As the first hint of golden rays spill over Devils’ Peak, many a car park nearby a well used walk or run quickly fills up with; runners, hikers, amblers, friends and their dogs.  Dozily but eagerly they make ready for their active pursuits.

My weekly excursion summiting Lion’s Head which forever has sat in the shadow of Table Mountain is a popular excursion for the more naturally minded.  Being a comfortable but demanding 90 minute round trip, the exercise gained while enjoying the spiralling views is a popular work out for couples, groups, fitness enthusiasts, tourists even yoga classes who make their way to the summit on foot.

With the day launching itself before most toddlers are awake there is plenty of time to get the exercise over and coffee’d up at one of the street cafes that are now blossoming around town.  Says Sabine Lehman-CEO of The Table Mountain Cableway Company, “It’s fantastic, every week a group of us walk up Lion’s Head early enough to witness the city changing colours and waking up. Afterwards I’m really refreshed and ready for the day. For a guiltless treat we always end off with a coffee and croissant at a local coffee shop.”

For the many that enjoy exercising on the flat, framing an edge of the Atlantic Ocean stretches the perfect outdoor treadmill- the Sea Point promenade. Meandering between Bantry Bay and Mouille Point the young and the old walk, jog, stride or run the marked distance that winds along an edge of the African continent. Flanked by grass-green open spaces, dogs yelp as their energetic keepers throw sticks and balls. Even the beaches become a training ground for actively conscious exerting their lungs, breathing fresh air, enjoying the views and happy to be out hours before the business day begins. The unique fresh scent from the sea-weed riddled ocean, teases the nostrils - all the fuel that is needed to inspire that extra kilometre or two.

Sea kayakers launch their way into the cold, crisp ocean, eager to increase their heart rate while viewing the landscape just as the first explorers would have-sans the modern buildings. “I’ve been paddling for the last 9 years,” says Andre who readies his kayak while eyeing the flat ocean. “There are times when I’m out there and I’ll look at the city and I’m so blown away by seeing Signal hill, Lion’s Head and Table Mountain on a prefect, clear, windless, summers morning that it completely takes my breath away. Sometimes I just end up sitting out there for a while taking it all in. A good excuse for a rest anyway,” he says with a wry smile.

“There’s nothing quite like cycling in a forest and watching the sunlight unfold across Table Mountain.”Says Chris Purcell, a local engineer and keen cyclist. “The choices are endless. I can ride along the foothills of Table Mountain, or up to the Blockhouse, towards Camps Bay, or if have enough time I can cycle right around to the southern suburbs all along the adjoining tracks. I’m usually exercised, showered and energised for work no longer than an hour and a half after first waking up.

If Table Mountain is the protruding head of the peninsula then sprouting out to one side is the busy hairdo of  Newlands, Cecilia and Tokai Forests- another active paradise for the energetic at heart. With the eastern dawn introducing itself here even earlier, the southern suburb dwellers have even more daylight before the daily grind begins. The tall, dense, wooded stalks, roofed with the rich green locks make for a perfect protected hairstyle under which to work out. The fresh shaded air is ideal to combat over heating while strolling, running or cycling. With safety restored,  the many outdoor seem to prefer the winding, sandy exercise tracks that amble in-between the budding wooded follicles making up the shaded forest.

Throughout the Peninsula there’re lively early birds filling their lungs with the freshest of air  as the sun breathes new light. With so much time before the office calls the stress of being late is the least of their worries.

More pictures  related to this story can be viewed at http://www.garyhirson.com/diverse-cape-town

I was enjoying my new taste experience in the town of Paksong on the Bolaven Plateau in Southern Laos. The Plateau, which sits on top of an exhausted volcano rises between 600meters to1300 meters above sea level. This makes it much cooler than the rest of Laos, and offers a welcome respite from the shirt drenching heat one experiences on the lowlands. Besides the many coffee and tea plantations to visit on the plateau there is also the option of elephant trekking, visiting silk weaving villages, and many waterfalls to marvel at, with cool natural pools to swim in. The soil on the plateau is extremely fertile and the French, who colonised Laos, saw the potential and brought in coffee saplings from one of their neighbouring colonies, Vietnam, in the early twentieth century. By the 1940’s the Plateau was covered with coffee plantations but because of a bout of blight followed by the Vietnam war and a revolution, the coffee plants became wild, and the promising yield never materialised. But that’s all rapidly changing with Laos now producing in the region of 20 000 tons per annum and providing some 5000 families, dependant on the coffee industry, with income. It has been reported that in recent harvests the branches have snapped under the weight of the clustered branches.

Paksong is the centre of the Laos coffee industry and living in the town is a Dutchman – Cornelius - who aptly goes by the name of Koffie.

Koffie had been living in Thailand, and as his name suggests, is a serious coffee drinker and an unofficial expert on the subject. (He’s been drinking coffee since the age of two)  Only wanting to drink the best there is he would cross the border from Thailand and buy his coffee in Paksong. There lived a Bolaven woman named Won who supplied, supposedly, the best coffee in Laos. Won’s family, including parents, sisters, nieces and nephews, own coffee plantations which have the capacity to produce 300 tonnes of coffee per year.  After a few of his  coffee buying expeditions across the border, and finding out that they  have more in common  than just coffee , Cornelius moved all his things from Thailand, married Won, and started a life on the Plateau.

Won, knowing all there is to know about coffee and Cornelius speaking fluent English, together decided to introduce coffee workshops for tourists. These included lessons on organic coffee and how to wok roast the raw beans. “ Up until recently we only supplied our coffee to local clients and Laos only contributes less than 1% to the world coffee market, but together Won and I want to help change that,” says Cornelius. They also started to explore the options of exporting their caffeine-rich brand, and their first container full of the  dark brown beans is on its way to the USA.

Koffie invited me to “homestay,” with him and his family. I’ll sleep in their house and be introduced to the Bolaven way of life.  Koffie will also spend a day teaching me everything there is to know about coffee.

Being the rainy season I arrive in the middle of an afternoon rain storm and I’m greeted by Koffie with a cup of his homemade black brew in hand.  I’ve gotten used to and enjoy the taste of coffee with sweet condensed milk and I balk at the idea of drinking it pure. Reluctantly I take a sip and I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s smooth, gentle with no bitter aftertaste.  Koffie just smiles knowingly.  As we sit around and chat about life in Laos, Won and her extended family go about making the evening meal. Out of the corner of my eye I notice some Grasshoppers being roasted and I silently hope that being a vegetarian will be excuse enough for me to not have to try one. I’m extremely thankful as I notice noodle soup being boiled alongside on the fire.

Family is of huge importance in Laos and before long all of Won’s family in the region visit for the evening meal and to have a look at the South African visitor coming to learn about coffee. It’s not often that a “falang” (foreigner) is seen in the area.

Early the next morning, after a cup of freshly roasted black coffee, we head out to one of the plantations.  The trees, of different ages and sizes, are planted just like vineyards, lined in perfect rows. Unfortunately it’s too early in the season to see the pickers at work, but I am shown how the coffee berries are busy changing from green to red.

“On the Bolaven Plateau there are only 2 seasons,” says Cornelius, “the hot rainy season which runs from April to September, and the cold dry season from October through to March.”

The coffee in Laos has its origin in Costa Rica, Colombia and Java. The harvested beans consist of Arabica beans, harvested first in October, and Robusta beans form the second harvest at the end of January.

“I compare the two different beans to a violin and a complete symphony orchestra,” says Cornelius,

“The Arabica has very subtle taste and the Robusta is a mouth filled with tastes.”

During the Vietnam War, the Americans had an air force base nearby and any bombs that weren’t dropped on their targets were released over the plateau before the planes could land.  Laos is also the most bombed country per capita in the world and there are still vast areas of undetonated bombs and land mines. Strolling through the plantation we pass two bomb craters that are now filled with life as bushes and trees sprout forth. I’m told that there are still many “live” bombs in the area, but the plantations have been cleared.

Koffie  is passionate about making the perfect cup of coffee, and once back at the house he goes about teaching me everything there is to know about wok roasting coffee. It’s not a difficult process and it’s done in a normal wok as used for stir-frying food.

“I like the process of Wok roasting coffee, as I have more control over the temperature of the flame,” mentions Koffie. “I can only roast a maximum of 1.5 kg at a time but controlling the temperature is of more importance than the size of the roast”

From start to finish the beans have to be stirred and the temperature of the beans must be constant. Starting with a low heat, which is later switched off to allowing for the beans to heat at the same rate, the heat is once again increased and the beans begin to darken in colour. About an hour later my kilogram of coffee is dark brown, fully roasted and smells like it’ll be the perfect cup when brewed. The beans are spread out in a basket and all the lightly roasted or burnt beans are discarded. Once cool they’re ground and ready to be brewed.  Won and her family are as proud of me as I am of myself. They’re extremely happy that they’ve been able to impart their knowledge to someone who appreciates a good cup of coffee as much as they do. Koffie presents me with a cup of my own freshly roasted coffee and eagerly I take a sip. The taste is good. Black with no sugar, just the way I’ve gotten used to it.

Picture related to this story can be viewed on http://www.garyhirson.com/portfolio/documentary/laos-coffee

If drinking filter coffee was illegal I’d be a criminal, no doubt about it. I’m addicted to the rich aroma of the brew that fogs the air, the dark thick liquid filling the cup and the fantastic kick that jolts me awake.  But I have a secret… , I know nothing about coffee,  I’m nothing more than a coffee aficionado poser.

Realising that one day the beans could be spilled and my reputation left in ruins, I decided that a crash course on the ins and outs of coffee was needed. I’d heard that there had recently been a flourish of micro artisan coffee roasters in Cape Town, and it was them who I was seeking to enlighten me.

Micro artisan coffee roasters have coffee flowing through their veins. They’re passionate about roasting a good blend and pouring the ideal cup of - to them- black gold.  These artisans perform their complete range of artistry on - site in their coffee establishments, in full view of their patrons. Much like winemakers, you’ll find them tweaking this and adjusting that in search of the perfect alchemy of tastes.

My first lesson took place at such a roastery near the start of the now famous “Fan-walk” on the CBD outskirts where David, one such  artisan,  passionately gave me the interesting, edited,  run- down on the history of coffee.

“It all started back before 1000A.D , in Ethiopia, when a local herdsman noticed his sheep energetically “frolicking” after munching on a certain berry. Not wanting to be deprived, he chewed on a similar berry and instantly felt happier. He took a sample to a local monastery where the monks started to use it to stay awake for extended hours of prayer. Sometime after that Arab traders got their first taste of it, began cultivating it on the Arabian Peninsula, and started the coffee trade. Ottoman Turks then introduced it to Constantinople with the first known coffee shop opening in 1475. Such was the demand for the product that Turkish Law granted women the right to divorce their husbands if they failed to provide them with their daily quota of coffee.

“The Roman Catholic Church got in on the act around 1600 when Pope Clement VIII went against his advisers to consider coffee an “Infidel threat” and baptized it instead.

Coffee has even influenced big business. In 1668 Edward Lloyd’s coffee house opened in England which were frequented by merchants and maritime insurance agents- it eventually became Lloyds of London. It got its nickname “Java” when in 1690 a coffee plant was smuggled out of the Arab port of Mocha by the Dutch who became the first to transport and cultivate it commercially in Java and Ceylon. The birth of the multi Billion dollar coffee industry in Brazil was thanks to a dangerous liaison when a Brazilian Lieutenant struck up a clandestine liaison with the wife of a French Governor. She gave him a floral bouquet containing cuttings and fertile coffee seeds which he put to good use. Coffee has also influenced music and Johann Sebastian Bach composed his Kaffee-Kantate. Partly an ode to coffee and partly a stab at the movement in Germany to prevent women from drinking coffee- for fear that it sterilises them, this was around 1732. And for a more modern bit of trivia, in 1995 it was reported that coffee is the worlds’ most popular beverage with more than 400 billion cups consumed each year and is a globally traded commodity that is second only to oil.”

With my espresso cup empty and interest stirred, I made my way to my second on-site lecture where my practical education was about to begin.

Entering the warehouse styled coffee house I realised that this establishment was the real deal. A coffee roaster stood guard at the front door, wooden bean - filled bins lined the face-brick walls and the shop was buzzing. The owner introduced himself, and led straight into the lesson.

“The roast of the bean is a key factor when it comes to the taste. Whether it’s a light, medium or dark roast, the finished product is to the Roaster’s personality and taste. For the lighter roasts the bean will display more of its “original flavour” - the flavours created in the bean by the soil and weather conditions in the location where it was grown. As the roasting process lengthens and the  beans darken to a deep brown, the origin flavours of the bean are eclipsed by the flavours created by the roasting process itself, with  a dark roasts dominated by the roast flavour. The beans, once roasted, should be allowed to settle for 3- 4 days and shouldn’t be used if older than 2 weeks.”

Lesson two noted I was on the move to learn more.

Coffee roasters have an onsite lab where their different roasts are continuously being tested. So it wasn’t too strange for me to find myself inside the next coffee shop which resembled such a testing lab. With very neat lines, sparse furniture, and white walls, this coffee house was very clinical but far from sterile.

As if pre-ordained I’m invited to attend a coffee tasting or “cupping” to those in the know.

Noticing that the beans which are going to be cupped are slightly lighter - I ask to be told more.

I spent time in Norway,which is  “Statistically”, the country that consumes the most coffee per capita. Learning from the less traditional and more innovative independent roasters  resulted in producing a lighter roast and more interesting tasting product,” says Renato the owner and partner to Helene.

The fresh beans are ground, meticulously measured and exact quantities administered. Water heated - but not boiled, poured, timed, allowed to settle, and ready to be cupped.

Not knowing what I’m meant to be tasting, the only difference that grabs my attention is that of a fresh “ping” like taste that fills my mouth.

“Even though the beans have a lighter colouring, it doesn’t mean that they’re any weaker. With the Nordic style roast the taste is slightly more acidic but still robust in flavour. We’re always pushing for lighter roasts to bring out more of the sweetness and acidity of the coffee, two ingredients in making coffee special and interesting.”  Sweetness and Acidity I think to myself as my mental coffee encyclopaedia increases in size.

My thirst for knowledge and a continuing caffeine rush is at the forefront of my mind and I’m off in search for my final instruction.

Charging into my last lecture theatre - a genuine coffee bar; retro in style and funky- I’m buzzing. Not serving anything other than coffee-in all forms-this is the place where someone needing a caffeine hit is sure to end up.

A 5kg roaster churns away in the corner adding to the perfect lecture theatre. My teachers and store owners- Judd and Carl introduce themselves by pouring me a “flat white.”

“There’re so many aspects to making a good cup of coffee,” starts Judd. “Just as with any trade or art the artist must know what they’re doing. It’s no good supplying a good roasted product if the Baristas aren’t trained in the art of producing a good cup of coffee consistently.”

Carl invites me behind the counter, throws me an apron and introduces me to the hissing, double headed coffee machine which is already spewing out a thick, rich, dark liquid.

“Extraction coffee is what you get from the coffee machines you find in most coffee shops. There are 3 points, besides the water temperature and pressure which are key to producing a decent cup,” starts Carl. “The grind of the coffee, the dose and the tamp.”

Lost at tamp, I cautiously nod.

I watch as beans are thrown into the grinder and soon the machine is in action gnashing away while releasing a tantalizing caffeine rich aroma.

“A fine grind for machine coffee, including Espresso’s, a medium grind if using a paper filter machine and a courser grind if using the popular plunger system,” says Carl as he expertly unhitches one of the portafilters or “handles” from the coffee machine. “The dose of the coffee in the handle is crucial. Too little and the hot water filters through too quickly. Too much and the water struggles to get through or will penetrate the coffee unevenly. The longest it should take from the grinding of the beans to the cup is 4 minutes,” says Carl while picking up a circular stamp- not unlike an olden-day seal – and fitting it perfectly into the coffee grasping head of the handle. Using his body weight he presses or tamps the coffee leaving a smoothly packed dose of the dark, course grind, ready to be extracted.

My mouth salivates at the thought of what the end result will be.

Slotting the handle into its prescribed parking place, a couple of switches later and the dark liquid is filtering into the cup.

“25-30 seconds is all that’s needed for a comprehensive extraction , but it’s important to stop it before the liquid starts to lighten. That can result in a weaker cup of coffee.”

Sweaty palms …

“Most coffees we make are milk based like Flat Whites, Cappuccinos and Lattes, so there’s another dimension that has to be added. The key ingredient - heated milk - should be smooth, creamy and with barely visible bubbles similar to a glossy white paint.

Judd tops up the cup with a swift move of his hand, leaving behind an airbrushed artwork floating on the surface- completing his masterpiece. It seems like a sin to disturb such a work of art but my need for a “kick” and my screaming taste buds quickly put paid to that notion.

Sipping my brew and savouring the experience, with a new found respect for these artisans, I realise that my reputation is no longer in danger.

How to make perfect Plunger coffee:

1. A tablespoon of freshly ground coffee per cup.

2. Boil water then leave to stand for a bit until “off boil”

3. Just pour in enough water to cover the coffee allowing to bubble and release the coffee gases.

4. Fill with enough water for the required servings, briefly stir contents and then place plunger on top. (Only brew as much as you expect to drink as the remains will continue to infuse allowing the bitter flavours to escape.)

5. Allow for 4 minutes of infusing.

6. Pour and enjoy

Pictures related to this story can be viewed on http://www.garyhirson.com/micro-artisan-coffee-roasters-cape-town 

Chacma baboons are indigenous to South Africa and at one time they roamed freely in areas like Clifton and Camps Bay in Cape Town. Due to rapid urbanisation of the Cape Peninsula the baboons have been pushed further south with the highest concentration of them now living in the Tokai, Kommetjie, De Gama Park, and Scarborough areas.

As the residential areas grew baboons realised that human food was easily accessible and they started rummaging through the waste bins and at times broke into houses to raid the larder. Conflict between Baboons and residents reached such catastrophic proportions that in 1998 it was predicted that if nothing was done, the baboons would soon become extinct.

“Baboon Matters”- started by Jenni Trethowan- has been an integral part of finding a solution to save theses endangered animals.  It was decided that Baboon Matters would be paid a management fee to employ monitors to keep a watch on the movement of the baboons and steer them clear of the residential areas. Guided tours, where tourists can walk with the baboons while learning about these misunderstood animals- was also initiated. Says Jenni, “When I first came up with the idea of guided walks, people thought I was nuts. But now that the benefits are starting to manifest opinion is changing.”

Realising that ignorance isn’t bliss, I  changed my mind from; spending an afternoon lazing on the beach and visiting  the Waterfront; to taking a hike while learning more about our branch swinging ,distant relatives

40 minutes from Cape Town and a scenic drive later I arrived at the offices of Baboon matters.  After a brief introduction, Chris our guide began with an orientation talk. One of the non – negotiable points was that absolutely no food was allowed on the walk.

We drove out to the location where one of the troops was believed to be.   After a short walk into the hills we met up with one of the monitors.

The 28 monitors who have been employed from the local community of Masiphumelele work in teams of three to four.  They observe the troops and their movements and take the necessary steps in case the baboons get too close to the residential areas. They’re also there to keep an eye on the guides and tourists. Alarmingly I noticed that the monitors have no form of weapons for protection.

“We have a special bond with the troops and they trust us implicitly,” says Mzukisi Nkewu, who has recently been promoted to the position of field manager. “To direct them we only have to clap our hands and whistle, and they’ll move to wherever we want them to. He tells of a story when a film crew was shooting a commercial in the Cape Point Nature Reserve. The crew went to the location without any baboon monitors.  A short while later Baboon Matters received a phone call from the stressed production manager saying that the crew were all huddled in a caravan while a number of “vicious” baboons were eating all the food from the tables. Four baboon monitors rushed to the scene. The baboons recognised them immediately, and with sandwiches, fruit and biscuits in hand made for the bushes. The monitors, clapping their hands and whistling, steered the baboons further away.

We walked about 700 metres in to the low lying hills when suddenly we heard the barking of a baboon. A short distance in front of us the Alpha male of the troop- George- reared his head from behind a rock. After giving us the once over, he seemed to nod, and the rest of the troop, of about 15 baboons, followed him down to a small clearing in the shade of a tree. The older ones joined him, lay down and dozed while the younger more energetic ones, jumped from rock to rock, climbed up the nearby trees and play fought with each other.

We sat down in the late afternoon sun and watched the troop playing, no further than 10 metres from us. All the while we sat there Chris fed us with information and stories about the baboons.

“Baboons will only attack if they’re threatened. The only time they will approach us, is when they can smell that we have food on us.  Still then they won’t try to bite us, but rather they’ll only try to push us over so that they can get to the food.”  Says Chris

After two hours of watching, listening and learning we made our way back to the car.

The walk is short, not too steep, and the rugged nature striking. All that’s needed is a hat and some sunscreen.

The cost for this tour is money well spent.  It helps to keep Baboon Matters and their dream- of reducing the conflict between humans and baboons- alive. The residents are happier, and both tourists and the people of Masiphumelele are benefitting from this educational adventure.

More pictures related to this story can be viewed on http://www.garyhirson.com/baboons-matter 

I’d spent the whole week separating my recyclable, consumable waste, placing it in the special plastic bags supplied by the garbage collectors. I felt I was doing my bit towards helping clean up the environment, and for once doing something right- recycling my garbage- and now somebody was trying to steal my thunder.

Going against my usual apathetic approach, I decided that I was going to investigate into this matter instead of just moaning about it around the dinner table. I vaguely remembered that the garbage collecting company dropped off a recycling manual with all the ins and outs about recycling as well as their contact details.

I managed to get in contact with Bertie Lourens from WASTEPLAN, the company that was contracted to collecting the recyclable garbage in my area.

WASTEPLAN- a privately owned company- is one of the few contracted companies that, via tender, are awarded contracts to collect garbage for recycling. They currently operate in the Western Cape Province and Gauteng with Durban in the pipeline.

After chatting to Bertie on the phone for a short while I realised that here was someone who was deeply passionate about recycling and cleaning up the environment.

Says Bertie. “It all started for me with a course in environmental studies at Potchefstroom University. Even though I never completed the course, and detoured into sales of none other than vacuum cleaners, environmental issues were always close to my heart. Realising that I had to follow his dream I gave up my day job and WASTEPLAN was born 7 years ago.

I explained to Bertie about my problem of the damaged bags and not having my recyclables collected.

“Aah,” replied Bertie. “Another complaint about torn bags.”

I could almost hear him swearing under his breathe before he continued.

“The problem with the torn bags is that every morning the homeless in the areas where we collect, rummage through the garbage before we get there. They either rip open the recyclable bags to get to the newspapers and other stuff that might be of benefit to them, or they empty the recyclable bag into the normal waste-bin and take the bags with them. I’m sure you understand that what is waste to us can be warmth, a raincoat or a water collecting device to them. What they don’t have use for they will load into their trollies-usually the property of a major retailer- and trade at a scrap dealer.”

“I fully I understand their plight, but this doesn’t help me who is trying to do some good.” I replied

“Well it seems like we’ve implemented a plan that is suitable to both the residents and the homeless in the areas where we collect,” continued Bertie

“I’m listening.”

“What we’ve done is we now use the homeless people in the respective areas to act as informal collectors(IC) for us. They’re not employed permanently by us but have the choice to work for us on-let’s say-a freelance basis. We meet them once a week, weigh what recyclables they’ve collected and pay them accordingly. For the more regular informal collectors, we pick them up every morning in our trucks and drop them off in the areas where we collect. We supply them with bags, bibs with our company name on it, and trollies. The bibs give them an identity and peace of mind to the residents. With us supplying the trollies, they don’t have to steal them from the retailers. It’s a win- win situation for all concerned

“So how do they benefit?” I queried.

“We pay them a better rate per kilogramme than they would receive from any of the other companies, and we pay them weekly. If they turn up for work, collect the garbage, they earn a wage. We have created informal employment for 54 collectors who between them collect in the region of 18 tonnes of recyclable garbage per week.

I could feel myself softening up when Bertie continued. “The really fantastic experience from what we’ve implemented is that two of the informal collectors have cleaned up their act so much that we’ve employed them permanently in our sorting plants. They now have their own identity documents and bank accounts. After years of living on the streets they’re now climbing their way back into society. And we’re doing everything possible to help them.”

Now that I’d managed to discover the cause of what now seemed like a minor infringement on my cause to do good, I wanted to meet these two collectors and get their side of the story.

Bertie arranged for me to meet them at one of the sorting plants the next day.

Driving out to Somerset West the next morning, working through the implementations of what Wasteplan was trying to do. Two of the many challenges that are facing South Africa are; unemployment, and the rate at which the landfill sites are being filled. The government has set dates and targets regarding the landfill sites such that by 2015, municipalities must have reduced their use of landfill sites by 50% and by 2022 it will be completely outlawed for municipalities to be using sites at all.

Unemployment is another whole different issue; problematic and complicated. But here was a company that was seemingly alleviating both problems without having to do too much.

I arrived at the sorting plant only to be amazed at how much garbage was actually being sorted.  Steeped mountains of boxes and oceans of plastic lay before me. Seeing it up close I shuddered at  how much waste we actually create.

I’m introduced to Johannes, or Jay Jay as he goes by. Jay Jay tells me his 36 years old but from the lines and scars on his face he could be 10 years older. He has been living on the streets for the last 20 years. When he talks about living in nothing more than a cardboard box somewhere in the bushes next to a highway, it’s almost as if his eyes glaze over as he tries to fblock out that reality. He heard about Wasteplan from a friend only 7 months ago. Initially he and his friend worked together using one retailer’s trolley while he was being taught about collecting and sorting the garbage. In the beginning he was paid R350,00 per week for what he was collecting, and for someone who lives on the street with no rent to pay this was more than he needed. But for Jay Jay it was more than just the money. In his broken English he explained, “You know the people in the suburbs really respect us now because of what we do. They see us with our bibs on and they like that we’re taking their rubbish away. Only us, wearing the bibs are allowed to take their garbage. Sometimes they even give us old TV’s, microwave ovens and cell phones. For the first time in my life I have a bit of respect. But with Bertie’s help I now have an identity document and a bank account and because of that I’m no longer scared of the police.

Forty year old Johnny joins us. His been on the streets for the last 15 years. He and Jay Jay have become firm friends and they’ve become so reliable and good at what they do that the company moves them around between the different sorting plants when the output needs increasing.

Johnny remembers when Bertie arrived 2 years previously at the place where he and others were sleeping and offered them work. At the time he was living in the bush in a makeshift cardboard shack. He explains how every night he had to walk to the nearby garage to collect water in a tin for cooking.  How in winter it got so cold and so wet that it wasn’t possible to fall asleep and that he almost went crazy from trying to keep warm.

Both Johnny and Jay Jay hate life on the streets and they see working for Wasteplan as a way out. For them, living on the streets is a fearful experience. They’re at the mercy of the police, the elements and at times from the other homeless people who get drunk and take drugs. Neither of them use drugs, but they do enjoy a beer. “The work is very important to us and we can’t come to work late or smelling of beer.” Says Johnny

Life on the streets is so unbearable that both of them are busy clawing their way out. So much so that the two of them, and Johnny’s wife, have found a nearby room which they will soon be able to afford to share.

“We offer this incentive to all the informal collectors,” says Bertie. “We will help and employ anyone that is reliable and will clean up their act. The funny thing is that many don’t want to change their lifestyles. They’re happy on the streets as it lessens their responsibilities and allows them more freedom, while they still earn some cash. We’ve had great success with the likes of Johnny and Jay Jay but there have been a few who fell off the wagon and have either been killed in a fight or are in prison. But we do keep on trying.”

“So if you have these programmes in place how come my garbage bags are still being ripped open?” I ask Bertie

“As with every new project, there are initial setbacks while we find our feet. Some areas are working better than others, but as we learn we improve our systems. Some of the homeless people are resistant to change and want to exist as they know how. They’ll still just rip open the bags, take what’s needed, and sell it to scrap dealers.  But slowly and surely we’re educating them.” replies Bertie.

While driving back to the city I compare the situation of my life to those of Johnny and Jay Jay. I have to deal with a torn garbage bag once a week while they have to wake up in a cardboard shack. Somehow my problems seem minute in the greater context of things. But due to some initiatives it seems that both  problems will soon be over.

Pictures related to the story can be viewed on http://www.garyhirson.com/portfolio/documentary/absolute-rubbish

22 August 2008

Hey Guys

I hope you’re all sitting down because I have some VERY big news……….

I’m getting married!

Can you believe it at the age of 31 there is someone out there who actually wants to marry me?

But more of that later.

I’m back in Laos, in the south, as I really enjoy this country and I decided that I wanted to see the whole country and not just the north.

The last thing I did before leaving Cambodia was to visit an old mining town, Kuau, which has been completely lost in time. It’s amazing, there are about 500 families mining for gold with spades and buckets and ancient equipment. Arriving there is like arriving on the set of a Clint Eastwood western mixed with a scene from “Deliverance.” There are pigs and dogs in the muddy streets, and you expect the saloon doors to swing open, two guys to barge through, and a gunfight top break out. I was attentively listening out for a banjo.

This place is really remote, far in the north eastern highlands and I had to hire a bike and a driver to take me the 68km’s from the town of Sen Monorem where I was based. The name of the company who hire the drivers is called “Eezy Riders” or Eezy Lidahs” when they answer the phone.

As its right in the middle of the rainy season the roads are…well there aren’t any, and it took us 6 hours to ride the 67km’s through forests, rivers and quarries on a road that compares to nothing more than a pathway. We never went faster than 20km’s an hour.

But it gets better. I was expecting to go on a BMW 800 Dakar or something similar, and in the morning of our departure you can only imagine my dismay when my driver “Moonie”, (don’t ask) arrives on a Honda 100cc “Dreamer,” semi automatic, 4 speed, moped. Once again on my travels I became deeply religious screaming out to all the gods whose names I could remember. Actually I can’t be that religious as I could only remember one. But I did repeat it a few times throughout the journey.

I was definitely one of the first “Falang” (Westerners) to visit this place, but I wasn’t concerned with all the staring as it was quite easy to “walk tough” as I’d just spent 6 hours on the back of a moped and I was sore. Walking with my legs together wasn’t going to happen and I think that they thought I was some long lost cowboy. I just wish we’d parked the moped out of site. I did however decide to shorten my stay when I woke up in the night only to notice 4 miners standing there staring at me. I was going to fake some Kung Fu moves, but I just wet myself instead. They seemed satisfied and left me alone after that.

We left the next day….early

Moonie is the most amazing bike rider I’ve ever met. We rode through a storm that turned the pathway into a gushing river, we rode through a forest and a jungle and we crossed a rapidly flowing river in a longboat ferry. The ride back took us 6 very long and very wet hours and we only fell off 38 times. Thankfully we were only going 4km’s per hour and the pathways were muddy when we did.

But I must say that if ever I decide to ride across China or Mongolia or along the N2 highway to the airport at night, I’m definitely going on a Honda 100cc “Dreamer,” semi automatic, 4 speed …moped. They’re the berries.

Spending 12 hours on the back of a moped with constantly clenched stomach and arse muscles to stay up straight and on, automatically qualifies me as a pilates instructor. Katya has sent me my certificate and promised me a job when I get back. I’ll send you my class roster. Ek’s tight Ne!

I arrived in Southern Lao, which is partly made up of “The 4000 islands” in the Mekong River. There are about 43 islands so it is totally obvious that they call it the 4000 islands. But hey, size does matter so I’ve been told….. (Not that it’s an issue with me.)

I hopped into a longboat, (sitting down gently) which is very thin and longish and set sail for the island of Don Dhet. All of the islands have names similar to an Italian mafia, male porn star:

Don Khong (lead actor), Don Long (self explanatory), Don Hi Nyai (likes getting stoned beforehand, during and after), Don Lek- Fai (women’s’ dream), Don Sadam (Wears a turban) and Don Koy (the shy one).

Quite a cast!

Previously I mentioned that while sailing up the Nam Ou river I felt like a French explorer (with a Jewish surname), but this time sailing to the islands and crossing the mighty Mekong while manoeuvring between tree trunks and smaller islands, I really felt like a cross between the Camel/Marlboro man and GI Joe. The boat has to run across the river which is very fast flowing and they are so thin that any movement makes it feel like it could capsize at any moment. Everybody on board was quite tense and very still. We’re about 10 minutes into the trip and I’m fantasizing about being the first “Falang” to ever reach the shores and I’m wondering how the restless natives will react upon spotting their first pale skin. I’m so deep in my thoughts on how to deal with the situation and what I can offer them as a token of peace that I don’t notice the boat slowing down and docking outside an internet cafe. Nuff said!

The islands are great, so very chilled. There is only electricity from 6-10pm so it’s early to bed. I spent 4 days in my hammock on the deck outside my hut just watching life on the river hazily float by, while wishing there was a “mister delivery” among the locals. I was meant to stay for 2 days but ended up being there for 4. I Finished 2 books and only fell out of my hammock when I had to go and eat. The one inconvenience is that the bathrooms aren’t in the bungalows, but for 17 SA Rond a night, I could deal with it. I did manage to meet a few of my male neighbours at about 3am in the morning while we were hanging freely over the balcony and making sure that the Mekong didn’t run dry. Oh how blessed am I to be a boy.

The one day I did manage to get out of my hammock, I hired a bicycle and cycled around the island and Don Khong, (My brethren) which is connected to Don Dhet by a bridge. There are fantastic waterfalls and rapids, and upon viewing them you can actually see why the Mekong is the 10 largest river, in volume, in the world. The power and noise of the flowing water is deafening and once again I realised that nature has to be treated with the utmost respect. Otherwise we’re screwed!

The villages are also easily accessible and are really unaffected by the trickle of tourist that visit the islands. While cycling the 3 hours, I passed many monks (on cell phones) and took photos of the many picture perfect rice paddies. If you want a more upmarket accommodation (inside toilet) then Don Khong is the better option.

After a few days I realised what was missing….., there weren’t any cars and no honking of horns on the island. I almost went insane and knew that I had to leave urgently. All this peace and quiet was just too much.

I headed north for 2 hours by bus to a town called Pakxe. Not much happening there but there is a lot to see in the area and it’s a good place to base yourself. Hiring a 4 speed moped you can see the ancient Khmer ruins, temples and elephant rehab and training centres.

I wander why elephants need rehab and if so what they get high on and how much they need?

I can just imagine at one of their meetings one standing there and saying, “Hi, I’m Eric and I’m a drug addict.” The good news is that I used to get hammered on 6 tonnes of Marula berries a day, and now I only get tipsy on 3 tonnes. I’m feeling great”

“HI ERIC……..!!”

Laos is very well known for its hand silk weaving, so I decided to hire a scooter, yip you know what kind, and go visit one of the villages on the island of Don Kho (over circumcised porn star) and do a photo story.

Riding out of town, lost, I went through a red traffic light, which I seriously didn’t see. A cop pulls me over and says that I must pay him 50 000Kip (R 50, 00) for it all to go away. (These mafia are everywhere, I tell you) I try and explain that I’m a poor white South African and that bribing is still very new to me and that it’s only allowed if you’re a politician in my country. He just stares at me blankly and motions me to pay. Finally I agree to pay the fine but only if I he’ll write out a ticket so that I can claim expenses. ( I was working after all)While taking out the money I also take out my SAFREA card (South African Freelancers association) which has MEDIA written on it and I mention that I’m an almost award winning journalist writing for “Huisgenoot” magazine. On hearing Huisgenoot he totally flips out and tells me to get out of his sight. Which I do, quickly. Where did he learn those words from, and in such perfect english, I wonder to myself?

I reach the weaving village and find a family busy weaving.(Strange that) All the looms are underneath the houses that are on stilts and I thank my parents that I’m only 4 foot high otherwise it would have been a bit cramped. In this village the main source of income is rice farming and weaving. Whichever profession is chosen involves the whole family, granny included, and they’re amazing to watch as they go about their craft.

I’m quietly going about taking photos when the dad of the family mentions in a very broken english that he wants me to marry his daughter…………… !!!!???????

So in essence I was proposed to by an older guy who promised me a younger girl. Well that’s what I hope he was offering.

“Ok, I’m listening I tell him, what’s in it for me besides a weaving loom?”

We squat down around a pot of something and start negotiating which goes nowhere as we can’t understand each other.

I think I’m getting the daughter and all the silk sarongs I can wear.

After a while I decide I’ve had enough and got to go find a cop to bribe, but he grabs my arm and won’t let me go……

So guys, it looks like I’m getting married to an 18 year old Laos weaver. (She’s quite cute actually.)

I’m thinking of the wedding which you’ll all come to I’m sure? We can all sit around in our loin cloths or silk sarongs, getting hammered on Lao Lao whisky. (You only need two shots believe me.) We’ll have a couple of people on the boil with a vegetable or two, and we’ll have a wedding singer singing Abba and Celine Dion songs in Lao. Should be a blast. Can’t wait!

If any of you guys are looking for a wife, I’m sure it won’t be a problem to sort you out as she does have sisters. About 6 in fact.

The one thing that does concern me though is my future wife’s name. I don’t think HURIDASERTOMEPHOTI HIRSON will fit on her credit card.

Oh well, there’s hope for me yet.

Sabadee.. (Hello and goodbye!)
Gary

7 August 2008

Hey Guys

I hope you’re all well. I’m in Cambodia and I know it’s been raining plenty back home, but the rainy season has seriously hit here and it’s WET!!. I think this must have been one of my brighter ideas coming here in the rainy season….very well done on my part. At least it is hot, being summer, so now when I get drenched my glasses steam up as well which is really fun and I’m sure a sight to see… a drowned rat walking into poles. Very sexy!

Up until now I haven’t felt the need to visit any reflexologists as I’m in good health so no gutter stories this time. But I might feel a bit of flu coming on being wet all the time.

I arrived Cambodia in good spirits and the first thing I do is go visit the Killing Fields in Phnom Penh. A real mood swinger that is. Pol Pot killed between 2 -3 million of his own people and there are Killing Fields and Caves dotted all around the country. The “fields” are definitely worth seeing and it does have quite a drastic affect on your mood. The thing that I struggle to deal with is that this kind of genocide continues to happen all the time….a funny bunch we are, us humans. As if I wasn’t depressed enough, I decided to go to the infamous S21 prison in the centre of Phnom Penh. It was an old school that was transformed into a prison where all counter revolutionaries were tortured and if survived then sent to the Killing Fields, nit much of an incentive that?

Of the 20 000 that were sent to the prison only 7 survived. There is more information and visuals at S21than at the Killing Fields and if I felt depressed after a visit to the “fields” I now felt about as happy as you do on a Tuesday after a rave party. But still they are a must to see.

I must just say that if I lived in a country where the leader changed his name to Pol Pot or something similar, I would definitely start exploring some immigration options.

Really feeling up for a party I downed a cuppla cups of coffee sweetened with condense milk and Iexplored my way through the National Museum which is a definite.

While I was in Phnom Penh trouble broke out at a temple in the north on the border with Thailand. Not to bore you with the details but briefly, the temple was granted to Cambodia by the world court in 1952, but the main tourist access is from Thailand. UNESCO just named it a World Heritage Site and the Thai Prime Minister agreed to this and signed some documents. Thais living in the area got pissed off and started to protest so both countries sent up troops.

So fantasising about a Pulitzer Prize winning story and maybe a medal, I changed my plans and headed to Siem Riep (which I was going to go to at the end of my trip) Once in Siem Riep I organised a taxi to take me the 4 hours to get to the town nearby the temple.

I meet the taxi driver and I’m happy to see that the car is a modern Toyota Camry. He bitches about the size of my rug sack but I explain that I need to have a bit of cover

( a hiding place) when the shooting, bombs and grenades start going off. I need a bit of protection while taking my award winning shots, I tell him He doesn’t understand a word but agrees anyway and puts it in the trunk.

Just over an hour later I notice that there are now 7 people standing around this taxi waiting to get in. So we all hop in, the driver, two in the front and 5 of us in the back.

We pull off and drive a few metres when he stops, openly bribes a policeman (Hey you gotta do what you gotta do these days, I hear it’s the norm with politicians at home) opens his door to pick up another passenger who shares his seat with him.

I now know why he was pissed off with my rug sack. It was probably taking up the space for two extra paying passengers who could fit in the trunk.

I hopped out bringing to an end what was going to be the start of an illustrious journalism career which never left the parking lot.

So I went to the Angkor temples instead, and was very happy that I did. They’re great! The temples are something that I found I really appreciated in retrospect. While you’re there, there is a lot to take in and marvel at. I walked up a small hill in very humid conditions and watched the sun setting near Angkor with about 30 000 other sweating tourists. Now that was fun! A deodorant kiosk would be a deg=finite winner.

Siem Riep is definitely a tourist town. Everything is geared towards the many tourists visiting the temples. In the town there is a “Bar” street where all the restaurants and bars are. There are Irish bars, Italian restaurants and Khmer restaurants but the vibe of the place is such that it could be anywhere in the world. There is great market where the prize of getting something cheap definitely needs good negotiating skills, but the things are cheap. Siem Riep is good, only for a short while and more expensive than most of Cambodia,.

I headed south to a town called Battambang. On first sight it looks like a city that has had the life kicked out of her. The roads are dusty and crumbling, the once well maintained shop fronts and buildings have passed their prime, but once you start exploring the backstreets and alleyways that are lined with Front shops, French merchant house, corner street kitchens, and the odd aging French house that is glamorously holding on for dear life, the feel changes completely. Early morning and the brightly cladded Monks are out collecting “Alms” where the town folk come out and give money and food to the monks for the day. The children play in the streets, hopefully on their way to school. Dogs amble past horse drawn carts manned by merchants who busy themselves unloading their bags of coal. Life doesn’t seem too stressful in this underperforming town. Here the bakeries sell such perfectly tasting Baguettes and Pastries, that for a moment you feel like you’re in a rustic French country town. This fantasy shatters when a scooter carrying four, loudly blows its horn while driving on the wrong side of the road, leaving you wishing that you never given up your nappies.

I wondered into an establishments called “Smokin Pot” and you can only imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a Khmer cooking school. But hey… when in Rome eat something. So I signed up to do a half day cooking course. I mean what better way to impress a women than to cook and serve her skewered cat, or dog and mushroom pie. I mean, that would definitely get her going. Four hours later, cook book in hand, my culinary skills definitely up a notch and not a cooked pet in site I walked out of there planning my first home coming dinner. Lucky for all of you I’m a vegetarian. Just like everywhere else in the world we learnt how to cook chicken, pork and fish, with rice.

In Battambang there is the Bamboo Train, which is a really great way to travel. The “train” consists of a set of wheels, a bamboo floor and a little motor. Everything fits together and when someone wants to go from one village to the next, the locals at the station assemble one, you hop on with a local, and off you go. They reach speeds of about 60 km’s per hour and they run both ways on one line. If two of these carts, that can take about ten people, are heading towards each other than they stop, hopefully, the drivers decide which one is the lighter of the two and dismantle that one. So the secret is to definitely go on the train with a bunch of Americans.

While in Battambang I bumped into a girl (Steff) from Queenstown SA. It was great to speak to another Seff African and we hung out for a few days. Another girl Caz , from Ireland, joined us and we hired scooters and along with our guide “Soon” we rode about 36km’s which took about an hour and a half, to Kamping Poy, a manmade lake. Another one of Pol Pots schemes that ended up killing thousands of Khmer’s.

The funny thing about travelling is how we change the way we speak when speaking to non english speaking locals.

I was asking our guide “Soon” if he was ready to come along, only to say “You come too Soon?”

Steff and Caz, once they got up from the floor laughing, definitely eyed me suspiciously and treated me differently throughout the excursion. My fantasy of a possible north south couch rugby game, ended there an then.

While we were at the lake we spent the day just chilling on a covered deck overlooking the lake and practicing all I’d learnt about “Smokin Pot” Lying there in my hammock feeling like Huck Finn, I witnessed a storm the likes I’d never seen. At one stage there was a grey sheet of water and we could only see a few metres in front of us.

When we eventually left, the trip home took longer as the once muddy roads were now even muddier and at one stage we had to pull over as we were caught in another deluge. But hey….that’s the beauty of travelling in the rainy season. If I get sick it just gives me an excuse to visit my new found type of healer.

So that’s it from me for a while. I hope you’re all very well and getting through winter. In this kind of wet weather where large parts of the day are spent indoors, I’ve decide to go back on the “spiritual” path which is lots of vodka and whiskey each day to help with the damp depression and it does seem to be helping. Highly recommended.

Chat later and keep on writing.

Adios

Gary

17 July 2008

Heya All

I hope you’re all fine and dandy, especially after the Springboks finally beat the All Blacks and South Pacific Islanders on their home soil. Schweeeet.

Since my last e mail I’ve left Hanoi and I started heading south towards Saigon. My first stop was about 90 km south but took 4 hours by train. We (I was travelling with a Spanish girl, Elizabeth) stopped at a town called Ninh Binh which doesn’t have too much to offer but if you hire a bicycle or scooter there is a beautiful ride to one of the many ancient capitals called Hoa Lu. Its 12km and a bruised arse away but the scenery is spectacular. If any of you are planning on visiting Vietnam soon then this place should be on your agenda as already there is a lot of development happening. Soon the spectacular country side consisting of rice paddies and limestone outcrops will be dotted with hotels, motels and guest houses. Of course we got lost and the 12km’s took us 3.5 hours to get there and only 45 minutes to get back. Never before have I had such a sweet tasting beer as the one on arrival in Hoa Lu.

Two days after arriving in Ninh Binh I experienced my first overnight sleeper bus ride that was going to take me further south. The sleeper buses are very comfortable sardine tins on wheels, if you’re not squashed in the back corner on the top bunk above the rear wheel, as I was. The buses have 8 bunks on the bottom running down the sides and middle of the bus with 8 bunks on top. There is an inside toilet which isn’t too dissimilar to the toilet on an aircraft. I’m still wondering what the club would be called if you managed to have shag in the toilet. “The tight, bumpy, mile an hour club? Hmmmm, tights not too bad now is it?” There is an option of an outside toilet, but I don’t even want to begin to think how you get to that one in the middle of the night while travelling at 80km’s hour.

As our stop was the last one leaving town I was the lucky Jew to get the top bunk at the back, in the corner squeezed in next to a sweaty pom. Every time I needed to go to the toilet I had to climb over him, down a ladder while kicking the person below me awake and then repeating the whole process on the way back up. Not a very popular passenger was I, especially as the trip was 12 hours long and I’d consumed quite a few beers at the guest house before leaving. I’ve recently found out that you can actually book which bed you want on the bus. Forward bottom left for me it is.

In Vietnam honking the horn is a VERY big thing. I think to pass your drivers licence for a scooter, car, minivan, bus or truck you only have to know where the horn is. To pass a roadworthy, your indicators, brakes and lights can be faulty but god help you if your horn doesn’t work. They’ll impound your unroadworthy vehicle for sure. Where I come from you only honk your horn in a case of an emergency, but here it’s out of courtesy. A driver will courteously honk his horn to warn you that he is coming up from behind. To make it even more pleasant the horns are LOUD and have different tunes.

Generally the rules of the road is that you drive on the right hand side, but over here anything 10 centimetres right of the left hand pavement is considered the right hand side of the road. So it is not uncommon while cycling around to be confronted by 4 scooters and a minivan driving abreast heading straight for you. Just as it’s about to get messy a truck driver who is 2 metres behind you will courteously let you know that he is there by honking his horn. I’ve now begun to wear nappies

So back to the bus. I shit you not when I say that the longest time between the driver honking his horn was 27 seconds throughout the night. And this I know how? An American girl who was on the bus couldn’t sleep the whole night and decided to time the silent times between the honks. I last saw her twitching uncontrollably and drooling at the mouth with a very weird look in her eyes at the bus station in Hoi An. God help the first guy that honks his horn at her. I ask you with no sleep in my eyes, what was this driver thinking? It didn’t matter to me though as, as I was at the back end of the bus wondering how the hell I was going to get to the toilet without getting beaten up. I didn’t sleep a wink and stopped short of peeing in my pants. I now fly “poor man’s” first class which is a valium and a shot or two of rice whisky.

Hoi An is a really quaint little town that is a must see. It is very well known for its tailor shops where one can get …..well, tailored clothes. The Vietnamese are quite funny in business and they definitely don’t fear competition. When you walk down one of the many streets that are lined with tailor shops, they’re all exactly the same, offering the same cuts at the same rates. I have been told that there is a difference and you should definitely buy from the shops that have a website. Why, I’m not sure.

I met a woman from Brighton, who had left her card in an ATM machine. Elizabeth found her card, and before I could work out a way to siphon some money out of the account, she had left her hotel details at the nearby shop. Alex, as her name turned out to be, rushed over to pick it up once she realised that she had lost it. When I met her she was acting like a shark in a feeding frenzy, with no Seals in site. I have officially witnessed what credit card withdrawal looks like, and it’s not pretty. Once she had her card in hand she was back on the scooter and whipping the poor driver to go faster-back to the shops. She also had a strange look in her eyes. At one of the many shops she visited she had a dress made in 4 different materials and, she was even getting a mermaid suite made, for what I’m not sure but a small fantasy did pop into my head. She ended up having to send an extra 15 kg’s of clothes home.

The travelling salesman in Hoi An are even better than those in Hanoi and very much more determined, but their maths isn’t that good and neither are they very good at identifying a relevant target market. Every time I bought something off the street, they would always short change me by no less than 10000 dong. Bugger teaching english, it’s maths they need. While sitting at one of the many restaurants overlooking the canal, drinking “Fresh beer” which costs R2, 00 a glass, and waiting for my food, a travelling salesman would stop and ask if I wanted to buy peanuts………………I think they’ve definitely missed the bus with this one.

“Peanuts, onry 10 000 dong?”

No Thanks, I’ve just ordered food”

“Onry 10 000, you eat after yoh food”

“After my food, I’m having desert”

“After desert you have peanuts with beah, only 10 000″

“Listen buddy I’m sitting at a restaurant, enjoying the view and waiting for my food, maybe you should go try a sports bar or something!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“Ok, onry 5000 dong…………………..

I have now picked up an allergy from all the peanuts I’ve eaten. I would still have some on me but my rug sack is still filled with caps.

But the best is definitely their entrepreneurship. I organised a lift into town on a scooter for 10 000 dong. 3 minutes later I arrived at my destination and the scooter driver asks for 15 000 dong.

“No,no 10 000,” I say?

“5000 extrah for the helmet” he replies.

When I finally did get up off the floor from laughing so much, I left him grumbling with 10 000 dong in hand.

They’re that good.

Besides the tailors and restaurants, Hoi An is one of those places where you can get caught up in for days. The endless beaches are quiet and relatively hassle free except when one, but not too many, of the travelling saleswoman wakes you up from a beer filled doze to find out if you want peanuts. I’m so happy they don’t understand Afrikaans. I’ve recently become really fluent.

You can cycle around (wear nappies) the many little avenues and stop to drink very cheap “fresh beer.” Personally I wouldn’t be able to tell you what stale beer tastes like as it’s never around long enough to go off.

There is great architecture, like the merchant houses and Japanese bridge to marvel at if that’s your idea of fun. They have a speciality dish called “Cao Lau” which is a thick rice noodle based soup. Very tasty indeed. And as around many other towns in Vietnam there are pagodas and temples and islands to explore, or you could just laze on the beach drinking beer and eating….peanuts.

The next day I floated onto the overnight bus, my bed was front, bottom left, not that it mattered as I was completely zoned from the valium etc. Even the honking horn didn’t bother me. I actually thought it was a new release called ” Try wake me up” by the Rolling Stones.

And onto Nha Trang, a seaside city that was hosting the Ms Universe contest.

Nha Trang could be any seaside city and the only reason I went there was to go diving and hopefully to shag a Ms. Universe contestant.

Well at least I got to dive, which wasn’t anything special. But I did find a local brewery called Louisiana Prime Rib that is right on the beach and sells the best beer I’ve ever tasted, after the one in Hao Lo that is. The beer is brewed by an Australian brew master and his beer has won many awards. The establishment is situated right on the beach, is very modern, and a fantastic place to watch Vietnamese woman in bikini’s, and of course the sunset.

When I arrived in Nha Trang I was almost over my sinus attack, but I still had a headache. Not one for pills, except vitamins, I decided that I would go for some reflexology. At around midday I wandered into a massage parlour that had two big feet in neon lights on the wall depicting a reflexology establishment. The guy behind the counter says 100 000 dong (R55,00) for a full body massage and reflexology.

“Cool, I’m cured.” I think to myself

I go up to a cubicle where this woman gives me a towel, tells me to undress and lie on my stomach.

Done.

She begins to massage me.

Now I’ve had Aromatherapy, Deep tissue, Swedish, Shiatsu, Acupuncture and Sports massages and after 90 seconds of her prodding me, I quickly came to the conclusion that this ain’t a professional masseuse. As I’m thinking this she says,”tuhn ovah,” which I do.

She whips off my towel with the one hand and grabs my crotch with the other one and says,”You want mohr than a massage?” Her hands were so quick David Copperfield would’ve been impressed.

Playing hard to get at that moment just wasn’t an option

Funny how a teeny little thing like a sinus attack with a migraine quickly slips away when there are other issues in hand…………….

Just to digress. Ever since I told friends that I was going to SE Asia they’ve all been saying to me that you have to go for a massage and a “heppy ending” Since I’ve arrived and travelled through Thailand, Laos and Vietnam, and as hard as I’ve tried I haven’t been able to find such a parlour. I know, I know…useless of me. But here I am in the middle of the day in a so called reflexology establishment with a genuine illness and wanting to be cured….. and she has unconventional ways on curing my now forgotten ailment.

The good lord above works in such wonderfully mysterious ways.

I think I’ll have to go back for my sore knee, battered shoulder, in grown toe nail,……

So the scoreboard looks like this:

Scuba dives - 2

Happy endings- 9 (in 2 days)

Physical health- 100% (But I will go back for a check up or two).

I’m now ready for Saigon……..

I’m now ready for Saigon……..

I arrived in Saigon with the idea of possibly extending my visa. From the moment I stepped off the overnight bus, in a daze, I realised that I would be heading out the next day.

In Vietnam whenever you ask someone the price of something and they say

“1 Dolla,” you know you’re being ripped off. I wobbled off the bus at the bus stop which the Rough Guide to Vietnam says is 5km from the city centre only to be told that it is 1 Dolla for a ride on a scooter to my guest house. Being a seasoned, Se Asian explorer my highly tuned senses warned me that I was being scammed. It finally cost me 10 000 Dong for the 110 metre scooter ride to my very humble abode. I’m considering claiming from “The Rough Guide”

For the first time I got violently ill from the some food I ate. They were very dodgy looking spring rolls indeed, but I still went ahead and ate them for lunch. Later that evening, some travellers that I’d previously met, and I went out for dinner at the market and then to a pub for a drink or two. 2 minutes after sitting down I rushed to the toilet where I stayed for about 45 minutes expunging all I’d eaten previously. (Thank God I still wear nappies).

Later on I managed to find my way to my guest house where I occupied the bathroom for the night. I’m now writing on a bus where I’ll be for the next 6 hours on my way to Cambodia. My stomach rumbles quietly as I kick myself for not thinking of bringing my personal reflexologist to help me keep my mind off my gut.

Saigon is big, bad, busy and expensive. I did manage to squeeze in a trip to the Fine arts museum which is housed in a very impressive French colonial building. If you’ve seen things like the War museum and Prison in Hanoi then skipping Saigon wouldn’t be a bad thing at all.

The (happy) end(ing)
Gary

5 June 2008

Herroh from Vietnam…… !!!!!!

I hope you’re all well

I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Sa Pa (Suppa) where I’ll be for the rest of the day as I had to check out of my humble abode at 9am and have to sit around until 9pm until the overnight train back to Hanoi. The overnight train has the following options. Soft sleeper, hard sleeper, soft seats and hard seats. As I booked my ticket late I managed to only get the soft seats for the 10 hour overnight journey up to Sa Pa. I’d hate to know what the hard seats are like as only now, two days after the train trip, am I realising that I do actually have an arse. But I do have another sleeping position, which is on my back with my feet up the wall and resting on the ceiling. I’m thinking of starting a new yoga genre after all the positions I’ve found while trying to sleep on a busses and trains.

So I arrived in Hanoi which is hot , humid, crazy and I’ve come to realise that I’m by far the best looking guy that’s ever been there. Every time I walk out my guest house these beautiful, young, innocent, kind, ladies come up to me and say things like, “Hello hansum, you want massage, boom boom (which I think is double strength marijuana), anything you want?”

“Anything?” I ask with tears in my eyes, “Why aren’t the woman back home so kind?”

And I can’t be wrong because there are so many here that find me attractive.

And just for all you guys who are still wondering if Asian women are the same as western ladies (If you know what I mean) well, THEY ARE. (I just HAD TO find out for all my good friends back home who wanted to know. I mean what are friends for?)

For all of you sales people out there who are reading self help books to improve your selling skills, throw them away, book a ticket, and come to Vietnam because here be true salespeople. In Vietnam “No’ is the new “Yes”

If you so much as stop and look at something at a stall you will have a little salesman following you until you relent and buy something you will have absolutely no use for later.

And their sale pitches are fantastic. I bought a cap for 30 000 dong (R25) and every day since then I’m stopped by a travelling salesmen (They carry their wares in a basket and move from foreigner to foreigner) who wants to sell me the identical cap.

This is how their pitch goes.

“Hey hansum (you see I’m not imagining things), how much you pay for the cap”

“30 000 dong” (R25, 00)

“This one only 25000″ (for an identical cap)

“But I have one”

“This one cheepah”

“But I’ve only got one head”

“But this one cheepah”

“BUT I HAVE ONE ON MY HEAD RIGHT NOW, I DON’T NEED ONE”

“Ok, only 20 000 dong……”

My rug sack now consists of a toiletry bag and 438 identical caps, and when I get back each and every one of you WILL buy a cap from me as “NO” is my new “YES”

And then there are the scooters………………..I’m not sure of the population of Hanoi but I know that every person must have at least two because that is how many scooters there are on the road. We have absolutely no right to complain about the mini bus taxis because compared to these guys they’re pussy’s. They give a new meaning to the term organised chaos. After a few glasses of rice wine I decided to walk into the middle of an intersection to get some action shots. (The only action shots I’ve been getting lately)

I stood there for 10 minutes taking pictures, and of the 150 000 scooters that passed me, I was not hit once. Which was quite a relief.

I went to Ho Chi Mihn’s mausoleum on the back of a scooter and it was truly a testicle shrinking experience.

On that note (not my testicles) Ho Chi Mihn, or “Uncle Ho” as he is called by the Vietnamese, wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread in the north, middle and south of Vietnam. So just to follow his wishes they built him a mausoleum and his body is on display in a glass caste to tourists and the adoring Vietnamese.

Visiting there is quite an experience as for the first time you get to experience that there is a communist regime in control. From entering the grounds everything is conducted with military precision and the soldiers definitely let you know that they’re in charge.

“Hey these guys have defeated the French, Americans, Cambodians and the Chinese. Who am I, (a nice Yiddisha South African), to argue?

Everybody walks in a silent queue into the mausoleum, and there on his back is the lifeless Ho. Just like all the other Ho’s I’ve known. At least he was free.

The war museum was also good, but it would be a bit better (just a bit) if the signs were in engrish, not that I’m brave enough to tell them. There is also the water puppet theatre where they have puppet shows that take place in, water. Worth seeing, but the puppets can only speak Vietnamese. “Hmmm maybe they need a TEFL engrish teacher?”

But the best part of Hanoi are the streets because that is where it all happens and as crazy as it is, it’s really fantastic.

So tomorrow I’m back there and then head straight down south towards Saigon. I have to be out of the country by the 17^th (and I will be). Probably off to Cambodia. But I will let you know as once again I have to cross a border post, and I like my testicles just the way they are.

There are some pics that I’ve taken and they’re on my website www.garyhirson.com soon.

I hope you’re all well and keep on writing.

Chat later

Gary

A few more testicle shrinking experiences:

1. Finding out at a crucial moment that the woman you’re with is actually a lady boy.
2. Misplacing your wallet that has your passport, all foreign currency and credit cards in it, in what you thought was a women’s apartment
3. Realising that Dog is on the menu while eating a meat that you’ve never tasted before.
4. Being called off a bus by military personnel for questioning at a VERY remote border crossing in a communist country, when nobody back home knows where you are.

(Of course none of the above has actually happened to me……)

Howdy Bevironi

Man I am so loving Louong Phabang I was here for about 5 days and now I’m back for another 4.

I have just added you to my mailing list but here is a story for you.

I went up to a village called Muang Ngoi which is about a 9 hour trip up the Nam Ou River. It is only accessible by boat.

I went up with a British couple, he was about 23 and she was about 34B and very perky.

The boats are small and when you get in you feel like you’re having a Alice in Wonderland kid of experience. Small chairs and thin boat with low roof does sought of keep you compact for a while. If I’d had the Opium I’m sure the white rabbit would’ve appeared.

So you head up the Mekong, at the first intersection you go right in to the Nam Ou. You can’t miss it as the intersection is very wide and on the corner is about a 2000ft rocky outcrop.

The scenery is amazing, the chocolate brown water which moves as if it is hot chocolate, but is actually just dirty, brown, water, slides past forests and hills. We did stop for some running repairs and I got a little concerned when the captain hauled out a hammer and started to beat the side.

After 8 hours we stopped off at Noung Khiew and to walk across the bridge from the port to the guest houses with a 180 degree view of sheer, brownstone cliff faces, that drop into the river and green forests, on the banks is mind blowing, velly velly psychedelic.

34 B seemed be enjoying the view too.

Over here they make the best fruit shakes. There is nothing like sitting at a restaurant at dusk, overlooking the Nam Ou River and having a good shake…. a fruit shake that is.

The next day we explored some caves and then the hour long trip to Muang Ngoi.

Further up the river I started to feel like a rugged French explorer- with a Jewish surname. I thought I was going introduce contact to the natives, but that vision went overboard when I saw telephone lines running across the river.

Muang Ngoi is a great place to just chill. There are plenty of guest houses and its really laid back. Electricity from 6- 10pm but as it is the rainy season its 7-9.15pm.

We trekked for a day and visited some cool villages with amazing people. Was really happy that there wasn’t a big pot boiling on the side. I think 34 B would be really tasty.

Trekked our arses off in the mud which was fun, but the mud is thick and at times deep. Had to flick a leech or two off. I found out that mosquito spray works on all bloodsuckers so I aim to market it to uses on politicians, bank managers and the tax man.

34B, me and what’shisname went on a fishing trip. It was cool watching how they throw the nets. A good distraction.

They BRAAI’D us the fish they caught and a meal of FRESH river fish, sticky lice and chilli, served on a tree leave is other wordly. 34B was really licking her lips….

Back to the riverside bungalows to just chill. The rooms are quite dark and while travelling back I did see a spider, the size of my hand. If that thing had to land on me in the middle of the night, I would undoubtedly soil myself. But I haven’t seen any in Louong Phabang…speaking of which, FFF………….CCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!

Later

G

Some more pics up on my website www.garyhirson.com (pass it on)

So now back in Louong Phabang, editing pictures, sending stories and just catching up.

Later Mz B

Have a great weekend