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All content in this magazine including writing, illustration, photography and design was created by Damien Cifelli
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CONTENTS DAVID LIVINGSTONE:
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Africa’s first freedom fighter
JUST LIKE HOME
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Travelling in a globalised world
IREZUMI
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The end of one of Japan’s oldest traditions?
TANZANIA STREET LIFE: Photo Series
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DHAKA: Travel Diary
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THE CENTRAL STATION
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WAY DOWN IN THE HOLE
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The hidden bars of Morocco
PERE LACHAISE
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TSUKIJI: Photo Series
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TRAVEL SHORTS
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The worldin under 500 words
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DAVID LIVINGSTONE A f r i c a ’s f i r s t f r e e d o m f i g h t e r 4
‘David Livingstone is a friend of mine, because he was a friend to Africa’
‘I sometimes say that his body was British but his heart was African’
My guide, also named David, points to a small ledger in a case. It is a record of one of Livingstone’s journeys from Tanzania. It sits, dusty and yellowing, behind the glass. It is not particularly well kept, much like everything in this museum, the hyperbolically named ‘House of Wonders’ in Zanzibar’s Stone Town. A few miles north of here is the Livingstone House where he stayed before setting off on his last expedition. On the mainland is Bagamoyo, the town where two of his followers carried his body on foot for over a thousand miles after his death. Further west are the towns of ‘Livingstone’ and ‘Blantyre’ named after himself and his place of birth, and in between there are countless monuments and statues celebrating his life. A portrait of him hangs, slightly askew, on the wall. In it he is moustachioed and stern. Other David smiles,
It begs the question - what inspires such devotion and respect for this foreign man in a continent so characterised by oppression from outsiders?
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David Livingstone’s story is that of a driven and fiercely principled man. He grew up in the mill town of Blantyre near Glasgow. He worked from the age of ten with his brother, tying broken threads on the cotton mills for twelve hours a day. Along with this he went to school and taught himself anything else that caught his interest. After studying medicine at university he managed to reconcile his love of science with religion. He formed the belief that helping people using science best fulfilled his religious duties and that Africa was the place that he could make the biggest difference.
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He travelled to Botswana as a missionary where, due to his inability to get along with the other missionaries and his lack of skill as a preacher he was forced to leave. He journeyed further north in search of undiscovered land. Despite being dubbed ‘Africa’s greatest missionary’ he was a failure, famously only converting one man who later lapsed. In 1844 he was attacked by a lion which shattered his arm and shoulder, he was nursed back to health by Mary Moffat who would later become his wife and travelling companion. His travels continued with an increased focus on geographical exploration, discovering Lake Ngami for which he won the Royal Geographic Society gold medal. Travelling with his young family in such remote areas proved to be a great strain, exposing them to unknown dangers. In 1850, after crossing the Kalahari together on foot, his baby daughter Elisabeth caught a lung infection and died. His wife, distraught and exhausted, returned to Britain and he continued his explorations alone. As he travelled he often sought out places for Scotland’s poor to inhabit. Unlike many colonists at the time, his plan was for a mingling of cultures with locals in an integrated community.
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During this trip in Africa he discovered and named Victoria Falls and shed light on parts of the world that were completely unknown to western eyes. The astronauts who went to the moon in 1969 had more information about their destination than Livingstone did about his. ___________________________
His plan was for a mingling of cultures with locals in an integrated community.
In 1858 he embarked on a well funded and ambitious new expedition to the Zambezi. The aim of it was to open Africa to trade. Commercial routes were to be established in an effort to kill off the Arab slave trade. The trip proved to be a disaster. After numerous mistakes and u-turns the members of his team that had not already died left him. His wife, who had missed him on his previous journeys, died trying to accompany him. His return to Britain this time was as a failure. Africa was in Livinstones blood and, unable to stay away from the continent he loved, he planned a return. His final trip to Africa was in search of the source of the Nile. After much adversity, his assistants again deserted him. Alone he reached Lake Mweru by which time most of his supplies had been stolen. Despite greatly declining health he continued walking between villages and taking huge numbers of notes and observations. He was a great linguist so could interact with the locals and gain their trust. This helped him travel further than any explorer had before. After six years and no contact with the outside world many had presumed him dead. In 1871, after a long search, Henry Morton Stanley discovered him in a village on Lake Tanganyika and the world knew he was still alive. Stanley famously greeted him with the line ‘Dr Livingstone I presume?’. This, and Stanley’s subsequent report, contributed significantly to the myth of Dr Livingstone. Two years after this meeting Livingstone died aged sixty in the village of Old Chitambo. It is only due to his supreme mental and physical strength that he survived as long as he did. Two of his attendants, freed slaves Chuma and Susi, carried his body a thousand miles to the coast. It was sent back to Britain and buried in Westminster Abbey. His heart, which he claimed belonged to Africa, was buried under a tree in the village.
___________________________ His travels required great strength. He fell ill with malaria over thirty times but, using his medical training, discovered that Quinine combined with resin, rhubarb and calomel could be used to treat the disease. He later marketed this in Britain as ‘Livingstone’s Rousers’. On his return to Britain he was proclaimed a hero and became rich and famous. With this new found fame he began to raise the issue that would define his life. The abolition of the slave trade.
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David Livingstone was a man who, with an almost unbelievable determination, tried to do what he believed was right. With equal amounts of failure and success he was relentless in the pursuit of new discoveries. The emancipation of Africa from the slave traders was a cause to which he devoted himself and ultimately became a martyr to. He had obstinately refused to quit until his work was done and two months after his death the Sultan of Zanzibar banned the export of slaves. This promted the swift decline of the industry Livingstone so loathed. After M A G A Z IN E
Livingstone’s death many Europeans flooded into the continent. Many had less pure intentions but some settled un-segregated from the locals and, like Livingstone, fell in love with the continent. His legacy is in these people. Those who created and continue to create sustainable development for Africa directly inspired by his experiences. His discoveries and catalogues of nature are incredible. More incredible is the way he used these discoveries to bring to light the wonders of an unknown continent and put an end to a barbaric trade. His ideas of integration and compassion as a basis for change were enlightened and were tinder for a change in the colonial mindset.
Unlike many outsiders he was a popular figure within Africa. He learned the local languages, embraced their customs and tested their medicines. They recognised he was on their side as he was fighting for their right to freedom. It is because of this that he is still respected in Africa today and was described by the first president of Zambia as ‘Africa’s first freedom fighter’ what sets Livingstone apart is that he understood, perhaps before anyone, the power of culture, knowing that we can learn more by embracing different traditions than repressing them. He was never a conqueror or a great spearhead of empire. Far more importantly to the people of Africa, he was a friend.
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Livingstone’s Routes through Africa L O S T
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JUST LIKE HOME Travelling in a globalised world we must seek out the unique, before the world becomes a buffet where everything's the same flavour
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The air is misty inside Ta Prohm, king of Cambodia’s jungle temples. I struggle for grip, scrambling over the smooth bark of buttress roots and trunks that strangle crumbling stone. Once home to 12,000 people, it is now a ghost town, gradually merging with the jungle. The dislodged vertebrae of corridors buckle beneath the strong hands of nature. Within them shadows move, their diffused contours forming and fading. The giant silk-cotton tree’s deciduous fingers push into every crack, its horticultural hands cleaving stone to reveal its innards. I duck under archways overflowing with bulbous limbs, my breath afraid to disturb the silence. After a while, the mist burns off into the heat of the morning and a small light appears, birthed through the retreating haze. I continue onward. It grows bigger and brighter. “Hey Boyzone!” A middle-aged man in a counterfeit Ralph Lauren polo shirt waves from the distance. He leans from the ludicrous vehicle that got me here, a souped-up tuk-tuk whose design, save for the name ‘Mr Heng’ L O S T
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on the back, is split in two. One half is a Man United crest, the other devoted to the New York Yankees. And on the back shelf sits Paul Scholes. (A photo, the real one wouldn’t last a second in this heat.) The speaker system, far more technically advanced than the vehicle, pumps Prince’s Purple Rain into the sultry jungle. “Chop chop! Next temple OK!” All aboard the travelling museum of confusing international references! With a horn blast and a jolt, we speed off through the undergrowth. “We will go past my brother’s shop first, OK?” When there is no answer he turns to face me. “Hey, all you have to do is look,” he says with a wink. Welcome to the globalised world.
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get bacon on your cheeseburger. And it’s a bit hotter.
The joys of travel exist at an atomic level. Those minuscule everyday happenings that are familiar, yet entirely individual and exclusive to their place. The way people talk, the music that they listen to, the way street signs are a different colour, even how the toilets have a button that shoots a jet of water at your netherlands. Something is revealed when these unique elements combine. Described by those enthusiastic travellers the Romans as the genius loci, it’s the individual fingerprint of a country that exists beyond the physical. It is the spirit of a place that makes us travel.
As you might have been told in a hostel by a man in harem pants through a haze of incense, it is harder to find an authentic experience these days. Which is true. As more people gravitate to tourist centres, the tourist industry grows. The bigger the tourist industry, the harder it is to involve yourself in local customs and culture. It becomes a vicious cycle of party hostels and fake Rolexes. But it is worth the effort to seek out the unique and original. I don’t mean crossing the Mongolian steppe on foot, seeking out stray yaks for milk and loving companionship. Instead you could just not go to KFC. (Unless you’re in Kentucky, maybe.)
But this spirit of travel has begun to dilute, and the catalyst of it is globalisation. A new homogeneous culture has slowly permeated the furthest reaches of the Earth, trickling upwards through the soil and emerging through televisions and headphones in faraway places, absorbing local culture and replacing it with its own. It is not uncommon to fly half the circumference of the earth to be confronted with what seems like the place you have just left. Only you can’t L O S T
My tuk-tuk entrepreneur friend ‘Mr Heng’ serves foreign visitors by adapting to embrace their needs. In doing so he sacrifices his own culture for the benefit of tourism, diminishing the immersive power of travel. We are constantly awoken from our foreign dreams by doppelgangers of home, be it a Tesco in Bangkok or a N AT IVE S
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fake Apple store in China. How are we supposed to reach enlightenment under the Bodhi Tree when next door Starbucks is giving free samples to a coachload of elderly Germans?
of these ideas. The power to change a whole society comes from places such as multinational businesses selling junk food or global corporations altering traditional cultures for financial gain. The world by its very nature is unpredictable but the new uniform society makes us far more predictable and receptive to selling on a global scale. Who does a homogenised society benefit more than those whose motivations are… you guessed it, money! We live in a new world order of total brand recognition.
“Bang nov cham sneh.” This time the words are Cambodian. The song, as the driver points out, is not. A Khmer cover of House of the Rising Sun. Two days after my tuk-tuk jungle experience I have acquired upgraded transportation. This time it is a beige Mercedes taxi that, probably somewhere in the mid 80s, became more duct tape than car. The gap where my window should be provides great relief against the Sunday-league shin pad smell of the cab as we tear through thick forests and winding cliff edges towards the Vietnamese border. To pass the time the driver exhibits a unique ability to name at least two international footballers from every country.
From a tourist’s point of view, global recognition isn’t totally negative. In countries like Japan there is a certain visual similarity brought about by a mutual global influence. Yet these similarities are only surface and are underpinned by fundamental differences. Similarly, the little tweaks and alterations they give adopted ideas has enhanced the travel experience. An entertaining afternoon can be spent comparing the subtle differences between your local newsagent and a seemingly identical Japanese one. Instead of Quavers and KitKats they have curried eggs and seaweed in bags. In place of tabloids and gossip magazines there are infinite manga comics being read by neat queues of bespectacled businessmen.
“James McFadden, Kenny Dalglish, yes?” It’s the personal touch that counts.
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So what’s the harm? If it’s just some eccentrics and entrepreneurs hustling their way through a globalised world, where’s the problem? Well there is a dark side. In the extreme, this homogenisation can bulldoze the original identity and values that made a destination popular. What might the elderly Buddhist monk of Vang Vieng think as a river that’s probably 40% alcohol and consisting mainly of urine passes his front garden? Does he marvel at the engagement with local culture as half-naked teenagers in rubber rings are delivered downstream, vomiting on sandbanks to the sound of Tiesto? The travelling experience here becomes merely a transaction. An agreement that says “Let us desecrate your natural beauty and, in return, we’ll pay you to pretend you don’t hate us.” Both visitor and host become commodities making the experience cheap and meaningless. The infrastructure created to attract tourists swallows the place in time. It cannibalises itself in servitude to a fickle industry.
Of course, there is still the possibility of a backlash against the monotone world, borne through a revival of the local. For example, in Scotland there has been a large increase in Gaelic-speaking schools and Irn Bru routinely challenges Coca Cola for sales. The eternal human need to feel unique may cause a revived interest in a more distinctive aspect of a person’s background. When a culture is under threat we begin to cling to it more strongly. Like a near-death experience, we value most what we almost lose. There are still places with the ability to shock and surprise. Places that can confront prejudice, and have the power to change it. If we allow it, the world will reveal things that will make us contemplate the cosmos or at least just go “Huh, that’s weird.” Our disparate, irregular world has not yet been smoothed by global anonymity. As famous weirdo Kurt Vonnegut said, “Peculiar travel suggestions are dancing lessons from God.” And while I have no idea what that means, the world is still full of peculiar places. After all, it is the kind of place you can see mystical ruins to the sounds of disco-funk or buy a brand new iPhone in the middle of the jungle.
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We are constantly awoken from our foreign dreams by doppelgangers of home.
“All you have to do is look.”
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This new ‘global culture’ is not just the influence of one place but a confluence point of global ideas. And while the sharing and adoption of ideas is undoubtedly a positive thing (no one wants to be North Korea) the problem stems from the source
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‘I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move’
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Robert Louis Stevenson
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Does the demonisation of tattooing threaten one of Japan’s oldest traditions?
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In Japan tattooing is a metaphor for life.
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‘Every stroke of the needle counts like every day, every second of your life.’ Says Yokohama based tattoo master Horiyoshi III. ‘Neglecting anything results in imperfection. You must cherish each stroke of the needle like you cherish each second of life’ There is a level of almost sacred importance placed on Irezumi (Japanese tattooing) in Japan. Philosophically and physically, Irezumi are different from their western counterparts. The most obvious difference is the scale. Most traditional tattoos cover the whole torso, from the shoulders to the buttocks, and aim to highlight the beauty of the human form. The design is left almost entirely to the artist, though it commonly involves mythology, nature and religion. The full skill and knowledge required to be a master of Irezumi takes time.
lack the original essence. Technical precision always comes second to authenticity. ‘Inspiration is everything’ Says Horiyoshi III. ‘If I am asked about the finished image, my answer will be ‘I have no idea’’ Japan has a complex relationship with tattoos. They are rarely discussed in public and are banned outright in some beaches, baths and workplaces. Despite this, they are still an important part of the country’s cultural history. ___________________________
Technical precision always comes second to authenticity. ___________________________
‘Unproductive steps are important’ says Horiyoshi III, ‘If artisans take shortcuts to learn, they only learn half of what they should’ The long training process involves an important master-apprentice relationship and the Japanese concept of Shuhari. This is where an apprentice learns from tradition whilst also confronting their master and themselves. This process creates a personal style. This is important as the essence of a great Irezumi is the uniqueness of touch and the ability to work on instinct. A design cannot be copied as it would L O S T
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Records show that descendents of the indigenous population of Japan, the Ainu, would routinely tattoo women’s faces and hands. From the 3rd century all Japanese males were tattooed on their faces and bodies. During the Edo period Irezumi, along with other original Japanese arts, flourished. There were three main arts; Kabuki Theatre, Ukiyo-e printing and Irezumi. There was a blurring of the boundaries between these mediums and they shared styles and methods. At this time the craft of tattoo reached great heights of popularity. Most commonly workers such M A G A Z IN E
as firemen would be tattooed with symbols such as carp, used as spiritual protection. Each one of these three arts would become hugely influential in the west in later years, yet in Japan two are celebrated whilst one is demonized. When Japan opened to the west in the 19th century it was in a rush to modernise. The government believed that foreigners would see tattoos as a symbol of an uncivilised population so enforced a ban. In many parts of the country, mainly the outer islands where tattooing had been a tradition for generations, people refused to stop. They began to tattoo in secret driving the art underground. The ban was eventually lifted after World War Two and the popularity of the Japanese style flourished in the west, brought back by returning forces. Japan, by this point, had all but forgotten its tattooing traditions and Irezumi became seen as a symbol of an unsavoury lifestyle. Gangster films had become popular and often the villain would be heavily tattooed. The criminal underworld of Japan, the Yakuza, took note of this and began to imitate it, reinforcing the connection between tattoos and crime. This was followed by bans on visible ink in some workplaces and public areas. The tradition of tattooing in Japan had drifted too far from its spiritual beginnings and was under threat of disappearing altogether. Yet, perhaps because we hold most dearly to those things we almost lose, Irezumi is now on the rise. In a society where there is a resurgence in respect for handmade and traditional crafts, Irezumi has found a new place. This increased interest in the tradition of tattoo has seen the number of working tattoo artists increase from 200 to 3,000 in 25 years. There is a new appreciation of the unique aesthetic and its historical
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roots. The popularity of tattoos within the Yakuza has dwindled too, attributed to a need to keep a lower profile. Despite the increase in popularity society seems no more accepting. Osaka mayor Toru Hashimoto recently called for all those with tattoos in his government to make themselves known. If revealed, they are to be removed or they will be forced to leave their employment. Yet Irezumi is very different to western tattooing whose basic function is to show off. It is a private affair with most tattoos, even large ones, easily concealed beneath clothing. Studios are not easy to find, often off the street and unadvertised. Horiyoshi III is unconcerned. ‘It should be reserved for the special few in order to retain its value. Irezumi won’t genuinely shine unless there is an element of shadow. The real attraction of Irezumi cannot come through if it is exposed too much to the light. You need a feeling of the underground to truly convey the beauty and history that’s behind them’. The focus of Irezumi is on personal empowerment and an attempt to feel distinct from social factors that hold back expression. Mayor Hashimoto’s ideas may only increase the popularity of Irezumi, if only in reaction to his ban. Tattooist Horicho II likens it to the patterning inside a kimono. ‘It is beautiful because you only get a glimpse of it’.
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‘I am prepared to go anywhere, provided it be forward’
David Livingstone
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Travel Diary
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The best way to arrive in a city is straight into its heart.
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In most great cities of the world this is the central station. Emerging from a journey birthed into a new world, you are delivered into noise and smells unique to a place. Locals pile off and stride towards their destination as you absorb the first impressions. It comes in many forms; vast airy spaces where plate glass glazes the sky, ornate baroque stone with awe inspiring detail or imposing monoliths that tower overhead. The architecture of the station is important. It is how the city has decided to give its first impression. Flying is different, we know that airports don’t represent the cities they are situated in. They are monuments to the global more than the local. It is the Central Station that represents the true arrival in a city. As writer Joseph Campbell said, ‘If you want to understand what’s most important to a society, don’t examine its art or literature, simply look at its biggest buildings’ For a long time the biggest buildings were central stations. At the time of industrial expansion in Europe railways were the most important innovation in society. They were opening up and connecting the world, so stations were being built in bigger and
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more elaborate ways. The first grand city stations were designed like gates to the city. Euston, London’s first inter-city station had a huge doric portico. An impressive welcome for visitors to the industrial capital. Some of the stations built at this time are seen as the world’s most important architectural icons, often the site of great advancements in engineering and architectural achievement; London’s St Pancras was the largest enclosed space in the world, Paris’ Gare du Nord station was busier than any other in Europe and New York’s Grand Central terminal had the most platforms of any station in the world. Station design became almost religious, Roman temples and Gothic churches repurposed and transported into modern cities. See Grand Central Terminal, a classical cathedral that nestles neatly amongst towering skyscrapers whilst still managing to retain its awesome grandeur. Its high ceilings and pools of light reflect the almost sacred respect for advancements in engineering at the time. The architecture of stations became a global language that connected nations culturally as well as physically. From the highlands of Peru to the great plains of
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Africa, they were the great iron bonds in the molecules of society. Stations are one of the buildings that are instilled with the most civic pride. They are high profile constructions, leading to expectations of showmanship and quality. Inhabitants of a city want people to be wowed on arrival and even in an age of air travel people will not tolerate a sub-par train station. ___________________________
Roman temples and Gothic churches repurposed and transported into modern cities. ___________________________ They are also monuments to history. Clearly visible in Milan’s monolithic station, ostensibly a monument to Mussolini, and in the colonial British railway stations all over India. Mumbai’s Victoria Terminus (now Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, a UNESCO world heritage site) is a fascinating mix of European
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and Indian design. Turrets, domes and stained glass adorn a gothic cathedral. It is still functioning exactly as it did when it was built, now as one of the busiest stations in India. It is India that has the most unique theatre of train stations. It seems at times that the whole city is passing through. Some struggle with huge loads, others rush to catch a train, whilst people sleep on the floor, beg for change, drink chai or just stand and watch. It has every smell known to man and every sound; shouting, laughter, the bray of cattle, the chatter of monkeys, the call of ‘chaaai’, all amongst unintelligable loudspeakers. They are from all sections of life. The rich in first class, the businessmen heading to work, the families going on a day out and, of course, the fringes; criminals, drug addicts, thieves and pickpockets. These stations are microcosms of the cultures they are in. A infinite city of nomads. The Central Station is an emotional building built on a million private storiesvvv. It is a place of constant movement, a living machine. It is a place to arrive and depart but most importantly a place to pause and marvel at the city within a city.
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animated, staggering across the sticky linoleum floor. The crackled brown wallpaper is impregnated with decades of tobacco smoke and above the bar is an inexplicable cat poster, an outlier in such a masculine atmosphere. The hum of conversation is punctuated by machine gun laughter and angry pronouncements. It all rests on a bed of warbling Moroccan guitar music emerging from a side room. A haze hangs low, just above the heads of the stooped old men. It has the herbal smell of the nations cash crop. Potentially the reason there are not more of these bars.
WAY DOWN IN THE HOLE The hidden bars of Morocco
‘Hey, Michael Jordan!’ I feel a heavy slap on my back. As a 5’9 Scottish man this nickname is a little unexpected.
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‘You play basketball?’
I shuffle anxiously through the darkness, feeling the texture of the crumbling walls change beneath my searching fingertips. ‘Look for a brown door’ I was told, but there are no colors in this darkness. The smells shift from spices that waft from upstairs windows to the smell of mud and shit from the sandy ground. I don’t know how far I have to go or if this is the right way but I also can’t remember where I’ve been. An animal skits in front of me with a clatter and I hear a man’s voice shouting in Arabic. A few steps more and there is a light. A small lamp bathes two mustached men in a yellow glow. I approach tentatively. ‘le Trou?’ I ask. The men nod and point downstairs into more darkness. I have reached my destination. Unknown to me, Le Trou, or ‘The Hole’ in English, is my first stop on a trail of the hidden bars of Morocco.
‘No’ I say smiling, ‘football?’ his face peels into a million wrinkles exposing his lack of teeth. ‘Yes! Morocco, we are a top team’ I know this to be untrue but in the interest of diplomatic relations I smile and nod. ‘Have a drink!’ he waves to the barman. Soon he begins to reel off a list of Moroccan footballers, most of whom, unsurprisingly, I have never heard of. But once again the international currency of sport has bought me a place at the head table. And the head table it seems to be. My new friend Musta introduces me to everyone in the bar and they all seem to know him well. It is, despite initial conception, a incredibly homely place. Almost as if Cheers had been set in a prohibition era public toilet.
I was a few weeks into my two month tour of the country and, like any self respecting westerner, in need of a drink. Eager to avoid the rooftop bars and soulless hotel lobbies of Marrakesh and the pricey beach bars of Tangiers, I asked around. I was told of another type of bar. One for locals. Everyone I spoke with and repeated my request warned me. These are places of ill repute, with dangerous men, outlaws and shady dealings.
Up until now I felt I had missed a certain connection with the Moroccan people. My experiences so far had involved sellers, hagglers and chancers. Mainly due to my adherence to well-trodden tourist routes. And, as is so often the case with travel, I too quickly generalized. I felt I was yet to crack the surface and meet the real people but this bar seemed to be the place to start. Away from the push and pull of life on the surface world they seemed more relaxed and eager to chat. The same people who during the day, cajole tourists in the Djema El Fnaa are calm here, with no pressure to make money they can happily be themselves.
In other words, exactly what I was looking for. I imagined the stories of a Morocco of the recent past. In Tangiers where William Burroughs moved with spies, adventurers and the dregs of society in a lawless land. As a writer there is a certain morbid romance to it and the fact that this underground culture could still exist was too intriguing to miss.
It is a place that, in that travelling cliché, feels like an authentic experience. They have not been touched by the encroaching fingers of tourism that slide down every alleyway. They are tucked away, hidden from the hungry eyes of a new all consuming industry.
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Marrakesh, in Essaouira, Chefchaouen and Fes. They can seem imposing at first. They are dingy, dark and full of huddled men lost in plumes of smoke. But the forbidding surface soon breaks to reveal a genuinely positive atmosphere. They are a network of sanctuaries far from the madding crowd. Within them lies the potential to meet remarkable people and hear their sometimes dubious stories.
excuses himself later, his old friend leans over to me. ‘Don’t worry, he is a tax lawyer, he only comes here to get away from his wife’ he smiles, ‘We all do’ This is a unseen world of escapism. Though they are concealed from the chaotic buzz of the city, they are not simply a way to hide from the clamor of the everyday. Rather they are a sanctuary where there is time to sit and talk to the people that you see on the streets. Those people that are hustling and haggling in the heat of the medina are the same ones here in this little smoky box, casually telling stories and sharing secrets. It breaks down the infinite barrier of touristness. The element that sometimes prevents us really connecting with the locals.
After my experience at Le Trou I discovered a beach bar in Essaouira whose blank facade hid a similarly blank interior. A concrete bunker reminiscent of an artillery barricade that held within it incredible views across the Atlantic ocean. Inside I met a man with one leg who claimed he’d lost it in a shark attack in the USA. Another was a doctor who told me about a time he had performed surgery in the back of a lorry. To my simultaneous disappointment and relief it seemed these men were more William Shatner than William Burroughs.
Just the act of finding these places is an adventure. They are unsigned and often at the end of narrow alleyways, underground or in what seems like someone’s back garden. I would love to explain where they are but the directions would be so convoluted they would make no sense. The ones I received; ‘Turn left at that brown dog and keep going past the cow shit’, are probably out of date by now anyway. Asking around and finding them is really part of it, no guidebook required. It forces interaction and possibly a connection with people beyond the hotel concierge.
In a small timber-clad bar in Chefchaouen each beer arrives with a small dish of food, almost as if to ask ‘why would you just want to drink?’. It is some of the best I’ve tasted on the whole trip; curried lentils, crispy salads, whole sardines and, mercifully, no tagine. After weeks of cous-cous the food is a revelation. An old wrinkled man leans over to me pointing at my plates ‘Berber tapas’ he says and leans back smiling. He has heavy eyelids and weathered skin, the look of a laborer. His fat bearded companion is drinking a Moroccan mint tea. Seeing me looking he points to it ‘Berber whisky’ he says with a chuckle. Soon we begin to chat and over the next hour or so we get deep into discussion, the men repeatedly banging the Formica tables for emphasis. We discuss politics, the monarchy and the importance of family.
They may not be the dens of nefarious activity I was expecting but they are the places that I received the warmest welcome and learned the most about the realities of this hyperbolic country. The men that meet in these dark and beautiful ruins are misunderstood. By Moroccans as much as visitors. It seems the richest experience is to be found way down in the hole. ‘We are going to dance now’ my new drinking companions lean over to me. ‘come’
‘So why do you come here?’ they ask, gesturing at the old-fashioned bar.
The music has been turned up and they are shouting.
‘For a drink’ I say raising my beer. We clink glasses with a smile. The bearded man’s face turns serious.
I politely decline. The two men shrug and walk towards the center of the room. The sound builds to a feverish pace and they begin shaking and spinning, eyes closed, lost in the gritty guitars and Berber chants. Soon others join and the bar becomes a frenetic whirl of clapping and shouting. Old men kick their legs higher than I ever could and glasses are smashed onto the floor.
‘This is not a normal place’ he says ‘we are outlaws’ His eyes narrow. ‘We are the ones who live outside of the law. We come here to hide and make dangerous plans’ I nod. ‘You must be careful here, there is danger.’ with that he sits back in his chair satisfied.
I order more Berber tapas at the bar. When it arrives I take one bite before the hypnotic atmosphere takes a hold of me.
I am a little thrown and begin to reassess whether it was a good idea to come here. When the bearded man L O S T
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PERE LACHAISE 28
History lurks here. In the drooping branches of the willow trees. There are names, known and unknown, etched into hard stone and buried deep in the ground. They are remnants and relics of a forgotten time. There are names everywhere Charles Amet, 1824 - 1902 Joseph Gerard, 1772 1832 Marie Bucelle, 1888 - 1914 It is the calmest place in town. It is less a religious place than a garden for the dead. Pere Lachaise was one of the first natural park cemeteries. A place for wandering and contemplating life. The design was later imitated in most cemeteries in Europe. It is also a blockbuster. Pere Lachaise has all the biggest stars. The plot too is a complex narrative of mythical lovers, heroes and rebels. Of hatred, revenge and lust. It is as packed with stories as it is with bodies. This is why it is the most visited cemetery in the world. A bird sits on a low branch surveying the scene. There are children running and squealing. They pause to touch the tombs and feel the carved channels. They trace their fingers through the summation of a life. Jean Pierre Bernard, 1789 - 1858 Marie-Louise Chemin, 1810 - 1849 L O S T
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It is a space to reflect and relax before reintroduction to the city. A city that it reflects within its walls. It, like Paris, is the adopted home of many talented outsiders who have made it famous in what they left behind. The designs are a stew, each its own private universe trying to outdo its neighbour Though, whilst it reflects the city it does not represent it. It is calm where the city is busy. Slow where the city is fast. The graveyard is asleep whilst the city is awake. Though it is a place for casual wandering many are on a mission, to find that grave; the rebel rocker or the dandy poet. The tragic writer or the local songbird. There are a thousand great stories buried in the earth, carved in stone or cast in bronze. It is not a sacred place, not hushed or reverential but a collection of lives well lived. Capsules of humanity meeting after many years. Those buried in Pere Lachaise would make an afterlife party worth attending. The final resting place of rebels and cowards, the peaceful and the powerful. If these stones could speak they would have a wealth of reminiscences of epochs and eras. Each stone is the smallest memory of the biggest life. Each carved in name is a metaphor. These graves are containers of memories, they are the signifier and the signified. They are the drawn out ellipsis and they are the full stops.
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‘We are torn between a nostalgia for the familiar and an urge for the foreign and strange. As often as not, we are homesick for the places we have never known’ 29
Carson McCullers
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TRAVEL SHORTS THE WORLD IN UNDER 500 WORDS
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1.KATHMANDU CHAI
Through the Himalayas on a bus, If you can call it that. The tin shell and wooden seats creak. The inside, neon lights, tassels and velour, is done up like a strippers. The smell of the inside of a Sunday league shin pad. I push to the back for the empty seats and settle into my headache. The lack of suspension knocks every bump into my skull. I curse the forgotten impulse to have another raksi last night. ‘Hey’ she smiles doing a little self-conscious wave. ‘This seat taken?’ Shit. I specifically got on the local bus to avoid these kinds of people. I give her the look over. She looks healthy and excited. Her complexion that of a ‘traveller’ I shake my head and nod to the seat. Another jolt throws her into it. ‘You travelling?’ I nod in response ‘This place is amazing, isn’t it?’ I glance out the window at the rugged valleys and the bus wheels clipping the cliff edge on every turn. I suppose it is, in a life-endangering sort of way.
‘Where you from?’ I ask, desperate for a distraction from the precarious driving. ‘The US. Over here on the ubiquitous gap year trip before college’ I see a notebook lying in her open bag. A writer. Maybe a blogger. ‘You?’ ‘Just wandering’, I say. Retaining an air of mystery is important to me. The silence hangs a little longer, broken only by the sound of my vertebrae violently compacting. ‘Well, mystery man…’ she turns and extends a hand, ‘I’m Claire’ ‘Damien’ ‘I’m going to get a cup of chai in Kathmandu if we ever arrive. Care to join me?’ It has been a while and this lonely traveller shtick is wearing quite thin. ‘Yeah, why not’ She nods in the affirmative and smiles. lopsided, a dimple below her eye. Snapping the elastic off her notebook she begins to scribble away. An artist. I look back out the window and allow myself an inward smile as, almost in slow motion, the wheels clear the cliff edge into open air.
We sit quietly...
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‘Travel is a state of mind, it has nothing to do with existence or the exotic It is almost entirely an inner experience’
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2 FUCK YOU TOURISTS AN OPEN LETTER
Dear Tourist, You are not a 'traveller.' I know you went to Vietnam last year, but everyone knows Vietnam is just the new Thailand and Thailand is just the new Magaluf.
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As you were vomiting into Halong Bay with Dean from Milton Keynes, do you know where I was? North. Fucking. Korea. Whilst you were flirting with a ladyboy at the full moon party I was being escorted through the outskirts of Pyongyang by eight uniformed men. That is what travelling is. Oh you went to Australia? Well the less said about that the better‌ What's wrong with being a tourist you ask? Well, have you ever heard someone use the adjective 'touristy' in a positive way? No. Because you make everywhere shit. Mainly with your ignorance of proper pronunciation. (It's pronounced ho-ri-tho not cho-reetzo you fucking pleb.) Whilst you scour the streets for poppers and tequila in your three-quarter lengths and flip-flops, I am in the jungle awakening my spirituality with the powers of ayahuasca. Yeah, my camera went missing and I woke up in a Peruvian family's back garden, but I'm pretty sure I felt something spiritual. I've made close connections. There's a guy who sold me a knitted ukulele cover in Marrakech, that fat woman who braided my hair in Goa and the black kid from my Facebook profile picture. You know they're authentic because they don't even have Facebook. But don't bother travelling. The last thing I want to see when I'm watching the sunset from my Bhutanese Ashram is you, stumbling across the horizon with your moneybelt and sunburn. My next trip will be volunteering with the Congolese Space Program. The Solar System, the least touristy place there is. See you in space bitches! Sincerely, Edward Montgomery-Asquith
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3 THE NORDIC CLUB
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On a leafy back street in Dhaka's high-security diplomatic zone lies the Nordic Club. It cuts an imposing figure, a blank stone wall with an iron gate and armed security. I have been told that this image is deceptive. That from the inside it is a paradise of tennis courts, swimming pools and cocktails.
an entourage of excitable locals. Now I'm watching a woman try to swim without spilling her martini. I'm regaled with advice from the regulars: "You can get a good fish and chips here every night. Out there they'll feed you a Labrador for your dinner." I glance over at the local staff apologetically. They smile.
I am not here for the nightly karaoke party nor the offers of a 'Full English.' I'm here for the availability of alcohol in this dry country. Post security and passport control, beer in hand, I settle in a corner beneath some chic barbed wire detailing and review my surroundings.
"Out there" is mentioned repeatedly. It's as if they're dug into trenches, defending themselves from the people whose city they have occupied. I suppose the walls are there to keep marauding hordes of locals from using the karaoke machine or taking a dip in the pool.
I could be anywhere on earth. Bankers with the look of re-animated waxworks play tennis as their wives watch from the jacuzzi, like hippos in an Attenborough documentary. It's as if an alpine ski weekend has been grafted into the heart of this Asian metropolis. Today I was being escorted around the old town by
I begin to yearn for the noise and smell of "out there," its crumpled knot of streets and traffic chaos, to swap these veneered scowls for the Old Town's toothless smiles.
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I think I can forgo a pint for that.
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Smiling. Teeth like an overcrowded graveyard. "This is Morocco my friend. Not Mogadishu‌" I think this means I won't get it cheap. His moustache, missing in the middle, hangs like furry parentheses around his mouth. There is a balcony overlooking the city. My eyes trace the daggers of minarets and gentle oscillations of domes. Below, tiny figures trample calfskins and waft stinging sulphurous odours down dusty alleyways. I'm not sure how I got here. Above the bazaar. Above vaults that cascade from the flanks, dripping in Berber history. Above faces with wild eyes peering from dark rooms. They are traders on the darkness of this never ending market. Their bristled lips speak of sales, of cloth and kif and opium dens. And fill the soft air with promises. And I am here. In this room many floors up. Stone and tin. In his cave of fabric and incense. I touch the cool skin. It reminds me of other things. A school trip to the riding stables. I never rode my horse. I just patted the soft hair on its flanks and looked into its eyes, proud and resolute. It's the same eyes I see now, reflecting the warm candlelight. He tells me he has children. I tell him I have none. "Then you can afford a little luxury," he says. "I am just a poor man." I don’t know if I believe him but it is too late. He smiles and infinite creases creep from the corners of his eyes. Unlike me, he is no amateur. He is as old as the walls. His life is strategy, maneuvering himself constantly between the pillars of decision and indecision. He smiles because he knows he has won. This is a game of chess and it is check-mate.
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