This is my first post...
So a quote:
Simplicity, patience, compassion.
These three are your greatest tresures.
There is no greater misfortune
than underestimating your enemy.
Underestimating your enemy
means thinking he is evil.
Thus you destroy your three treasures
and become an enemy yourself.
There is no greater illusion than fear,
no greater wrong than preparing to defend yourself,
no greater misfortune than having an enemy.
When rich speculators prosper
while farmers lose their land;
when government officials spend money
on weapons instead of cures;
when the upper class is extravagant and irresponsible
while the poor have nowhere to turn-
all this is robbery and chaos.
It is not in keeping with the Tao.
When a country obtains great power,
it becomes like the sea:
all streams run downward into it.
The more powerful it grows,
the greater the need for humility.
Humility means trusting balance,
thus never needing to be defensive.
A great nation is like a great man:
When he makes a mistake, he realizes it.
Having realized it, he admits it.
Having admited it, he corrects it.
He considers those who point out his faults
as his most benevolent teachers.
He thinks of his enemy
as the shadow that he casts himself.
If a nation is centered in the Tao,
if it nourishes its own people
and doesn't meddle in the affairs of others,
it will be a light to all nations in the world.
People are born soft and supple;
dead, they are stiff and hard.
Plants are born tender and pliant;
dead, they are brittle and dry.
Thus whoever is stiff and inflexible
is a disciple of death.
Whoever is soft and yielding
is a disciple of life.
The hard and stiff will be broken.
The soft and supple will prevail.
Nothing in the world
is as soft and yielding as water.
Yet for dissolving the hard and inflexible,
nothing can surpass it.
The soft overcomes the hard;
the gentle overcomes the rigid.
Everyone knows this is true,
but few can put it into practice.
Therefor the master remains
serene in the midst of sorrow.
Evil cannot enter his heart.
-Lao Tsu circa 500BC
Friday, December 17, 2004
Saturday, September 20, 1997
Europe 1997
My Freaking Trip to Europe
Tuesday, Sept 10th
I made the ten am flight to JFK. Robbie Robertson and two buddhist monks were on the plane. After deplaning I was smoking at the curbside of the terminal and saw one of the monks pull a cell phone from within the folds of his robe. The other monk bowed a greeting to him but got no response.
Wednesday, Sept 11th
I made the eight pm flight to Heathrow. The movie was "The Arrival", about yuppie aliens terraforming the earth to suit their own smog-breathing ecosystem. There was a lengthy promo for ABC-Disney-American Airlines-NFL monday nights that was clearly a rip on "Independence Day". This was followed by a Nightline episode about "life on Mars" that featured scenes from the movie...Coincidence?
Slept well, skipped breakfast. Passed easily through customs and soon found myself on the tube to Earl's Court. Upon exiting the subway station a man asked if I was looking for a hotel. He wanted to direct me to one down the street. I asked how much for a room with a bath. He said 35 pounds. I took out my guide book and asked about the Green Court Hotel. "Oh, you don't want to go there, mate, run by Indians..." I told him I was going to shop around. There were hotels everywhere you look. I went into the first one, the Ramses, and asked for a single with bath. The Indian behind the counter gave me a key to look at a 30 pound room. It was tiny, had a shower at the foot of the bed, a sink at the head of the bed, and no toilet. I went down and asked if any rooms had tubs. He said no, none of the hotels in the area had tubs. I thanked him and left. Across the street was a larger hotel, a Best Western. I asked for a single with bath, they replied yes all our rooms have baths. The receptionist asks if I understood the rates (they were posted right next to her head). 65 pounds. I said yes that's fine. She asked how long I was staying I said one night and the other receptionist suddenly is saying sorry we don't have any singles but we can give you a double...there's a convention you know...I went to a few other hotels and was given some version of the same scam. Finally I reached the Green Court. A very friendly Indian man gave me the key to a single on the 1st landing. He said it was 25 pounds. It had a sink at the foot of the bed and a separate room with toilet and a tub. The window faced the tube tracks and the sheets were moldy. (Although when I returned later they had put fresh sheets on.)
I took the tube to Covent Garden and stopped at a restaurant for lunch and I asked the american waitress if she knew how to find a number through information, or if she had a phone directory. She was no help, said she had similar problems figuring out the English phone system. I walked around then took the tube to Glouster Road, bought a map, and walked towards Earls Court. I bought a watch for 40 quid, it is by Naf Naf. Back at Earls Court I went to a phone service and tried calling everyone. Paid 10 pence for reaching an answering machine in France. Stopped at a pub for a pint and asked to see a phone directory. No listing for Simon but I found an internet service nearby, "declare". It was just round the corner from my hotel. Mostly LCIIIs, they didn't serve food or drinks. I logged on (5/hr) checked my eMail. I tried to update my journal with an old version of Fetch but it uploaded everything as .htm.txt files. Went to another pub. Called Matt. Back to my hotel ( new sheets!). Then took a much needed hot bath. Whoever had changed the sheets had left a girlie mag in the night stand. Then I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant across the street. Went to a grocery store and bought yogurt, beer, sweets, and a Time Out. Back at the hotel I read in the Time Out where all the internet cafes were and a listing of hotels, one of which was the Windermere near Victoria. It was listed at 65 per single. I watched tele for a bit and fell asleep.
Thursday Sept 12th
The next morning I got up and called the hotel. They had a room. I went down the street and made some calls. Took the tube to Sloan Square and then a cab to the hotel (it was 10 am). They let me have a nice double for 65. It had a nice shower and a big bed. I set off for the Internet Cafe near Victoria. I logged on and got my eMail and sent a note to the QTVR list saying I was traveling through Europe, and listed my itinerary. It was a beautiful day. I walked up the road to Buckingham Palace and took three panoramas. Walked up to Piccadilly Circus, found the Global Cafe. Logged on again. Talked to the manager about QTVR, he was interested in having some done when they finished redecorating. I gave him my card and said I'd be back in November. He said he would eMail me a proposal. Took the tube back to Victoria. Stopped for a pint. Took a shower at the hotel, put on my white shirt and went down to happy hour at the hotel bar (7:30pm). I had two Pernods for one then sat down to dinner (Turkey Provençal). Chatted with the french bartender and chef, then went up to sleep.
Friday, Sept 13
Next morning I went down to breakfast ( bacon and eggs, very tasty). Got my things in order. The hotel owner was kind enough to give me a lift to another hotel. It was closer to the station but the room was on the 4th floor. It had a tub. Walked over to the internet cafe, got eMail from Daniel Brugger in Switzerland and Tim Carrol in Paris, both responding to my posting on the QTVR list. Got a note from Matt. Sent notes to Matt and the eCafe. I looked in on the live cam at the eCafe but it was 5am there...
There was a tour bus leaving from across the street. It was one of those double decker jobs with an open top. I figured I could get some good shots and it would be nicer than taking the tube. I asked the driver how much, he said ten bob, but you could get on and off all day- the busses ran every 15 minutes. So I got on. It wasn't very interesting...we passed the American embassy and a large group of protesters were gathered there but the tour guide only mentioned the wing span of the eagle stuck to the side of the soviet-style building, "It's as wide as this bus..." We eventually got to Parliament and I got off. I hadn't bought a ticket so I got a nice free ride around town. The weather was glorious so I took lots of photos (I remember Parliament being black now it’s gold). Walked along the Thames to the Embankment and took the tube to Gough Road. Had a sushi lunch with beer and saki. Then just around the corner was Cyberia. As I was standing in line for a terminal, a guy asked why I had a spirit level on my camera. I explained it was for QuickTime VR panoramas. He says he manages Cyberia and edits an internet magazine and would like to know more ( but he was in a hurry). I gave him my card. Logged on, got a note from Xroads with Andy Bower's eMail address and a note from William Donelson (QTVRer from Earls Court) saying I should call.
I took the tube to the hotel ( stopped at a pub for a pint and a gimlet-the bartender had never heard of a gimlet).Very unfriendly fuckers at every pub so far. Bought some bubble bath. Went back and used it. Fell asleep early- no dinner.
Saturday, Sept 14
Got up for breakfast ( overcooked eggs and greasy bacon with a side of deep fried wonderbread) Took a shower, packed and paid up. Walked to the station and put my bags in a locker. Went to the internet cafe. Note from Matt. Took the tube to Earls Court, to make phone calls. Was able to contact Keith's girlfriend in Prague, she said he was going to be in the Ukraine until October 3rd. I gave her my e mail address and said I would be in Prague around the 1st. I walked to South Kensington, had lunch at the Gran Cafe near the V&A. Went to 'declare' but their system was down, went to phone place- no contact. Took the tube back to Victoria, bought a ticket on the overnight train/ferry to Amsterdam. Departs 7pm arrives 9am. 60 quid. Unfortunately leaves from Liverpool Street on the other side of town. I go kill a few hours at the internet cafe. Then get my bags and take the Circle Line.
On the tube: A street musician is just stepping off the train telling everyone, "I'll be playing at so and so pub next Wednesday...", in a thick Irish brogue. A pinstriped suited old man stepping on says,"get off you IRA bastard!". The longhair with the guitar responds,"You've got as much intelligence as the boot end of my arse you narrow-minded ponce..."
Sometime later
OK, so I'm on the fucking ferry. Sitting in the middle of this fucking disco, talking to my new friend, Roderick, from Utrcht (excuse me). We are talking about this German girl sitting with her friends. I go over and introduce myself, offer to buy them drinks, they ignore me. Later, Roderick, after talking with one of the other German girls tells me that they thought I was 40...So I go to the fucking casino on the fucking ferry and blow 5 pounds on roulette...So its a fucking 7 hour ride through disco hell. I'm just drunk enough to be in sync with the boat...I should have taken the chunnel, like fucking Tom Cruise.
Sunday, September 16th
OK, I feel better. I slept for a while, then we were herded off the boat, given validations. My friend Roderick took the train to Rotterdam and I took the express to Amsterdam. When I arrived I tossed a coin three times: heads go directly to Zwolle, tails stay in Amsterdam. Heads three times, so I bought a ticket to Zwolle.
At this point I'm in some serious hurt. I drag myself off the train in Zwolle and to a taxi. I tell him to take me to a reasonable hotel. It is 150 whatever a night. OK. It has a jacuzzi bath. OK. It won't be ready for an hour. OK. It's a ten minute walk to town. I leave my bags. Take a map with me. The town has a moat. I see Annemieke's old address on the map so I walk by. Nice place. So I'm downtown now- it's Sunday morning- like a fucking neutron bomb went off. A few people ride around on bikes. Thousands of bikes parked everywhere- none locked. I look like an extra from Pulp Fiction in my black two button jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans - I get funny looks. I go back to the hotel, draw a bubble bath (nice big tub), peel off my clothes, and dive in. I still hurt. Crawl into bed and sleep until six. Shave, put my hair in order and go out. I walk to the center of town, legs sore but unencumbered by anything but my journal. I'm taking stock of my aches and pains- mostly my left shoulder, thighs and both knees. I puruse various restaurants, no one is particularly friendly but they all speak english. So I settle on a place called 'Weekends'. I have tomato soup and chicken Sate (the waitress explained that it is a traditional Dutch preparation- chicken skewers with peanut sauce- I asked if that was anything like the Thai dish, she gave me a confused look.
Monday, Sept 17th
Get up early, have breakfast: grapenuts, coffee, oj, canned fruit salad, cold cuts and bread. The coffee was good. Gave my laundry to the hotelier. Organized my camera bag and set out. I stopped at some store; it was either a realtor or travel agency, everyone was sitting at a computer. I said, " This is a little off the wall, but do you know of anyplace in town that has internet access, perhaps a university?" They said, " Yes, there is a university but its quite far to walk..." Another said, " Don't you have a car?", "No I don't have a car", "Taxi, you could take a taxi" I thanked them and left. I walked to the main plaza, set up and took a panorama. Then I walked around town, took another pano of a castle and fountain. Then I walked back to the square and bought some postcards and a Herald. On the way back to the hotel I passed a bar that had a small Mel's style pool table. I ordered a beer and asked to play. Three college kids were playing, one, an asian, was quite good. I played (and won) several games. We talked, they were very friendly. One was wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Finally I lost and went back to the hotel. I told them I would be back later.
At the hotel I changed clothes and left my equipment. I set out again for town, stopping on the way at Annemieke's old house. There was a piece of paper taped next to the buzzer: M= 1 buzz W= 2 buzz C= 3 buzz F= 4 buzz Jehovas= 10 buzz. I rang once and got no answer so I rang twice. A young man answered. I told him I was looking for Annemieke. He invited me into the foyer and showed me her address pinned to the wall. He gave me a piece of paper to write on. I wrote down her number, then walked back to the bar. The same guys were still there. I bought them all beers and played another game. I tried calling A's number but got a weird out-of order tone. I asked my new friends what that meant. "Oh, yes, we have a new prefix in Zwolle, you must dial 4 first" So I did. A man answered, undaunted I asked for Annemieke. After a pause she was on the line.
"Hello, Annemieke, this is Mark, Mark Norris, from Amerika,"
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I know it's been awhile, a year or so, we met in Chiapas..."
"Yes, of course...This is unexpected. How are you..."
"I'm fine, I was wondering if I could take you to dinner."
"Dinner...?But..."
"I'm in Zwolle...I'm staying at the hotel Fidder."
"You are in Zwolle!" I could hear her talking in Dutch to someone.
Then,"What brings you to Holland?"
"I'm just passing through on my way to Prague, I'm doing photography for the internet..."
"Oh, yes so you are doing the same..."
"Yes, and you, are you still in radio?"
"Yes, yes, a different company but still radio..." There was a pause.
" So I invite you to dinner, here; I will cook for you..."
"OK, that would be nice"
"Yes, you can see my place...just give me an hour and a half. Yes? I need to clean up..."
"OK."
"And if you get lost call I will pick you up, I have a car now..."
So I bought another round for the gang, told them my good news. We played more pool but eventually we just sat around talking about films and conspiracy theories. They were looking forward to the impending release of "Independence Day". Coincidence?
After an hour or so I walked over to Annemieke's. She lived just across from the train station. She answered the door, I didn't recognize her at first. She had short hair. The apartment was dark, she led me down a dark hall to the kitchen. Her boyfriend was at the stove. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I sat down. They chopped food and we chatted. A bottle of wine was opened. They were making cheese fondue. We went outside to set the table but it was too cold. We drank another bottle of wine. Annemieke's friend, Margoram, who was with her in Chiapas, came over. I gave them a picture I took of them there. The boyfriend was in entertainment tv. We talked about politics. He is a Palestinian. Margoram doesn't like him. I drank another bottle of wine (white wine! I should have known better...) I even made myself a martini...Annemieke said she would drive me back to my hotel. Margoram left and Annemieke drove me back (she was very proud of her plastic car). I don't remember what I said to her but I think I said I was glad to see her again. She hastily wrote her address and number on a receipt laying on the dash. This artifact is all I have to show it all went well. I went up to my room, tossed my case on the bed and walked to town. I asked a taxi to take me to "girls"...He drove me down some back alleys and deposited me in front of a garage door that had a video camera. I knocked and was buzzed in. It was a tacky bar, one large blonde at the counter. She was the bartender. I asked for a beer. I talked with her for a while, she asked if I wanted to take a Jacuzzi. I asked 'how much?'. She said 100 of whatever they called money. I had to go to the bank. I walked around the darkened alleys, found the bank, found my way back, and ended up in the tub with this large Dutch woman surrounded by stuffed animals. I asked ' what's up with all the teddy bears?' She said they belong to the Russian girls; this was their room. It was a big room, filled with stuffed animals, with a big bed at one end and a big Jacuzzi at the other. I asked 'where are the Russians?'. She said 'they're around'...
Tuesday
The next morning I was woken at 9 by someone asking if I was coming down to breakfast (served until 10). I said , "No, I would like some coffee." I packed up and went down. A woman I hadn't seen before was behind the desk. She wore a black low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage. She gave me the bill ( the phone bill was more than the room). I asked her to call me a cab and add a pot of coffee to the bill. She said I could have the coffee free because I missed breakfast. The taxi took me to the station. I bought a ticket and sat at a cafe for more coffee and a ham sandwich. I felt like shit. Took the train. I actually got annoyed at all the chain smoking going on around me. Walked right out of the station in Amsterdam and got on a tram. The driver wanted to know how far I was going. I said I didn't know, I would get off when I saw something I liked. She sold me a 3 gilder ticket, saying,"It is good for the center." I rode a few blocks and got off. She seemed disappointed. I walked away from the busy streets until I found a hotel that seemed like it would be clean and quiet. The Nova Hotel; 150 guilders for a single with shower. It was a tacky, modern room compared to Zwolle and it faced a street with a tram track, it had porno on the TV. So I chilled for a bit, took a shower. I asked at the desk where the internet cafe was. They showed me on a map the general area they thought it was. I think they misunderstood me because they sent me to the red-light district (intercourse cafe? intersex cafe?). I walked around worriedly. A lot of seedy looking people lurking in dark alleyways. Some cute girls standing behind windows in their undies. They would tap the glass with their rings as I passed by. Finally, I had dinner at a sushi place (mental note: do not ever go to a sushi place in Europe-they all suck). Then went back to the hotel to watch bad porn and 'Get Shorty'.
Wednesday
Next day, got up and went out with my camera. Went to the Mini-Office, a computer center with internet . Very slow connection. Checked my mail. I asked about the internet cafe and they looked it up in a guide book. I headed towards it, stopped at a used clothing store because it was cold. I wanted to buy a Gaberdine coat but they didn't take credit cards. So I headed for a bank. End up at Top's Internet Cafe. Log on, drink coffee, get eMail. I fix my journal a bit using Fetch on their Mac. Go back towards the hotel, stop at bank, have lunch, write postcards, back to clothing store, buy coat. I go back to the hotel and rest, watch CNN. Get up, take a shower, head for 'Top's'. Stop on the way at 'Shiva' for a delicious dinner (chicken tikka). (mental note: Indian restaurants in Europe are better than sushi places). Very satisfied, I walk through Rembrant Platz, passed-up all the strip joints and made it to 'Tops'. Ordered a beer and started updating my journal. Got as far as Zwolle. More beers at the bar, inhaling all the second hand hash smoke. If I weren't alone and traveling tomorrow I'd be tempted to get some. I'm pretty pleased with my stay in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, I'll check my bags at the station, buy a ticket for Paris, and spend the day photographing. I get a bit freaked out when I think about how much this is costing and how I should have more to show for it. But, I'm learning and I'm writing, and I should have some good photos. Had a few more beers and talked to the manager of 'Tops' about QTVR. He was interested but hadn't downloaded the plug-ins. On the way home I bought some Gaulois Blondes and had a Guiness.
Thursday
Having breakfast at the Nova, I figure I should stay another night. Get some good panos today and tomorrow. I need to rest my leg ( my right shin is fucked-up) Went to the post office, mailed 11 cards. Took a pano from a pretty bridge. Walked and walked, had a shwarma for lunch and ended up at Top's. Had a beer, only seven messages- all to the QTVR list. Bit low on cash so I didn't send any mail nor update my page. Played pinball. Walked towards the Rikjsmuseum, stopped at the Amnesty International bar/cafe/movie house. Some thoughts on Europe: I grew up in a very different England. London, I remember, was a dark, dismal place. The countryside was bucolic, small villages unmarred by superhighways and chain stores where the local pub was a friendly meeting place (yes, even as a little kid I was hanging out in bars). Now London is a big, americanized melting pot boiling over with hatred and mistrust.
The Dutch really pride themselves on speaking English but someone needs to point out that they aren't very good at it. Usually, they speak in a broken pig English (is that redundant?), which is fine, but they don't seem to always understand what is being said. They hear what they want to hear. I suppose, because they are taught English from an early age and they deal with so many tourists, they think it is too easy, but they miss the subtleties. Don't get me wrong, I can't even order a beer in Dutch, this is not some rant about English-uber-alles, I think people should preserve their culture through language. When I go to another country I don't mind if no one speaks my language. It is always possible to make oneself understood. It forces you to pay greater attention to people. I think of Marco Polo traveling the spice route through a myriad of established, exotic cultures; the respect and wonder he showed their customs. He didn't have a phrase book. He didn't eat at the local McDuce's pizzeria everywhere he went. So, to give credit where due, the Dutch speak English better than the Germans, the French, and the English. And they are a handsome race.
What's up with all these Russian whores everywhere? They had them in Cambodia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Zwolle...Isn't it enough that Amerika won the cold war, they also have to turn all russian women into sex slaves? How proud to be a Russian today: dad's a drunk, mom works at McDonalds, sis is a whore, little boris is a thug, gramma and gramps are in the street, and I'm in the Mafia...Well I haven't been to Russia yet, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm sure I'll have something to say about the French when I get there. I've been boycotting French wine for a while now because of their killing of a photographer on the Greenpeace boat that their spies blew up in New Zealand.
O.K., enough of that. I'm at a bar called Balls. I think that is because they have pool tables but I'm not sure. The music has turned sour here at Balls. So I'll move on. A bicyclist just rode by singing, "the secret life...of a-ra-bia.." I thought that was amusing. My choice of bars now, just within blocks of my hotel, has dwindled. The last one was packed, no place to sit, a mix of Americans and Dutch but too typical. I walked by the 'Kandinski', which has a nice ring to it, but aside from a few couples necking there was no one there. I chose the place I am now because of the cute bartendress. It is dark with beer stiens and antelope heads on the walls. Full of only self-absorbed Dutch people. Still, it's better than television. It is just after midnight. I will have all day tomorrow to finish my Amsterdam experience.
These fucking French cigarettes suck. Cobblestones are pretty but they wreak hell on my shins. Still, outside of Elsie's, New York, the eCafe, parts of Seattle, San Francisco and LA, Amerika blows compared to Holland. The Dutch do have that annoying throat-clearing conflux of syllables when they speak their own language. I'll have to recommend this bar, if I ever figure out what it's called. It gives a realistic impression of Dutch life. The average Dutchman wears either a windbreaker or a stylish KGB-style leather jacket, wide-collar shirt, and jeans. The women wear short skirts with black stockings, cable turtleneck sweaters. I'm wearing my new gaberdine overcoat, blue shirt, black sweatshirt, black jeans, scarf and Vans. My black-dyed hair is usually standing on end from sleeping on the train or too small a bed. I'll have one more smoke then go back to the hotel.
I was thinking before I left on this trip that I needed to live more to write more and to find a quiet place, free of distractions where I could commit it all to paper, but I haven't really done anything. It is good to write this journal because it is clearing the cobwebs out of my head - but I need to spend some serious time putting it together in a readable format. And I need to write a sensible story involving my dreams and ambitions. Perhaps in this journal I should concentrate less on my comings and goings and more on the atmosphere of places I am. Aside from my asides I have skipped a lot of the visual, tactile details of this trip. The piss smell of the London tube for example. I said this cafe was dark; bars in Holland are called 'brown cafes' because the centuries of tobacco smoke have turned the walls brown. I haven't met anyone who doesn't smoke. Sitting at Top's internet cafe I could taste the second hand hash smoke. So sweet smelling. Luckily, at the time I still had some Exports. I'd rather smoke hash than these shitty french cigarettes.
sometime later
There are similarities in Steve Erickson's stories, particularly his very autobiographical 'Amnesiascope', to my own untold stories and dreams. His obsession with a girl he calls Sally is so similar to my feelings towards Sophie. Each of his previous books have in some way focused on his relation to her. Of equal importance is his respect for the meaning of dreams - not necessarily that his or mine mean anything or are precognitive but he gives their mystery the deference deserved. His stories interweave dreams and a dreamlike reality and are propelled by the passions of very real characters. The best writers I can think of use similar techniques - essentially they are driven to find the truth of consciousness using self-perception and unconscious archetypes. Thomas Pynchon, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Phillip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, Ursurla K. LeGuin, Martin Amis, Steve Erickson, Jonathan Lethem...that's all that come to mind at the moment. This is an aside but Erickson mentions one of my favorite movies, "In a Lonely Place" in Amnesiascope. It stars Humphrey Bogart as an alcoholic screenwriter accused of murder. Very intense depiction of writer's block. Another great movie few people have ever heard of is "Cry of the Penguins" starring a youthful John Hurt.
I am sitting here in the Lizard Lounge in Le Marais a few blocks from my hotel, the Grand Hotel Mahler. I had a lovely dinner; poulet citron, and was pleased to find it full of and run by americans ( the lounge not my chicken). Now they are playing Portishead so I decided to stay and drink.
Tuesday, Sept 10th
I made the ten am flight to JFK. Robbie Robertson and two buddhist monks were on the plane. After deplaning I was smoking at the curbside of the terminal and saw one of the monks pull a cell phone from within the folds of his robe. The other monk bowed a greeting to him but got no response.
Wednesday, Sept 11th
I made the eight pm flight to Heathrow. The movie was "The Arrival", about yuppie aliens terraforming the earth to suit their own smog-breathing ecosystem. There was a lengthy promo for ABC-Disney-American Airlines-NFL monday nights that was clearly a rip on "Independence Day". This was followed by a Nightline episode about "life on Mars" that featured scenes from the movie...Coincidence?
Slept well, skipped breakfast. Passed easily through customs and soon found myself on the tube to Earl's Court. Upon exiting the subway station a man asked if I was looking for a hotel. He wanted to direct me to one down the street. I asked how much for a room with a bath. He said 35 pounds. I took out my guide book and asked about the Green Court Hotel. "Oh, you don't want to go there, mate, run by Indians..." I told him I was going to shop around. There were hotels everywhere you look. I went into the first one, the Ramses, and asked for a single with bath. The Indian behind the counter gave me a key to look at a 30 pound room. It was tiny, had a shower at the foot of the bed, a sink at the head of the bed, and no toilet. I went down and asked if any rooms had tubs. He said no, none of the hotels in the area had tubs. I thanked him and left. Across the street was a larger hotel, a Best Western. I asked for a single with bath, they replied yes all our rooms have baths. The receptionist asks if I understood the rates (they were posted right next to her head). 65 pounds. I said yes that's fine. She asked how long I was staying I said one night and the other receptionist suddenly is saying sorry we don't have any singles but we can give you a double...there's a convention you know...I went to a few other hotels and was given some version of the same scam. Finally I reached the Green Court. A very friendly Indian man gave me the key to a single on the 1st landing. He said it was 25 pounds. It had a sink at the foot of the bed and a separate room with toilet and a tub. The window faced the tube tracks and the sheets were moldy. (Although when I returned later they had put fresh sheets on.)
I took the tube to Covent Garden and stopped at a restaurant for lunch and I asked the american waitress if she knew how to find a number through information, or if she had a phone directory. She was no help, said she had similar problems figuring out the English phone system. I walked around then took the tube to Glouster Road, bought a map, and walked towards Earls Court. I bought a watch for 40 quid, it is by Naf Naf. Back at Earls Court I went to a phone service and tried calling everyone. Paid 10 pence for reaching an answering machine in France. Stopped at a pub for a pint and asked to see a phone directory. No listing for Simon but I found an internet service nearby, "declare". It was just round the corner from my hotel. Mostly LCIIIs, they didn't serve food or drinks. I logged on (5/hr) checked my eMail. I tried to update my journal with an old version of Fetch but it uploaded everything as .htm.txt files. Went to another pub. Called Matt. Back to my hotel ( new sheets!). Then took a much needed hot bath. Whoever had changed the sheets had left a girlie mag in the night stand. Then I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant across the street. Went to a grocery store and bought yogurt, beer, sweets, and a Time Out. Back at the hotel I read in the Time Out where all the internet cafes were and a listing of hotels, one of which was the Windermere near Victoria. It was listed at 65 per single. I watched tele for a bit and fell asleep.
Thursday Sept 12th
The next morning I got up and called the hotel. They had a room. I went down the street and made some calls. Took the tube to Sloan Square and then a cab to the hotel (it was 10 am). They let me have a nice double for 65. It had a nice shower and a big bed. I set off for the Internet Cafe near Victoria. I logged on and got my eMail and sent a note to the QTVR list saying I was traveling through Europe, and listed my itinerary. It was a beautiful day. I walked up the road to Buckingham Palace and took three panoramas. Walked up to Piccadilly Circus, found the Global Cafe. Logged on again. Talked to the manager about QTVR, he was interested in having some done when they finished redecorating. I gave him my card and said I'd be back in November. He said he would eMail me a proposal. Took the tube back to Victoria. Stopped for a pint. Took a shower at the hotel, put on my white shirt and went down to happy hour at the hotel bar (7:30pm). I had two Pernods for one then sat down to dinner (Turkey Provençal). Chatted with the french bartender and chef, then went up to sleep.
Friday, Sept 13
Next morning I went down to breakfast ( bacon and eggs, very tasty). Got my things in order. The hotel owner was kind enough to give me a lift to another hotel. It was closer to the station but the room was on the 4th floor. It had a tub. Walked over to the internet cafe, got eMail from Daniel Brugger in Switzerland and Tim Carrol in Paris, both responding to my posting on the QTVR list. Got a note from Matt. Sent notes to Matt and the eCafe. I looked in on the live cam at the eCafe but it was 5am there...
There was a tour bus leaving from across the street. It was one of those double decker jobs with an open top. I figured I could get some good shots and it would be nicer than taking the tube. I asked the driver how much, he said ten bob, but you could get on and off all day- the busses ran every 15 minutes. So I got on. It wasn't very interesting...we passed the American embassy and a large group of protesters were gathered there but the tour guide only mentioned the wing span of the eagle stuck to the side of the soviet-style building, "It's as wide as this bus..." We eventually got to Parliament and I got off. I hadn't bought a ticket so I got a nice free ride around town. The weather was glorious so I took lots of photos (I remember Parliament being black now it’s gold). Walked along the Thames to the Embankment and took the tube to Gough Road. Had a sushi lunch with beer and saki. Then just around the corner was Cyberia. As I was standing in line for a terminal, a guy asked why I had a spirit level on my camera. I explained it was for QuickTime VR panoramas. He says he manages Cyberia and edits an internet magazine and would like to know more ( but he was in a hurry). I gave him my card. Logged on, got a note from Xroads with Andy Bower's eMail address and a note from William Donelson (QTVRer from Earls Court) saying I should call.
I took the tube to the hotel ( stopped at a pub for a pint and a gimlet-the bartender had never heard of a gimlet).Very unfriendly fuckers at every pub so far. Bought some bubble bath. Went back and used it. Fell asleep early- no dinner.
Saturday, Sept 14
Got up for breakfast ( overcooked eggs and greasy bacon with a side of deep fried wonderbread) Took a shower, packed and paid up. Walked to the station and put my bags in a locker. Went to the internet cafe. Note from Matt. Took the tube to Earls Court, to make phone calls. Was able to contact Keith's girlfriend in Prague, she said he was going to be in the Ukraine until October 3rd. I gave her my e mail address and said I would be in Prague around the 1st. I walked to South Kensington, had lunch at the Gran Cafe near the V&A. Went to 'declare' but their system was down, went to phone place- no contact. Took the tube back to Victoria, bought a ticket on the overnight train/ferry to Amsterdam. Departs 7pm arrives 9am. 60 quid. Unfortunately leaves from Liverpool Street on the other side of town. I go kill a few hours at the internet cafe. Then get my bags and take the Circle Line.
On the tube: A street musician is just stepping off the train telling everyone, "I'll be playing at so and so pub next Wednesday...", in a thick Irish brogue. A pinstriped suited old man stepping on says,"get off you IRA bastard!". The longhair with the guitar responds,"You've got as much intelligence as the boot end of my arse you narrow-minded ponce..."
Sometime later
OK, so I'm on the fucking ferry. Sitting in the middle of this fucking disco, talking to my new friend, Roderick, from Utrcht (excuse me). We are talking about this German girl sitting with her friends. I go over and introduce myself, offer to buy them drinks, they ignore me. Later, Roderick, after talking with one of the other German girls tells me that they thought I was 40...So I go to the fucking casino on the fucking ferry and blow 5 pounds on roulette...So its a fucking 7 hour ride through disco hell. I'm just drunk enough to be in sync with the boat...I should have taken the chunnel, like fucking Tom Cruise.
Sunday, September 16th
OK, I feel better. I slept for a while, then we were herded off the boat, given validations. My friend Roderick took the train to Rotterdam and I took the express to Amsterdam. When I arrived I tossed a coin three times: heads go directly to Zwolle, tails stay in Amsterdam. Heads three times, so I bought a ticket to Zwolle.
At this point I'm in some serious hurt. I drag myself off the train in Zwolle and to a taxi. I tell him to take me to a reasonable hotel. It is 150 whatever a night. OK. It has a jacuzzi bath. OK. It won't be ready for an hour. OK. It's a ten minute walk to town. I leave my bags. Take a map with me. The town has a moat. I see Annemieke's old address on the map so I walk by. Nice place. So I'm downtown now- it's Sunday morning- like a fucking neutron bomb went off. A few people ride around on bikes. Thousands of bikes parked everywhere- none locked. I look like an extra from Pulp Fiction in my black two button jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans - I get funny looks. I go back to the hotel, draw a bubble bath (nice big tub), peel off my clothes, and dive in. I still hurt. Crawl into bed and sleep until six. Shave, put my hair in order and go out. I walk to the center of town, legs sore but unencumbered by anything but my journal. I'm taking stock of my aches and pains- mostly my left shoulder, thighs and both knees. I puruse various restaurants, no one is particularly friendly but they all speak english. So I settle on a place called 'Weekends'. I have tomato soup and chicken Sate (the waitress explained that it is a traditional Dutch preparation- chicken skewers with peanut sauce- I asked if that was anything like the Thai dish, she gave me a confused look.
Monday, Sept 17th
Get up early, have breakfast: grapenuts, coffee, oj, canned fruit salad, cold cuts and bread. The coffee was good. Gave my laundry to the hotelier. Organized my camera bag and set out. I stopped at some store; it was either a realtor or travel agency, everyone was sitting at a computer. I said, " This is a little off the wall, but do you know of anyplace in town that has internet access, perhaps a university?" They said, " Yes, there is a university but its quite far to walk..." Another said, " Don't you have a car?", "No I don't have a car", "Taxi, you could take a taxi" I thanked them and left. I walked to the main plaza, set up and took a panorama. Then I walked around town, took another pano of a castle and fountain. Then I walked back to the square and bought some postcards and a Herald. On the way back to the hotel I passed a bar that had a small Mel's style pool table. I ordered a beer and asked to play. Three college kids were playing, one, an asian, was quite good. I played (and won) several games. We talked, they were very friendly. One was wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Finally I lost and went back to the hotel. I told them I would be back later.
At the hotel I changed clothes and left my equipment. I set out again for town, stopping on the way at Annemieke's old house. There was a piece of paper taped next to the buzzer: M= 1 buzz W= 2 buzz C= 3 buzz F= 4 buzz Jehovas= 10 buzz. I rang once and got no answer so I rang twice. A young man answered. I told him I was looking for Annemieke. He invited me into the foyer and showed me her address pinned to the wall. He gave me a piece of paper to write on. I wrote down her number, then walked back to the bar. The same guys were still there. I bought them all beers and played another game. I tried calling A's number but got a weird out-of order tone. I asked my new friends what that meant. "Oh, yes, we have a new prefix in Zwolle, you must dial 4 first" So I did. A man answered, undaunted I asked for Annemieke. After a pause she was on the line.
"Hello, Annemieke, this is Mark, Mark Norris, from Amerika,"
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I know it's been awhile, a year or so, we met in Chiapas..."
"Yes, of course...This is unexpected. How are you..."
"I'm fine, I was wondering if I could take you to dinner."
"Dinner...?But..."
"I'm in Zwolle...I'm staying at the hotel Fidder."
"You are in Zwolle!" I could hear her talking in Dutch to someone.
Then,"What brings you to Holland?"
"I'm just passing through on my way to Prague, I'm doing photography for the internet..."
"Oh, yes so you are doing the same..."
"Yes, and you, are you still in radio?"
"Yes, yes, a different company but still radio..." There was a pause.
" So I invite you to dinner, here; I will cook for you..."
"OK, that would be nice"
"Yes, you can see my place...just give me an hour and a half. Yes? I need to clean up..."
"OK."
"And if you get lost call I will pick you up, I have a car now..."
So I bought another round for the gang, told them my good news. We played more pool but eventually we just sat around talking about films and conspiracy theories. They were looking forward to the impending release of "Independence Day". Coincidence?
After an hour or so I walked over to Annemieke's. She lived just across from the train station. She answered the door, I didn't recognize her at first. She had short hair. The apartment was dark, she led me down a dark hall to the kitchen. Her boyfriend was at the stove. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I sat down. They chopped food and we chatted. A bottle of wine was opened. They were making cheese fondue. We went outside to set the table but it was too cold. We drank another bottle of wine. Annemieke's friend, Margoram, who was with her in Chiapas, came over. I gave them a picture I took of them there. The boyfriend was in entertainment tv. We talked about politics. He is a Palestinian. Margoram doesn't like him. I drank another bottle of wine (white wine! I should have known better...) I even made myself a martini...Annemieke said she would drive me back to my hotel. Margoram left and Annemieke drove me back (she was very proud of her plastic car). I don't remember what I said to her but I think I said I was glad to see her again. She hastily wrote her address and number on a receipt laying on the dash. This artifact is all I have to show it all went well. I went up to my room, tossed my case on the bed and walked to town. I asked a taxi to take me to "girls"...He drove me down some back alleys and deposited me in front of a garage door that had a video camera. I knocked and was buzzed in. It was a tacky bar, one large blonde at the counter. She was the bartender. I asked for a beer. I talked with her for a while, she asked if I wanted to take a Jacuzzi. I asked 'how much?'. She said 100 of whatever they called money. I had to go to the bank. I walked around the darkened alleys, found the bank, found my way back, and ended up in the tub with this large Dutch woman surrounded by stuffed animals. I asked ' what's up with all the teddy bears?' She said they belong to the Russian girls; this was their room. It was a big room, filled with stuffed animals, with a big bed at one end and a big Jacuzzi at the other. I asked 'where are the Russians?'. She said 'they're around'...
Tuesday
The next morning I was woken at 9 by someone asking if I was coming down to breakfast (served until 10). I said , "No, I would like some coffee." I packed up and went down. A woman I hadn't seen before was behind the desk. She wore a black low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage. She gave me the bill ( the phone bill was more than the room). I asked her to call me a cab and add a pot of coffee to the bill. She said I could have the coffee free because I missed breakfast. The taxi took me to the station. I bought a ticket and sat at a cafe for more coffee and a ham sandwich. I felt like shit. Took the train. I actually got annoyed at all the chain smoking going on around me. Walked right out of the station in Amsterdam and got on a tram. The driver wanted to know how far I was going. I said I didn't know, I would get off when I saw something I liked. She sold me a 3 gilder ticket, saying,"It is good for the center." I rode a few blocks and got off. She seemed disappointed. I walked away from the busy streets until I found a hotel that seemed like it would be clean and quiet. The Nova Hotel; 150 guilders for a single with shower. It was a tacky, modern room compared to Zwolle and it faced a street with a tram track, it had porno on the TV. So I chilled for a bit, took a shower. I asked at the desk where the internet cafe was. They showed me on a map the general area they thought it was. I think they misunderstood me because they sent me to the red-light district (intercourse cafe? intersex cafe?). I walked around worriedly. A lot of seedy looking people lurking in dark alleyways. Some cute girls standing behind windows in their undies. They would tap the glass with their rings as I passed by. Finally, I had dinner at a sushi place (mental note: do not ever go to a sushi place in Europe-they all suck). Then went back to the hotel to watch bad porn and 'Get Shorty'.
Wednesday
Next day, got up and went out with my camera. Went to the Mini-Office, a computer center with internet . Very slow connection. Checked my mail. I asked about the internet cafe and they looked it up in a guide book. I headed towards it, stopped at a used clothing store because it was cold. I wanted to buy a Gaberdine coat but they didn't take credit cards. So I headed for a bank. End up at Top's Internet Cafe. Log on, drink coffee, get eMail. I fix my journal a bit using Fetch on their Mac. Go back towards the hotel, stop at bank, have lunch, write postcards, back to clothing store, buy coat. I go back to the hotel and rest, watch CNN. Get up, take a shower, head for 'Top's'. Stop on the way at 'Shiva' for a delicious dinner (chicken tikka). (mental note: Indian restaurants in Europe are better than sushi places). Very satisfied, I walk through Rembrant Platz, passed-up all the strip joints and made it to 'Tops'. Ordered a beer and started updating my journal. Got as far as Zwolle. More beers at the bar, inhaling all the second hand hash smoke. If I weren't alone and traveling tomorrow I'd be tempted to get some. I'm pretty pleased with my stay in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, I'll check my bags at the station, buy a ticket for Paris, and spend the day photographing. I get a bit freaked out when I think about how much this is costing and how I should have more to show for it. But, I'm learning and I'm writing, and I should have some good photos. Had a few more beers and talked to the manager of 'Tops' about QTVR. He was interested but hadn't downloaded the plug-ins. On the way home I bought some Gaulois Blondes and had a Guiness.
Thursday
Having breakfast at the Nova, I figure I should stay another night. Get some good panos today and tomorrow. I need to rest my leg ( my right shin is fucked-up) Went to the post office, mailed 11 cards. Took a pano from a pretty bridge. Walked and walked, had a shwarma for lunch and ended up at Top's. Had a beer, only seven messages- all to the QTVR list. Bit low on cash so I didn't send any mail nor update my page. Played pinball. Walked towards the Rikjsmuseum, stopped at the Amnesty International bar/cafe/movie house. Some thoughts on Europe: I grew up in a very different England. London, I remember, was a dark, dismal place. The countryside was bucolic, small villages unmarred by superhighways and chain stores where the local pub was a friendly meeting place (yes, even as a little kid I was hanging out in bars). Now London is a big, americanized melting pot boiling over with hatred and mistrust.
The Dutch really pride themselves on speaking English but someone needs to point out that they aren't very good at it. Usually, they speak in a broken pig English (is that redundant?), which is fine, but they don't seem to always understand what is being said. They hear what they want to hear. I suppose, because they are taught English from an early age and they deal with so many tourists, they think it is too easy, but they miss the subtleties. Don't get me wrong, I can't even order a beer in Dutch, this is not some rant about English-uber-alles, I think people should preserve their culture through language. When I go to another country I don't mind if no one speaks my language. It is always possible to make oneself understood. It forces you to pay greater attention to people. I think of Marco Polo traveling the spice route through a myriad of established, exotic cultures; the respect and wonder he showed their customs. He didn't have a phrase book. He didn't eat at the local McDuce's pizzeria everywhere he went. So, to give credit where due, the Dutch speak English better than the Germans, the French, and the English. And they are a handsome race.
What's up with all these Russian whores everywhere? They had them in Cambodia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Zwolle...Isn't it enough that Amerika won the cold war, they also have to turn all russian women into sex slaves? How proud to be a Russian today: dad's a drunk, mom works at McDonalds, sis is a whore, little boris is a thug, gramma and gramps are in the street, and I'm in the Mafia...Well I haven't been to Russia yet, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm sure I'll have something to say about the French when I get there. I've been boycotting French wine for a while now because of their killing of a photographer on the Greenpeace boat that their spies blew up in New Zealand.
O.K., enough of that. I'm at a bar called Balls. I think that is because they have pool tables but I'm not sure. The music has turned sour here at Balls. So I'll move on. A bicyclist just rode by singing, "the secret life...of a-ra-bia.." I thought that was amusing. My choice of bars now, just within blocks of my hotel, has dwindled. The last one was packed, no place to sit, a mix of Americans and Dutch but too typical. I walked by the 'Kandinski', which has a nice ring to it, but aside from a few couples necking there was no one there. I chose the place I am now because of the cute bartendress. It is dark with beer stiens and antelope heads on the walls. Full of only self-absorbed Dutch people. Still, it's better than television. It is just after midnight. I will have all day tomorrow to finish my Amsterdam experience.
These fucking French cigarettes suck. Cobblestones are pretty but they wreak hell on my shins. Still, outside of Elsie's, New York, the eCafe, parts of Seattle, San Francisco and LA, Amerika blows compared to Holland. The Dutch do have that annoying throat-clearing conflux of syllables when they speak their own language. I'll have to recommend this bar, if I ever figure out what it's called. It gives a realistic impression of Dutch life. The average Dutchman wears either a windbreaker or a stylish KGB-style leather jacket, wide-collar shirt, and jeans. The women wear short skirts with black stockings, cable turtleneck sweaters. I'm wearing my new gaberdine overcoat, blue shirt, black sweatshirt, black jeans, scarf and Vans. My black-dyed hair is usually standing on end from sleeping on the train or too small a bed. I'll have one more smoke then go back to the hotel.
I was thinking before I left on this trip that I needed to live more to write more and to find a quiet place, free of distractions where I could commit it all to paper, but I haven't really done anything. It is good to write this journal because it is clearing the cobwebs out of my head - but I need to spend some serious time putting it together in a readable format. And I need to write a sensible story involving my dreams and ambitions. Perhaps in this journal I should concentrate less on my comings and goings and more on the atmosphere of places I am. Aside from my asides I have skipped a lot of the visual, tactile details of this trip. The piss smell of the London tube for example. I said this cafe was dark; bars in Holland are called 'brown cafes' because the centuries of tobacco smoke have turned the walls brown. I haven't met anyone who doesn't smoke. Sitting at Top's internet cafe I could taste the second hand hash smoke. So sweet smelling. Luckily, at the time I still had some Exports. I'd rather smoke hash than these shitty french cigarettes.
sometime later
There are similarities in Steve Erickson's stories, particularly his very autobiographical 'Amnesiascope', to my own untold stories and dreams. His obsession with a girl he calls Sally is so similar to my feelings towards Sophie. Each of his previous books have in some way focused on his relation to her. Of equal importance is his respect for the meaning of dreams - not necessarily that his or mine mean anything or are precognitive but he gives their mystery the deference deserved. His stories interweave dreams and a dreamlike reality and are propelled by the passions of very real characters. The best writers I can think of use similar techniques - essentially they are driven to find the truth of consciousness using self-perception and unconscious archetypes. Thomas Pynchon, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Phillip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, Ursurla K. LeGuin, Martin Amis, Steve Erickson, Jonathan Lethem...that's all that come to mind at the moment. This is an aside but Erickson mentions one of my favorite movies, "In a Lonely Place" in Amnesiascope. It stars Humphrey Bogart as an alcoholic screenwriter accused of murder. Very intense depiction of writer's block. Another great movie few people have ever heard of is "Cry of the Penguins" starring a youthful John Hurt.
I am sitting here in the Lizard Lounge in Le Marais a few blocks from my hotel, the Grand Hotel Mahler. I had a lovely dinner; poulet citron, and was pleased to find it full of and run by americans ( the lounge not my chicken). Now they are playing Portishead so I decided to stay and drink.
Thursday, September 11, 1997
Europe 1997
Tuesday, Sept 10th
I made the ten am flight to JFK. Robbie Robertson and two buddhist monks were on the plane. After deplaning I was smoking at the curbside of the terminal and saw one of the monks pull a cell phone from within the folds of his robe. The other monk bowed a greeting to him but got no response.
Wednesday, Sept 11th
I made the eight pm flight to Heathrow. The movie was "The Arrival", about yuppie aliens terraforming the earth to suit their own smog-breathing ecosystem. There was a lengthy promo for ABC-Disney-American Airlines-NFL monday nights that was clearly a rip on "Independence Day". This was followed by a Nightline episode about "life on Mars" that featured scenes from the movie...Coincidence?
Slept well, skipped breakfast. Passed easily through customs and soon found myself on the tube to Earl's Court. Upon exiting the subway station a man asked if I was looking for a hotel. He wanted to direct me to one down the street. I asked how much for a room with a bath. He said 35 pounds. I took out my guide book and asked about the Green Court Hotel. "Oh, you don't want to go there, mate, run by Indians..." I told him I was going to shop around. There were hotels everywhere you look. I went into the first one, the Ramses, and asked for a single with bath. The Indian behind the counter gave me a key to look at a 30 pound room. It was tiny, had a shower at the foot of the bed, a sink at the head of the bed, and no toilet. I went down and asked if any rooms had tubs. He said no, none of the hotels in the area had tubs. I thanked him and left. Across the street was a larger hotel, a Best Western. I asked for a single with bath, they replied yes all our rooms have baths. The receptionist asks if I understood the rates (they were posted right next to her head). 65 pounds. I said yes that's fine. She asked how long I was staying I said one night and the other receptionist suddenly is saying sorry we don't have any singles but we can give you a double...there's a convention you know...I went to a few other hotels and was given some version of the same scam. Finally I reached the Green Court. A very friendly Indian man gave me the key to a single on the 1st landing. He said it was 25 pounds. It had a sink at the foot of the bed and a separate room with toilet and a tub. The window faced the tube tracks and the sheets were moldy. (Although when I returned later they had put fresh sheets on.)
I took the tube to Covent Garden and stopped at a restaurant for lunch and I asked the american waitress if she knew how to find a number through information, or if she had a phone directory. She was no help, said she had similar problems figuring out the English phone system. I walked around then took the tube to Glouster Road, bought a map, and walked towards Earls Court. I bought a watch for 40 quid, it is by Naf Naf. Back at Earls Court I went to a phone service and tried calling everyone. Paid 10 pence for reaching an answering machine in France. Stopped at a pub for a pint and asked to see a phone directory. No listing for Simon but I found an internet service nearby, "declare". It was just round the corner from my hotel. Mostly LCIIIs, they didn't serve food or drinks. I logged on (5/hr) checked my eMail. I tried to update my journal with an old version of Fetch but it uploaded everything as .htm.txt files. Went to another pub. Called Matt. Back to my hotel ( new sheets!). Then took a much needed hot bath. Whoever had changed the sheets had left a girlie mag in the night stand. Then I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant across the street. Went to a grocery store and bought yogurt, beer, sweets, and a Time Out. Back at the hotel I read in the Time Out where all the internet cafes were and a listing of hotels, one of which was the Windermere near Victoria. It was listed at 65 per single. I watched tele for a bit and fell asleep.
Thursday Sept 12th
The next morning I got up and called the hotel. They had a room. I went down the street and made some calls. Took the tube to Sloan Square and then a cab to the hotel (it was 10 am). They let me have a nice double for 65. It had a nice shower and a big bed. I set off for the Internet Cafe near Victoria. I logged on and got my eMail and sent a note to the QTVR list saying I was traveling through Europe, and listed my itinerary. It was a beautiful day. I walked up the road to Buckingham Palace and took three panoramas. Walked up to Piccadilly Circus, found the Global Cafe. Logged on again. Talked to the manager about QTVR, he was interested in having some done when they finished redecorating. I gave him my card and said I'd be back in November. He said he would eMail me a proposal. Took the tube back to Victoria. Stopped for a pint. Took a shower at the hotel, put on my white shirt and went down to happy hour at the hotel bar (7:30pm). I had two Pernods for one then sat down to dinner (Turkey Provençal). Chatted with the french bartender and chef, then went up to sleep.
Friday, Sept 13
Next morning I went down to breakfast ( bacon and eggs, very tasty). Got my things in order. The hotel owner was kind enough to give me a lift to another hotel. It was closer to the station but the room was on the 4th floor. It had a tub. Walked over to the internet cafe, got eMail from Daniel Brugger in Switzerland and Tim Carrol in Paris, both responding to my posting on the QTVR list. Got a note from Matt. Sent notes to Matt and the eCafe. I looked in on the live cam at the eCafe but it was 5am there...
There was a tour bus leaving from across the street. It was one of those double decker jobs with an open top. I figured I could get some good shots and it would be nicer than taking the tube. I asked the driver how much, he said ten bob, but you could get on and off all day- the busses ran every 15 minutes. So I got on. It wasn't very interesting...we passed the American embassy and a large group of protesters were gathered there but the tour guide only mentioned the wing span of the eagle stuck to the side of the soviet-style building, "It's as wide as this bus..." We eventually got to Parliament and I got off. I hadn't bought a ticket so I got a nice free ride around town. The weather was glorious so I took lots of photos (I remember Parliament being black now it’s gold). Walked along the Thames to the Embankment and took the tube to Gough Road. Had a sushi lunch with beer and saki. Then just around the corner was Cyberia. As I was standing in line for a terminal, a guy asked why I had a spirit level on my camera. I explained it was for QuickTime VR panoramas. He says he manages Cyberia and edits an internet magazine and would like to know more ( but he was in a hurry). I gave him my card. Logged on, got a note from Xroads with Andy Bower's eMail address and a note from William Donelson (QTVRer from Earls Court) saying I should call.
I took the tube to the hotel ( stopped at a pub for a pint and a gimlet-the bartender had never heard of a gimlet).Very unfriendly fuckers at every pub so far. Bought some bubble bath. Went back and used it. Fell asleep early- no dinner.
Saturday, Sept 14
Got up for breakfast ( overcooked eggs and greasy bacon with a side of deep fried wonderbread) Took a shower, packed and paid up. Walked to the station and put my bags in a locker. Went to the internet cafe. Note from Matt. Took the tube to Earls Court, to make phone calls. Was able to contact Keith's girlfriend in Prague, she said he was going to be in the Ukraine until October 3rd. I gave her my e mail address and said I would be in Prague around the 1st. I walked to South Kensington, had lunch at the Gran Cafe near the V&A. Went to 'declare' but their system was down, went to phone place- no contact. Took the tube back to Victoria, bought a ticket on the overnight train/ferry to Amsterdam. Departs 7pm arrives 9am. 60 quid. Unfortunately leaves from Liverpool Street on the other side of town. I go kill a few hours at the internet cafe. Then get my bags and take the Circle Line.
On the tube: A street musician is just stepping off the train telling everyone, "I'll be playing at so and so pub next Wednesday...", in a thick Irish brogue. A pinstriped suited old man stepping on says,"get off you IRA bastard!". The longhair with the guitar responds,"You've got as much intelligence as the boot end of my arse you narrow-minded ponce..."
Sometime later
OK, so I'm on the fucking ferry. Sitting in the middle of this fucking disco, talking to my new friend, Roderick, from Utrcht (excuse me). We are talking about this German girl sitting with her friends. I go over and introduce myself, offer to buy them drinks, they ignore me. Later, Roderick, after talking with one of the other German girls tells me that they thought I was 40...So I go to the fucking casino on the fucking ferry and blow 5 pounds on roulette...So its a fucking 7 hour ride through disco hell. I'm just drunk enough to be in sync with the boat...I should have taken the chunnel, like fucking Tom Cruise.
Sunday, September 16th
OK, I feel better. I slept for a while, then we were herded off the boat, given validations. My friend Roderick took the train to Rotterdam and I took the express to Amsterdam. When I arrived I tossed a coin three times: heads go directly to Zwolle, tails stay in Amsterdam. Heads three times, so I bought a ticket to Zwolle.
At this point I'm in some serious hurt. I drag myself off the train in Zwolle and to a taxi. I tell him to take me to a reasonable hotel. It is 150 whatever a night. OK. It has a jacuzzi bath. OK. It won't be ready for an hour. OK. It's a ten minute walk to town. I leave my bags. Take a map with me. The town has a moat. I see Annemieke's old address on the map so I walk by. Nice place. So I'm downtown now- it's Sunday morning- like a fucking neutron bomb went off. A few people ride around on bikes. Thousands of bikes parked everywhere- none locked. I look like an extra from Pulp Fiction in my black two button jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans - I get funny looks. I go back to the hotel, draw a bubble bath (nice big tub), peel off my clothes, and dive in. I still hurt. Crawl into bed and sleep until six. Shave, put my hair in order and go out. I walk to the center of town, legs sore but unencumbered by anything but my journal. I'm taking stock of my aches and pains- mostly my left shoulder, thighs and both knees. I puruse various restaurants, no one is particularly friendly but they all speak english. So I settle on a place called 'Weekends'. I have tomato soup and chicken Sate (the waitress explained that it is a traditional Dutch preparation- chicken skewers with peanut sauce- I asked if that was anything like the Thai dish, she gave me a confused look.
Monday, Sept 17th
Get up early, have breakfast: grapenuts, coffee, oj, canned fruit salad, cold cuts and bread. The coffee was good. Gave my laundry to the hotelier. Organized my camera bag and set out. I stopped at some store; it was either a realtor or travel agency, everyone was sitting at a computer. I said, " This is a little off the wall, but do you know of anyplace in town that has internet access, perhaps a university?" They said, " Yes, there is a university but its quite far to walk..." Another said, " Don't you have a car?", "No I don't have a car", "Taxi, you could take a taxi" I thanked them and left. I walked to the main plaza, set up and took a panorama. Then I walked around town, took another pano of a castle and fountain. Then I walked back to the square and bought some postcards and a Herald. On the way back to the hotel I passed a bar that had a small Mel's style pool table. I ordered a beer and asked to play. Three college kids were playing, one, an asian, was quite good. I played (and won) several games. We talked, they were very friendly. One was wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Finally I lost and went back to the hotel. I told them I would be back later.
At the hotel I changed clothes and left my equipment. I set out again for town, stopping on the way at Annemieke's old house. There was a piece of paper taped next to the buzzer: M= 1 buzz W= 2 buzz C= 3 buzz F= 4 buzz Jehovas= 10 buzz. I rang once and got no answer so I rang twice. A young man answered. I told him I was looking for Annemieke. He invited me into the foyer and showed me her address pinned to the wall. He gave me a piece of paper to write on. I wrote down her number, then walked back to the bar. The same guys were still there. I bought them all beers and played another game. I tried calling A's number but got a weird out-of order tone. I asked my new friends what that meant. "Oh, yes, we have a new prefix in Zwolle, you must dial 4 first" So I did. A man answered, undaunted I asked for Annemieke. After a pause she was on the line.
"Hello, Annemieke, this is Mark, Mark Norris, from Amerika,"
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I know it's been awhile, a year or so, we met in Chiapas..."
"Yes, of course...This is unexpected. How are you..."
"I'm fine, I was wondering if I could take you to dinner."
"Dinner...?But..."
"I'm in Zwolle...I'm staying at the hotel Fidder."
"You are in Zwolle!" I could hear her talking in Dutch to someone.
Then,"What brings you to Holland?"
"I'm just passing through on my way to Prague, I'm doing photography for the internet..."
"Oh, yes so you are doing the same..."
"Yes, and you, are you still in radio?"
"Yes, yes, a different company but still radio..." There was a pause.
" So I invite you to dinner, here; I will cook for you..."
"OK, that would be nice"
"Yes, you can see my place...just give me an hour and a half. Yes? I need to clean up..."
"OK."
"And if you get lost call I will pick you up, I have a car now..."
So I bought another round for the gang, told them my good news. We played more pool but eventually we just sat around talking about films and conspiracy theories. They were looking forward to the impending release of "Independence Day". Coincidence?
After an hour or so I walked over to Annemieke's. She lived just across from the train station. She answered the door, I didn't recognize her at first. She had short hair. The apartment was dark, she led me down a dark hall to the kitchen. Her boyfriend was at the stove. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I sat down. They chopped food and we chatted. A bottle of wine was opened. They were making cheese fondue. We went outside to set the table but it was too cold. We drank another bottle of wine. Annemieke's friend, Margoram, who was with her in Chiapas, came over. I gave them a picture I took of them there. The boyfriend was in entertainment tv. We talked about politics. He is a Palestinian. Margoram doesn't like him. I drank another bottle of wine (white wine! I should have known better...) I even made myself a martini...Annemieke said she would drive me back to my hotel. Margoram left and Annemieke drove me back (she was very proud of her plastic car). I don't remember what I said to her but I think I said I was glad to see her again. She hastily wrote her address and number on a receipt laying on the dash. This artifact is all I have to show it all went well. I went up to my room, tossed my case on the bed and walked to town. I asked a taxi to take me to "girls"...He drove me down some back alleys and deposited me in front of a garage door that had a video camera. I knocked and was buzzed in. It was a tacky bar, one large blonde at the counter. She was the bartender. I asked for a beer. I talked with her for a while, she asked if I wanted to take a Jacuzzi. I asked 'how much?'. She said 100 of whatever they called money. I had to go to the bank. I walked around the darkened alleys, found the bank, found my way back, and ended up in the tub with this large Dutch woman surrounded by stuffed animals. I asked ' what's up with all the teddy bears?' She said they belong to the Russian girls; this was their room. It was a big room, filled with stuffed animals, with a big bed at one end and a big Jacuzzi at the other. I asked 'where are the Russians?'. She said 'they're around'...
Tuesday
The next morning I was woken at 9 by someone asking if I was coming down to breakfast (served until 10). I said , "No, I would like some coffee." I packed up and went down. A woman I hadn't seen before was behind the desk. She wore a black low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage. She gave me the bill ( the phone bill was more than the room). I asked her to call me a cab and add a pot of coffee to the bill. She said I could have the coffee free because I missed breakfast. The taxi took me to the station. I bought a ticket and sat at a cafe for more coffee and a ham sandwich. I felt like shit. Took the train. I actually got annoyed at all the chain smoking going on around me. Walked right out of the station in Amsterdam and got on a tram. The driver wanted to know how far I was going. I said I didn't know, I would get off when I saw something I liked. She sold me a 3 gilder ticket, saying,"It is good for the center." I rode a few blocks and got off. She seemed disappointed. I walked away from the busy streets until I found a hotel that seemed like it would be clean and quiet. The Nova Hotel; 150 guilders for a single with shower. It was a tacky, modern room compared to Zwolle and it faced a street with a tram track, it had porno on the TV. So I chilled for a bit, took a shower. I asked at the desk where the internet cafe was. They showed me on a map the general area they thought it was. I think they misunderstood me because they sent me to the red-light district (intercourse cafe? intersex cafe?). I walked around worriedly. A lot of seedy looking people lurking in dark alleyways. Some cute girls standing behind windows in their undies. They would tap the glass with their rings as I passed by. Finally, I had dinner at a sushi place (mental note: do not ever go to a sushi place in Europe-they all suck). Then went back to the hotel to watch bad porn and 'Get Shorty'.
Wednesday
Next day, got up and went out with my camera. Went to the Mini-Office, a computer center with internet . Very slow connection. Checked my mail. I asked about the internet cafe and they looked it up in a guide book. I headed towards it, stopped at a used clothing store because it was cold. I wanted to buy a Gaberdine coat but they didn't take credit cards. So I headed for a bank. End up at Top's Internet Cafe. Log on, drink coffee, get eMail. I fix my journal a bit using Fetch on their Mac. Go back towards the hotel, stop at bank, have lunch, write postcards, back to clothing store, buy coat. I go back to the hotel and rest, watch CNN. Get up, take a shower, head for 'Top's'. Stop on the way at 'Shiva' for a delicious dinner (chicken tikka). (mental note: Indian restaurants in Europe are better than sushi places). Very satisfied, I walk through Rembrant Platz, passed-up all the strip joints and made it to 'Tops'. Ordered a beer and started updating my journal. Got as far as Zwolle. More beers at the bar, inhaling all the second hand hash smoke. If I weren't alone and traveling tomorrow I'd be tempted to get some. I'm pretty pleased with my stay in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, I'll check my bags at the station, buy a ticket for Paris, and spend the day photographing. I get a bit freaked out when I think about how much this is costing and how I should have more to show for it. But, I'm learning and I'm writing, and I should have some good photos. Had a few more beers and talked to the manager of 'Tops' about QTVR. He was interested but hadn't downloaded the plug-ins. On the way home I bought some Gaulois Blondes and had a Guiness.
Thursday
Having breakfast at the Nova, I figure I should stay another night. Get some good panos today and tomorrow. I need to rest my leg ( my right shin is fucked-up) Went to the post office, mailed 11 cards. Took a pano from a pretty bridge. Walked and walked, had a shwarma for lunch and ended up at Top's. Had a beer, only seven messages- all to the QTVR list. Bit low on cash so I didn't send any mail nor update my page. Played pinball. Walked towards the Rikjsmuseum, stopped at the Amnesty International bar/cafe/movie house. Some thoughts on Europe: I grew up in a very different England. London, I remember, was a dark, dismal place. The countryside was bucolic, small villages unmarred by superhighways and chain stores where the local pub was a friendly meeting place (yes, even as a little kid I was hanging out in bars). Now London is a big, americanized melting pot boiling over with hatred and mistrust.
The Dutch really pride themselves on speaking English but someone needs to point out that they aren't very good at it. Usually, they speak in a broken pig English (is that redundant?), which is fine, but they don't seem to always understand what is being said. They hear what they want to hear. I suppose, because they are taught English from an early age and they deal with so many tourists, they think it is too easy, but they miss the subtleties. Don't get me wrong, I can't even order a beer in Dutch, this is not some rant about English-uber-alles, I think people should preserve their culture through language. When I go to another country I don't mind if no one speaks my language. It is always possible to make oneself understood. It forces you to pay greater attention to people. I think of Marco Polo traveling the spice route through a myriad of established, exotic cultures; the respect and wonder he showed their customs. He didn't have a phrase book. He didn't eat at the local McDuce's pizzeria everywhere he went. So, to give credit where due, the Dutch speak English better than the Germans, the French, and the English. And they are a handsome race.
What's up with all these Russian whores everywhere? They had them in Cambodia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Zwolle...Isn't it enough that Amerika won the cold war, they also have to turn all russian women into sex slaves? How proud to be a Russian today: dad's a drunk, mom works at McDonalds, sis is a whore, little boris is a thug, gramma and gramps are in the street, and I'm in the Mafia...Well I haven't been to Russia yet, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm sure I'll have something to say about the French when I get there. I've been boycotting French wine for a while now because of their killing of a photographer on the Greenpeace boat that their spies blew up in New Zealand.
O.K., enough of that. I'm at a bar called Balls. I think that is because they have pool tables but I'm not sure. The music has turned sour here at Balls. So I'll move on. A bicyclist just rode by singing, "the secret life...of a-ra-bia.." I thought that was amusing. My choice of bars now, just within blocks of my hotel, has dwindled. The last one was packed, no place to sit, a mix of Americans and Dutch but too typical. I walked by the 'Kandinski', which has a nice ring to it, but aside from a few couples necking there was no one there. I chose the place I am now because of the cute bartendress. It is dark with beer stiens and antelope heads on the walls. Full of only self-absorbed Dutch people. Still, it's better than television. It is just after midnight. I will have all day tomorrow to finish my Amsterdam experience.
These fucking French cigarettes suck. Cobblestones are pretty but they wreak hell on my shins. Still, outside of Elsie's, New York, the eCafe, parts of Seattle, San Francisco and LA, Amerika blows compared to Holland. The Dutch do have that annoying throat-clearing conflux of syllables when they speak their own language. I'll have to recommend this bar, if I ever figure out what it's called. It gives a realistic impression of Dutch life. The average Dutchman wears either a windbreaker or a stylish KGB-style leather jacket, wide-collar shirt, and jeans. The women wear short skirts with black stockings, cable turtleneck sweaters. I'm wearing my new gaberdine overcoat, blue shirt, black sweatshirt, black jeans, scarf and Vans. My black-dyed hair is usually standing on end from sleeping on the train or too small a bed. I'll have one more smoke then go back to the hotel.
I was thinking before I left on this trip that I needed to live more to write more and to find a quiet place, free of distractions where I could commit it all to paper, but I haven't really done anything. It is good to write this journal because it is clearing the cobwebs out of my head - but I need to spend some serious time putting it together in a readable format. And I need to write a sensible story involving my dreams and ambitions. Perhaps in this journal I should concentrate less on my comings and goings and more on the atmosphere of places I am. Aside from my asides I have skipped a lot of the visual, tactile details of this trip. The piss smell of the London tube for example. I said this cafe was dark; bars in Holland are called 'brown cafes' because the centuries of tobacco smoke have turned the walls brown. I haven't met anyone who doesn't smoke. Sitting at Top's internet cafe I could taste the second hand hash smoke. So sweet smelling. Luckily, at the time I still had some Exports. I'd rather smoke hash than these shitty french cigarettes.
sometime later
There are similarities in Steve Erickson's stories, particularly his very autobiographical 'Amnesiascope', to my own untold stories and dreams. His obsession with a girl he calls Sally is so similar to my feelings towards Sophie. Each of his previous books have in some way focused on his relation to her. Of equal importance is his respect for the meaning of dreams - not necessarily that his or mine mean anything or are precognitive but he gives their mystery the deference deserved. His stories interweave dreams and a dreamlike reality and are propelled by the passions of very real characters. The best writers I can think of use similar techniques - essentially they are driven to find the truth of consciousness using self-perception and unconscious archetypes. Thomas Pynchon, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Phillip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, Ursurla K. LeGuin, Martin Amis, Steve Erickson, Jonathan Lethem...that's all that come to mind at the moment. This is an aside but Erickson mentions one of my favorite movies, "In a Lonely Place" in Amnesiascope. It stars Humphrey Bogart as an alcoholic screenwriter accused of murder. Very intense depiction of writer's block. Another great movie few people have ever heard of is "Cry of the Penguins" starring a youthful John Hurt.
I am sitting here in the Lizard Lounge in Le Marais a few blocks from my hotel, the Grand Hotel Mahler. I had a lovely dinner; poulet citron, and was pleased to find it full of and run by americans ( the lounge not my chicken). Now they are playing Portishead so I decided to stay and drink.
I made the ten am flight to JFK. Robbie Robertson and two buddhist monks were on the plane. After deplaning I was smoking at the curbside of the terminal and saw one of the monks pull a cell phone from within the folds of his robe. The other monk bowed a greeting to him but got no response.
Wednesday, Sept 11th
I made the eight pm flight to Heathrow. The movie was "The Arrival", about yuppie aliens terraforming the earth to suit their own smog-breathing ecosystem. There was a lengthy promo for ABC-Disney-American Airlines-NFL monday nights that was clearly a rip on "Independence Day". This was followed by a Nightline episode about "life on Mars" that featured scenes from the movie...Coincidence?
Slept well, skipped breakfast. Passed easily through customs and soon found myself on the tube to Earl's Court. Upon exiting the subway station a man asked if I was looking for a hotel. He wanted to direct me to one down the street. I asked how much for a room with a bath. He said 35 pounds. I took out my guide book and asked about the Green Court Hotel. "Oh, you don't want to go there, mate, run by Indians..." I told him I was going to shop around. There were hotels everywhere you look. I went into the first one, the Ramses, and asked for a single with bath. The Indian behind the counter gave me a key to look at a 30 pound room. It was tiny, had a shower at the foot of the bed, a sink at the head of the bed, and no toilet. I went down and asked if any rooms had tubs. He said no, none of the hotels in the area had tubs. I thanked him and left. Across the street was a larger hotel, a Best Western. I asked for a single with bath, they replied yes all our rooms have baths. The receptionist asks if I understood the rates (they were posted right next to her head). 65 pounds. I said yes that's fine. She asked how long I was staying I said one night and the other receptionist suddenly is saying sorry we don't have any singles but we can give you a double...there's a convention you know...I went to a few other hotels and was given some version of the same scam. Finally I reached the Green Court. A very friendly Indian man gave me the key to a single on the 1st landing. He said it was 25 pounds. It had a sink at the foot of the bed and a separate room with toilet and a tub. The window faced the tube tracks and the sheets were moldy. (Although when I returned later they had put fresh sheets on.)
I took the tube to Covent Garden and stopped at a restaurant for lunch and I asked the american waitress if she knew how to find a number through information, or if she had a phone directory. She was no help, said she had similar problems figuring out the English phone system. I walked around then took the tube to Glouster Road, bought a map, and walked towards Earls Court. I bought a watch for 40 quid, it is by Naf Naf. Back at Earls Court I went to a phone service and tried calling everyone. Paid 10 pence for reaching an answering machine in France. Stopped at a pub for a pint and asked to see a phone directory. No listing for Simon but I found an internet service nearby, "declare". It was just round the corner from my hotel. Mostly LCIIIs, they didn't serve food or drinks. I logged on (5/hr) checked my eMail. I tried to update my journal with an old version of Fetch but it uploaded everything as .htm.txt files. Went to another pub. Called Matt. Back to my hotel ( new sheets!). Then took a much needed hot bath. Whoever had changed the sheets had left a girlie mag in the night stand. Then I went out to dinner at an Indian restaurant across the street. Went to a grocery store and bought yogurt, beer, sweets, and a Time Out. Back at the hotel I read in the Time Out where all the internet cafes were and a listing of hotels, one of which was the Windermere near Victoria. It was listed at 65 per single. I watched tele for a bit and fell asleep.
Thursday Sept 12th
The next morning I got up and called the hotel. They had a room. I went down the street and made some calls. Took the tube to Sloan Square and then a cab to the hotel (it was 10 am). They let me have a nice double for 65. It had a nice shower and a big bed. I set off for the Internet Cafe near Victoria. I logged on and got my eMail and sent a note to the QTVR list saying I was traveling through Europe, and listed my itinerary. It was a beautiful day. I walked up the road to Buckingham Palace and took three panoramas. Walked up to Piccadilly Circus, found the Global Cafe. Logged on again. Talked to the manager about QTVR, he was interested in having some done when they finished redecorating. I gave him my card and said I'd be back in November. He said he would eMail me a proposal. Took the tube back to Victoria. Stopped for a pint. Took a shower at the hotel, put on my white shirt and went down to happy hour at the hotel bar (7:30pm). I had two Pernods for one then sat down to dinner (Turkey Provençal). Chatted with the french bartender and chef, then went up to sleep.
Friday, Sept 13
Next morning I went down to breakfast ( bacon and eggs, very tasty). Got my things in order. The hotel owner was kind enough to give me a lift to another hotel. It was closer to the station but the room was on the 4th floor. It had a tub. Walked over to the internet cafe, got eMail from Daniel Brugger in Switzerland and Tim Carrol in Paris, both responding to my posting on the QTVR list. Got a note from Matt. Sent notes to Matt and the eCafe. I looked in on the live cam at the eCafe but it was 5am there...
There was a tour bus leaving from across the street. It was one of those double decker jobs with an open top. I figured I could get some good shots and it would be nicer than taking the tube. I asked the driver how much, he said ten bob, but you could get on and off all day- the busses ran every 15 minutes. So I got on. It wasn't very interesting...we passed the American embassy and a large group of protesters were gathered there but the tour guide only mentioned the wing span of the eagle stuck to the side of the soviet-style building, "It's as wide as this bus..." We eventually got to Parliament and I got off. I hadn't bought a ticket so I got a nice free ride around town. The weather was glorious so I took lots of photos (I remember Parliament being black now it’s gold). Walked along the Thames to the Embankment and took the tube to Gough Road. Had a sushi lunch with beer and saki. Then just around the corner was Cyberia. As I was standing in line for a terminal, a guy asked why I had a spirit level on my camera. I explained it was for QuickTime VR panoramas. He says he manages Cyberia and edits an internet magazine and would like to know more ( but he was in a hurry). I gave him my card. Logged on, got a note from Xroads with Andy Bower's eMail address and a note from William Donelson (QTVRer from Earls Court) saying I should call.
I took the tube to the hotel ( stopped at a pub for a pint and a gimlet-the bartender had never heard of a gimlet).Very unfriendly fuckers at every pub so far. Bought some bubble bath. Went back and used it. Fell asleep early- no dinner.
Saturday, Sept 14
Got up for breakfast ( overcooked eggs and greasy bacon with a side of deep fried wonderbread) Took a shower, packed and paid up. Walked to the station and put my bags in a locker. Went to the internet cafe. Note from Matt. Took the tube to Earls Court, to make phone calls. Was able to contact Keith's girlfriend in Prague, she said he was going to be in the Ukraine until October 3rd. I gave her my e mail address and said I would be in Prague around the 1st. I walked to South Kensington, had lunch at the Gran Cafe near the V&A. Went to 'declare' but their system was down, went to phone place- no contact. Took the tube back to Victoria, bought a ticket on the overnight train/ferry to Amsterdam. Departs 7pm arrives 9am. 60 quid. Unfortunately leaves from Liverpool Street on the other side of town. I go kill a few hours at the internet cafe. Then get my bags and take the Circle Line.
On the tube: A street musician is just stepping off the train telling everyone, "I'll be playing at so and so pub next Wednesday...", in a thick Irish brogue. A pinstriped suited old man stepping on says,"get off you IRA bastard!". The longhair with the guitar responds,"You've got as much intelligence as the boot end of my arse you narrow-minded ponce..."
Sometime later
OK, so I'm on the fucking ferry. Sitting in the middle of this fucking disco, talking to my new friend, Roderick, from Utrcht (excuse me). We are talking about this German girl sitting with her friends. I go over and introduce myself, offer to buy them drinks, they ignore me. Later, Roderick, after talking with one of the other German girls tells me that they thought I was 40...So I go to the fucking casino on the fucking ferry and blow 5 pounds on roulette...So its a fucking 7 hour ride through disco hell. I'm just drunk enough to be in sync with the boat...I should have taken the chunnel, like fucking Tom Cruise.
Sunday, September 16th
OK, I feel better. I slept for a while, then we were herded off the boat, given validations. My friend Roderick took the train to Rotterdam and I took the express to Amsterdam. When I arrived I tossed a coin three times: heads go directly to Zwolle, tails stay in Amsterdam. Heads three times, so I bought a ticket to Zwolle.
At this point I'm in some serious hurt. I drag myself off the train in Zwolle and to a taxi. I tell him to take me to a reasonable hotel. It is 150 whatever a night. OK. It has a jacuzzi bath. OK. It won't be ready for an hour. OK. It's a ten minute walk to town. I leave my bags. Take a map with me. The town has a moat. I see Annemieke's old address on the map so I walk by. Nice place. So I'm downtown now- it's Sunday morning- like a fucking neutron bomb went off. A few people ride around on bikes. Thousands of bikes parked everywhere- none locked. I look like an extra from Pulp Fiction in my black two button jacket, white collared shirt and black jeans - I get funny looks. I go back to the hotel, draw a bubble bath (nice big tub), peel off my clothes, and dive in. I still hurt. Crawl into bed and sleep until six. Shave, put my hair in order and go out. I walk to the center of town, legs sore but unencumbered by anything but my journal. I'm taking stock of my aches and pains- mostly my left shoulder, thighs and both knees. I puruse various restaurants, no one is particularly friendly but they all speak english. So I settle on a place called 'Weekends'. I have tomato soup and chicken Sate (the waitress explained that it is a traditional Dutch preparation- chicken skewers with peanut sauce- I asked if that was anything like the Thai dish, she gave me a confused look.
Monday, Sept 17th
Get up early, have breakfast: grapenuts, coffee, oj, canned fruit salad, cold cuts and bread. The coffee was good. Gave my laundry to the hotelier. Organized my camera bag and set out. I stopped at some store; it was either a realtor or travel agency, everyone was sitting at a computer. I said, " This is a little off the wall, but do you know of anyplace in town that has internet access, perhaps a university?" They said, " Yes, there is a university but its quite far to walk..." Another said, " Don't you have a car?", "No I don't have a car", "Taxi, you could take a taxi" I thanked them and left. I walked to the main plaza, set up and took a panorama. Then I walked around town, took another pano of a castle and fountain. Then I walked back to the square and bought some postcards and a Herald. On the way back to the hotel I passed a bar that had a small Mel's style pool table. I ordered a beer and asked to play. Three college kids were playing, one, an asian, was quite good. I played (and won) several games. We talked, they were very friendly. One was wearing a Chicago Blackhawks jersey. Finally I lost and went back to the hotel. I told them I would be back later.
At the hotel I changed clothes and left my equipment. I set out again for town, stopping on the way at Annemieke's old house. There was a piece of paper taped next to the buzzer: M= 1 buzz W= 2 buzz C= 3 buzz F= 4 buzz Jehovas= 10 buzz. I rang once and got no answer so I rang twice. A young man answered. I told him I was looking for Annemieke. He invited me into the foyer and showed me her address pinned to the wall. He gave me a piece of paper to write on. I wrote down her number, then walked back to the bar. The same guys were still there. I bought them all beers and played another game. I tried calling A's number but got a weird out-of order tone. I asked my new friends what that meant. "Oh, yes, we have a new prefix in Zwolle, you must dial 4 first" So I did. A man answered, undaunted I asked for Annemieke. After a pause she was on the line.
"Hello, Annemieke, this is Mark, Mark Norris, from Amerika,"
"Yes, hello, how are you?"
"I know it's been awhile, a year or so, we met in Chiapas..."
"Yes, of course...This is unexpected. How are you..."
"I'm fine, I was wondering if I could take you to dinner."
"Dinner...?But..."
"I'm in Zwolle...I'm staying at the hotel Fidder."
"You are in Zwolle!" I could hear her talking in Dutch to someone.
Then,"What brings you to Holland?"
"I'm just passing through on my way to Prague, I'm doing photography for the internet..."
"Oh, yes so you are doing the same..."
"Yes, and you, are you still in radio?"
"Yes, yes, a different company but still radio..." There was a pause.
" So I invite you to dinner, here; I will cook for you..."
"OK, that would be nice"
"Yes, you can see my place...just give me an hour and a half. Yes? I need to clean up..."
"OK."
"And if you get lost call I will pick you up, I have a car now..."
So I bought another round for the gang, told them my good news. We played more pool but eventually we just sat around talking about films and conspiracy theories. They were looking forward to the impending release of "Independence Day". Coincidence?
After an hour or so I walked over to Annemieke's. She lived just across from the train station. She answered the door, I didn't recognize her at first. She had short hair. The apartment was dark, she led me down a dark hall to the kitchen. Her boyfriend was at the stove. We exchanged pleasantries. Then I sat down. They chopped food and we chatted. A bottle of wine was opened. They were making cheese fondue. We went outside to set the table but it was too cold. We drank another bottle of wine. Annemieke's friend, Margoram, who was with her in Chiapas, came over. I gave them a picture I took of them there. The boyfriend was in entertainment tv. We talked about politics. He is a Palestinian. Margoram doesn't like him. I drank another bottle of wine (white wine! I should have known better...) I even made myself a martini...Annemieke said she would drive me back to my hotel. Margoram left and Annemieke drove me back (she was very proud of her plastic car). I don't remember what I said to her but I think I said I was glad to see her again. She hastily wrote her address and number on a receipt laying on the dash. This artifact is all I have to show it all went well. I went up to my room, tossed my case on the bed and walked to town. I asked a taxi to take me to "girls"...He drove me down some back alleys and deposited me in front of a garage door that had a video camera. I knocked and was buzzed in. It was a tacky bar, one large blonde at the counter. She was the bartender. I asked for a beer. I talked with her for a while, she asked if I wanted to take a Jacuzzi. I asked 'how much?'. She said 100 of whatever they called money. I had to go to the bank. I walked around the darkened alleys, found the bank, found my way back, and ended up in the tub with this large Dutch woman surrounded by stuffed animals. I asked ' what's up with all the teddy bears?' She said they belong to the Russian girls; this was their room. It was a big room, filled with stuffed animals, with a big bed at one end and a big Jacuzzi at the other. I asked 'where are the Russians?'. She said 'they're around'...
Tuesday
The next morning I was woken at 9 by someone asking if I was coming down to breakfast (served until 10). I said , "No, I would like some coffee." I packed up and went down. A woman I hadn't seen before was behind the desk. She wore a black low-cut blouse that showed a lot of cleavage. She gave me the bill ( the phone bill was more than the room). I asked her to call me a cab and add a pot of coffee to the bill. She said I could have the coffee free because I missed breakfast. The taxi took me to the station. I bought a ticket and sat at a cafe for more coffee and a ham sandwich. I felt like shit. Took the train. I actually got annoyed at all the chain smoking going on around me. Walked right out of the station in Amsterdam and got on a tram. The driver wanted to know how far I was going. I said I didn't know, I would get off when I saw something I liked. She sold me a 3 gilder ticket, saying,"It is good for the center." I rode a few blocks and got off. She seemed disappointed. I walked away from the busy streets until I found a hotel that seemed like it would be clean and quiet. The Nova Hotel; 150 guilders for a single with shower. It was a tacky, modern room compared to Zwolle and it faced a street with a tram track, it had porno on the TV. So I chilled for a bit, took a shower. I asked at the desk where the internet cafe was. They showed me on a map the general area they thought it was. I think they misunderstood me because they sent me to the red-light district (intercourse cafe? intersex cafe?). I walked around worriedly. A lot of seedy looking people lurking in dark alleyways. Some cute girls standing behind windows in their undies. They would tap the glass with their rings as I passed by. Finally, I had dinner at a sushi place (mental note: do not ever go to a sushi place in Europe-they all suck). Then went back to the hotel to watch bad porn and 'Get Shorty'.
Wednesday
Next day, got up and went out with my camera. Went to the Mini-Office, a computer center with internet . Very slow connection. Checked my mail. I asked about the internet cafe and they looked it up in a guide book. I headed towards it, stopped at a used clothing store because it was cold. I wanted to buy a Gaberdine coat but they didn't take credit cards. So I headed for a bank. End up at Top's Internet Cafe. Log on, drink coffee, get eMail. I fix my journal a bit using Fetch on their Mac. Go back towards the hotel, stop at bank, have lunch, write postcards, back to clothing store, buy coat. I go back to the hotel and rest, watch CNN. Get up, take a shower, head for 'Top's'. Stop on the way at 'Shiva' for a delicious dinner (chicken tikka). (mental note: Indian restaurants in Europe are better than sushi places). Very satisfied, I walk through Rembrant Platz, passed-up all the strip joints and made it to 'Tops'. Ordered a beer and started updating my journal. Got as far as Zwolle. More beers at the bar, inhaling all the second hand hash smoke. If I weren't alone and traveling tomorrow I'd be tempted to get some. I'm pretty pleased with my stay in Amsterdam. Tomorrow, I'll check my bags at the station, buy a ticket for Paris, and spend the day photographing. I get a bit freaked out when I think about how much this is costing and how I should have more to show for it. But, I'm learning and I'm writing, and I should have some good photos. Had a few more beers and talked to the manager of 'Tops' about QTVR. He was interested but hadn't downloaded the plug-ins. On the way home I bought some Gaulois Blondes and had a Guiness.
Thursday
Having breakfast at the Nova, I figure I should stay another night. Get some good panos today and tomorrow. I need to rest my leg ( my right shin is fucked-up) Went to the post office, mailed 11 cards. Took a pano from a pretty bridge. Walked and walked, had a shwarma for lunch and ended up at Top's. Had a beer, only seven messages- all to the QTVR list. Bit low on cash so I didn't send any mail nor update my page. Played pinball. Walked towards the Rikjsmuseum, stopped at the Amnesty International bar/cafe/movie house. Some thoughts on Europe: I grew up in a very different England. London, I remember, was a dark, dismal place. The countryside was bucolic, small villages unmarred by superhighways and chain stores where the local pub was a friendly meeting place (yes, even as a little kid I was hanging out in bars). Now London is a big, americanized melting pot boiling over with hatred and mistrust.
The Dutch really pride themselves on speaking English but someone needs to point out that they aren't very good at it. Usually, they speak in a broken pig English (is that redundant?), which is fine, but they don't seem to always understand what is being said. They hear what they want to hear. I suppose, because they are taught English from an early age and they deal with so many tourists, they think it is too easy, but they miss the subtleties. Don't get me wrong, I can't even order a beer in Dutch, this is not some rant about English-uber-alles, I think people should preserve their culture through language. When I go to another country I don't mind if no one speaks my language. It is always possible to make oneself understood. It forces you to pay greater attention to people. I think of Marco Polo traveling the spice route through a myriad of established, exotic cultures; the respect and wonder he showed their customs. He didn't have a phrase book. He didn't eat at the local McDuce's pizzeria everywhere he went. So, to give credit where due, the Dutch speak English better than the Germans, the French, and the English. And they are a handsome race.
What's up with all these Russian whores everywhere? They had them in Cambodia, Thailand, Hong Kong, Zwolle...Isn't it enough that Amerika won the cold war, they also have to turn all russian women into sex slaves? How proud to be a Russian today: dad's a drunk, mom works at McDonalds, sis is a whore, little boris is a thug, gramma and gramps are in the street, and I'm in the Mafia...Well I haven't been to Russia yet, but it sounds pretty bad. I'm sure I'll have something to say about the French when I get there. I've been boycotting French wine for a while now because of their killing of a photographer on the Greenpeace boat that their spies blew up in New Zealand.
O.K., enough of that. I'm at a bar called Balls. I think that is because they have pool tables but I'm not sure. The music has turned sour here at Balls. So I'll move on. A bicyclist just rode by singing, "the secret life...of a-ra-bia.." I thought that was amusing. My choice of bars now, just within blocks of my hotel, has dwindled. The last one was packed, no place to sit, a mix of Americans and Dutch but too typical. I walked by the 'Kandinski', which has a nice ring to it, but aside from a few couples necking there was no one there. I chose the place I am now because of the cute bartendress. It is dark with beer stiens and antelope heads on the walls. Full of only self-absorbed Dutch people. Still, it's better than television. It is just after midnight. I will have all day tomorrow to finish my Amsterdam experience.
These fucking French cigarettes suck. Cobblestones are pretty but they wreak hell on my shins. Still, outside of Elsie's, New York, the eCafe, parts of Seattle, San Francisco and LA, Amerika blows compared to Holland. The Dutch do have that annoying throat-clearing conflux of syllables when they speak their own language. I'll have to recommend this bar, if I ever figure out what it's called. It gives a realistic impression of Dutch life. The average Dutchman wears either a windbreaker or a stylish KGB-style leather jacket, wide-collar shirt, and jeans. The women wear short skirts with black stockings, cable turtleneck sweaters. I'm wearing my new gaberdine overcoat, blue shirt, black sweatshirt, black jeans, scarf and Vans. My black-dyed hair is usually standing on end from sleeping on the train or too small a bed. I'll have one more smoke then go back to the hotel.
I was thinking before I left on this trip that I needed to live more to write more and to find a quiet place, free of distractions where I could commit it all to paper, but I haven't really done anything. It is good to write this journal because it is clearing the cobwebs out of my head - but I need to spend some serious time putting it together in a readable format. And I need to write a sensible story involving my dreams and ambitions. Perhaps in this journal I should concentrate less on my comings and goings and more on the atmosphere of places I am. Aside from my asides I have skipped a lot of the visual, tactile details of this trip. The piss smell of the London tube for example. I said this cafe was dark; bars in Holland are called 'brown cafes' because the centuries of tobacco smoke have turned the walls brown. I haven't met anyone who doesn't smoke. Sitting at Top's internet cafe I could taste the second hand hash smoke. So sweet smelling. Luckily, at the time I still had some Exports. I'd rather smoke hash than these shitty french cigarettes.
sometime later
There are similarities in Steve Erickson's stories, particularly his very autobiographical 'Amnesiascope', to my own untold stories and dreams. His obsession with a girl he calls Sally is so similar to my feelings towards Sophie. Each of his previous books have in some way focused on his relation to her. Of equal importance is his respect for the meaning of dreams - not necessarily that his or mine mean anything or are precognitive but he gives their mystery the deference deserved. His stories interweave dreams and a dreamlike reality and are propelled by the passions of very real characters. The best writers I can think of use similar techniques - essentially they are driven to find the truth of consciousness using self-perception and unconscious archetypes. Thomas Pynchon, Lawrence Durrell, Henry Miller, Phillip K. Dick, Samuel Delany, Ursurla K. LeGuin, Martin Amis, Steve Erickson, Jonathan Lethem...that's all that come to mind at the moment. This is an aside but Erickson mentions one of my favorite movies, "In a Lonely Place" in Amnesiascope. It stars Humphrey Bogart as an alcoholic screenwriter accused of murder. Very intense depiction of writer's block. Another great movie few people have ever heard of is "Cry of the Penguins" starring a youthful John Hurt.
I am sitting here in the Lizard Lounge in Le Marais a few blocks from my hotel, the Grand Hotel Mahler. I had a lovely dinner; poulet citron, and was pleased to find it full of and run by americans ( the lounge not my chicken). Now they are playing Portishead so I decided to stay and drink.
Tuesday, September 20, 1994
Chiapas 1994
Chiapas, Mexico, 1994 August
I flew out of LAX at 12 midnight on Tuesday the 9th of August. Arrived at Mexico City at 5:30 am on Wednesday the 10th. waited in a restaurant called the Baron Roja. Made the plane to Tuxtla at 7:30 am. As I left the airport terminal someone said, “Are you a Norris?”. It was Tom and it was a good guess as I was the only gringo getting off the plane. We hugged and walked over to a cafe. As he was ordering me a coke and tamale a policeman came over and asked me to respond to some questions. I told him to wait. Thomas returned and told him I was “solo un touristo”. If I had been a journalist I was required to fill out all these forms because of the election. Then we took a ride in a Ford Bronco for two hours as I nodded in and out of sleep the car careened up switch backs into the mountains of Chiapas. At last we arrived and I took a nap.
We walked to the center of town and rented a bike then went to Thomas’ office.
I flew out of LAX at 12 midnight on Tuesday the 9th of August. Arrived at Mexico City at 5:30 am on Wednesday the 10th. waited in a restaurant called the Baron Roja. Made the plane to Tuxtla at 7:30 am. As I left the airport terminal someone said, “Are you a Norris?”. It was Tom and it was a good guess as I was the only gringo getting off the plane. We hugged and walked over to a cafe. As he was ordering me a coke and tamale a policeman came over and asked me to respond to some questions. I told him to wait. Thomas returned and told him I was “solo un touristo”. If I had been a journalist I was required to fill out all these forms because of the election. Then we took a ride in a Ford Bronco for two hours as I nodded in and out of sleep the car careened up switch backs into the mountains of Chiapas. At last we arrived and I took a nap.
We walked to the center of town and rented a bike then went to Thomas’ office.
Wednesday, February 02, 1994
Journal
In the waning months of 1993 I happened to run into my old high-school friend, Chris Riley. He had just returned from working in Hong Kong and Cambodia as a photo-journalist. He described a proposal he had put together involving "priceless photographic archives in Cambodia, threatened by a volatile political situation, years of neglect, lack of resources and the absence of staff trained to deal with them..." The archives were from the S-21 detention center, "where 20,000 Cambodians were imprisoned, photographed, interrogated, and tortured during the Khmer Rouge's rule from 1975-79..." We met a few weeks later and over a game of pool he explained the urgency involved because the recent elections in Cambodia created a coalition government that was trying to appease the Khmer Rouge and there was a distinct possibility that elements of the KR would join the government. I volunteered to help on the project in any way I could. Several weeks later we met and Chris told me that he was going in January whether or not he had raised all the money. I committed to go with him and to help raise money. I made arrangements to pay my way to Cambodia and live for at least a month. Chris was predicting it would take three to four months to finish the project.
We arrived in Hong Kong at 8:30 pm, Tuesday, February 1st. It was a very efficient airport, decorated like a British public lavatory. Riley had arranged for us to stay with John McDougal, a photographer Chris knew from the Agence France Presse. The plan was to meet him at the Press Club. The Press Club is in downtown Hong Kong just on the edge of the red-light district. We carried our luggage up the tiny elevator and into the club. Chris and I had both packed two small bags and each of us carried a box of chemicals. Immediately we were greeted by some friends of Chris' and were invited to join them at their table. John was not there. We quaffed a few pints of Guinness and talked of the project. Someone asked if I had ever been to Cambodia before and I replied that I had never been to Asia before. Comments ensued suggesting that Cambodia was the most intense and inhospitable introduction to Asia that you could imagine. The assembled group consisted of magazine correspondents and photo editors. We exchanged cards and continued to converse until John Eichelberger, another friend of Chris', joined us. He is a painter and lives out on the island of Chung Chao with his girlfriend Michelle who works as a photo editor at the AFP. He sat with us for a while and then we got a call from John McDougal. He was at home and suggested we just meet him there. So Eichelberger, Riley, and I got a cab over to McDougal's apartment where we drank fine single malt and retired.
The next morning McDougal went off to work early and Chris and I woke as he was leaving and had tea with him. Then we set out for breakfast and our plan was to visit Eichelberger at his place on the island. He had left the night before in time to catch the late ferry. Chris knew his way around so we walked through a beautiful central park that was a few blocks from McDougal's. Uniformed school children and old men were doing Tai Chi surrounded by beautiful plants and exotic birds in aviaries with the skyscrapers fencing the sky. We emerged from the far side of the park into the thick chaos of cars and people and trolleys and merchants. The narrow streets were overburdened with intricate signs and neon banners. Laundry and air conditioners dangled from every window.
We went into a Japanese mega-store that Chris knew had a juice bar and decent food. The main floor was like a supermarket and lots of little kiosks lined the walls selling sushi or juice and some things I couldn't guess at. We had fresh squeezed OJ and some sticky rice wraps. Then we got on a trolley to the Business District. The double decked trolleys were tall and narrow and colorful, built of wood and designed for small people and packed full.
We walked to the near-by Ho Gallery where Eichelberger’s paintings were on display. They were stark interpretations of the Hong Kong skyline framed in thick blocks of concrete.
We made the two o'clock ferry. The weather had cleared and it was a pleasant hour-long trip to the island. We were met at the dock by John. The island has no roads; only narrow walkways. We decided to buy food for a barbecue and John had to find some charcoal tablets for Michelle who had an upset stomach. So we wandered through the dark maze-like streets from shop to shop asking at each apothecary for charcoal tablets and having no success. None of the merchants spoke any English. We then proceeded to the fish market. It was actually a fish and meat market with blood flowing down the gutters and flies and the stench of flesh. We picked out a nice sized white fish of unknown variety that was swimming around in a little pool. The fishmonger, once informed of our choice, took the fish out and casually banged it's head on the edge of the table and then wrapped it in paper. We left the narrow streets and followed a series of steps and inclined walkways up the hill towards the house, stopping at a small cafe to buy six large Krønenbergs. We passed a school yard and several large homes of deco-style architecture and pastel colors. The flora encroached the path as we reached the top of the island and only the gates to homes were visible. Just at the apex we reached John and Michelle's house. It also was a pastel deco-style. Clearly built in the twenties and overgrown and crumbling it was perched right on the ridge dividing the island and afforded a spectacular view of the South China Sea from the porch. Which is where we settled into our beers and conversation.
The inside of the house was adorned with John's paintings and curios that he found in the yard; old tin cans and rusty old toys all with intricate and humorous Chinese designs. Michelle had cut out small drawings from an English language book and put them in small black wood frames hanging in odd places in every room. It could have been the inside of an artist's loft in SoHo. As the sun set we gathered up wood and started the barbecue. A friend of theirs named Greg joined us for the meal and brought more beer. He also lived on the island. We drank and talked well into the evening. The last ferry to Hong Kong left at 11:30 pm and John and Greg walked us down to the dock. We stopped at the house of an old Chinese lady who knew John and Greg and even remembered Chris from when he lived on the island. We stopped and talked with her for a while. We mentioned that we were going to Cambodia in the morning and she got very serious and warned us: "very dangerous"... It was a strange situation- we were all a bit drunk having a lively conversation with an old Chinese woman who spoke only a little English in the darkness of the constricted and quiet streets of this island. I was beginning to realize that I had no idea what to expect upon arriving in Phnom Penh; everyone we met to whom we mentioned that we were going to Cambodia looked afraid for our safety and sanity.
We just made the last ferry and napped through the trip. A taxi took us to the Press Club where we met John McDougal and although he insisted we stay and drink, Chris and I were exhausted and our flight to Cambodia was early the next morning.
After a fitful sleep and fighting off a painful hang-over I awoke before dawn. Able to shower and shave while John slept-in, we had a cup of tea with him before we left. There was a taxi stand around the corner from the apartment and we lugged our bags and boxes over just in time to meet the first cab. We got to the airport in time to settle into a couple of bloody marys before departure.
The plane was empty. We had the entire rear section of the airbus to ourselves. After we had settled into our drinks Chris said, "When we land, let me do all the talking." He began imparting his knowledge of Cambodian temperament in anticipation of our arrival with a cargo hold of darkroom chemicals and equipment and the expected customs hassle this would elicit. "Showing impatience or raising your voice only makes them angry. If a Cambodian starts smiling or laughing out of context as you are venting your frustration at them, be assured they are plotting your ultimate demise." He also stressed the importance of keeping the nature of our project a secret because half the government would likely oppose it and the Khmer Rouge were still actively killing.
Our Australian pilot for Dragon Air informed us as we were in the final approach that the runway was a tad short for the 737 jet we were propelled through the void in. He went on to say that the runway was pitted and cracked. He told us not to worry if the plane buckled and rocked. He was an expert pilot and the plane only seemed to tear itself apart at the seams when he laid on the breaks and the wheels recoiled from the pockmarked tarmac. We were unceremoniously deposited via a rickety portable staircase onto the scorching hot runway. The humidity was tangible, as if the atmosphere had turned to warm jello. Doug Niven, Chris' friend and co-director of the project, approached us as we lugged our carry-on past the tail engine's exhaust plume. He wore a Ministry of Information press pass which heartened us as to our chances of an easy entry into Cambodia. This was not to be.
We were corralled into the main terminal building which resembled a warehouse. Dozens of customs officials stood about looking officious. The throng of recent arrivals pressed up to the counter waving passports and entry cards. The smart ones were flashing $20 bills as well. The customs squad picked out the moneyed travelers and those with American or European passports and slowly processed their visas. It was an hour before we were allowed to pay for our visas and move on to the next hurdle. We fought our way through a confused mass of travelers who shared no common tongue or concept of how to pass through the oblivious agents of Cambodian customs. More forms were required to be filled out, even though no one who accepted our honest and exhaustive descriptions of our non-declarable and declarable goods could understand a word of what we had written. We were permitted to pass out the other side of the terminal into a sea of rag-wearing children and legless, armless beggars. There was nothing in-between: no duty free, no information booth, no 'welcome to Cambodia sign', just a glass door slid open by several Khaki clad soldiers who required one last glance at our passports and visas.
Just past the pawing beggars were the shouting and jostling taxi drivers. We had arranged for a car, we even had a 'fixer'- a Cambodian translator who was also a reporter for the Agence France Presse (AFP), named Sok. Riley and I had passed with comparative ease through customs but our cargo had been driven straight from the plane to a building across the street from the airport (down a raised dirt road that ran between paddy fields). It only took an hour or so to determine that this building was where our cargo had been taken. It was then a matter of showing our letter from the Ministry of Culture to the agents in charge with Sok properly interfacing for us. Unfortunately the customs agents could not lift a finger without a letter from the Ministry of Customs. We determined that we would have to take our letter from the Ministry of Culture to the Ministry of Customs. As all these ministries were downtown we decided to settle into our digs and have lunch. We dinned at a fine restaurant called Déja Vu, run by Anthony from Britain and Kelly from New Zealand. They are a charming young couple and served up fine European cuisine in a beautiful French Colonial building that just happened to be across the street from the current Khmer Rouge headquarters.
After lunch, Niven, Riley, and Sok, went to the Ministry of Customs only to be told that their letter was no longer valid as it was issued by the UN interim government that had been replaced by the newly elected Royal Government of Cambodia. It should be mentioned that the conflicting parties in the new government are the same conflicting groups that had been at war for the last ten years. The CCP Minister of Culture supported our project because it could be used as propaganda against the Khmer Rouge. The FUNCINPEC party would be less favorable as they had been allied with the KR during the war.
We had to recover our equipment from the cargo storage area before the photographic paper and chemicals were ruined by the heat. This required that we shuffle from one ministry to the next dropping $5 bills for secretaries and bottles of Scotch for Ministers in order to get letters to get letters to verify the letters we already had. This took several days and in the end we find we were being charged a 'storage fee'. We got to show five different customs agents the letter we finally acquired from the Minister of Customs and all were equally unimpressed. We had our translator fill out detailed forms that even he couldn't understand. Then we had to fill them out again because each Air-bill needed a separate form. It was at this point that we began to wonder where they could store all this paperwork- their desks had no drawers and the rooms were barren of file cabinets. It seemed like they were playing a game and would use our papers to cook dinner with. When we finally had the forms in order, customs wanted to inspect each box. We opened boxes explaining in vain through our interpreter what an enlarger is, what a print washer is, and please don’t open those boxes of light-sensitive paper! (thanks). After inspecting ten boxes the agent stamped our forms and sent us to the final hurdle. The last stamp we needed was in the hands of a bureaucrat who took the trouble to note that our letter from the Minister of customs refers to Air-bill #0516320 instead of #0516350 and he will not release our stuff without a signed and stamped correction from the Minister. On Monday we would give the minister’s secretary $5 to correct her mistake. We signal the driver of the van we have rented to drive up to the loading area and he backs off the road into a paddy field . We have to extricate the heavy van before they close the building. This takes hours in extreme heat. We finally pile enough heavy boxes on the back of the van for the wheels to grip the sandy berm of the road. It was a final irony that when we finally loaded the van no customs agents checked to see which or how many boxes we took. We drove back to the AFP villa and took the champagne out of the freezer where it had been since we arrived. We allowed it to thaw in the 100 degree breeze and then commenced to celebrate. Next we would construct the darkroom.
The room we decided to convert into the darkroom was a large extension to the kitchen that the guard's wife, Ming, used as a laundry room and was often a place where the guard, Sam, could be found napping. It had fifteen foot ceilings, decaying and moldy walls, a concrete floor, one large window facing the alley (where the landlady and her family lived), and two windows facing a dark passageway. There was no door: it was separated from the kitchen by a three quarter length wall. Our first step would be to paint the walls and ceiling to create a moisture barrier and keep the old flaking paint from circulating as dust. We arranged to rent a 50-cc Honda motorcycle through Mr. Sahm, the office manager at AFP. He recommended one that wasn't too new or too powerful so as to be less appealing to thieves. With this we would set out to the market to buy cleaning materials and paint.
Niven had made arrangements for us to stay at the AFP villa. The rooms were spacious and shared a stark bathroom. Each had an air conditioner, a large bed with mosquito netting, wardrobe, desk, chair, and fan. The lights were fluorescent tubes but we later purchased small reading lights. As the power supply was always in flux we used our mini-mag flashlights more often than not. The villa is walled and gated and the guard and his wife and daughter live in what was once the garage. Niven lived at the villa but the AFP corespondent, Kevin Barrington, rented an apartment several blocks away. The AFP had a large generator sitting in the courtyard next to the badminton court for use during the frequent blackouts and brownouts. It often overheated or ran out of fuel; so a small noisy generator was used as backup to keep the computers and wire-service machines running. It made a hell of a racket and spewed fumes all throughout the villa. Having air conditioners in our rooms was more of a tease than a relief as they never had any power to run on. The shower ( a pipe jutting out of the bathroom wall) held similar disappointment as it was supplied by a tank on the roof. The water was cold in the morning when a warm shower would’ve been nice and boiling hot in the evening when washing the sweat and grime from the days travails called for cold water. When the power was out the pump did not carry any water to the roof and the shower would emit rude gurgling noises but no water.
After cleaning the future darkroom with various toxic chemical cleaners produced in Thailand, we put a few layers of thick leaded paint on the walls and ceiling. Even with a fan and all the windows open we were overcome by the fumes. The paint never really dried but the fumes dissipated after several days. We commissioned some local furniture makers to build the tables and shelves we would need. These turned out to be of extremely fine workmanship. We commissioned the making of print drying racks using a drawing from a catalog and these also were very well built. We needed to seal off the room from light and still afford plenty of air circulation. We covered the windows with sheets of plywood and cut holes for a fan and air-conditioner. The entrance was a more difficult proposition. The Cambodians build with hollow bricks stacked on top of one another with reinforcing rods through them. They then plaster over this. The entrance was plaster over brick and could not be hammered into. We had our builders rig a wood frame around the entrance then we stapled four interwoven layers of black curtains to this.
It's raining in Phnom Penh. Between the claps of thunder and flashes of lightning the reports of AK47's can be heard. Maguire, who can smoke joints like I smoke cigarettes, spent a day at the market looking for some quality pot and returned with a large bag of green buds and a small vial of hash oil. He smoked a few spinners with a healthy dab of the oil smeared the length of each joint and retired to his hotel room. Several days later he left the little brown vial at our office with a skull and crossbones drawn on a scrap of paper taped to it. The Cambodians apparently believe that shooting into the sky is a way of warding off the gods of heavy rain and thunder. It seems to work because it is usually clear the next morning. The sun filters through the lead fumes and presents a white canopy tinged with blue above the strange deco architecture . The buildings remind me of the fantasy cities depicted in Serge Clerc's comic book : The Adventures of Phill Perfect. Standing 4 to 5 stories above the wide tree-lined boulevards, they are divided into cubicles; each with some form of commercial enterprise at street level. A commercial enterprise can be anything from selling used tires, plumbing fixtures, or warm beer and soda. On the sidewalks, women sit on stools shaded by faded striped umbrellas selling cigarettes and gasoline (dispensing the gas from two litre plastic Pepsi bottles). A pack of cigarettes is one dollar. Two litres of gas is 1200 rial (about 50 cents).
The traffic on the pot-hole ridden roads of this capitol city consists of Japanese motor-scooters (Motos), three wheeled Cyclos, small children on adult-sized bikes, and 4-wheel-drive cars and trucks. There are no traffic rules. The right of way belongs to the bigger, stronger vehicle. Police, in their baby blue shirts and navy pants, stand under shade trees ready to extort money from anyone unlucky enough to stop-usually by collision or mechanical failure. No one ever intentionally stops while they are on the road. Pedestrians walk obdurately through the traffic swarming around them. Cyclos plod along, their driver sweating in the sun as his passengers press together under the sack-cloth umbrella. Motos, their drivers donning imitation wayfarers, with two or three or even six passengers clinging on, vie for position even as they veer around potholes, pedestrians, police, and Pathfinders. The cars and pickups and vans (most with U.N. or NGO markings) drive as if the streets were abandoned - only slowing or turning to avoid larger vehicles. Trucks drive down the center of the road and do not slow for anything.
I had never ridden any sort of motorcycle so Riley, having driven one during his last stay in Cambodia, taught me how to drive it, in a empty dirt parking lot which was insufficient preparation for the anarchy of the streets. To actually propel oneself and a passenger through the treacherous avenues, avoiding foot deep pot-holes, dunes of deep fine dirt, and the maniac drivers , required skills only experience could provide.
The chaos of the streets has its own soundtrack; everyone on the road must constantly beep their horns or ring their bells so that the person they are about to cut off knows they are about to be cut off. Roosters crowing, baby's crying, dogs barking, workers hammering, cell phones buzzing, guns popping, are mere background noise compared to the din of scooter and car horns.
Human beings quickly adapt to their environs and soon the noise, heat, dirt, exhaust, rotting garbage and open sewer odor, and mosquitos endemic to Phnom Penh had ceased to affect.
One evening Niven and I drove along the river-front to the Wat Phnom. We were waved through a roadblock manned by MPs, and stopped at a vietnamese ‘night drink’ bar. It was 20 meters from the roadblock on a corner facing the river. We sat outside by the curb and ordered a couple of Tiger beers. Apparently the thai beers come with complimentary vietnamese girl. One sat next to me and perplexingly began massaging my thumb ( this is not innuendo - I mean the actual thumb on my left hand ) Perhaps it was some secret sexual accupressure point. Niven was trying out his new vietnamese phrase-book asking the girl sitting next to him “Why is this shirt damaged”. A series of whistle blows sounded from the guards at the roadblock and we looked in time to see a man on a moto speed through the roadblock towards us. The whistles gave way to warning shots. The MPs fired several rounds into the air then lowered their guns. We dove under the table as they started shooting blindly after the fleeing moto. He escaped by turning down the side street next to the bar. A few rounds embedded themselves in the wall behind our seats.
Perkins was asked to provide a photo for a filler story that Shelly was writing about bats. Apparently, Phnom Penh has the largest urban population of bats in the world. the National History Museum’s attics are home to millions of little bats. He set out one morning with this information, a camera, and the promise of $25 american in cash. At the empty museum he met an old Khmer dressed in a grey uniform that denoted somehow his position as guard. He spoke a little english, introduced himself as “Dada”, and agreed to help Perkins find the bats. Now, every evening at sunset if you are sitting on the balcony of the FCC you can see these millions of bats all fly out of the big spooky museum, so we all knew they were there. Where you might find them during the day was the mystery. Dada led Perkins through the museum to the upper galleries and to the entrance to the attic. Along the way he got one of the other museum staff, a cleaning man to come with. This man agreed to show Perkins the attic for $3. Perkins gave him the money and the man disrobed down to his Kamar, telling Perkins to do the same. In his boots and boxer shorts Perkins followed the man up the thirty foot bamboo ladder to a dark hole in the ceiling with a Pentax and mounted flash unit around his shoulder. They stepped off the ladder onto the floor of the pitch black attic. The rafters were up still another twenty feet and it was raining bat shit. The floor was ankle deep guano, sticky with dead bugs of all sort and size. Perkins understood the reason for stripping down as he was quickly covered in white bat shit. Eager to get the shot and retreat he aims in the general direction of the roof and shoots. No flash. His batteries were dead. Returning down the ladder Perkins tells Dada that he will have to return later with new batteries. Dada smiles, gently flicks some guano off Perkins’ naked shoulder, and says, “No problem.” After going home and showering Perkins returned with fresh batteries and a hat. Dada was waiting with a bundled up shirt squirming with bats. He released them one at a time so Perkins could photograph the tiny pink bats as they flew off. The AFP ran one of these photos with Shelly’s piece, and he made $25 (less $3 for the guano guide).
We arrived in Hong Kong at 8:30 pm, Tuesday, February 1st. It was a very efficient airport, decorated like a British public lavatory. Riley had arranged for us to stay with John McDougal, a photographer Chris knew from the Agence France Presse. The plan was to meet him at the Press Club. The Press Club is in downtown Hong Kong just on the edge of the red-light district. We carried our luggage up the tiny elevator and into the club. Chris and I had both packed two small bags and each of us carried a box of chemicals. Immediately we were greeted by some friends of Chris' and were invited to join them at their table. John was not there. We quaffed a few pints of Guinness and talked of the project. Someone asked if I had ever been to Cambodia before and I replied that I had never been to Asia before. Comments ensued suggesting that Cambodia was the most intense and inhospitable introduction to Asia that you could imagine. The assembled group consisted of magazine correspondents and photo editors. We exchanged cards and continued to converse until John Eichelberger, another friend of Chris', joined us. He is a painter and lives out on the island of Chung Chao with his girlfriend Michelle who works as a photo editor at the AFP. He sat with us for a while and then we got a call from John McDougal. He was at home and suggested we just meet him there. So Eichelberger, Riley, and I got a cab over to McDougal's apartment where we drank fine single malt and retired.
The next morning McDougal went off to work early and Chris and I woke as he was leaving and had tea with him. Then we set out for breakfast and our plan was to visit Eichelberger at his place on the island. He had left the night before in time to catch the late ferry. Chris knew his way around so we walked through a beautiful central park that was a few blocks from McDougal's. Uniformed school children and old men were doing Tai Chi surrounded by beautiful plants and exotic birds in aviaries with the skyscrapers fencing the sky. We emerged from the far side of the park into the thick chaos of cars and people and trolleys and merchants. The narrow streets were overburdened with intricate signs and neon banners. Laundry and air conditioners dangled from every window.
We went into a Japanese mega-store that Chris knew had a juice bar and decent food. The main floor was like a supermarket and lots of little kiosks lined the walls selling sushi or juice and some things I couldn't guess at. We had fresh squeezed OJ and some sticky rice wraps. Then we got on a trolley to the Business District. The double decked trolleys were tall and narrow and colorful, built of wood and designed for small people and packed full.
We walked to the near-by Ho Gallery where Eichelberger’s paintings were on display. They were stark interpretations of the Hong Kong skyline framed in thick blocks of concrete.
We made the two o'clock ferry. The weather had cleared and it was a pleasant hour-long trip to the island. We were met at the dock by John. The island has no roads; only narrow walkways. We decided to buy food for a barbecue and John had to find some charcoal tablets for Michelle who had an upset stomach. So we wandered through the dark maze-like streets from shop to shop asking at each apothecary for charcoal tablets and having no success. None of the merchants spoke any English. We then proceeded to the fish market. It was actually a fish and meat market with blood flowing down the gutters and flies and the stench of flesh. We picked out a nice sized white fish of unknown variety that was swimming around in a little pool. The fishmonger, once informed of our choice, took the fish out and casually banged it's head on the edge of the table and then wrapped it in paper. We left the narrow streets and followed a series of steps and inclined walkways up the hill towards the house, stopping at a small cafe to buy six large Krønenbergs. We passed a school yard and several large homes of deco-style architecture and pastel colors. The flora encroached the path as we reached the top of the island and only the gates to homes were visible. Just at the apex we reached John and Michelle's house. It also was a pastel deco-style. Clearly built in the twenties and overgrown and crumbling it was perched right on the ridge dividing the island and afforded a spectacular view of the South China Sea from the porch. Which is where we settled into our beers and conversation.
The inside of the house was adorned with John's paintings and curios that he found in the yard; old tin cans and rusty old toys all with intricate and humorous Chinese designs. Michelle had cut out small drawings from an English language book and put them in small black wood frames hanging in odd places in every room. It could have been the inside of an artist's loft in SoHo. As the sun set we gathered up wood and started the barbecue. A friend of theirs named Greg joined us for the meal and brought more beer. He also lived on the island. We drank and talked well into the evening. The last ferry to Hong Kong left at 11:30 pm and John and Greg walked us down to the dock. We stopped at the house of an old Chinese lady who knew John and Greg and even remembered Chris from when he lived on the island. We stopped and talked with her for a while. We mentioned that we were going to Cambodia in the morning and she got very serious and warned us: "very dangerous"... It was a strange situation- we were all a bit drunk having a lively conversation with an old Chinese woman who spoke only a little English in the darkness of the constricted and quiet streets of this island. I was beginning to realize that I had no idea what to expect upon arriving in Phnom Penh; everyone we met to whom we mentioned that we were going to Cambodia looked afraid for our safety and sanity.
We just made the last ferry and napped through the trip. A taxi took us to the Press Club where we met John McDougal and although he insisted we stay and drink, Chris and I were exhausted and our flight to Cambodia was early the next morning.
After a fitful sleep and fighting off a painful hang-over I awoke before dawn. Able to shower and shave while John slept-in, we had a cup of tea with him before we left. There was a taxi stand around the corner from the apartment and we lugged our bags and boxes over just in time to meet the first cab. We got to the airport in time to settle into a couple of bloody marys before departure.
The plane was empty. We had the entire rear section of the airbus to ourselves. After we had settled into our drinks Chris said, "When we land, let me do all the talking." He began imparting his knowledge of Cambodian temperament in anticipation of our arrival with a cargo hold of darkroom chemicals and equipment and the expected customs hassle this would elicit. "Showing impatience or raising your voice only makes them angry. If a Cambodian starts smiling or laughing out of context as you are venting your frustration at them, be assured they are plotting your ultimate demise." He also stressed the importance of keeping the nature of our project a secret because half the government would likely oppose it and the Khmer Rouge were still actively killing.
Our Australian pilot for Dragon Air informed us as we were in the final approach that the runway was a tad short for the 737 jet we were propelled through the void in. He went on to say that the runway was pitted and cracked. He told us not to worry if the plane buckled and rocked. He was an expert pilot and the plane only seemed to tear itself apart at the seams when he laid on the breaks and the wheels recoiled from the pockmarked tarmac. We were unceremoniously deposited via a rickety portable staircase onto the scorching hot runway. The humidity was tangible, as if the atmosphere had turned to warm jello. Doug Niven, Chris' friend and co-director of the project, approached us as we lugged our carry-on past the tail engine's exhaust plume. He wore a Ministry of Information press pass which heartened us as to our chances of an easy entry into Cambodia. This was not to be.
We were corralled into the main terminal building which resembled a warehouse. Dozens of customs officials stood about looking officious. The throng of recent arrivals pressed up to the counter waving passports and entry cards. The smart ones were flashing $20 bills as well. The customs squad picked out the moneyed travelers and those with American or European passports and slowly processed their visas. It was an hour before we were allowed to pay for our visas and move on to the next hurdle. We fought our way through a confused mass of travelers who shared no common tongue or concept of how to pass through the oblivious agents of Cambodian customs. More forms were required to be filled out, even though no one who accepted our honest and exhaustive descriptions of our non-declarable and declarable goods could understand a word of what we had written. We were permitted to pass out the other side of the terminal into a sea of rag-wearing children and legless, armless beggars. There was nothing in-between: no duty free, no information booth, no 'welcome to Cambodia sign', just a glass door slid open by several Khaki clad soldiers who required one last glance at our passports and visas.
Just past the pawing beggars were the shouting and jostling taxi drivers. We had arranged for a car, we even had a 'fixer'- a Cambodian translator who was also a reporter for the Agence France Presse (AFP), named Sok. Riley and I had passed with comparative ease through customs but our cargo had been driven straight from the plane to a building across the street from the airport (down a raised dirt road that ran between paddy fields). It only took an hour or so to determine that this building was where our cargo had been taken. It was then a matter of showing our letter from the Ministry of Culture to the agents in charge with Sok properly interfacing for us. Unfortunately the customs agents could not lift a finger without a letter from the Ministry of Customs. We determined that we would have to take our letter from the Ministry of Culture to the Ministry of Customs. As all these ministries were downtown we decided to settle into our digs and have lunch. We dinned at a fine restaurant called Déja Vu, run by Anthony from Britain and Kelly from New Zealand. They are a charming young couple and served up fine European cuisine in a beautiful French Colonial building that just happened to be across the street from the current Khmer Rouge headquarters.
After lunch, Niven, Riley, and Sok, went to the Ministry of Customs only to be told that their letter was no longer valid as it was issued by the UN interim government that had been replaced by the newly elected Royal Government of Cambodia. It should be mentioned that the conflicting parties in the new government are the same conflicting groups that had been at war for the last ten years. The CCP Minister of Culture supported our project because it could be used as propaganda against the Khmer Rouge. The FUNCINPEC party would be less favorable as they had been allied with the KR during the war.
We had to recover our equipment from the cargo storage area before the photographic paper and chemicals were ruined by the heat. This required that we shuffle from one ministry to the next dropping $5 bills for secretaries and bottles of Scotch for Ministers in order to get letters to get letters to verify the letters we already had. This took several days and in the end we find we were being charged a 'storage fee'. We got to show five different customs agents the letter we finally acquired from the Minister of Customs and all were equally unimpressed. We had our translator fill out detailed forms that even he couldn't understand. Then we had to fill them out again because each Air-bill needed a separate form. It was at this point that we began to wonder where they could store all this paperwork- their desks had no drawers and the rooms were barren of file cabinets. It seemed like they were playing a game and would use our papers to cook dinner with. When we finally had the forms in order, customs wanted to inspect each box. We opened boxes explaining in vain through our interpreter what an enlarger is, what a print washer is, and please don’t open those boxes of light-sensitive paper! (thanks). After inspecting ten boxes the agent stamped our forms and sent us to the final hurdle. The last stamp we needed was in the hands of a bureaucrat who took the trouble to note that our letter from the Minister of customs refers to Air-bill #0516320 instead of #0516350 and he will not release our stuff without a signed and stamped correction from the Minister. On Monday we would give the minister’s secretary $5 to correct her mistake. We signal the driver of the van we have rented to drive up to the loading area and he backs off the road into a paddy field . We have to extricate the heavy van before they close the building. This takes hours in extreme heat. We finally pile enough heavy boxes on the back of the van for the wheels to grip the sandy berm of the road. It was a final irony that when we finally loaded the van no customs agents checked to see which or how many boxes we took. We drove back to the AFP villa and took the champagne out of the freezer where it had been since we arrived. We allowed it to thaw in the 100 degree breeze and then commenced to celebrate. Next we would construct the darkroom.
The room we decided to convert into the darkroom was a large extension to the kitchen that the guard's wife, Ming, used as a laundry room and was often a place where the guard, Sam, could be found napping. It had fifteen foot ceilings, decaying and moldy walls, a concrete floor, one large window facing the alley (where the landlady and her family lived), and two windows facing a dark passageway. There was no door: it was separated from the kitchen by a three quarter length wall. Our first step would be to paint the walls and ceiling to create a moisture barrier and keep the old flaking paint from circulating as dust. We arranged to rent a 50-cc Honda motorcycle through Mr. Sahm, the office manager at AFP. He recommended one that wasn't too new or too powerful so as to be less appealing to thieves. With this we would set out to the market to buy cleaning materials and paint.
Niven had made arrangements for us to stay at the AFP villa. The rooms were spacious and shared a stark bathroom. Each had an air conditioner, a large bed with mosquito netting, wardrobe, desk, chair, and fan. The lights were fluorescent tubes but we later purchased small reading lights. As the power supply was always in flux we used our mini-mag flashlights more often than not. The villa is walled and gated and the guard and his wife and daughter live in what was once the garage. Niven lived at the villa but the AFP corespondent, Kevin Barrington, rented an apartment several blocks away. The AFP had a large generator sitting in the courtyard next to the badminton court for use during the frequent blackouts and brownouts. It often overheated or ran out of fuel; so a small noisy generator was used as backup to keep the computers and wire-service machines running. It made a hell of a racket and spewed fumes all throughout the villa. Having air conditioners in our rooms was more of a tease than a relief as they never had any power to run on. The shower ( a pipe jutting out of the bathroom wall) held similar disappointment as it was supplied by a tank on the roof. The water was cold in the morning when a warm shower would’ve been nice and boiling hot in the evening when washing the sweat and grime from the days travails called for cold water. When the power was out the pump did not carry any water to the roof and the shower would emit rude gurgling noises but no water.
After cleaning the future darkroom with various toxic chemical cleaners produced in Thailand, we put a few layers of thick leaded paint on the walls and ceiling. Even with a fan and all the windows open we were overcome by the fumes. The paint never really dried but the fumes dissipated after several days. We commissioned some local furniture makers to build the tables and shelves we would need. These turned out to be of extremely fine workmanship. We commissioned the making of print drying racks using a drawing from a catalog and these also were very well built. We needed to seal off the room from light and still afford plenty of air circulation. We covered the windows with sheets of plywood and cut holes for a fan and air-conditioner. The entrance was a more difficult proposition. The Cambodians build with hollow bricks stacked on top of one another with reinforcing rods through them. They then plaster over this. The entrance was plaster over brick and could not be hammered into. We had our builders rig a wood frame around the entrance then we stapled four interwoven layers of black curtains to this.
It's raining in Phnom Penh. Between the claps of thunder and flashes of lightning the reports of AK47's can be heard. Maguire, who can smoke joints like I smoke cigarettes, spent a day at the market looking for some quality pot and returned with a large bag of green buds and a small vial of hash oil. He smoked a few spinners with a healthy dab of the oil smeared the length of each joint and retired to his hotel room. Several days later he left the little brown vial at our office with a skull and crossbones drawn on a scrap of paper taped to it. The Cambodians apparently believe that shooting into the sky is a way of warding off the gods of heavy rain and thunder. It seems to work because it is usually clear the next morning. The sun filters through the lead fumes and presents a white canopy tinged with blue above the strange deco architecture . The buildings remind me of the fantasy cities depicted in Serge Clerc's comic book : The Adventures of Phill Perfect. Standing 4 to 5 stories above the wide tree-lined boulevards, they are divided into cubicles; each with some form of commercial enterprise at street level. A commercial enterprise can be anything from selling used tires, plumbing fixtures, or warm beer and soda. On the sidewalks, women sit on stools shaded by faded striped umbrellas selling cigarettes and gasoline (dispensing the gas from two litre plastic Pepsi bottles). A pack of cigarettes is one dollar. Two litres of gas is 1200 rial (about 50 cents).
The traffic on the pot-hole ridden roads of this capitol city consists of Japanese motor-scooters (Motos), three wheeled Cyclos, small children on adult-sized bikes, and 4-wheel-drive cars and trucks. There are no traffic rules. The right of way belongs to the bigger, stronger vehicle. Police, in their baby blue shirts and navy pants, stand under shade trees ready to extort money from anyone unlucky enough to stop-usually by collision or mechanical failure. No one ever intentionally stops while they are on the road. Pedestrians walk obdurately through the traffic swarming around them. Cyclos plod along, their driver sweating in the sun as his passengers press together under the sack-cloth umbrella. Motos, their drivers donning imitation wayfarers, with two or three or even six passengers clinging on, vie for position even as they veer around potholes, pedestrians, police, and Pathfinders. The cars and pickups and vans (most with U.N. or NGO markings) drive as if the streets were abandoned - only slowing or turning to avoid larger vehicles. Trucks drive down the center of the road and do not slow for anything.
I had never ridden any sort of motorcycle so Riley, having driven one during his last stay in Cambodia, taught me how to drive it, in a empty dirt parking lot which was insufficient preparation for the anarchy of the streets. To actually propel oneself and a passenger through the treacherous avenues, avoiding foot deep pot-holes, dunes of deep fine dirt, and the maniac drivers , required skills only experience could provide.
The chaos of the streets has its own soundtrack; everyone on the road must constantly beep their horns or ring their bells so that the person they are about to cut off knows they are about to be cut off. Roosters crowing, baby's crying, dogs barking, workers hammering, cell phones buzzing, guns popping, are mere background noise compared to the din of scooter and car horns.
Human beings quickly adapt to their environs and soon the noise, heat, dirt, exhaust, rotting garbage and open sewer odor, and mosquitos endemic to Phnom Penh had ceased to affect.
One evening Niven and I drove along the river-front to the Wat Phnom. We were waved through a roadblock manned by MPs, and stopped at a vietnamese ‘night drink’ bar. It was 20 meters from the roadblock on a corner facing the river. We sat outside by the curb and ordered a couple of Tiger beers. Apparently the thai beers come with complimentary vietnamese girl. One sat next to me and perplexingly began massaging my thumb ( this is not innuendo - I mean the actual thumb on my left hand ) Perhaps it was some secret sexual accupressure point. Niven was trying out his new vietnamese phrase-book asking the girl sitting next to him “Why is this shirt damaged”. A series of whistle blows sounded from the guards at the roadblock and we looked in time to see a man on a moto speed through the roadblock towards us. The whistles gave way to warning shots. The MPs fired several rounds into the air then lowered their guns. We dove under the table as they started shooting blindly after the fleeing moto. He escaped by turning down the side street next to the bar. A few rounds embedded themselves in the wall behind our seats.
Perkins was asked to provide a photo for a filler story that Shelly was writing about bats. Apparently, Phnom Penh has the largest urban population of bats in the world. the National History Museum’s attics are home to millions of little bats. He set out one morning with this information, a camera, and the promise of $25 american in cash. At the empty museum he met an old Khmer dressed in a grey uniform that denoted somehow his position as guard. He spoke a little english, introduced himself as “Dada”, and agreed to help Perkins find the bats. Now, every evening at sunset if you are sitting on the balcony of the FCC you can see these millions of bats all fly out of the big spooky museum, so we all knew they were there. Where you might find them during the day was the mystery. Dada led Perkins through the museum to the upper galleries and to the entrance to the attic. Along the way he got one of the other museum staff, a cleaning man to come with. This man agreed to show Perkins the attic for $3. Perkins gave him the money and the man disrobed down to his Kamar, telling Perkins to do the same. In his boots and boxer shorts Perkins followed the man up the thirty foot bamboo ladder to a dark hole in the ceiling with a Pentax and mounted flash unit around his shoulder. They stepped off the ladder onto the floor of the pitch black attic. The rafters were up still another twenty feet and it was raining bat shit. The floor was ankle deep guano, sticky with dead bugs of all sort and size. Perkins understood the reason for stripping down as he was quickly covered in white bat shit. Eager to get the shot and retreat he aims in the general direction of the roof and shoots. No flash. His batteries were dead. Returning down the ladder Perkins tells Dada that he will have to return later with new batteries. Dada smiles, gently flicks some guano off Perkins’ naked shoulder, and says, “No problem.” After going home and showering Perkins returned with fresh batteries and a hat. Dada was waiting with a bundled up shirt squirming with bats. He released them one at a time so Perkins could photograph the tiny pink bats as they flew off. The AFP ran one of these photos with Shelly’s piece, and he made $25 (less $3 for the guano guide).
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