7 Snapshots of Europe, Spring 2014: 1. An Hour In Provence

Meadows are nice. Even the word meadow is nice. Among the nice meadows I have known the small one on the slope behind the Mas de l'Ange is one of the nicest. To backtrack a little, the Mas de l'Ange is a 16^th century farmhouse in the Provence region of southern France that we rented for a week. It is built into the side of the hill such that the back walls of the dining and living rooms are the rough limestone of the interior of the hill, like the walls of a cave. The red tiled roof then forms a continuous slope to the back with the meadow that covers the part of the hill not eaten by the house. This is "the meadow".

I am not an especially smell oriented person. I love light and form and texture and song and taste, but I rarely give much thought to preferred or memorable smells. The meadow is however a smell memory. It is the memory of the smell of honey and of thyme and of rosemary. The last two had obvious explanations because they grow in numbers reserved for objectionable weeds at home, but the honey was confusing at first. It was confusing until I realized that there was so much in bloom that large amounts of nectar were being volatilized into the warm spring air. Flowers countless and nameless (at least to me) formed the perfect bed for the perfect nap. At least until I figured out how to position myself to avoid the less showy small prickly plants, also countless and nameless. Then with my eyes closed, breathing in that honey scented air, I only heard the thrumming of bees and the distant sounds of a farmer attacking the dead branches of his olive trees with a chainsaw. Van Gogh was committed to an asylum a few kilometers to my right and from the ruined castle straight ahead the infamous Lords of Baux once looked down on this meadow with rapacious eyes, but none of that was on my mind. All I was thinking of was, “rose is absurdly cheap here, I should have brought a bottle to the meadow rather than just a glass...”

  

F Deck

You'd be hard pressed to find a backpacker in Europe who does not respond to the mention of Brindisi with the remark, "Ah, sleazy Brindisi". When we arrived in the Italian port this seemed like an exaggeration. Unpleasant Brindisi, yes. Dodgy Brindisi, for sure. But sleazy? However, rhyme has a power and inference of truth about it, so soon we found ourselves muttering "sleazy Brindisi" as we pushed through the sweating crowds along the motor-scooter choked road to the port where we were to catch our night ferry to Greece.
Our packs were preposterously large and it was an oppressively humid hot evening, so when we arrived my first priority was to find a place to stow our packs for the three or four hours before we would be allowed to board. The port area was deserted except for a police post. I entered and smiled my best innocent Canadian abroad smile at the three men inside. They were wearing neat olive green uniforms accented with all manner of piping and epaulets and each sported a thick black mustache and large black sunglasses. The effect was almost comical.
"Mi scusi," I said, holding open the English-Italian section in our multi-lingual dictionary.
"Do you know where we can store our luggage for a few hours?"
"This Italia, you speak Italian!" one of them barked, thrusting a finger at me.
"Uh," I began flipping through the dictionary.
He cut me off with a brisk wave to the door and turned his back. The other two didn't move or speak.
I left.

We were traveling that day with a team of marathon runners from South Africa. John and Elke were like specimens from a Bowflex advertisement whereas Vince and Gloria were decidedly gnomish and difficult to picture as runners. Vince was the very image of a kindly old gentlemen with his snow white hair and twinkling eyes, so it was all the more jarring when he leaned over and whispered to me, "Ach ja Philipp, the black man, he don't like to work, you know, he only likes to breed."  John and Elke, on the other hand, although also white, were very active in the Zulu based Inkatha Freedom Party and talked a lot about politics, peppered with bits of colour from everyday life in South Africa: "Ja, I have five guns already, but the 9 mm parabellums are too heavy. I need another smaller one." In any case, John, being imposing Bowflex man, offered to stand guard over the luggage while the rest of us went back into town and foraged for supper.

When it was finally time to board we stumbled our way through the dark labyrinthine docks to a poorly lit metal ramp where we boarded alongside a line of idling diesel transport trucks. Once on the ferry we were, to our surprise, greeted by a Russian crew. Even though the Cold War was over there was still something faintly menacing about being given instructions in a thick Russian accent.
"Cabin is on F deck. Follow me."
We followed the thin-lipped but attractive young blonde purser down a long series of metal stairways, her black pumps clank-clank-clanking ahead of us.
A deck. B deck. C deck. D deck. E deck. Then F deck, well below the waterline and constructed entirely out of grey metal with low ceilings and a disorienting grid of identical gangways leading to the cabins. She open the door to our cabin, gestured inside and then turned heel and left. We peered in. It was a box. A grey metal box. A grey metal box with bunk-beds, a sink, a ventilation grill and a large warning sign on the wall. That was it. I cannot emphasize enough the strong resemblance to a prison cell. A prison cell in a totalitarian state with a questionable human rights record. We stepped inside and read the sign:
"Note: Passengers are kindly reminded that the bow thruster which is situated below this deck makes an unpleasant noise when in use on departures and arrivals. This is quite normal and should give no cause for anxiety."
One has to wonder how many times passengers ran in screaming panic down the gangways before management decided to mount such a prominent sign. It was curiously only in English and French. Are Italian, Greek and German speakers calmer?

We explored F deck, checking out the utilitarian metal shower rooms and the various opportunities for becoming lost or claustrophobic or both. When we had milked this for as much entertainment value as possible we returned to our cell and waited for the bow thruster. It was beastly hot in there and it was morbidly fascinating to listen to the sound of giant chains being scraped along somewhere above us, presumably to secure the transport trucks. Then there was silence for a few minutes and then the bow thruster came violently to life. We were glad to have been warned.

To escape the heat we went up on deck and watched the ferry cut into the Ionian Sea in a dark so black that the sea and sky merged together. The stars were perfectly reflected on the water ahead, creating the illusion of traveling into space. After a time we went back below where the ventilation was now working and quickly fell asleep. There was no sensation of motion.

Sucking Gas in the Himalaya

Not a day went by in Kathmandu where we weren't asked about trekking. Where have you been trekking? Where are you going to go trekking? Why haven't you already been trekking? Why aren't you going trekking? And so on. Lorraine and I would mumble something about the effect of camping for a month in Pakistan and India. We would use the word "dysentery" a lot, as well as its more colourful synonyms. People would change the subject.

But after a couple of weeks of wandering around the Kathmandu Valley, Lorraine sketching temples and me eating chocolate, we began to feel restless. We began to feel the need to at least see Mount Everest. With that in mind we negotiated with a tax driver to drive us (see, still no trekking!) west of Kathmandu and out of the valley to the old hill station of Nagarkot. Nagarkot was famous for it's sweeping views of the entire eastern Himalaya, including Everest.

The word "taxi" probably brings the wrong image to mind. What we had was a small rusted out sedan of indeterminable make and model driven by a very smiley and enthusiastic young Nepali. Springs protruded from the seats and none of the gauges appeared to be functional. You get the picture. Up and out of the valley we chugged, around hairpin switchbacks, dodging livestock and even more decrepit vehicles, until very suddenly the taxi chugged no more. The engine just stopped. Fortunately this happened on a rare flattish bit of road. The driver looked perplexed, but flashed us a big smile and reached  down to rattle the gas pedal.
Nothing happened.
He then got out, popped the hood and rummaged for a while before proclaiming, "No problem! Just the fuel pump! It is broken!!".
No problem?
Hmm. This expression is so commonly heard throughout the region even in the most absurdly problematic situations that I'm sure a few planes have gone down with the pilot's last words being a cheery, "No problem!". We were skeptical.

Our driver then got a rubber hose and a jerry can from the trunk. This was accompanied by another happy, "No problem!!".  He proceeded to siphon gasoline from the tank to the jerry can. The full jerry can was placed on the passenger seat. He then threaded the rubber hose from the jerry can through a gap in the dashboard to the engine. He zipped around to the front of the car again and got another siphon going, presumably to the carburetor.
"Ok, you see? No problem!!"
No, we didn't see. None of what we had just seen had done anything to allay our skepticism. We began to contemplate the long uphill hike to Nagarkot. But then, to our astonishment, the engine coughed to life and the chugging began again. Before too long we were in Nagarkot.

The next morning in the freezing pre-dawn we got up and walked to a ridge where we could see the sun rise over the Himlayas, lighting one peak at a time until Mount Everest could be made out, its peak glowing with the new day.

Saturday Night in Newcastle

I long ago took note of the fact that people do not want to hear about or read about your triumphs and your wonderful experiences. It's boring. They don't like that. Instead they get far more pleasure out of stories of ineptitude and depravity. So, instead of recounting our successful trek across England along ancient Hadrian's Wall over breathtakingly beautiful green hills I will tell you about the last night of the trip when I nearly got the shit kicked out of me in Newcastle.

Saturday night in Newcastle begins at 11:00 am. John and I were on the second floor of "The Charles Grey" pub overlooking, appropriately enough, Grey's Monument (yes, that's the Earl Charles Grey of tea fame) for an early pint and lunch when we overheard a heated discussion between the barman and a young gentleman who was, as the English delicately put it, "in his cups". He was being refused service because of his state and he did not like this. The young man stormed off. A few minutes later a customer came in and told the barman that the fellow who had just left was pissing in the stairwell. Remember this is 11:00 in the morning. This was an omen.

After an afternoon of taking in the sights John and I ended up at the "Crown Posada" in the heart of the city, off a small cobbled lane. We had asked Maxine, the owner of our B&B, for pub recommendations. She listed off a few places that we already knew to be of the glass and chrome and sparkly lager variety so when we described in more detail what we were looking for she smiled and nodded and said, "Oh, you're looking for an 'Old Man Pub' then!". I guess we were. The Crown Posada is a classic old man pub, perhaps one of the very best I've ever seen - all dark wood, leather banquettes, pressed tin ceiling, gleaming brass and, best of all, an old record player spinning blues, jazz, deep cuts from The Who and The Stones. Packed, loud and friendly. And the only place in the centre of the city where someone over the age of 25 feels at home on a Saturday night.

Why do I make that last statement? I make it because starting at around 7:00 pm the streets increasingly filled with people between the ages of 16 and 25 until it was only them and there were thousands of them. They fly in from all over Britain for this. Seriously. Despite the single digit October temperatures every last girl/woman out there wore an ultra-miniskirt, low cut blouse and very high heels. Every. Last. One. No exceptions. And every last boy/man wore designer jeans and a two sizes too small t-shirt with no jacket. Every. Last. One. It was bizarre. It was like being on a movie set. The only exceptions were John and I and the police. The cops stood inconspicuously down side streets with their distinctive yellow safety vests and checkered hat bands. They stood very quietly, watching, listening. As the evening went on the crowd grew louder and wilder and unsteadier. You could begin to hear glass being broken by about 10:00 pm and the general shouting gradually ramping up into shrieks from the girls/women and bellows from the boys/men.

John and I ducked in and out of the Crown Posada while this was going on. It was like stepping back and forth through a magical portal between two entirely different worlds. The last time we stepped out, sometime shortly before midnight, I found myself suddenly facing one of these bellowers.
"Oi! Yee 'Merican?"
I glanced around quickly to make sure he was bellowing at me.
"No, Canadian."
He was moving into chest bump position with his two sizes too small grey t-shirt. I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and his arms were pink from the cold.
"Gan canny r ah will dunsh yer heed!"
Or something like that. He may as well have been speaking Latvian. The combination of accent and liquor had rendered him incomprehensible. Regardless he looked very irate and was clearly winding up to put the boots to me.
"Ok, it's cool man," I chuckled and smiled. This only enraged him further.
His wobbly girlfriend then began tugging on his shirt sleeve and managed to pull him off in another direction. He obligingly stumbled along, but not before looking back and shaking his fist at me, "Fook off!!!"

John and I made an impromptu decision to head to the end of the street and grab a cab. We were about the climb in when a girl/woman came stumbling up shrieking "I need this cab! I need this cab! Please!!" The cab driver looked at us and mouthed "no" very clearly, his eyes wide, his head shaking slowly. We elbowed the shrieker aside and got in. We locked the door. The cab accelerated and the shrieks and bellows faded away.
"Another Saturday night in Newcastle," the cabbie said.

Regarding the Dunce Cap

The other evening my 10 year old daughter called my 8 year old son a dunce. Like most siblings, insults between them are routine, but I was surprised by the use of the word "dunce". I had assumed that it had long ago quietly dropped out of modern English usage along with other quaint insults such as "nincompoop" and "dunderhead".

This then got me thinking about dunce caps. For those of you too young or too innocent, dunce caps were tall conical hats with a "dunce" or simply "D" written on them that especially slow or misbehaving children were forced to wear while seated on a special stool in the classroom as a kind of shaming. Although I was in grade school long enough ago to have had a school principal who actually kept a leather strap in his desk drawer that he was not only legally permitted to use on children but positively encouraged to, I was at least a couple generations too late for the dunce cap.


So where does this curious custom come from? The word dunce itself derives from the 13th century Franciscan monk and great philosopher, John Duns Scotus, who in turn is named after the town of Duns in Scotland where he was born. His followers were known as "Dunsmen" or "Dunses". Scotus was also known as "the Subtle Doctor" and his philosophy was so subtle as to be exceedingly difficult to follow. Regardless, it remained well respected and even popular until the 16th century when it came under heavy attack. The Dunses were derided as hair-splitters and eventually lost favour. In the process their name became associated with idiocy. So far, so good, eh? Dunsmen = Dunses = dunces = idiots. But what about the funny hat?

Here then is the interesting bit. John Duns Scotus believed that wearing a tall cone would allow knowledge to flow down to the wearer's head, with the pointy bit representing the pinnacle or apex of knowledge. Dunsmen consequently wore them and the hats too became, perhaps not unfairly, associated with idiocy. Duns also theorized that the hat would help the wearer focus. Fast forward 700 years and dyslexia researcher Ron Davis decided to try putting pointy conical hats (presumably not calling them dunce caps) on dyslexic children. He then asked them to concentrate on the unseen point above their heads and gave them something to read that they had previously been unable to. You know what's coming next. Yes indeed, the pointy hat wearers could now suddenly read.

John Duns Scotus was sainted by Pope John Paul II in 1993.

Don't Order The Bacon

Batad was worth the effort. It was worth the twelve hour bus journey during which we were subjected to incredibly loud movies on video inexplicably featuring boy scouts being slaughtered with pump action shotguns. It was worth jostling up the mountain in a sidecar which constantly threatened to disconnect from its motorcycle and send us cartwheeling deep into the ravine. It was worth struggling up through the humid jungle from the motorcycle drop-off point to reach the high pass above Batad. It was worth all this distress, stress and sweat because Batad is no like no place we had ever been. 


Batad is a small village on the main Philippine island of Luzon and what makes it like no place we have ever been is that it sits at the bottom of vertiginous amphitheater of ancient rice terraces, cut off from the outside world by jungle and mountains. Only footpaths lead here and there is not nearly enough flat land for even the most psychotic pilot to land on. When we finally reached the pass and pushed aside the giant wild poinsettias we looked down on a Filipino Shangri-La, a hidden world of a thousand shades of green, gentle people, absolute peace and, as it turned out, hungry pigs. But more on that in a moment.

There was only one place to stay in the Batad valley, a small guesthouse about two thirds of the way up the valley's side. There seemed no more idyllic place in the world than the guesthouse deck looking down on the village far below and out over those incredible rice terraces. Noise was limited to chickens and, well, that was pretty much it. The stillness was uncanny. As was the darkness at night. The guesthouse and a few of the houses down in the village had generators but as fuel had to be humped in over the pass on someone's back, generator use was limited to about an hour after sunset at the most. After that it was dark. Very dark. The small flickering kerosene lanterns down in the village looked so much like the stars above that one had the disorienting sense of being suspended in the middle of outer space. With chickens. 

Our accommodation was comfortable but far from luxurious, notably with respect to the washroom facilities. We did have a sink in the room but the toilet was an outhouse. And what an outhouse. I have already mentioned that the major feature of this guesthouse was its fabulous view, well apparently the owners thought that no opportunity should be passed up to enjoy this view so the outhouse had no front wall facing the valley. It was situated in a patch of jungle on stilts, suspended over the next terrace level below. You approached it from behind, gingerly picking your way along a path that skirted the edge of the terrace, and then you sat there wide open to the valley. Only birds were able to look at you as the terraced slope in front fell away so steeply.

We got oriented to this curious arrangement during the day and came to quite enjoy it. Nighttime was another matter though. Even with a flashlight in hand it was more than a little unnerving to head down the jungle outhouse path in the pitch dark. But, my digestive system being in another time zone, one night I had to made my way over there. I was just getting ready to do what I needed to do when I heard an unexpected sound. It was a sharp rustling in the bush directly below the outhouse. As I mentioned, this place was normally utterly silent, so I was surprised. 
This was no chicken. 
I strained to listen. 
After a moment's quiet there was a crashing noise immediately beneath my toilet seat so sudden and so loud that I think I must have jumped up and let out a little yelp. I couldn't imagine what was under there. And, more to the point, why it was under there. Before full scale panic could set in I heard another sound. A grunting sound. A soft guttural grunting sound. 
I knew this sound. 
I pointed my flashlight down through the toilet hole and sure enough, there it was. 
A pig's snout. 
A pig's snout pointed up. Mouth partly open. Grunting. Happily. Expectantly. Eagerly. Hungrily.  

Yes indeed, we confirmed the next day that it was true. This was how they fed their pigs. And there was bacon on the breakfast menu. We did not order any.

Oatmeal and Shantalope

Two winters ago we rented a house with friends on the tiny Caribbean island of Cayman Brac. Choosing a rental house always involves weighing a number of factors including price, location and amenities. But for us there is also a fourth factor: livestock. Not every house we have rented has had livestock and in fact some of the very nicest ones have not, but we still gravitate to the listings that include barnyard animals.

We all agreed that the house on Cayman Brac scored very high on price, location and amenities and, moreover, it had chickens and a pig - a pig named “Oatmeal” - so it was perfect. The house was booked and we began counting the days.

Renting a house with a pig was exciting enough, but renting one with a pig that had a sweet, cuddly name like Oatmeal made the kids delirious with anticipation. We had no sooner pulled up to the house in our rented van when the kids went tearing around the paths in the large garden looking for Oatmeal. We sauntered along behind, taking in the perfumed air and the marvelous tropical colours when we heard a loud crashing sound, like a car hitting a tree, immediately followed by the kids shrieking. 

Oatmeal was in a pen with a high solid fence. Oatmeal was about 300 lbs and was flinging herself against the fence in a kind of blind rage. The fence was festooned with signs indicating that Oatmeal was not to be touched, fed or otherwise interacted with. She stared at us with evident loathing, flecks of foam dripping from her lips. 

We avoided Oatmeal after that and contented ourselves with the far more agreeable chickens until one day an elderly local man showed up on the property.

"Hallo!” he greeted loudly, flashing a gap-toothed smile.

“Hello!”

“I am here to see de pig.”

“Uh... Ok...”

“My name is Shantalope.”

I blinked, unable to formulate a quick response to that.

“An' I sold Joanne dat pig when it was jes a wee one. I jes want to see how de pig is gettin' along.”

I stood up, introduced myself and led Shantalope through the garden to Oatmeal's pen. Oatmeal went beserk again, charging the fence head down like a demented cartoon rhinoceros. For her size she was lightning quick. Shantalope took a step back, scratched his chin and chuckled.

“Dat Joanne, she was treatin' de little pig like a baby. Walkin' it on a leash an' kissin' it an' spoilin' it! Now look at it!”

Oatmeal charged the fence again, making an appreciable dent in it.

“Oh dat pig be cross! Dat pig be very cross!”

Shantalope laughed and shook his head.

“I tole Joanne I buy de pig back. I tole her I give her a new little one, but she still want dis one. She still love dis one.”

I nodded and looked at Oatmeal, doing my best however to avoid eye contact as that seemed to enrage her the most. Oatmeal took a break from trying to kill us and turned around. Shantalope cocked his head and looked at her hindquarters in an appraising sort of way.

“Oh mon, look at dem hams!”

He made a universally understood cupping motion with his hands, narrowing his eyes with anticipated pleasure.

“Oh dem hams, just tink of de good eatin' from dis pig!”

We began walking away as Shantalope switched to regaling me with tales of all the very fine girls he knew in Montreal when he was a sailor. I could hear Oatmeal raising a ruckus behind us again, but I didn't look. I was thinking, I was in a much better position to empathize with Joanne's dilemma than Shantalope was, but he was right, those were some splendid hams.

Venice In Four Hours Or Less

This is from the "archives" - written ten years ago about something that happened twenty-five years ago...

There is something about the magical power of a Eurail pass that causes it to burn in your pocket, like a gleaming quarter handed to a four year old. You want to use the thing and you want to use it often. The side effect is that all this moving around leaves very little time in each destination, but in fact this need not be a problem at all, as my friend Mark and I demonstrated one summer. We had already dispatched with Paris and Nice in a matter of a few hours each and were now rolling towards Venice.

         The approach by train into Venice is only remarkable in its profound dullness and in that it gives no hint whatsoever of what is to come. However, the minute you step out of the front doors of the train station, you know where you are. Rather than the usual frenzied Italian scene of buses and mopeds and honking and fumes there is a great sweeping set of broad stone steps leading down to the Grand Canal where the vaporetti (water buses) lie bobbing.

         The good fortune of Venice is that its Golden Age of wealth and lavish spending on architecture was mercifully followed by a rapid descent into obscurity, which ensured its preservation, like a fly trapped in amber. These days Venice is of course anything but obscure. Many people are frightened off by this popularity, fearing a nasty theme park atmosphere - a kind of Disney-On-The-Canals populated by cynical locals and sweaty throngs of braying tourists. This nightmare certainly exists in spots, but we found that it could be easily evaded as well.

The instinct upon arrival is to trot right on down those grand steps and make for the nearest vaporetto for a cruise down the Grand Canal to the Piazza San Marco. Infinitely more agreeable, however, is the land-route, which begins at a little bridge a few steps off to the left. There are signs marking the way, but they are small – evidently too small for most people. One minute: those braying sweaty throngs. The next minute: a deserted lane wending between stylishly decayed 15^th century villas.

             It took us almost two hours to reach the Piazza San Marco in this fashion and I easily count them among my best two hours of travel anywhere. The route took us alongside slender canals, over tiny arched stone bridges and across a profusion of little plazas and squares. Some of these squares were fronted by grand buildings and churches that were clearly of significance, but others featured only graffiti and scraps of litter spinning in slow vortexes created by isolated eddies of wind. I found the graffiti and litter oddly comforting; an affirmation I suppose that Venice was a real place, not just a carefully primped outdoor museum.

         The signs marking the way were well placed: they were unobtrusive and always put just at the point where you began to wonder whether perhaps you had taken a wrong turn and gone astray. This allowed for a pleasant sensation of mild adventure as we slowly threaded the labyrinth. The stillness of the place was remarkable. There were few Venetians about and fewer still tourists. Those tourists we did meet were invariably middle aged Germans earnestly examining some architectural detail while referring to their encyclopedic guidebooks.

          The midway point of the walk is the famed Rialto Bridge. After the Piazza San Marco and the Grand Canal, this bridge is probably Venice’s best-known feature. Built in 1588 it was the first permanent crossing of the Grand Canal, linking the two halves of Venice. It has a very distinctive appearance with shops running up both sides, backed by tall arches. The bridge is steep enough to require stairs to reach the middle where the shops give way to a pleasing, albeit perpetually jam-packed, vantage point over the canal. Pretty from a distance, up close it is festooned with purveyors of knick-knacks and enough obese tourists to give you pause to wonder whether 16^th century structural engineering calculations could in any way anticipate the girth and heft of the average 20^th century sightseer. We elbowed our way across and a few minutes later - poof - as in a fairy tale wish: all was peace and emptiness again.

          We ambled along contentedly again until the gradual increase in the number of shops signalled that we were approaching the epicentre, the Piazza San Marco, or St. Mark’s Square. First though, a word about these shops. Evidently there are only three types of businesses in Venice, with each type being roughly equal in prevalence.

Fully one third of the shops devoted themselves to glassware. When I say glassware I do not mean beer mugs and chemistry beakers and other such useful objects, but bizarre coloured baubles and trinkets and exceptionally impractical looking vases. There were scores of such shops, often one right after the other, resulting in an effect that was both dazzling and monotonous at the same time. To be fair, Venice does have a long tradition of glassblowing, so aficionados of demented looking pink and green glass animals from all around the world know precisely where to come, but the backpacker is not well served. Thin hand-blown glassware is about as sensible a souvenir to have rattling about in one’s pack as live quail or unexploded ordinance.

The next third were similarly useless: Carnival mask boutiques. Much as with the glassware emporia, there were scads of these, selling nothing but papier-mâché Carnival masks. It’s a shame really that what was once an appealing tradition has been reduced to a basement rec room decorating standby on the level of the bamboo fan painted with the hot pink tropical sunset.

A brochure describing the Venetian Carnival during the Middle Ages professed rather breathlessly:

“Masked courtesans would participate in the most wanton games of lust, and confident of their anonymity would shed all conventional inhibitions. Noblemen, who would normally take painstaking care not to divulge a hint of their sexual preferences, could perform in mask acts that at the time were considered immoral and illegal.”

Cool. Moreover, “Carnival” in those days lasted from December 26 until Shrove Tuesday – over three months! Masking was also encouraged for a period during the fall and again in early summer. Those wanton Venetians. After the so-called Serene Republic (doesn’t seem so serene anymore, does it?) fell on hard times the party was over, both figuratively and literally. Ultimately Carnival was even banned because of an unseemly number of fatal mishaps. I could not find detailed descriptions of these “mishaps”, but it’s easy enough to imagine what transpires when alcohol, masks, wantonness and canals are thrown together. Carnival was revived in the 1970s by the government as an annual one-week fleecing of tourists during February. It is now Venice’s biggest yearly draw and provides an interesting counterpoint to Rio’s now more famous festivities. The Brazilians have stayed true to the medieval Carnival ideals of lust, excess and craziness, whereas, at least according to the ubiquitous postcards of dark cloaked figures with eerie white masks stalking alongside mist-shrouded canals, Venice’s Carnival now looks disappointingly austere and intellectual.

In any case, neither of us were the target demographic for the mask vendors. The final group of Venetian shops did, however, hit the mark. Stationers. Stationers by the dozen. And not, I might add, your standard Office Depot or Staples either. These were dimly lit little warrens, furnished in the darkest, richest wood and crammed full with luxurious cream-coloured velum, bricks of deep red sealing wax, black and gold pens that cost as much as a major appliance and an eye-popping assortment of antique brass and wooden gadgets – everything the discriminating European aristocrat could want for the sprawling oaken desk in his castle tower office. We pawed through these goods, relishing the smells of ink and leather and old wood, but there was nothing either of us could afford. Well ok, I probably could have managed a few envelopes, but when you’ve lusted after an antique desktop globe with a handsome carved wooden stand for $2250, it’s absolutely not possible to be satisfied with anything less.

Evidently anyone in search of a crescent wrench, toilet paper or a sack of potatoes in Venice was out of luck.

We were in the midst of this engaging session of window-shopping when, with startling abruptness, one of the little lanes spat us out onto the Piazza San Marco. There she was, an expanse of cobbles encrusted with pigeon shit, lined on three sides by some rather anonymous looking Renaissance buildings and on the fourth by the unarguably magnificent St. Mark’s basilica. No doubt some of these “anonymous” buildings were actually of tremendous importance, but blessed by our ignorance we ignored them and made straight for the obvious target, the basilica.

Mark was wearing shorts, but had had the foresight to bring a pair of long pants along, so before the guards could pick him up and caber-toss him out onto the square, he nipped around the corner and pulled his long pants up over his already bulky shorts. This gave him the appearance of a man with explosives strapped to his posterior, but that failed to interest the guards and we were admitted without so much as a bored glance.

Now this was an impressive church. St. Marks was the first cathedral we had seen with a strong Byzantine influence. Immediately upon entering we found ourselves in a kind of foyer under a series of domes that were completely covered with gold tile mosaics. This had the effect of creating a roomful of upturned faces and rigorously craned necks. We joined the hundred or so tourists already wedged into this space and gaped awestruck at what was above us. The mosaics had that Eastern Orthodox look about them that one associates with Russian icons, although Venice always has been Roman Catholic. We presumed that the story being illustrated above was that of the virtuous life and abundant miraculous deeds of St. Mark, but it was difficult to be absolutely certain on that point as there was quite a bit going on up there and all the figures wore similarly beatific expressions.

The mosaics in the foyer were apparently just an aperitif - in the aircraft hanger sized main chapel there were acres of gold mosaics in the high domes, on the columns, in the niches, everywhere… The altar-screen was something else too - it was entirely encrusted in jewels and enamel icons. Apparently St. Mark himself, or at least some representative sampling of his body parts, was here somewhere too. His original resting place was Alexandria, Egypt, but two enterprising Venetian merchants dug him up and smuggled him here as, much in the fashion of modern boomtowns that lure sports franchises from more stagnant cities, they felt that their up-and-coming town deserved an A-list saint. We meandered about for a short while like stunned cattle and then, suddenly overcome by a powerful craving to buy souvenirs, made for a stand we had seen in the foyer. This was a restrained and tasteful affair – no Pope-On-A-Rope or “To Hell With Satan” t-shirts here, only books, postcards and a few small curios.

Disappointed, we wandered back out onto the piazza. Mark still looked like he was trying to shoplift a tablecloth, so he took off his long pants and then we set about the serious business of getting the requisite pictures of each of us feeding the pigeons in the middle of the square with St. Mark’s Basilica forming the scenic backdrop. We didn’t actually have any food for the pigeons, but not being possessed of an especially keen intellect they allowed themselves to be faked out repeatedly until we got a few nice shots.

Although the basilica is clearly the star of the piazza, one’s eye is also drawn to the bell tower associated with Doge’s Palace, one of the otherwise undistinguished buildings marking the perimeter of the square. This tower is quite tall and its pointy roof dominates the Venetian skyline. It stands just kitty-corner from the basilica and is traditionally something a visitor would climb in order to gain a view of the city from above. We looked at it for a moment and reflected on how ridiculous the word “Doge” sounded, like a six-year-old boy saying “dog” when he’s in a silly mood. In fact it’s just “duke” in the local dialect, but considerably more fun to say.

Mark looked at me, “Doge.”

“Doge,” I shot back.

“Doge!”

“Doge!”

“Double Doge!”

Well, you get the picture. And with that our time was up. The tower was going to be too expensive to climb anyway, so we trotted down to the dock and located a vaporetto headed in the direction of the train station.

The profusion of boat traffic on the Grand Canal created a disagreeable chop, so the boat rocked perilously as we tried to jump aboard. The engine sounded like a concerto of one hundred chainsaws with guest accompaniment by a quartet of wood-chippers. I had actually been looking forward to this ride along the Grand Canal as a scenic cruise of sorts to cap our visit to Venice, but the sickening motion, the noise, the nasty fumes and the fact that we were packed in like Tokyo subway commuters diminished the pleasure somewhat. I spent the trip wedged in such a way that my view was dominated by a man’s right ear. It was an outstandingly hairy ear and as such was mildly interesting, but I am confident that I did not need to go all the way to Venice to see that. Otherwise though, the trip had been entirely worthwhile. Four hours in Venice and, to quote Sir Edmund Hillary, “we knocked that bastard off”. Next stop Vienna; it’s bigger, so maybe six hours?

All The Barnyard Animals

Two summers ago Lorraine, Isabel, Alexander and I traveled to France where we rented a donkey named Odyssee. Odyssee carried our bags while we tramped around the hills and valleys of southern Burgundy for several days, staying in farm B&Bs along the way. Part of what attracted us to this particular itinerary was the charmingly worded description of the first farm, the Coq a l'Ane:

"It is in the real mini farm that you are invited: hens, cocks, asses, rabbits, guinea pigs and Françoise will invite the children in the morning to the collection of eggs and to the cuddles of asses, rabbits for their biggest pleasure."
 Now I ask you, who does not pine for the cuddles of asses in the morning?

Isabel and Alexander are both in French immersion, although at that time Alexander had only just finished Kindergarten. We would often ask Isabel for help in translating, especially at the Coq a l'Ane as Francoise spoke no English whatsoever. Isabel would watch us flounder about with our thirty year old Prairie high school French and then would correct us afterwards when Francoise wasn't around.

One subject of particular interest was the name of the farm. Lorraine and I gathered that it meant something like "Roosters to Donkeys" as the farm indeed featured both of those animals and many more. It also turned out to be a French expression meaning "all the barnyard animals", or in some cases also, "suddenly changing the subject" (i.e. jumping from talking about roosters to talking about donkeys).

In any case, Lorraine and I were sitting at the picnic table in the meadow behind the house, looking out over the storybook landscape, sipping a marvelous local white wine when Isabel came running up to us. She was very excited.
"Mommy, daddy, you're wrong! I figured it out! It's not 'to', it's 'to the'! Coq a'l'Ane means 'Cock to the Ass'! Cock to the Ass!!"

My sweet eight year old girl was joyfully shouting "cock to the ass" at the top of her lungs... We sputtered and choked on our wine and began to laugh. Isabel was confused.

The New World of Quintana Roo

I don't remember when I first read Michel Peissel's "The Lost World of Quintana Roo", but it was probably when I was in my early teens, flopping un-seatbelted on the back bench of our VW van, bumping along some Saskatchewan road. I would picture the van abruptly turning south and then driving day and night as the landscape changed from white to brown to green until we arrived on the shores of the Mexican Caribbean (Quintana Roo being the name of the state there). This never happened. Much of Peissel's wild and unexplored Quintana Roo of 1958 remained that way until the mid 1980s, but by the time I finally got there it was well into the process of being bulldozed and tamed into the "Mayan Riviera".

We first went in 2004 when Isabel was two years old. We stayed at the last and southernmost resort in the string of all-inclusives that runs south of Cancun. Looking at the empty beach stretching south I began to think of Michel Peissel again and his walk along the entire length of that coast almost fifty years prior.

The sequence of events on our trip are unclear now and I can't recall whether it was before or after Isabel ate a piece of cow shit and became really ill or whether it was before or after I drank an uncountable number of mojitos at the beachside bar that had swings for chairs and became somewhat ill myself, but in any case it was on a day when all seemed right with the world that I set off to the south and walked.

It didn't take long to be around the first headland and out of sight of the hotel. The beach ahead was absolutely empty. It stretched at least two or three kilometers to the next headland. There were no houses or hotels or structures of any kind along it, just an unbroken line of palms. Squinting slightly this was the very postcard picture of paradise, but focusing a bit better the effect of having nobody living on the beach became obvious - there is nobody there to clean up the incredible volume of debris that washes ashore. The seaweed and coconuts and driftwood are all fine, great even, but the plastic not so much. And what plastic! Shampoo bottles from Jamaica. Water bottles from the Caymans. Plastic bags from the US. Oil jugs from Cuba. Toothbrushes from who knows where. And parts of dolls. So many parts of dolls that it began to seem creepy. At one point someone had built a driftwood wind-break decorated with doll's legs and heads. They tinkled in the wind, making me suddenly nervous and edgy.

Then I saw them. In the distance two figures approached out of the south. They were walking side by side and were wearing heavy dark clothing. Clearly not tourists. As they came closer I could see that each of them was carrying something... Something long and narrow... Sticks? No... Those weren't sticks. Those were... Those were rifles. For a brief moment, with the music of the dis-articulated doll mobile still in my ears, I had a vivid mental picture of being shot by drug runners, chopped up and buried beneath the wind-break. I stood stock still and glanced quickly at the jungle to my right as a possible route of escape. By now however the figures had resolved themselves out of the heat haze to be Mexican soldiers. Two miserable young conscripts in full combat gear, trudging along a sun-blasted beach, trying to ignore the panicky gringo.

Flash forward eight years to January 2012 and we're back. This time we're one bay north of the resort in a rental house with two other couples and their children. It was a fabulous week, delivering everything a tropical vacation should, but again I felt the pull of Michel Peissel and again I headed off to the south one morning to see how far I could walk and to see if the coast had changed.

It had changed remarkably little. There were still long deserted stretches and there were still heaps of plastic trash including an irrational number of random doll parts. This time however I did not see any Mexican soldiers (they were all in the town of Tulum, cruising up and down the main street to demonstrate how safe Mexico was, but in doing so giving the exact opposite impression...). This time instead I saw a lone figure walking towards me. As it got closer it became clear that it was a man, a quite hairy man in fact, who was wearing nothing except one of those ultra-skimpy bathing suits I have heard inelegantly called a "pickle pocket". As he got closer still the black pickle pocket revealed itself to have a small tan coloured patch in the middle. The pickle. Oh. He was absolutely naked. Nudism is frowned upon in Mexico, so this was a bit of a surprise. I again glanced at the jungle to my right and considered my options. I decided however to go with "oblivious and cheerful" instead. As we passed each other I looked straight at him and gave him a hearty "Buenos Dias!". He looked down at his feet, or down somewhere in any case, and mumbled "hello".

Fifty years ago Michel Peissel would walk for days without seeing anyone. When he did see someone it would often be a chicle harvester, a "chiclero", who spent months alone in the jungle tapping trees for a rubbery substance that was used to make chewing gum (hence Chiclets). These guys were often unhinged and violent. Now it is drug interdiction soldiers and hairy nudists. And they both seem sad.

Travels With My Hoegaarden Glass

I recently flew to Saskatoon for the day to visit my friend John. Every time I make that trip I am reminded of the first time. It's a story that does not put me in an especially favourable light so I was at first reluctant to release it into the wild on the internet, but then I remembered that nobody actually reads this blog. In fact, my recent viewing statistics reveal that the blog is getting the most hits from people searching for pictures of "cow shet" (sic) and of the Karachi airport. Those few that do read the stories are those whose arms I've twisted to do so and who have already heard this story. More than once.

So, a little background first. Veterinary medicine is a fine profession, but it has few tangible perks and fringe benefits. Stacks of post-it notes from pharmaceutical companies and bottles of homemade wine from grateful clients more or less cover it. I did, however, discover that I could accumulate Aeroplan points on the clinic's purchases of drugs and supplies by having a work Visa Aerogold card in my name. This amounts to a lot of points. Picture a fire-hose. As the points began to pile up it occurred to me that an appropriately decadent use would be to fly, jet set style, to Saskatoon just for the day to drink with John.

I arrived about 8:30 in the morning and by 10:00 we were into our first beer. In fairness, my flight back was at 5:30, so we had no choice but to start early. The wisdom of this decision was confirmed when we were each given an enormous complimentary Hoegaarden glass for being the first customers of the day to order that beer. Hoegaarden is a Belgian "wit" (wheat ale) and is served in a glass the size of a baby's head. I mean this literally. Giant Hoegaarden glasses in hand we headed to John's place so he wouldn't have to drive anymore.

The afternoon passed enjoyably in an ever thickening fog as beer piled upon beer. When it was time to call a taxi to the airport John broke out the Irish whiskey. The well-worn expression "the final straw" comes immediately to mind. Before we knew it the taxi was there. I lurched towards the door while John careened into the kitchen. He emerged with a plastic Safeway bag for my Hoegaarden glass. Can't forget that!
After a round of back-slapping hugs I was out the door and into the cab.

I sat in the front passenger seat with my Hoegaarden glass in my lap.
"No luggage sir?"
"Nope! Just this!"
The driver was lifelong Saskatonian and since I had grown up there we were able to swap jolly tales of the "good old days". Everything was very friendly and cheery until we pulled up to the terminal.
"That'll be $21.50 sir."
I began feeling my pockets and slapping my sides. I could see the cab driver's facial expression slide from happy to puzzled to irritated to borderline angry in seconds.
"Uh."
He stared at me.
"Uh, my wallet and keys and ID and everything were in my waist pack. I must have left it at my friend's."
He stared at me some more.
"I don't have a cellphone; can I borrow yours and try to call him? Maybe he can get it here in time."
"Ok." Very terse.
I dialed John's number and it rang and rang until eventually the answering machine picked up. John was evidently too far gone to answer the phone. But then I remembered that I had my PDA (remember the old Palm Pilot PDAs?) in my jacket pocket and I had my credit card number recorded in it.
"I'm really sorry man. Really really sorry. But I have my credit card number written down, can you just take that?"
"I guess I don't have a choice." Still very terse.
I read out the number, wrote a $10 tip on the slip and then bailed out of the cab, mumbling more apologies.

That was the easy part. The hard part was getting on the plane. This was the fall of 2005, four years after the September 11th attacks and well into the era of hyper-security.
I approached the Air Canada counter, mustering all of my self control to walk a straight line. I did, however, sway very slightly when I stood still.
"Hi! I'm on the 5:30 to Winnipeg, but I accidentally left my boarding pass, all my ID and everything at my friend's house! Is there any way I can still get on this flight?"
The agent raised an eyebrow. The other agents stopped what they were doing and looked over. I might have been a bit loud.
"No ID?"
"No, but my name is Philipp Schott and I was on this morning's flight! The flight number was 8981 and the pilot's name was Dave!"
The agent raised her eyebrows a little higher and glanced over at her colleagues.
I swayed a little.
She paused a long moment and then smiled at me.
"Do you have any luggage?"
"Nope! Just this!"
I held the Safeway bag high.
"It's a beer glass!"
I wanted to be helpful.
She smiled again.
"I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you!"
I smiled back and gripped the counter with my free hand.
There was the clatter of a keyboard and the hum of a printer. The agent made a cryptic note on the boarding pass and then handed it to me.
"You should go through security now."
And off I went.

At security they asked for my ID, which is not usual, but perhaps not surprising given the fact that I was reeling towards them, clutching a plastic shopping bag. I began to explain about the ID when they cut me off saying, "Oh, you're that guy!"
"But you'll have to put that into the x-ray scanner." They indicated my Safeway bag.
I gingerly placed the bag on the conveyor belt so that the glass would remain upright. The security people grinned broadly as the Hoegaarden glass made it's stately progress through their machine. I think I made their day.
"Thanks!" I shouted as I tottered towards my gate.

There is nothing quite like flying buzzed. It's just over an hour from Saskatoon to Winnipeg and every minute of that I spent staring out the window being amazed by.... stuff. On arrival I remembered that I didn't have car keys either and that my car was in the airport parking lot. Moreover I had used my credit card, now at John's house in Saskatoon, to get the car into the lot and would need it to get it out again. In retrospect it was, of course, rather a good thing that I didn't have access to my car then. So, I grabbed a taxi and asked him to wait when I got home so that I could get some money for him from my wife. She was a little surprised.

For a long time I wanted to write to Air Canada to commend that agent on her humanity and common sense during the "War On Terror", but fearing I would actually get her into trouble I thought the better of it. I still have and use that Hoegaarden glass and I still go to Saskatoon every year to visit John, but now I keep my wallet and ID and everything in my pockets.

Rutabaganess

It's time to talk about rutabagas.
I'll be kind to those of you who didn't bail out after that first sentence and will try to keep this brief and informative.


Rutabagas have been on my mind since our family road trip this summer took us through Cumberland, Wisconsin. For the few of you who don't know this, Cumberland is the home of the annual Rutabaga Festival. Without the festival Cumberland would be just another dull rural Wisconsin town, but with the festival it becomes... it becomes... it becomes what? I suppose it becomes a dull rural Wisconsin town that once a year bursts into colour and life with all manner of rutabaganess. Apparently there is a 12 mile "Rutabaga Run", with some of the runners dressed as rutabagas. Apparently there is a rutabaga smoothy drinking contest (One imagines the winner is someone who actually drinks one...). Apparently there is a Grand Parade down Main Street. Apparently "The Dweebs" were going to headline a big outdoor concert. We didn't have time to stop, but it did get me thinking. What, exactly, is a rutabaga? How does it relate to the turnip? And what's with the funny name?

The mobile internet being the marvel that it is, we were no sooner installed in our hotel in Minneapolis when I had my answers. While the children became ever more crazed with anticipation for the Sponge Bob Splat-O-Sphere in the nearby Mall of America, I quietly immersed myself in rutabaga lore. First of all the name. "Rutabaga" apparently comes from the Swedish for "root bag". Now you know. Along with smorgasbord, that makes for two useful words passed on to us by the Swedes. IKEA, as a proper noun, doesn't count. Not unless we insert it deeper into the language by using adjectival expressions like, "Yeah, their apartment is totally ikean!" Or, "She has a very ikean sensibility." But I digress. The Swedish connection is strong enough that the rutabaga is called a "swede" in England and Australia. That's useful to know. Now you will no longer become alarmed when you are served "mashed swede". Or, on second thought, perhaps you still will be. In Ireland rutabagas are confusingly called turnips. Whether this is just ignorance or a linguistic quirk is unclear. Regardless, the "turnips" which were originally carved into jack o'lanterns by the Celts as a precursor to the modern Halloween pumpkins were in fact actually rutabagas. In Scotland it's also endearingly called a "neep" and is traditionally eaten with, you guessed it, haggis.

So now we know something about its name, but what about what it actually is? It turns out that the Halloween connection to the rutabaga goes even deeper because the rutabaga is a kind of Frankenstein vegetable. It is - are you ready for this? - a 17th century Bohemian cross between a cabbage and a turnip. That's right, two of childhood's most hated vegetables together in one convenient package. If horticulturists could figure out a way to further cross it with asparagus they'd achieve a trifecta of dinner table horror.


Is that enough rutabaga information? Probably. Thank you for your patience.


(The Rutabaga King and Queen)

(A traditional Irish Halloween rutabaga. Way scarier than our wimpy pumpkins.)

Travels Among The Winkle Pickers

We had our first serious doubts as we were peddling away from the Headcorn railway station in the rain. We were jet-lagged, riding dodgy bikes and trying to remember to stay on the left (as Land Rovers came hurtling past) while glancing repeatedly at the map to navigate our way to the first of the series of pubs we intended to visit that day. This was less fun in the rain.

Fortunately the rain was brief and what had been misty grey surroundings resolved themselves into brilliant green sheep-studded fields bounded by dark green hedges in a patchwork laid out like a chess board drawn by an epileptic chimpanzee. And even more fortunately the first pub was nearby, so we were able to roll up to the "Bell & Jorrocks" in Frittenden (not quite as funny as Headcorn, but amusing enough when muttered darkly) just in time for its 11:00 a.m. opening. Incidentally, if anyone knows what a "Jorrocks" is, please do let me know. Most pubs have more comprehensible, if somewhat curious names, such as "The Slug and Lettuce", "The Cat and Custard Pot" and "The Donkey on Fire", but "Jorrocks", although it sounds faintly rude, is beyond me.

So, beers at 11:00... Anyone have a problem with that? I will confess that morning beer, although fun to think about, is something I've always thought of as... unwise. This was different however. To begin with there was already an English gentleman at the bar, enjoying a pint and not looking at all unsavory. Secondly the publican's small children were sitting at a nearby table in their pajamas, playing handheld video games and eating cereal, so it had a very relaxed family atmosphere. Thirdly cask-conditioned, hand-pulled English ales are only about 3.5% alcohol on average and are flat and warm, so it feels more like sipping tea than slinging frosty lagers in the mid morning. Honestly. In any case it was lovely. The beer, the pub, the atmosphere, the whole package. They even played Pink Floyd. And then as I sipped my Woodforde's Wherry (or was it the Sharp's Cornish Coaster...?) to the strains of "Wish You Were Here" the sun broke through the clouds and pointed a sunbeam through the window right at my beer. It glowed.

Onwards to "The Bull at Benenden" we rode, quite literally "over hill and dale", through a postcard English rural idyll. "The Bull" was even more absurdly atmospheric with it's ancient half-timbered ceilings, giant brick sit-in fireplace, creaky floors, multiple nooks and crannies (yes, nooks! and crannies!) and hodgepodge of antique furniture. It was even fully stocked with English people! It was veritable a carnival of cliches. There was an old gentleman in tweed with extravagant eyebrows nursing a pint by himself in a corner while muttering (probably about the war, or possibly "Frittenden, Frittenden, Frittenden"). And then there was a younger fellow up at the bar with the ruddy cheeks and over-sized yellow teeth. And there were also the schoolchildren, well-dressed, well-coiffed, well-behaved, but clearly evil, sitting with their families for lunch. I could go on, but I fear I am either boring or frightening you. It was marvelous though. We didn't want to leave. And we almost didn't, but we had a train to catch back in Headcorn and one more stop to make on the way.

The "Bell & Jorrocks" was early 18th century, "The Bull at Benenden" was early 17th century and "The Three Chimneys" was early 15th century. And "The Three Chimneys" was closed. Or closing. We had gotten significantly lost on the way and had just missed last call for the afternoon. We couldn't even beg a half-pint from the barman; we could only gape at the extraordinary medieval interior before being ushered out. Bummer. We consequently arrived in Headcorn with twenty minutes to spare, which, it turned out was just enough time to enjoy that missing half-pint at the jolly "George and Dragon" before boarding our train. We scanned the taps and immediately made our selection: "Winkle Picker" bitter. A very English end to a very English day. Cheers!

Crossing The Circus Bridge

Bali. Beautiful, weird, bewitching, get-under-your-skin Bali. This is a place that attracts more than its share of hyperbole, much of it justified. This is also a place that attracts more than its share of hurling Australians, but I digress. Did you know that Australian English has more synonyms for vomit than any other form of English? But I digress again. Fortunately the chunder from Down Under is pretty much confined to the Kuta Beach area and the rest of the island remains the land of hyperbolic beauty. One of the best ways to explore it is on a bicycle. Or so we thought…

All of Bali slopes. It slopes continuously from the shore to the tops of  the dormant volcanoes at the centre and it is notched regularly by deep, canyon-like, river valleys running back down from the summits to the sea. Consequently cycling becomes an exercise in going up, up, up, and then turning around and going down, down, down. Or vice-versa for true masochists. Lateral motion is dependant on the infrequent bridges across the rivers.

One day Lorraine and I set off in mind-buggering heat on heavy iron bikes and began laboring up the slope. We ground along on these rusting pigs until we could grind no more. At this point there happened to be a bridge across the deep gorge immediately to our west. We went over the bridge, pointed our bikes downhill and hurtled down the slope like cartoon fools. Chickens, children, old women, mangy stray dogs – all of them had to jump out of the way as we whipped through village after village. The canyon was cloaked in jungle so it was hard to assess how far we had come down relative to how far we had gone up, so we stopped to check the map.

Where we were was a long, long way down. We had missed the next bridge back over and were so far down that we would have to either fight our way back up for many kilometers or keep going down, cross, and then similarly fight our way back up on the other side to our guesthouse. Then I noticed a small line drawn across the canyon quite close to where we were. This line was marked “Circus Bridge” and appeared to be connected to the roads on either side by a winding dirt path. Our guesthouse was pretty much directly across. Score!

“Dunno what the ‘circus’ part is about, but if it’s a bridge we’ll take it!” I said.

Lorraine agreed and so we walked our bikes on the jungle path down to a point where we could hear water rushing. Then, as we rounded a bend, we saw it: the “Circus Bridge”. 

It was an I-beam. 

Someone had laid an old iron I-beam across the gorge. Water surged over boulders six to eight meters down. The beam was perhaps 15 cm wide. And it bounced when you put weight on it.

I don’t consider myself to be truly afraid of heights. What I’m afraid of is falling from heights. If I have a hand-hold that protects me against the prospect of a mangling fall, then I’m reasonably okay with being up high. But if I don’t have a hand-hold I am decidedly not okay. And so it was. No hand-hold. And two heavy bikes. I tried pushing the bike ahead of me, but it began twisting in a suicidal fashion so I quickly retreated. I tried putting it on my shoulders, but I felt wildly unbalanced, so I abandoned that plan as well.

We were just about to turn around and trudge back up to the road when an old man appeared at the other side of the bridge. He waved to us, flashed a toothless smile and then trotted over briskly.

“You want come over?” he asked.

“Yes, but we don’t think we can get the bikes over,” I said.

The old man chuckled, picked up my bike, hoisted it to his right shoulder, put out his left hand behind him for me to hold on to and then led the bike and me across, much as if he were helping an invalid across a city street. I flapped my jaw noiselessly while he skipped over to get Lorraine and her bike. (At this point Lorraine would want me to make note of the fact that, unlike me, she did not need to have her hand held. What this has to do with the story is beyond me.) 

“Thank you, thank you sir! How can we repay you?” I asked once I got my voice back. I reached for my wallet.

The old man smiled his toothless smile again, shook his head and said, “You like the woodcarving? You come my shop! Buy if you like!”

He didn’t want money for helping us, he just wanted to sell us some woodcarving. We had been wanting buy some Balinese woodcarving, so this was perfect! He led us up the path a short distance to his shop and ushered us in. Once our eyes adjusted we saw that he had, without any doubt whatsoever, the singular most god-awful, hideous and tacky collection of woodcarvings on the entire island of Bali. The entire island.

But it was a small price to pay to cross the Circus Bridge.