Euro 08 quarterfinal Holland v. Russia

image: Ron Layters Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-ShareAlike Licence

Over the past few days, Amsterdam has gradually turned visibly orange. Orange hats, wigs, all manner of orange clothing, and of course, strings of orange flags flutter from buildings. I considered buying an orange inflatable hammer and an orange boa, but in the end decide to save my euros for impending emergency hostel stays and visits to Norwegian supermarkets.

Instead I pick up a freebie orange hair-net and rip it apart to make an impromptu hat band for my trilby. Looks kinda odd with it´s elastication and jagged edge. ´you look like you´ve got panties on your head´drawls Dean, a random Texan I meet. We both shrug.

As the teams tussle, with Russia looking dangerous, I move from crowded bar to crowded bar to a spacious but depressed coffee shop (´who’d watch the football in a coffee shop?´ - Tikitu) Finally I settle in a bar on the lively Spuistraat. Nearby graffiti quotes Raoul Vaneigem: Those who speak of revolution and class struggle with no explicit reference to daily life, without understanding what is subversive about love, and what is positive in the refusal of constraints, they have a corpse in their mouth.

Yeah, yeah, how subversive can football be? At least there are no corpses here, - some guy at the window is yelling home-grown commentary through a megaphone. An Italian is blowing a whistle and initiating chants with his minimal Dutch. ´I don´t really care about football´ he tells me, `I just know it will be a good party if they win´ Me too.

I don´t know much about football, but it doesn´t look good. The Russian team (coached by a renegade Dutch manager) has looked swift, organised, and lethal. They have almost scored numerous times, and been ahead for most of the second half. The dutch finally equalise, sending it to extra time. Much tension. The Dutch keeper Van der Saar is screaming at his team-mates. The Russians seem calmer. Then Russia strike twice. By the time Arshavin sends a cheeky strike between Van der Sars´ legs, their style has won the respect of many as well as the game.

I watch the management of the bar desperately trying to erase the depressing effect of the impending loss by switching the soundsystem to dance music instead of the commentary. They respond to shouts and switch it back. Many people are leaving for home already, but the die-hard fans remain, stunned.

The party is over, the city is in mourning. I see the Italian who was acting as cheerleader. ´catastrophe´ is all he says.

Bonne Route

I am in a small town Lilande, on the Dordogne river.

Why? You may have read about my weariness of trains and my longing for the bike. Well, with my first income for several months on the cards (Tomas jacked me up with the sweet wine harvest job) I splashed out on a bike, and locks, and rad panniers that turn into a backpack and two bags.

And so I venture forth into Acquitaine, self contained, dodging the rain, feeling a little pain, (eating le pain, but that doesn't rhyme, I am discovering)

I'm intrigued by the prospect of the river valley turning into a gorge; much more so by the fact that this area is positively chokka with Neaderthal and Cro Magnon caves with their paintings and etchings and so forth. So I'm gonna go see them, of course. When I was little I dreamed about finding dinosaur footprints in hardened mud somewhere: this, I think, might be even more astounding.

On the other hand maybe I will feel like a man who has been a tourist for too long.




So far on the trip I have had two lovely encounters. One was a French couple inviting me into their house to watch the All Blacks vs Scotland, accompanied by sausage, bread, cheese, beer, then chickpeas, onions, barely cooked meat, wine, more bread, more cheese. Jaques was keen to practice his English "What do you think of the organisation of the cup?". Joele was more hardcore. "in my house," she said (in French), "you speak French". So I get frustrated and manage a few sentences an hour, but she teaches me a Moliere quote À vaincre sans péril on triomphe sans gloire.

In Sante Foy de Grande I meet Matt, an English guy who is in the middle of a years stay at Plum Village, a Buddhist community founded by Thich Nat Hanh. Worldly and kind, he is a fascinating character. I hope I see him again, perhaps when he is travelling the world as a clown.

show you have a loving heart...

The double decker bus is nearing my stop on Hong Kong's Nathan Road in the Tsim Tsa Shui district of Mainland Hong Kong. I'm feeling a little trepidation. The last time I visited a city more foreign than Auckland was eleven years ago, and then I was under wings of the parental variety. (one pair of those set of wings managed to get themselves mugged, but that's another story).

The door hisses as it opens and immediately twenty or so faces, Chinese and Indian, are staring at me, they are shouting. My heart skips a beat. What could I have done wrong? I look again. They are holding up business card-sized bits of cardboard. Oh. They are business cards. They are asking me to patronise their guesthouses. Right-ho. Bewildered (the Kiwi version of hard sell is a slight raising of the eyebrows) I pick one (or did it pick me?) and stumble towards the auspiciously named "Fortunate Guesthouse" where Mr Lee and Ms Alice give me a cupboard complete with mildew, double bed and noisy airconditioning. I love it. And I move to the Chunkging Deluxe Hotel -bit cleaner -the next night.

The amusingly ironic part is that I had picked this particular complex of guesthouses because I thought I'd be arriving after midnight and it housed the one place I had found on the web with "24hr reception". I shouldn't have worried. I'm not sure if Tsim Tsa Shui ever sleeps, maybe it has a nap or something between 4:30 am and 5.

"What is Hong Kong like?" You ask someone who has been here almost exactly 24hrs. I want to come back and stay much longer. It is fascinating and it is pleasant. People are very polite and generous - offering me tailored suits and "copy watches" in the day time and hashish and "massages" in the night time. The hashish story is quite interesting. Permit me, gentle reader, to relate.

Jet-lagged and just plain tired, I can't help just popping out for a quick stroll and a midnight snack before bed. I haven't walked twenty paces before a scrawny guy dressed in black and a gangly guy with jeans and t-shirt are in my face, offering me drugs. I freak out a bit, and, despite what the internet says, quickly decide it's a bad idea to be out here this time of night. I spin on my heel and walk back into Chunking Mansions. (the aforementioned guesthouse complex - see the centre building in the picture) The gangly guy follows, which makes me more nervous. I shake him off and then the scrawny guy is back, this time actually showing me the dark-coloured pellet and something else in a bag. I tell ya, it's worse than Cuba St. He finally gets the message, and I try walking Nathan Rd again, the other direction. Gangly guy comes back and seems a little distressed. He keeps saying "Don't worry about that other guy" As soon as I mention him that I'm not going to tell anyone what happened his face relaxes and he moves off.
I eat some greasy noodles and egg and go to sleep.

But I wasn't joking about the politeness. Hawkers are hard-core on Nathan Rd because they are banned from most other tourist areas and possibly because begging is non-existent. People who serve you are helpful and warm, strangers strike up conversations on the train (he didn't invite me to the private club he bartends at though, dammit. Even the signs (so many signs) are polite.
"Climbing sculpture can be dangerous"

or even downright cutesy

"Show you have a loving heart: offer your seat to those in need" - seen on the train.

The signs are in English, as well as Chinese script; probably one of the most obvious signs of the country's history is the ubiquity of English, spoken and written. Only one or two people I have met can't understand any. Other than that, it feels like I imagine Asia should feel. Signs of the old Colonial history (Hong Kong technically left Britain merged with China in 1997) are sparse. In my experience they have been limited to: Lizzie's face on a few old coins; the British style cenotaph "to the glorious dead" in Hong Kong central; and, most hearteningly, a passion among some for cricket (but of course!). The train guy who talked to me played cricket and we had time to share an appreciation of Shane Warne's skills. Cricket. At least they didn''t throw out that baby with the bathwater.

More on (or even from) the delightful Hong Kong later.

Blessings on ya!