Maximon's Altar

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

Coogee Beach - or a winter's morning in Sydney with yummy mummies and world youth day pilgrims

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

No Nile Crocodile And A Half Pace Bob Marley

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.

Vietnamese Coffeee or how to really take a good photograph and blog about it

If you'd like a bit more information on authentic vietnamese coffee (and great photography) you should have a look at this blog post by Eating Asia. I've been lurking around her blog for ages now, thoroughly admiring her photography. This particular post on Vietnamese coffee makes me want to get on a plane and fly to Vietnam. Instead I'll just have to wait until I get to Malaysia where I can order a Kopi-Peng which is made in a similar manner to the Vietnamese iced coffee (Cafe Sua Da).

The above photograph is one of Eating Asia's and her entire article and other great photographs can be viewed at http://eatingasia.typepad.com/eatingasia/2007/11/black-gold.html

The Journey I'd Love to Do: Silk Route By Rail

Back in the late 90's I took the Trans Manchurian from Beijing through to Moscow in the middle of winter. The world was surreal in it's white starkness, like picture postcards come Christmas time. Outside on the stations amongst the fishmongers, bag ladies with fresh bread and milk, the air was so cold it felt brittle. My thermometer, which measured -20 Centigrade refused, like a reluctant teenager, to budge from its little cocoon to tell me the real temperature. Suffice to say it was cold and I was not going to risk having a quick open air pee.

I loved that particular journey. The five days passed quickly and I was never bored, not even for a second. It was as if I had entered another world where everything slowed down. I could watch the white snow capped houses and trees whizzing by for hours. Almost zen like I lulled myself through Siberia.

A couple of years ago I had the opportunity to redo the trip only this time in Summer. It did not disappoint. While the scenery was different and my train companions more affluent I fell into the same dreamlike state. Something like the Matrix's "bullet time" everything slows down but seems hyper real.

Ever since then I've wanted to do similar sorts of train trips. I've toyed with the idea of taking the train through Mexico's Copper Canyon and I've taken the train from Singapore up to Bangkok but the journey I really want to do runs through Central Asia. I've been lucky enough to see Kashgar and Urumqi in Western China but what I'd love to see are the almost mythical cities of Samarkand and Bukhara. What better way to see them than by train. A train that runs all the way from Hong Kong to Moscow but rather than running through Siberia it runs right through the heart of Central Asia. These dreams lead me to John Armitstead's site http://www.johndarm.clara.net/silkroute/intro.html.

John's journey is one I'd like to take. For now though I've just put it into my "travel I like to dream about" book ..... do you have one of those books?

Noticed a few people reading this post are coming here looking for information on the Trans-Siberian. If you wish to read another account of travel on the train have a look at Jon Evan's (the Backpacker Thriller author) post here http://rezendi.com/blog/2006/09/second-person-siberian.html

Image: Courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/theroadisthegoal used under Creative Commons Licence

mmm this'll curtail the holiday money

A lovely photo of the ice from heaven (not quite mana from heaven) that left my car looking like a golf ball. Lucky I have it insured otherwise that'd be my Malaysian trip done and dusted.

This was another post from my iphone (except for this bit in italics added later). I'm trying to get it right so I can take pictures and post from the road whilst in Malaysia. When I say road I actually mean a decent hotel. Old backpackers don't die in hostels, we die in 4 star hotels and resorts whilst reminiscing about how the old hostels had a much better ambience.

Anyhow, the iphone post works ok (see here for details on mobile blogging http://www.blogger.com/mobile-start.g ) however it does seem to put the formatting out a bit. Not a major problem in short posts but longer posts would be more uncomfortable to read.

My next port of call: Malaysia

My first real backpacking experience was in Singapore and Malaysia
almost 20 years ago. Since then I've returned to the area on numerous
occasions. This was convenient as I worked in nearby Indonesia. It has
always remained one of my favourite travel destinations.

Why? You may ask? Simply put .. it's the friendly people and the
delicious food. I love a good beef rendang, roti parata or a Laksa.

Now I'm off there again in January and I'm looking forward to
rekindling my old flame ... Malaysia. This little post is to just wet
my appetite (oh, and to try posting to www.whereoldbackpackersgotodie.blogspot.com

via the iPhone).

Ajax's Amsterdam: Amsterdam in the 90's

Ajax's Amsterdam

A story I wrote whilst living in Amsterdam back in 1994/5.

Amsterdam's typical 'brown pub' had taken on a decidedly orange hued air. Men and women alike, with orange sponge clog hats on head, cheerfully downed their genevers as a prelude to their beer. Bursting from the speaker all manner of stout and hearty singalong type songs. And singalong with gusto did this pub. Arm in arm and swaying to the beat they belted out these football songs.

A hapless Irishman, silly enough to enter the "bruin kroeg" after his team had been defeated by the mighty Dutch, was forced to down a green bowler hat's worth of the brown bar's brown nectar. Not however that he seemed to mind. As celebratory in loss as in victory this Irishman had no intention of turning down such a "punishment".

The Dutchman next to me, obviously appreciating the fact that I was enjoying the situation, endeavoured to teach me the intricacies of the Dutch football singalong. Suffice to say the only remnants that remain are a memory of some old voetbal schoen (football shoe) and something about k k k k Koeman, followed by a huge shout and then back into the chorus. It was whilst teaching me these rudimentary basics of being a supporter of Oranje (Orange, being the colour of the royal house, is the sporting colour of the Dutch) that my Dutch singalong partner let me in for some news.

"This is nothing", he would have me know, waving his arms at the joyous mayhem around us. Niets!" (sounding like Nix) he said in Dutch as if for emphasis. "Wait until you see Ajax play!", and with that he burst into an Ajax song. Within moments the rest of the bar had joined in singing the decidedly English lyrics of, "We love you Ajax, we do. We love you Ajax, we do. We love you Ajax, we do. Oh Ajax we love you!". Now to the rest of us this may just sound like some commercial jingle for household cleaning fluid but to the Dutch it was more well known than their national anthem. (Incidentally, while we're on the cleaning fluid discussion, Ajax is pronounced "I YUCKS").

That was the summer. Summer watching football, summer watching tourists in the town of Amsterdam. Town is an appropriate word for although Amsterdam is undoubtedly a city it has the feel and character of a quaint old town. Small enough to wander around in, yet cosmopolitan enough to satisfy any city lover.

Come summer the population grows. Tourists from near and far come to gawk and gape. The juxtaposition of old world culture and that of the new, youth dominated, culture ensure that all have reason to visit the city of canals. Queues of elderly and young line up outside the house of Anne Frank. A tall imposing building overlooking the canal, its heritage is all that saves it from becoming the new headquarters of some globally minded company. Some of those in the queue are here because their guidebooks tell them that this is "one of the sites you must see", others, aware of the history, come to pay homage. Few appreciate the drunken sounds of football songs that echo up from the passing canal boats. Holland has won another match but this city of Amsterdammers looks forward to the long cold winter.

The winter of few tourists. The winter of snow and iced over canals. The short dark days where little sun is seen. With luck the winter's cold enough and all can skate the canals. Better yet, winter's the time for cafe culture. Days spent inside warm and cosy pubs. Nights spent watching their team take on the world. All winter long they watch and they celebrate. Amsterdam once the mightiest of cities lives again through its team.

None stand before Ajax and the crown. Many cringe and cower. Come the final night where Europe's best clash for the honour of European best. The bars and pubs, always full, have known no day like this. In the Ajax colours, with Ajax scarves the Amsterdammers cheer "their" boys. With wild abandon the game is played and Ajax come up victors. Like a storm unleashed the city goes wild. Striking all corners of the city the parties do not abate 'til the early hours of dawn, only to re-awaken a few short hours later upon the triumphant return of "their boys". The settling of the storm reveals the carnage. Parties gone wild and property damaged but nothing daunts the spirit of the Amsterdammers. Days later the newly arrived tourist is still likely to come upon roving bands of Ajax'ers singing, "We are the champions!".

Amsterdam, the city of culture. Amsterdam, the city of sex and drugs. And Amsterdam the city of Ajax, the city of Champions.

I'm Dromedarius and welcome to my travel demon.

You can call me Dromedarius for now (if you want to call me anything). Welcome to this blog about where old backpackers go to die.

And where do they go to die?

Aside from moving to staid old jobs, obtaining mortgages and taking part in that old rat race we long eschewed we continue to hanker to travel.

That's this blog. My attempt to satisfy the travel demon within. It'll contain plans for trips I'll never go on. Ideas for jobs in foreign countries I'll never get. Countries I'd love to visit.

It may even contain actual trips, photos and stories from the old days... back when Lonely Planet only had South East Asian editions and it was somehow hip & cool to be carrying an LP edition with you.