Saigon or is that Sai Gon or even Ho Chi Minh City. It's all a little confusing. I'm going with Saigon though. Actually I'm not so much going with Saigon as going to Saigon.
A number of years back I was travelling through Guatemala and came across this church full of activity. It happened to be a church worshiping Maximon a saint combining Catholic rituals that I recognised and Mayan rituals that I didn't. Whilst reading a website the other day I noticed a mention of Maximon and that prompted me to dig up my old notes .... these are my (brief) recollections of Maximon.
Burning candles, black, red, yellow, blues, white and green. For envy and money. Luck, travel and enemies.
Self flagellating supplicants before the altar of the greybearded cigar smoker. Prayers from the ranks rising through teeth clenched 'round broomstick thick cigars. Priestess in kitchen woman's apron spits strong spirit upon the altar.
The air is thick with burning wax smoke. The walls dotted with plaques thanking San Simon for services rendered. The faithful pray to themselves with serious intent. A woman before the entrance lights many a red candle, perhaps she thinks about St Valentines tomorrow. A curious juxtaposition between religions.
Cloyingly thick and burning black,the smoke and bright flames of clumped together candles soon force the curious away. Outside men sweep up the ashes of another burning, placing them ever so gently upon leaves and a bed of flowers lining an ages old dented 'barrow.
A man on the steps to the church, in pirate red scarf, berates, pleads and gesticulates at a half burning, half smouldering pile of black candles. He turns to poke angrily at the mass before him and in doing so spies a young gaily dressed child to whom he smiles and waves.
Image of Maximon: Used under Creative Commons Licence courtesy of http://www.eveandersson.com/photos/photo-display?photo_path=%2Fphotos%2Fguatemala%2Fatitlan%2Fsantiago%2Fmaximon&photo_size=large
Went down to the beach this morning and thought I'd post some of my notes. I did think about tidying them up but decided instead to go with the stream of consciousness style they were written in ....
Coogee beach, sun shiny, kids chasing birds chasing food, flights every few minutes on the exact same route from corner just above cliffs, bikini clad girls and those in ski jackets - this is Sydney winter,
world youth day pilgrims here to see dead bodies in coffins walk past with gaily coloured backpacks, nations flags and joie d'vivre, yummy mummies talk over coffee whilst kids frolic, greenday my soundtrack for today,
frisbee, afl , soccer and rugby the beach games, swimmer in cap seemingly going slowly from south to north when suddenly I look up and he/she has moved from the father playing catch to the teen girls trying to catch a tan, a sail moves across the distant horizon, a trendy Sydneysider in de rigeur Palestinian kafiyya walks by while overhead another plane zooms by,
a kid chases a bird on the same plane as the aeroplane, boats pulled up to northern shore their purpose unclear, the pilgrims walk by shoes in hands, trousers rolled they've dipped their toes in today's holy font, the sun is warming and seeps into my demeanour I smile even though my coffee's gone cold
Gadling recently had a post in which they discussed author Chuck Thompson's new book Smile While You're Lying. As part of their post they invited people to write in with tales of the worst things that had happened to them whilst travelling. Like most travellers I've had a few things happen to me on my travels so I though I'd post one of my horror stories. Technically I wasn't travelling but was actually working in Indonesia, in any case I think that the story holds up. What tempted me to write in was that they were offering 5 free books to the best "worst thing thats happened to you" travel stories.
Today I received an email saying I've won the book. So I've decided to repost my exact post from that site here. The details are mostly true although I will admit to being slightly hazy about the actual timing of the events. They're close enought to accurate anyway.
Lets see ...the time I got pulled over at gun point travelling in the back of a strangers car whilst crossing the Guatemalan border into Honduras ... nope
The time I walked through the flooded streets of Calcutta and a rat thought I was an escape raft ... nope
How about the time I worked in Indonesia managing a remote resort .. ah yes ..that one
I managed this remote resort on the island of Java. The country was in upheaval, students had recently been shot on the streets of Jakarta and my security manager came into see me.
"Pak", he says. "Bad news. The local people they not like the resort making money on their land. They coming tomorrow to burn it down".
"ok", says I, attempting to be calm. "time to put our contingency plans into gear". Thinking all along how absurd it was that I had contingency plans, for rioting villagers, ready to go.
12 hours later our guests had been relocated along with non emergency personnel
18 hours later the local military had set up barbed wire outside the resort entrance. Their Sergeant was setting their lines of fire. This was most definitely not part of the contingency plan which consisted mostly of getting the hell out of there just after our guests had buggered off.
18 hours and 2 minutes later I was furiously trying to find a solution and panicking at the sight of armed men playing with their weapons.
20 hours later the owners of the resort finally send a delegation down from Jakarta.
22 hours later the Jakarta delegation pays off the local Kepala Desa (Village Headman) and he persuades his villagers we're good people after all.
2 days later I visit the village with food and gifts. They invite me in for lunch. Nice people..I should go back some time.
Just before I head off to Malaysia to get my fill of Kopi-Peng, Char Kway Teow and Martabak Manis I thought I'd leave you with these memories of my sailing down the Nile on a Felucca.
It wasn't until after I had jumped into the Nile that I remembered it's famed crocodiles. Never mind, I thought, if I've survived the papyrus sellers of Cairo's Khan el-Khalili market then I can surely survive a crocodile attack or two.
I dove under the Felucca and broke through the water on the other side, the sun glancing sharply off the water. Momentarily blinded I slowed to wipe my eyes and spotted a crocodile. OK. I didn't spot a crocodile in fact the only crocs I came across in Egypt were on feet or stuffed in museums or stuffed on feet trudging around museums. Or, as in this case, where the croc I saw was being wielded by the Nubian captain of our Felucca who, waving it in his hands was clearly using it to remonstrate with a tape player. What he expected the croc (a bright orange one I might add) to do I'm not sure but what he wanted was what he'd wanted for the last two days of our sailing. He wanted Bob Marley to stop singing at half speed. Now, I know, the sound of Bob singing as if he's stoned has a certain synchronicity about it but being advised at mournfully low speed that "no woman, no cry" is more likely to lead to crying than not. I sympathised with our captain and would have gone to his aid and remonstrated alongside him using my own, far less colourful, sandal but I was enjoying the moment much too much.
Behind the croc waving Nubian stood a proudly decaying pillar and wall. A wall and pillar shining that golden colour that all ruins along the Nile seem to have. Etched deeply into the wall were Hieroglyphs although all I could make out was the occasional cartouche. To the right of the building and by the water's edge sat an Egyptian woman washing. Behind me a small row boat made it's way across the river. Two schoolboys in white shirts and ties sat in the stern as the boatman rowed away. I wondered if he asked them to move down to the back of the boat as they entered and, if we examined the underside of the seats upon which they sat, we would find stubborn lumps of old chewing gum.
"Won't you help to sing, these songs of freedom", came bubbling across the water. The orange croc had apparently worked and Bob was now advising me to "free our minds" at a mostly normal speed. I'm not sure I needed the advice at that exact moment as I drank in all I saw around me. The Nile around me, the smiling Nubian captain, croc still in hand, sharp sunlight, the engineless Felucca, walls that spoke of ancient glories, schoolchildren in a little row boat and Bob. Somehow it all worked to, for those few minutes at least, emancipate myself from mental slavery.
