheap here) and went to a crab restaurant.  If I had known that, I might have not gone, as I think crabs are the biggest effort for the least amount of food ever invented.  We had crabs in tamarind (sweet) and crabs in salt.  They are all still wielding chopsticks (and fingers) whereas I just resort to the latter and it’s still way too much effort for near zero nutrition.  They practically dissect them and suck every bone dry.  At the end of the meal, the table- top burners come out and the soup is kind of made there and then, with addition of coconut water right from the coconut itself, with a crab base and then many other bits thrown in and we clean out the bowls.   They all take taxis back, but as I have a vague idea of where I am, I said I would walk, which practically causes heart attacks.  We just don’t walk here.

And you can walk across the street, once you know what you are doing….

And I have been no less than twice to the Opera House.   A relic of colonial France and one of the most photographed buildings in town.  Went to the HCMC Symphony Orchestra, with Huy, who loves western classical music.  We went last year and it was a bit of an ordeal, so I was ready to tune out, but they have improved amazingly and for what they lack in professionalism, they make up in enthusiasm !  They kind of ran out of steam towards the end, as it was a full program.  On the way out, standing on the steps in the warm night air, one of the musicians came past and I congratulated him on the  performance.  He was a bassoonist, which is a difficult enough instrument to play anywhere, so he was happy to be praised.  They are now performing every month.

A few night later, I was back for something called the “A O Show” which might be described as VN Cirque de Soleil –  well, if you screw yr eyes up a bit.  It was cute.  Revoltingly healthy mainly young men, with a few girls, doing all sorts of balancing acts using huge versions of their baskets and ropes and running and jumping and twisting and never running out of steam either.  Audience, mainly round eyes, lapped it up. 

Have seen two Chinese funerals, from the vantage point of my balcony and both at 7am on Saturday morning !  Oddest thing was the similarity with the traditional New Orleans jazz band funeral tradition .. uniformed band was the same both times and playing trad. ragtime stuff.  If you had closed yr eyes (and made yourself cool) you would never have thought of being in VN. They come complete with professional/wailing mourners and literally wearing sackcloth and ashes.

There is even a coffin shop around the corner –  I kid thee not.  Wonderfully ornate some of them are and the same man stretched out on his camp bed just inside the door… perhaps a living ad for how comfortable they are for the dearly departed.  Mainly huge they are, but also has smaller sized child ones.  I keep an eye on his stock and nothing has been sold in weeks.

Perhaps you can try once for size.

At the rice shop, there are no less than 30 different types of rice in sacks … everything from USD.70 a kilo to nearly $3.   If you have them all side by side like that, you can see the difference. And you can have it as flour too. 

Just along the street, is the Platinum Dental Group office, which is all pristine white and gold.  You leave your shoes at the door here (as you do with any family home and we do at my airbandb place).  It all looks v swish.  I may have to have a word with Dr Michael Kleinman in NY about upgrading his image.  VN’s would be shocked that we tramp around in his office in our outside shoes.  And the price there, of course, will be a fraction of chez Kleiny.

On the way back here from Oz, the side handle on my million-miler suitcase finally gave way … and of course VN is THE place to have the impossible-in-most-places-in-the-western-world-to-fix done.  My landlady took control and said “I will take it to the one-legged man…” which she did (on the back of her bike of course, you were expecting a taxi already ?) and not only did he repair it to the degree that you could hang it from a hook, weighing 25kgs, and it would not give way, but he also added one on the other side for good measure.  Cost: a shade under USD5.   Ah me  !

A man on a scooter just went past … his pillion rider had a 20 ft long set of bamboo poles under one arm. Everyone on the road will see it (no silly flags on the ends !) and they will cause no harm.  Girls in short skirts riding pillion do it sidesaddle, with legs demurely crossed and often not even hanging on to anything.. I suppose if you have been on a bike from in utero days, then bike balance is inborn !   I saw two lovely looking TALL girls (it does happen) and often v thin too, which adds to the height.  Both in very very tight and clingy little black dresses and permanently tugging them down over their pert bums .. a sisterhood around the world is doing that ! 

Can you hear me now …???? 

Café Nhi does motorbike service .. just yell from the kerb and your order is brought right to you in the obligatory tiny plastic bag and then hung from one of the many small hooks all VN bikes have just for this reason.  I am quite expecting to see a small child hanging from one.   And no wonder the coffee tastes so good, they were just using a wonderful old red grinder to convert beans to ground and the places smells, temporarily, wonderful.   The ice-man just cameth to check on supplies and has returned with the sack over his shoulder.  Who needs computerized inventory controls when the iceman will show up regardless ?   He wears an ancient baseball cap and his crash helmet on top.

I’m on the menu …

Just walking back home after a couple of hours chez Nhi, is fraught with obstacles, as all the small restaux have expanded out on to the sidewalk, where they have met the parked bikes, which many times appear to have been abandoned, rather than parked.   Where there is the ‘security’ man, then often the route is you just charge on to the kerb, take off all your wrappings (which if female can be many as the last thing we want here is a tan) and then walk away and the man in the blue shirt then lines them all up.  You can just be just innocently walking along and suddenly, wham, a bike arrives and you can practically go flying over it.  That’s normal.

Many years ago, Huy asked me what would happen to the signet ring that has been on my left hand pinkie for ever.  He apparently, had always liked it and in that direct VN way put in a bid for it upon my demise.  So I said of course, but never quite worked out how to achieve that.   Well, as many of you know, when I had my operation last November, the ring had to be cut off.   Looking at it afterwards, I knew in a second that this was the time to pass it along.  It’s been there 51 years and so has served its time and I rather liked the idea that it could move with me being alive and also depart for a new part of the world.  So I brought it with me and presented it to him, in its broken state and within two days, he had it all fixed and now has promised that he will do the same.

Huy grinning as he always does, plus his right hand girl Tracy, who is lovely.

Huy looking serious…

So I shall be setting off home soon now … it’s been fun being really immersed in VN, yet at the same time, you are still the stranger.  At least their English communications skills have improved beyond anything I could have imagined 20 years ago, when I first came here.  In fact the whole place has changed hugely too.  Far more ‘westernized’ than it was then, so now we have supermarkets and not just street vending.

I won’t miss all those hard seats, which is the norm for all of the orient.  There is something about the wooden seats here that seem to make them extremely hard, after just a few minutes.   I won’t miss the fumes from all those bikes but I shall miss not using my special VN skills to cross the road in a sea of bikes.  At rush hour downtown, this is really Olympic Gold level and is perhaps better to buddy up with a local and glue yourself to them all the way across.   I won’t miss the sound of the language, as it is about as far from ‘romance’ as you can get.

Again, this is already way too long and you have probably given up by now.

No more anon…if there is a flight report, it will go to the aviation/travel buffs, as it must be very boring for anyone else !

Love,

Tim.

Ps  Mass staff hysteria now at Café Nhi, as I am trying to pronounce their names.  All one syllable, but that is still tough.  Miss Thom (but Tom) is my mate and Miss Tay and Miss Vung are the other two, EXCEPT they all fall about when I repeat exactly what I hear.  Don’t forget, we have 6 tones here and the minutest, teeniest change will mean something completely different.  Just had my pic taken yet again, with the hair standing on end, as under a fan… whatever will their mothers be thinking !!

The view to the street from the back of Cafe Nhi.

And don’t forget…

Talking like a native – becoming a New Yorker.

When I arrived in New York, September 1970, coming up to 50 years ago, I felt fairly globally savvy.  Thanks to working in the airline business, I had already traveled a lot and lived in Tunisia, for a couple of years.  Now I had to learn some local lingo.


The first lunchtime, one of my co-workers announced that he would do the food run to the deli and asked what I wanted.  I had no clue what he was talking about.  To avoid a real answer, I did a kind of Gallic shrug and turned it around to find out what he was having?  The usual, he said  ‘a bee el tea on wheat toast’.   Well I thought that sounded pretty good, but had zero idea of just what would arrive. Bees along with this mysterious ‘el’ and tea was certainly intriguing. And somehow there was toast, something that I only ate at breakfast.  Another came up with an order for ‘eggplant parm’.   What in the name of heaven was that?  Plants that grew eggs and would be married up with something called ‘parm’.   Where had I been living that I knew nothing about these apparently normal foods?


What did surprise me was that no one was ordering Indian food.  Where I had lived, the local Indian take-away was The Delhi.   Now I was coming  up to speed, fast.

A visit to rural France. 2001 Calvados production and great countryside living.

Hello Readers,

Back on the road again. This time, it’s our new trip – Human Odyssey – the Origins of Man – (cudda saved a lot of money and walked around some bits of Brooklyn, but our punters want even better…). This was an instant bestseller of a trip when it came on the market over a year ago, but then September 11th happened and we are now going around the circuit with 21 pax such a waste of time and effort, not to mention costing us a fortune.

I started in France – no problem for me to go there – any chance I get, I take it. Took some days off beforehand, chez brother Dick and wife Janet, in the departement of Mayenne (and I bet none of you can put that one on the map) – kinda about three to four inches west of Paris, about halfway to Brittany). Just pure rural France, the leaves barely turning, the roads muddy with soil from passing tractors, odd gunshots anytime (the French farmer basically considers anything that walks or flies as fair game – Dick says the first day of the hunting season sounds more like the Battle of the Somme and the papers next day are full of reports as to the human toll …… he stays home that day and wears a red hat indoors just to be sure). We did some gentle touring around to look at rustic villages and local markets and sort of did nothing on a rather large scale and the weather cooperated wonderfully, with thin sunshine and no rain, so a good time was had.

There were many mounds of gently rotting apples around and the air was gently scented_ This is the Calvados producing area and it appears that it is all the better if the fruit has started to ferment naturally. Huge barrels were being cleaned out and soon a visiting apple crusher would arrive in the village and everyone would have the basic juice, which later would go to the still and then to the bottle and then down the throat – a wonderfully natural progression. Dinner around here will always end with ‘un petit calva’.

When out driving around, lunching in a Routiers cafe is just great. The trick is to keep your eyes open for a line of white vans parked outside some unassuming building at 12 noon. These men know where the good food is. Inside, Madame runs front of house. Monsieur is in the kitchen. The oilcloth table is ready laid with bread and an opened bottle of red wine. You take a seat (or as the French say – I always love saying this: “On s’installe”) and next moment there is a nice fresh salad plate, home made zingy dressing -veggies that came from the market this morning and had been grown, heavens above, exposed to the weather and passing animals – then perhaps a steack frites (that IS spelled right, we are en france, remember, though the spelling is becoming old hat I have to admit) or a stew of some kind and then a choice of local cheeses (Do we need more wine???) and a sweet rice pudding or fruit and coffee and you pay USD12 a head all in …….. I could go everyday just to see what they do next. Madame was having trouble wondering why I kept looking at her and I was wondering just how the hell they did it. She had her regulars in this particular restaurant and we were rather the bump on the log (and foreign to make it worse), so she watched us and I watched her. Seemed fair.

We made courtesy calls on various ancient neighbors, whom I had met last time and who wanted to check how I was. On Sept 11, apparently, there was much enquiry after my wellbeing, which was rather touching. Dick, ever resourceful, advised the boulangerie, as the Madame there is the biggest gossip in the village, that I was fine, having actually been in China on that sad day, so about as far away as I could be. Thus the message was effectively, accurately and cheaply spread that I was okay. I made a ritual appearance there later to buy a loaf of bread and got the once over from Madame, who has is pretty tough and not the type to take prisoners. She and hubby are retiring soon, which of course is creating a HUGE scandale in the village – but due to some bizarre sort of French governmental regulation, a BRAND NEW boulangerie is planned for the village (and u should remember this place in MINUTE) and in the meantime the bread wilt be shipped in and probably sold at the restaurant and it’s the sort of thing around here that will remove Mr Bin Laden from the front pages – we DO have our priorities and I think they are, of course, totally right. The chance of the village of Gesvres being bombed is somewhat of a longshot, but living without a boulangerie, well THAT is life itself. French governments have fallen over less.

We visited a sweet lady in town. with sparkling brown eyes and a mop of naturally curly (but rather greasy) hair. Her BO is strong and it’s not even high summer. Dick and Janet’s house had been in her family, though in her time, it was a barn and not a primary residence as it is now termed. Always smiling, she shows no sign of the fact that her husband is terminally ill in hospital on a long term basis. She is a laundress at a small hotel (“beaucoup des anglais”) in a nearby village and has a girl and boy teenage children, who obviously adore her and an elderly mother parked by the fireside – almost Norman Rockwell gone to France. The kids are shy to practice their English, though the girl went with Dick and Janet last year to England and came back with a passion for, of all things, English sausages – “les bangers anglais” were a success fou and she would not ask, but if they bring some back, she will be “ravie”.

Seated around the table in the small, cluttered backroom, with a few momentoes of visits to places like Lourdes (there’s lotsa Virgins in plaster around here) and sepia family photographs of unhappy looking and long dead relations, the white wine bottle is produced and also the blackcurrant and oversweet kirs distributed – the kids of course have theirs. Toasts have to be exchanged, even with grandmama. We hear the latest village news – who is in and who is out, with the sort of fervour that Jane Austen would have brought to the news that Mr Darcy is worth five thousand pounds a year – meanwhile le tele is going in the background. Dreadful French game shows with middle aged housewives who look like the just left half the dishes in the sink and peeled off their bright yellow rubber gloves to go to the studio and make fools of themselves, but somehow you feel that the local news is still more important than matters afar removed. New York may have had its problems, but what about the boulangerie ???? This is une vrai probleme and there is much shrugging of shoulders and the end of the world is almost within sight. Think I’d probably unplug le tele and remain blissfully unaware of what is happening more than 20 k’s away. Innocence is bliss.

Later, one splendidly old couple (both well over 80) arrived on Dick’s doorstep and had to be formally seated at the kitchen table (MUCH seems to happen around oilcloth covered kitchen tables here) – Dick and Janet on one side and they on the other and me at the end, like some kind of game show referee – I felt I should be awarding them points and the Pastis bottle was produced and rituals of asking about each other’s health extensively gone into. If there’s anything a French person likes, it’s an investigation into one’s internal organs and how they are variously functioning. Nothing better than a “crise” of some kind -you are almost a nonperson if you don’t have something to complain about and the French patent medicine industry must be a sure profit maker and it’s my stock tip of the week. You have never heard so many opinions given, all hands-on-bible stuff as to how to be cured from this or that, but the only thing that is a given is that everyone will chime in and EVERYONE WILL BE RIGHT.  I suppose the Brits do it with the weather – big difference being that you can do sod all about that, but a malfunctioning liver can be investigated ad nauseam. The old lady, Madeleine, in her many indeterminant layers of ragged sweaters, wanted to know if Dick would like a rabbit ? We realized immediately this was not some cute bunny to have in a hutch, but rather tomorrow’s dinner. Seemed they raised them on the side and they love Dick and Janet so much that a rabbit was up for grabs. Great clincher line was did they want it alive or dead ??? Well we knew that if arrived with a twitching nose, then all we wudda done would be to let it go in the fields outside – none of us was up to murder or the ritual skinning and dismemberment after that. We decided dead was better, which amused them no end – what wimps we are – seems this sweet little couple are mass murderers in a quiet way. But, she said, she would save the blood … oh Joy. It arrived next day and only the head had to be removed (given to the guard dog at the adjacent building which wolfed it down in almost one gulp) and we had a nice rabbit dinner and did not dwell on its provenance. That’s the glory of being at the top of the food chain.

Anyway, after some local living, like going to the supermarche (where there had been a punch up the very same day we were there, between some staff members no less) and drooling over all the things that I don’t find in its equivalent chez moi, it was time to go off to work.

Vintage 2001 Travel Report. Burgundy to Paris to Malta.

Dear Readers,
Up aloft with Air France (but actually a British European aircraft) and flying from somewhere my boarding card called “London Heat”.. which really was actually HOT.  I am off again on the road… a cool four week odyssey with a variety of places and reasons for going.
First stop, La France…never a problem for me to go there and I have some hopefully high living ahead at various gastronomic temples, allied with samplings of matured grape juice, that always heals anything that might ail you.
I flew in to Lyon, where I was met by the son of our agent, whom I had known from when we ran a luxury train in the USA.  My flight arrived right behind Air Algerie, full of robed and veiled women.  Dark and well made up eyes, flashing over mouthfulls of wet fabric – amazing how much eyes alone can tell.  I tried winking at one of the younger ones, who appeared to be gazing in my direction and rather than looking away, she just lowered her eyelids slowly… I felt I could have moved to Algiers in a flash.

Then off we went to my first stop, the immensely grand Chateau de Bagnoles.  A cool genuine 12th century castle, which has had various proprietors over the years, both friend and foe, and now would believe, owned by Brits and  it has become an exceedingly posh place to put up for a night or two.  It’s like staying in a Norman castle that was updated by Laura Ashley.  The main part, a traditionally shaped four square castle, with the round turrets running top to bottom on the corners, now has just 12 swish bedrooms, most which are absolutely HUGE and stuffed full of genuine antique furniture, wall hangings, sideboards etc etc and the great thing is that each room has its own history, with detailed information about each piece.   So I knew I was sleeping in a 16th c bed and the tapestry on the wall was from Aubusson and done in 1740.   The bathroom, in the turret featured a vast bathtub, with gargoyle taps and the arrow slits were still in the walls, which provided a very unusual view from a seated position.   Just what would the builders ever have thought ?   Dinner that night was in a very formal dining room, which I brought a jacket for specially and v glad I was too.  I am not sure they would have admitted me without.  Perfect upmarket French food, stuff I can eat every day and lovely bread and even the butter tasted better there.  And of course I had to sample some wine that would be offered to our guests.  I know, I know, it’s tough but someone has to do it.

You are surround by the lush Burgundian countryside, so after the formal gardens with banks of lavender and a vast cherry orchard, just looking at all that was great, before you raised your eyes to the vineyards which stretched to the horizon.  In the clear, early morning light, I just gazed out of the window and wanted for nothing more.  And at night a total blackout and a silence so deep that your breathing was the only intrusion.


I was there a day before our gang arrived, so I was taken to see a real local chevre cheese making farm, which supplies cheeses to the hotel.  It was thought some of our gang could face some muddy feet for a chance to get behind the scene.  It was eventually found at the end of rutted track and Madame, the wife, was located.  She was right out of French bucolic peasant casting, amply rounded, dressed in what had to be hand-me-downs and a stout pair of boots. She was much nonplussed about some Americans coming to visit, as she was clearly not at the dizzy heights of local or international foodie tourism.   She had had a school visit once, but the idea of designer shoes and much in the way of uplifted faces and other dangly bits, peeked her interest.   It really was close to Cold Comfort Farm, as the goats were at one end of a very dilapidated building and the cheese at the other.  I realized that we would need to be very careful in offering this outing to the punters, as it would be perfect for some and the end of the world for the others.  (Hindsight report: 8 went and they thought it fantastic, as it had given them an insight into such a hidden world.  Madame rose to the occasion too and even cleaned herself up and removed much stuff from the kitchen table, so that they could do a sampling, along with her husband’s wine).


PARIS… still my favorite city in the world.  I went to visit my old friend Micheline, a local and international tour guide and expedition leader.   She was actually arriving with a boat load of visitors all joined together by being Harvard Alums.  They had been cruising along the Seine from Rouen.  I almost expected to meet someone I knew, as these folks are my company’s bread and butter, but in the end it was just she.  I was invited to stay for a fancy farewell dinner and cruise through the center of Paris, which would have been wonderful, BUT,  the water was too high and we were too lightly loaded and thus high in the water, with the result that we could only go under one bridge and would turn there, as we would be stuck under the rest of the bridges.  This one of those touristy things that I have never done, but it was not going to happen that night.  Bummer, as the food and the wine would have been amazing.

Paris does look wonderful from the water and the ET is still being lit in the way they invented for the millenium celebration, so once an hour a blaze of light runs all over it and c’est un vrai spectacle.   Later I discovered that this is about to cease, as it was never designed to run for so long and is now coming to bits.


PARIS – MALTA
Oh dear oh dear, not a good start to the day. Try coupling together the official start of the French holidays with Air France having a sort of strike and the general inability of the French to form anything like a line and some new check in staff, on their first day behind a counter and a couple of baggage belts not working, THEN you will have a slight idea of what it was like.  And Air Malta has a an extra flight operating, which is causing further grief and confusion as both leaving at the same time, so they are struggling v hard to achieve an on time departure.  In the end, they are both two hours late and Air Malta will get the blame, rather than Aeroports de Paris, which let them down badly.


So, now a bit later on.  My visit to Malta was good and I had a very busy time too.  I was met by Janet, the British wife of our Maltese agent, and somehow we got my monster red suitcase in to the back of her tiny Fiat 500.  The car was practically sitting back on the rear wheels. Barely time to freshen up before rushing off to meet her husband, Joe at a restaurant and discuss our business.   Came back at 2300, as dinner was a l’italienne so a long drawn out deal.  It was a Friday so much in the way of fish was offered and consumed.  Old religious habits die hard in very Catholic Malta.  You have never seen so many churches.   And they just love their saints days too, so each is celebrated by a fireworks display.  The local paper tells you exactly which town or village will be celebrating and there will flags flying and bunting and much eating and drinking in honor St Somebody and tables are outside and the whole place very much en fete and it will end with fireworks.  Every night in Malta sounds like there is a battle happening somewhere.

Next day was spent entirely on the move, as I had to go see all the places that would be visited by our group, so I started at 8am and was not back to 7pm, with very hot feet.  Just another day at the works.   Malta, small as it is, has an amazing variety of different and interesting things to see, so no shortage of material for us.  The trip which is coming here, has as its theme, The Origins of Man, so Malta a manages to produce tombs which are 5000 years old, hand carved from the rock.  There is a kind of Stonehenge look-alike, but only 3000 years old and like Stonehenge, nobody today knows just why they did it.  Perhaps they went on their holidays to Stonehenge and fancied they could have one too… 

So Malta went well and I was off to my next stop.  I had something happen at the airport which was a first for me and a kind of milestone too.  We are being taken out by bus to board our flight.  The bus has a few seats but sensibly designed for standing.  It is early morning and I am rested and feeling perfectly fine, so stand on the bus watching the behind the scene airline world.  And then, for the first time ever, a polite young man gets up from his seat and offers it to me.  Ahhhhhhhhh…. do I look that far gone ?  I am quite overwhelmed and thank him most profusely but at the same time I am both shocked and also laughing and glad that none of my friends is around, as they would have laughed a lot.


Anyway, I manage to change planes in Rome, without getting lost.  All sorts of funny looking planes there.  I see Libyan Arab has surfaced again and there was also a very dodgy looking old Russian plane, being operated by Albanian Airlines, which was a new one for me.   We had our ears pounded to death by a way too loud p.a. system, with American Airlines continually paging, it seemed, every passenger going to Chicago.  Couple that with a pair of hyperactive small children, rushing around screaming and bashing in to everyone.  Our gate was also going to be used later for a flight to Bucharest and was already being invaded by old crones, swathed in voluminous black, all of whom did not speak any language known to me and were being yelled at by the Alitalia staff, as they were attempting to board my flight too.  Must be great fun to watch their boarding, as all heavily festooned with much hand baggage, a lot of which was coming apart at the seams and falling all over the floor.


I was on my way to Istanbul and the AZ staff had told me the flight was not full, so of course it was 100% occupied and as ALITALIA stand for Always Late in Taking off And Late in Arriving, it was.   But a spiffy crew ran up and down and gave us an edible meal and even ice cream afterwards.  The brand new terminal on arrival was fast and I remembered to buy the guides some cartons of foreign cigarettes (a standing order) as they all smoke like chimneys and it is tres posh to have a pack of real Marlboro.


And would you believe, we arrived in perfect sunshine and today it is thundering.  I am notoriously unlucky with the weather here.  I wonder why?


Okay.. must stop here or your eyes will all glaze over
Tim

Some more Myanmar images… The Golden Rock

How about this !  The Golden Rock.  A place of great pilgrimage for the Burmese, so there is a whole town built around it.  On top of a mountain, you are ferried up on the backs of trucks .. like this .. wooden planks to sit on, very cosy and cheerful and happy to welcome forangs as well  Hairpin corner after hairpin corner.  Just don’t look down.

At night, there are thousands of candles lit.  Pyromaniac heaven.


If you are not up to much walking, you can be carried around.  I declined the offer.

A local … I don’t know if that is a religious sort of outfit.  Quick shot out of my hotel window.

Amazon, early version.

Disembarkation at the bottom of the mountain… you just climb out over the sides.  I never found if there is jam at Moe Moe Super Jam !  There is some pretty Burmese curly writing to observe too.