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VaNuatu
aLaIN DE BoTToN CoNfESSES JapaN: ToKYo afTEr DarK LaoS: TaKE ThE SLow BoaT porTUGaL: STrETChING TImE ISSN 1449-3543
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PHILIPPINES riding on Cloud 9 uNItEdSouthern StatES Blues
5 SLIgHtLy SEcrEt cItIES
japan
after dark ONE NIGHT IN TOKYO
text: nicole fall
images: nicole fall // mark daniels
Nicole Fall takes us on a tour of Tokyo after the sun has gone down.
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okyo’s sighTs, souNds aNd smells aRe a sensory overload. This is the world’s most populous metropolitan city, with 35 million people living within a 50km radius – more than the entire population of Canada living in an area a little bit smaller than Puerto Rico. during the day, the city’s residents navigate the chaos (think of those crazy eightway crossings) with order and aplomb. its trains nearly always run on time. its inhabitants have intense social obligations to live by, but there is also an overwhelming sense of playfulness and liberality to its culture. after dark, however, Tokyoites say kampai and forget their long working-hours and boring commutes to the suburbs. Rigidity goes out of the window and its replacement appears, usually three sheets to the wind.
Tokyo is a genuine, 24-hour party destination. Few global capitals offer the same diversity of nightlife options past 2am that Tokyo can. At 3am, the nightlife is just getting warmed up. Here, time appears to be elastic, and many restaurants, bars and clubs bizarrely list closing times not as 2am or 4am, but as 26.00 or 28.00, adding to the time-stretching properties of the place. Then put the majority of signs and menus into Japanese, and throw in an illogical address system, and it becomes an adventure just finding a cool bar, let alone ordering a beer. Beeru o-nehgashimas, in case you were wondering.
5.00pm
Kick-start the evening’s festivities with some weirdness at Cos-cha maid café in Soto-Kanda, near the financial heart of Tokyo. Stump up
¥2,500 (A$31) and in return play a game where you drink a repulsive concoction the maid mixes. Those who fail at this task get a slap in the face in full view of all customers. Alternatively, pay ¥500 (A$6) for the ‘spoon feeding’ service instead. Either way is ritual humiliation and ‘only in Tokyo’ experience. Café & Kitchen Cos-cha, 3-7-12-2F Soto-Kanda, Chiyoda-ku, tel. 0011 81 (0)3 3253 4560, www.cos-cha.com
6.30pm
You’ll need a proper drink after your slap by a tiny Japanese girl in a schoolgirl’s costume, so hotfoot it to a bar that serves proper alcohol, with a cool view thrown in. A little-known Tokyo fact (unless you’ve visited before or been studying Google Maps), is that the city is set next to a body of
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This is the world’s most populous metropolitan city, with 35 million people living within a 50km radius – more than the entire population of Canada living in an area a little bit smaller than Puerto Rico.
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get in the know! ‘Tokyo’ literally translates to ‘Eastern Capital’ in Japanese.
water called Tokyo Bay. Opposite side to the water, endless city views that really do go on as far as the eye can see. We like The Peninsula Tokyo’s Peter bar because there’s an amazing skyline vista and a peek at the Imperial Palace’s grounds. Peter’s got an 80s style ambience, a celebratory time in Japanese history when the words ‘bubble economy’ and ‘burst’ had not yet been introduced. Try the bar’s signature cocktail ‘Tokyo Joe’, a heady combination of Bombay Sapphire gin, umeshu plum liqueur, Drambuie and cranberry juice. Peter Bar, 1-8-1 Yurakucho, Chiyoda-ku, tel. 0011 81 (0)3 6270 2888, www.peninsula.com
8.00pm
Tokyo is the official foodie capital of the world with more three-star Michelin restaurants than Paris. That said, there’s nothing more authentic than dining at an izakaya, which is basically a Japanese pub with great chow. Lively, noisy and a place to spend hours drinking and chatting to your mates and new mates at the next table, it’s best to order one dish at a time with a round of drinks and keep doing so until you’re either full – or about to pass out from liquid consumption. Try Zetton in Ebisu and with opening hours of 6pm – 3am daily, it features great music and better still, a relatively easy to locate spot close to the station. Zetton, 1F SPC Japan Bldg, 1-33 Hiroo, Shibuya-ku, tel. 0011 81 (0)3 5774 1917 get in the know! Even though sushi is associated with Japan its origins actually stem for somewhere in south east Asia.
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Hundreds of bikers descend on Memphis’ Beale Street.
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get in the know! Blues legend Robert Johnson died at the age of 27 – the same age as Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain.
united states
soul food, blistering blues and shotgun shacks – Guy Wilkinson discovers that there is more to America’s deep south than swamps and rednecks. text: guy wilkinson images: guy wilkinson
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he bouncer ouTside red’s juke joinT stares at me from behind dark sunglasses. “You the Poh-lice?” he asks. “What? Me?” i ask, indignant. “You look like Poh-lice to me man,” he says, shaking his head. i’m suddenly aware of eyes on me. For once, i’m lost for words. What is this guy on? And why the hell is he wearing wraparounds at midnight? “I’m just messin’ with you man,” he laughs, flashing me a quick smile as he motions to the front door. I brush past as a bunch of guys frying catfish nearby chuckle to each other. Inside, the room is bathed in dingy red light. A band known as Big Jack Johnson and the Corn Lickers are tearing the place to shreds: raucous blues thumps from battered amps
and sweat drips from the ceiling. The air reeks of stale beer, there are mismatched chairs and moth-eaten sofas and a mixed crowd dances on a threadbare rug in the centre of the room. I grab a brew and take in the scene, the music pounding through my chest. It’s my first experience of an authentic American juke joint and I’m not disappointed. This is what I came for: to witness raw blues in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. The flat plains stretch for miles either side of Highway 61 – a road often referred to as ‘The Blues Highway.’ A week earlier, I began my trip in New Orleans with a simple plan: to take in the birthplace of jazz, rent some wheels and head
get in the know! The twelve-bar blues is one of the most popular chord progressions in popular music.
north through the delta and on to Memphis. With scorching air blowing through my windows and the radio cranked to BB King’s station, I’m cruising towards Clarksdale, Mississippi, the hub of Delta blues country. Tonight the Sunflower Blues and Gospel Festival kicks off and it was here, on the crossroads of Highways 61 and 49 that guitar legend, Robert Johnson is said to have made a pact with the devil in exchange for musical deity. In the setting sun, the tops of the cotton fields are glowing amber. Only the occasional pristine church set among manicured lawns divides the crops. Plain white crosses glow in the fading light, lending a faintly spooky air to the surroundings – think Children Of The Corn ISSUE #24 get lost! #45
text: justin jamieson images: justin jamieson
(searching for paradise)
Caught between all-inclusive resorts and an escapist’s dream, Justin Jamieson discovers that Vanuatu still has some special hidden secrets.
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get in the know! Captain Cook named the islands the New Hebrides.
vanuatu
A
s I open A Cold Tusker And gAze ouT oVer the postcard perfect efalfal Bay, a cool breeze blows in off the south pacific – it’s almost as refreshing as the beer. small surf crashes rhythmically into the outer reef that protects an inviting crystal clear lagoon. This stunning setting is bettered only by the sunset that arrives a few hours later. But what tops it all is that I’m the only person here, it’s all mine! The only sound is the waves and the wind and I feel completely isolated from the rest of the world. It’s perfect and is exactly the Vanuatu I have been searching for. The first two days of my trip had been hectic. The flight from Australia to Port Vila is surprisingly short (just over three hours from Sydney). Vanuatu consists of 83 islands and Port Villa is the capital of the largest of them, Efate. We arrived late on a Friday and were up early the following morning to catch a small Vanair flight north to Pentecost Island to see the Naghol, an extraordinary custom that
entails local men leaping from towers up to 40 metres high with nothing but ripe vines tied to their feet or ankles. Naghol may be the inspiration for the modern practice of bungee jumping but it is far more spectacular. As a traveller longing to escape the crowds, the flight from Efate to Pentacost Island leaves me drooling. We fly over lush green islands fringed with white sand beaches scattered over a deep green and blue ocean. I envy the odd yacht anchored in sheltered bays. ‘Learn to sail’ is promptly added to my ever-growing list of ‘things to do before I die’. There seems so much to explore. The view beneath me resembles the Caribbean, but without the large developments and loud tourists from its north. A small grass runway suddenly appears and we land on Pentecost Island. The handful of locals that
gather around explain that the Naghol will not start for another few hours, so we jump in a small boat and motor down the coast in search of a fabled waterfall to freshen up. As we amble through villages, children with mops of sun-bleached hair chase chickens and stop to flash us white smiles. With the island’s thick tropical forests, the humidity is draining. However, deep in the forest we come upon a 20-metre high waterfall that sprays cooling respite. The trek here is not a well-beaten path and so the waterfall feels like our own. Small bungalows can be rented in the nearby village. It is rough but so magical that home comforts would be soon forgotten. While an afternoon lazing on the beach would have been perfect, we had come to see the spectacular Naghol.
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The only sound is the waves and the wind and I feel completely isolated from the rest of the world.
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A room with a view on Pango Beach.
get in the know! David Attenborough first filmed the land divers in the 1950s.
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Friendly kids on Pentacost Island.
The men emerge from the forest wearing nothing but nambas: leaves wrapped tightly around their penises, their testicles uncovered. Women follow dressed only in grass skirts, careful not to come within a certain distance of the wooden tower perched at the top of the hill. Singing and dancing begins and the men make their way up the tower, climbing through its branches and vines. It sways and creaks in the wind as vines disappear into the forest from either side. These men are tribal elders, what they’re about to undertake is no performance for a cruise ship crowd, but a custom that dates back hundreds of years and is believed to help ensure a good yam harvest. As the divers leap from varying heights, the spectacle is truly spine chilling. With a chant and a prayer to cleanse his soul, each man leaps forward. The vines crack and the diver jerks viciously backwards, his head grazing the ground. The body of the second diver snaps at the end of his vine and he lies motionless in the dirt. The crowd is silent for what seems like forever, until one of the tribesmen begins to laugh, then another, until a group are hysterical and pointing. This diver’s body has snapped so hard on impact that his namba has flown off and he’s too bashful to stand up. A strategically placed sarong protects his modesty as he walks off with a sheepish grin – much to the amusement of his fellow jumpers. It’s a fine example of the Ni-Vanuatu sense of humour. #58 get lost! ISSUE #24
It’s now time to return to Port Vila, but we’re still buzzing from witnessing the Naghol. It’s Saturday evening and the sleepy port begins to stir. Vila is an eclectic town with derelict buildings leaning alongside modern shops and a colourful cast of characters drawn to the South Pacific lifestyle. I venture into the Voodoo Bar and order a Tusker. The owner is an Australian who, with his balding ponytail, looks like he has walked straight off a pirate ship. He pours me his ‘house’ shot and promptly sets his bar on fire with a squirt of methylated spirits. “It’s a party trick,” he assures me, as I skol the shot and the flames burn out around me. It’s nine o’clock and I’m the only patron. Captain Barkeep suggests I stick around. “From ten it will be packed!” He’s right, crowds surge in. Locals, students and tourists alike drink the night away. A Ni-Van from neighbouring Tanna decides I should join him in several of the house specials. Hours later I stumble out with my eyebrows somewhat singed. The future of tourism in Vanuatu will be interesting. While visitor numbers are up over 40 percent recently, and resort developments continue, there is a fear that Vanuatu will lose what made it so attractive in the first place. Vanuatu is still real. The local culture is so strong you almost feel as if the locals are putting on a show. Unlike parts of Asia where the western world mixes with local culture
All you need in Pango.
get in the know! Yumi, Yumi, Yumi is the Vanuatu national anthem.
vanuatu
The scenic way home.
explore the outer islands. Around each point we motor past another gorgeous cove. In the distance, Tranquility Island and its turtle sanctuary looks back at the growing Efate. Divers and snorkelers are spoiled rotten. A quick dip brings an encounter with turtles and sharks cruising through the deep clear sea. Gideon epitomises the ni-Vans – friendly and with a Cheshire cat grin. He tells me of the eco-lodge he is constructing on his beach front property. Later, with a couple of nice sized fish safely in the fire, Gideon shows me around his
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harmoniously, in Vanuatu, a visit to a kastom (custom) village is so far removed from our way of life that it sometimes feels staged. It isn’t. With tourism blossoming, intrepid entrepreneurs have increasingly popped up on Efate offering all manner of resort-style activities. You can now go-kart through rough forest terrain, abseil down a cascading waterfall, ride horses into a deep lagoon, kayak and scuba dive. I decide to join Gideon, a local fisherman, for a day at sea. While I’m not much of a fisherman myself, it is an opportunity to
simple huts located only steps from the beach. “Cozy beds, a fridge and a barbecue,” Gideon points out. “That’s all you need here!”
The vines crack and the diver jerks viciously backwards, his head grazing the ground.
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Preparing the Nagol.
get in the know! Bislama is the national language and made up of 95% English words.
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confessions
airport World renowned philosopher and international best selling author, Alain de Botton, confesses he has an unusual desire to be delayed at the airport.
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a week at the
In a world full of chaos and irregularity, the terminal seemed a worthy and intriguing refuge of elegance and logic.
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text: alain de botton images: www.sxc.hu
W
hIle punctuAlIty lIes At the heArt of what we typically understand by a good trip, I have often longed for my plane to be delayed – so that I might be forced to spend a bit more time at the airport. I have rarely shared this aspiration with other people, but in private I have hoped for a hydraulic leak from the undercarriage or a tempest off the Bay of Biscay, a bank of fog in Malpensa or a wildcat strike in the control tower in Málaga (famed in the industry as much for its hot headed labour relations as for its even-handed command of much of western Mediterranean airspace). On occasion, I have even wished for a delay so severe that I would be offered a meal voucher or, more dramatically, a night at an airline's expense in a giant concrete Kleenex box with unopenable windows, corridors decorated with nostalgic images of propeller planes and foam pillows infused with the distant smells of kerosene. In the summer of 2009, I received a call from a man who worked for a company that owned airports. It held the keys to Southampton, Aberdeen, Heathrow and Naples, and oversaw the retail operations at Boston Logan and Pittsburgh International. The corporation additionally controlled large pieces of the industrial infrastructure upon which European civilisation relies (yet which we as individuals seldom trouble ourselves about as we use the
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bathroom in Bialystock or drive our rental car to Cádiz): the waste company, Cespa, the Polish construction group, Budimex and the Spanish toll road concern, Autopista. My caller explained that his company, Grupo Ferrovial, had lately developed an interest in literature and had taken a decision to invite a writer to spend a week at its newest passenger hub, Terminal 5, situated between the two runways of London's largest airport. This artist, who was sonorously to be referred to as Heathrow's first writer-in-residence, would be asked to conduct an impressionistic survey of the premises and then, in full view of passengers and staff, compose a book at a specially positioned desk in the departures hall between zones D and E. It seemed astonishing and touching that in our distracted age, literature could have retained sufficient prestige to inspire a multinational enterprise, otherwise focused on the management of landing fees and effluents, to underwrite a venture invested with such elevated artistic ambitions. Though the worlds of commerce and art have frequently been unhappy bedfellows, each viewing the other with a mixture of paranoia and contempt, I felt it would be churlish of me to decline to investigate my caller’s offer simply because his company administered airside
food courts and hosted technologies likely to be involved in raising the planet’s median air temperature. There were undoubtedly some skeletons in the airport company’s closet, arising from its intermittent desire to pour cement over age-old villages and its skill in encouraging us to circumnavigate the globe on unnecessary journeys, laden with bags of Johnnie Walker and toy bears dressed up as guards of the British monarchy. But with my own closet not entirely skeletonfree, I was in no position to judge. I understood that money accumulated on the battlefield or in the marketplace could fairly be redirected towards higher aesthetic ends. I thought of impatient ancient Greek statesmen who had once spent their war spoils building temples to Athena and ruthless Renaissance noblemen who had blithely commissioned delicate frescoes in honour of spring. In any event, my new employer was legitimately proud of his terminal and understandably keen to find ways to sing of its beauty. The undulating glass and steel building was the largest in the land, 40 metres tall and 400 long, the size of four football pitches, and yet the whole conveyed a sense of continuous lightness, like an intelligent mind engaging effortlessly with complexity. The blinking of its ruby lights could be seen at dusk from Windsor Castle, the terminal's forms giving shape to the promises of modernity. In a world full of chaos and irregularity, the terminal seemed a worthy and intriguing refuge of elegance and logic. It was the imaginative centre of contemporary culture. Had one been charged with taking a Martian to visit a single place that neatly captures the gamut of themes running through our civilisation – from our faith in technology to our destruction of nature, from our interconnectedness to our romanticising of travel – then it would have to be to the departures and arrivals halls that one would head. I ran out of reasons not to accept the airport’s unusual offer to spend a little more time on its premises. get in the know! Alain de Botton was born in Zurich, Switzerland.