Posted Thursday, March 29, 2007, 11:27 PM by Lonely Planet
Baxter Jackson, one of the winners of the recent Bluelist competition, has a cat of pure breed travel pedigree. Hanuman - aka Mr Chickencat - has been to places backpackers only dream of...
Mr Chickencat has trekked in Nepal, travelled all over southern India, kicked it in California, and even been to Mount Sinai and Siwa with Baxter and fiancé Kristina Kunz.
But now, Baxter has left Hanuman at home to accompany fellow winners - Lisa Burns, Dov Quint and Sylvia Dubery - along with Lonely Planet authors Alex Leviton and Paul Clammer, in a tour of duty in Marrakesh. Read their blog posts here from Monday as they cut their teeth in the world of travel research and writing.
Labels: Bluelist Winners 2007
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We were delighted today to see that not only is Jaunted.com lambasting 'Micael' [sic] Kohn's recent article on dangerous travel, but that the page was peppered with ads for our current Bluelist competition. Thanks for the publicity, guys!
Labels: Travelsnitch
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Posted Tuesday, March 27, 2007, 9:45 PM by Lonely Planet
Dan Eldridge is currently in Thailand researching for the South East Asia on a Shoestring guidebook. He reports in from Bangkok...
It's late in the afternoon on a boiling hot day in Bangkok. I'm riding aboard one of the city's ubiquitous ferry taxis, and floating south along the massive Chao Phraya River. But even with the cool bursts of wind and the occasional droplets of water that spray through the boat's open window, my body is still coated with sweat.
I'm a travel journalist, and a few months back, Lonely Planet offered me an assignment: I was to spend six weeks exploring Thailand for an update of LP's Southeast Asia on a Shoestring. Sounds like a dream job, doesn't it? But right now, as I'm heading towards the centre of town to investigate yet another series of guesthouses, restaurants and cafés, I don't feel like I'm in a dream at all. Thanks to the bulk of my ever-present messenger bag, which is weighted down with guidebooks, my spine feels like its been literally twisted out of shape. And my feet, which have pounded through endless kilometres over the past 72 hours, are throbbing. If this is a dream, I think to myself, it must be the beginning of a nightmare. Right now, there's only one thing I'm absolutely certain of: I haven't worked this hard in months.
But overseas travel, I've found, has a funny way of changing your attitude without so much as a moment's notice. And I suppose that's why it didn't surprise me when I found myself in a sudden conversation with Lulu, a German tourist who was riding the ferry. As we floated further south and exchanged the normal backpacker pleasantries, Lulu told me that she too was having a bad day. She was missing her husband, whose last email from home had made her cry. She was lonely. And so without giving it so much as a second thought, we decided to pass the evening together.
First, we drank smoothies on the outdoor terrace of the Oriental Hotel, and while the sun dropped behind the river, we got to know each other in record time. Later, we were driven to the middle of nowhere by a crooked tuk-tuk driver. We wandered through the night market at Patpong, and climbed a staircase to one of the district's infamous go-go bars. It was a classic Bangkok night and when my head hit the pillow hours later I was laughing out loud, and completely in awe of my luck. Because as it turns out, I've apparently got myself a dream job after all.
Labels: Asia and Pacific
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For many, the words 'cuisine' and 'Phnom Penh' suggest little more than marijuana-topped 'happy' pizza and deep-fried tarantulas. However in recent years, Cambodia's capital has undergone a quiet culinary revolution that is making dodgy street food and drug-laced entrées go the way of the Khmer Rouge.
The Phnom Penh of today is home to some 870 restaurants that range in cuisine from regional Cambodian to upscale French, as well as more obscure cooking styles such as Russian and North Korean. There's a restaurant to fit every budget, and as many places are run by expats and talented locals alike, the flavours are spot-on authentic.
Scallops sautéed with Cambodian peppercorns, Malis Restaurant, Phnom Penh.
To experience the local cuisine, a good place to start is Malis (136 Street 41, 023 221 022), a chic open-air Cambodian restaurant that wouldn't be out of place in L.A. or London. Try one of the restaurant's numerous sour soups, a staple of Khmer cooking, and you'll see that Cambodian food is much more than 'Thai without the spice', and boasts an impressive repertoire of subtle flavours based on indigenous herbs.
For something a bit homier, try Sweet Café (21B Street 294, 012 999 119), where Khmer staples mingle with Chinese-influenced dishes, and everything is full-flavoured. Boat Noodle (8B Street 294, 012 774 287) boasts an eclectic Thai-Cambodian menu, and the Psar O Russei's dark but delicious food court is probably the largest conglomeration of Khmer food in the world.
And the revolution doesn't stop at Khmer food; Phnom Penh's colonial past is evident in the numerous French and other European restaurants that dot the city. A good food day in Phnom Penh could involve a hearty 'full English' at The Rising Sun (20 Street 178, 012 710 131), a light petit dejeuner at Comme a la Maison (13 Street 57, 023 360 801), and a raucous tapas dinner (complete with Spanish wines) at Pacharan (389E1 Sisowath Quay, 023 224 394).
For pre-trip dining reconnaissance there's no better source of info than Phnomenon, the only blog dedicated to food and drink in Cambodia, where thankfully, there's hardly an arachnid nor a 'happy entrée in sight.
- Austin Bush
Labels: Asia and Pacific, Culinary culture
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Posted Sunday, March 25, 2007, 6:05 PM by Lonely Planet
Frances Linzee Gordon has just completed an unprecedented research assignment in Saudi Arabia for Lonely Planet's forthcoming guide to the Arabian Peninsula. As the first person ever to be granted a visa to visit the Kingdom as an independent tourist, she kept a diary of her adventures. In the sixth of eight blog posts, Frances wonders whether she's seeing double...
Were the long days and drawn-out journeys beginning to take their toll? Was I imagining the cars behind us, and vaguely familiar faces? At first Abdullah denied it, but one day confessed: we were followed wherever we went.
Abdullah's natural Saudi taciturnity (and perhaps intrinsic fear of the authorities) prevented him from telling me exactly who they were, though I suspected it was the Ministry of the Interior (those in charge of the Kingdom's internal security).
Though notorious, the Saudi secret police apparently operated in a much more subtle way. So ubiquitous and all-pervasive are they that even immigrant street sweepers and loo cleaners are said to be in their services. So effective is this network that suspects are apparently apprehended within hours of murder.
Abdullah explained that they followed us for our own security; I suspected it might have been for theirs. The Saudi take any criticism of their precious Kingdom extremely personally and so quake in the trail of writers or journalists - the very few they let in, that is.
It was also a fear of more Western killings. In 2003 and 2004, a spate of murders of
Westerners had led to the direct departure of no less than 50% of the 10,000 American resident expats, and 30% of Europeans. The Saudis, desperately dependent on them for their technical expertise, were terrified of scaring off more.
Though Abdullah feigned frivolity and fun, even he appeared to follow a tight procedure. Whenever he got out of the car (even to buy petrol), he would lock me tight within. He also insisted on accompanying me wherever I went - including to the portal of the ladies.
Every day, a 'Mr Saad' would call to check on our movements. Sometimes Abdullah would pass me the phone. Feigning belief he was a friend of Abdullah, we would talk the most ludicrous trivialities as Abdullah covered his mouth to contain his laughter:
'How is Saudi, Ms Frances?'
'Oh very beautiful, Mr Saad, and the camels are very handsome...'
One episode in particular caused Mr Saad the most terrible upset. As visitors are only ever granted a one-month visa to the country, I had to sneak out and then back in in order to keep my visa valid. I decided Bahrain was the place and to Abdullah's enormous anxiety jumped in a taxi. We sped off to the border and back in less than an hour. As soon as I returned, Abdullah's phone began to ring:
'Ms Frances, she go to Bahrain for 46 minutes! What she do in Bahrain for 46 minutes?'
Without flinching, Abdullah told him that I had all my life wanted a photograph of 'beautiful Bahrain'.
Labels: Frances Linzee Gordon in Saudi Arabia, Middle East
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Posted Thursday, March 22, 2007, 5:45 PM by Lonely Planet
If you thought your perfume was safe in Australian airports - think again!
From Saturday March 31 new security measures for carrying liquids, aerosols and gels on flights into and out of Australia will be introduced. In line with rules already in place in Europe and the United States, passengers need to carry all their toiletries, drinks and medicines in a single, clear plastic bag (which must be sealable and not exceed 1 litre).
But don't think you can take that oversized bottle of moisturiser on board (even if it fits in the bag) - each container must be 100 millilitres or less. The new rules apply to drinks, creams, perfumes, sprays, gels, toothpaste, lipstick, lip balm and similar substances. Basically, this covers anything you can pour, spray or smear.
You can still carry prescription medicines on board and baby products but the Department of Transport and Regional Services has made it clear that "proof of need" may be required. We take it a screaming tacker will do the trick.
Labels: Asia and Pacific, Breaking travel news
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Fionn Davenport gets philosophical (has a rant?) in Dublin...
I don't like parades, and I couldn't care less about floats or fireworks. Watching Dublin's St Patrick's Parade I couldn't help but wonder what the hell we were all doing. What is St Patrick's Day really all about?
We're not celebrating an event in Irish history - nothing tidy like a day of independence or the birth or death of a founding father. We're not celebrating St Patrick himself - a Welshman who may not have existed at all. Nor are we celebrating Christianity or anything to do with religion - we do plenty of that at Easter and Christmas.
So what's it all about? Irishness? What the hell is that? Are we celebrating the 'qualities' that define us as Irish? If so, What the hell are they? Friendliness, loving a laugh, the craic? Jesus Christ, I hope not. We are, after all, a nation, not a stand-up routine.
Ask any of the other half-million lining the parade route; I wager you wouldn't get a consistent answer out of them. One thing struck me though: the sheer number of recently arrived immigrants at the parade, most of them totally gung ho for the whole spectacle. Maybe St Patrick's Day has most meaning for them; a way of celebrating their new home and, in some small way, aiding what must be a pretty tough assimilation.
That's a pretty good reason to have a parade.
Three other Lonely Planet authors were in Ireland this St Patrick's Day...
Read what Ryan Ver Berkmoes got up to in Limerick, James Bainbridge in Listowel and Tom Downs in Dunfanaghy.
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Posted Tuesday, March 20, 2007, 7:57 PM by Lonely Planet
Ryan Ver Berkmoes - Lonely Planet's foremost St Patrick's Day Parade Critic - tells us how it is in Limerick, Ireland...
'That one sucks,' said the little boy next to me as a barely decorated pickup truck rolled by.
He was right of course, like many of the 'floats' in this minor-league parade, the truck was merely a marketing tool for a local business - in this case Pimp My Ride, a Limerick car customizer, which if their float was any indication, considered a dangling air freshener to be the full pimp.
On a somewhat stormy day, Ireland's second city staged a parade that was every bit the reflection of this town's own checkered reputation: shambolic, merry, mean and ultimately grey - like the streets it traversed, the skies overhead and the complexions of the windblown spectators.
Fortunately we (myself and compatriots Erin and Janine) had our own little peanut gallery of ginger-haired moppets to provide a running commentary on all that passed before us. 'Shoot!' they cried to the grey-faced Irish soldiers, who rather disquietingly formed a good portion of the parade.
Amidst the military and shameless self-promotion ('the Sun Warriors are proudly supported by Hickey's Cleaning Services') there were the bits of oddball charm that always make a parade worth the effort. A little trailer bearing misshapen lumps on a papier-mache backdrop honored the 'the Salmon of Knowledge', a bit of Irish lore in which a man could be king if he ate the right fish.
Another float (really a trailer which, in near ubiquitous commentary on the unreliable weather, was covered) bore a huge, flaccid lump that the over-amped MC assured us was a dragon (verdict of the kids: 'stupid, it looks like shite').
After an hour, the last batch of hypothermic Girl Guides had passed and the crowd quickly turned to more important matters: getting drunk and watching Ireland play rugby against Italy (the parade time had been moved up to accommodate this - the match that is, as drinking was ongoing).
We repaired to South's, a pub mentioned in Limerick-set Angela's Ashes, now an upscale boozer that tips its hat to its literary legacy by naming the toilets Frank and Angela.
While a Scotsman whose name might have been Jock and an Irishman whose name might have been Pat competed to out-do each other in their regurgitations of English atrocities against the good people of the Isles ('It was 300 years ago and they killed everybody!'), we settled back with pints of Guinness that hadn't been chilled to death and tried to sort out the legacy of the Salmon of Knowledge, although in the end all we could decide was that, yes, the float had sucked.
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Posted Monday, March 19, 2007, 10:59 PM by Lonely Planet
Lonely Planet author James Bainbridge quenches his thirst and gets green with a random Irish guy - the best type of Irish - all while on the job...
I decide to spend St. Patrick's Day in Listowel (that's 'Listooowell') in the hope that the Kerry town's history of bar-propping poets will lend my own bender some literary associations. Needless to say, Ireland has its own ideas. In the John B Keane pub, named after the late local scribe whose output included the Richard Harris film The Field, I sit in the corner and scribble some observations. I feel like part of the furniture given the literary precedent here.
Then the barman and a random drinker separately stumble over and ask why I'm 'making lists'. 'We've had enough of writers round here,' says the random. He's joking but I put the notebook away anyway and order another drink - an activity that will surely only gain approval. While the Guinness is 'curing' (settling), I make one last valiant attempt to fit some work into the drinking spree. 'Do you have a business card for this pub?' I ask the barman. He slings me a key-ring, which bears only a rousing John B Keane couplet. Next I ask what nights the pub has music sessions. 'We had to send the guitarist home,' the barman laughs. 'He was drinking all day, but he'll be back tomorrow.'
Outside, the streets are messy. The parade, an innocent display of six-year-old leprechauns and local businesses shamelessly exploiting the event for self-promotion, is a distant memory. In the town nightclub, sinisterly called Mermaids, a band plods through U2 covers and a fight erupts involving half a dozen very large, very drunk men. Realising that St. Patrick's Day is coming to an abrupt end, and not wishing to follow suit, I make a break for my B&B. En route, I pull out my new key-ring and read Keane's lines about the Listowel of a bygone decade: 'There are so many - Lovely songs to sing'.
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Frances Linzee Gordon has just completed an unprecedented research assignment in Saudi Arabia for Lonely Planet's forthcoming guide to the Arabian Peninsula. As the first person ever to be granted a visa to visit the Kingdom as an independent tourist, she kept a diary of her adventures. In the fifth of eight blog posts, Frances reflects on Saudi fashion...
'A woman's beauty is her hair', goes the Arab saying. And walking around without a headscarf certainly seemed to attract attention. Though you don't have to wear a head covering by law in Saudi Arabia, doing so avoids chastisement from the mutawwa (the infamous 'religious police', a kind of self-appointed moral vigilante), as well as earning the respect of the ordinary citizen.
In the more conservative regions of the Kingdom (the centre, the far north, the northwest and far south) many would apparently prefer more:
'May God lead him to a straight path', were the mutters Abdullah and I heard as we walked down a street in Najran in the far south of Saudi. As we were alone, people assumed we were married. It had its advantages: like donning a disguise, we could move about undisturbed doing what other couples did, such as browsing the local markets, or sharing a rug while picnicking on the seafront. But it also made Abdullah even more responsible for me than he already was. As my 'husband', it was his shame to show me.
For Abdullah's sake therefore more than for my own, I decided sometimes to adopt the full attire. To my surprise, I rather liked it. From within the veil I could see without being seen, understand without being understood, and ogle the magnificent tribesmen of Najran without suffering inspection myself.
It shielded from the sun and deterred the dust; it hid blemishes and bags brought on by a late night's writing or a 15-hour journey. It concealed uncombed hair, a crumpled shirt or clumsy cosmetics. When I later returned to London, the pressure to appear fashionable, feminine and au fait again seemed almost overwhelming. To my surprise, I secretly coveted those days in my coverings.
Don't think the Saudis themselves miss out too much either. Underneath that austere attire, many Saudi women don the finest fabrics or Milan's most fashionable fittings. Saudi women are also among the highest spenders on luxury lingerie.
Saudi men manage too:
'From the fold in a woman's ankle, you know her age,' Abdullah one day explained gleefully and sheepishly at the same time. 'From the size of her wrist, you know her build. From the abeyya in motion, her figure; and from her hands, her complexion. And from the eyes, you have everything else...'
Labels: Frances Linzee Gordon in Saudi Arabia, Middle East
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Posted Sunday, March 18, 2007, 10:16 PM by Lonely Planet
Lonely Planet author Tom Downs braves some wet and blustery weather in Ireland this St Patrick's day...
My plan had been to take a ferry out to Tory Island, reputed to be a nearly uninhabitable rock off the coast with a notoriously eccentric population. But the sea was too rough, so I stayed in tiny Dunfanaghy on the mainland. There was a parade scheduled on the main street and Brendan Rohan, the owner of the Concreggan Mill Hostel, promised it was one of those 'anything can happen' sort of events. Brendan was wearing a traditional saffron kilt, knee-high socks, and a Scottish woolen coat with a Tara broach pinned to it - a replica, he informed me, as the original was in the National Museum in Dublin. A retired officer of the Irish Army, he looked right proper in this festive uniform.
We were heading out the door when sad news came that the parade was cancelled. A young man from the village had died that morning in a car wreck. Martin McMullan, age 19. We headed into town to see if anything was going on, and express condolences. On Main St the wind was blowing the drizzle every which way and no one wore kilts or green hats. We ducked into a pub and found a lively crowd cheering on the Irish rugby team, which was beating Italy in a Six Nations game. The crowd let out a uniform howl each time the Irish scored.
This had little to do with St Patrick, but it was spirited, and a whisky helped put Brendan and myself into a better frame of mind. During the halftime analysis, we decided to drive to the nearby village of Falcarragh, where Brendan assured me we'd see a parade.
Along the main drag in Falcarragh, people huddled in parked cars, waiting for the parade to roll down the street. A band of marching pipers and drummers came along playing 'The Rising of the Moon' and suddenly people materialized in doorways, many speaking Gaelic to one another. The band was followed by dancers, women dressed in sheep's clothing and children wearing red beards and top hats. The parade went up a few blocks, doubled back down the main drag then was over. The entire town crowded into The Shamrock Lodge to get warm over a pint or whisky. Father Martin, brother of the pub's owner, helped tend bar. Old ladies, bearded children and marching bands all managed to squeeze in. It was pretty damn good craic, after all.
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Posted Wednesday, March 14, 2007, 5:56 PM by Lonely Planet
In the last installment of her Bruce Lee adventure in Mostar, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Lonely Planet author Vesna Maric meets the martial arts star in his final resting place.
I'm rushing over to the city park, convinced I am going to see Bruce. I arrive and wave at 'the woman in charge' who is standing in the distance, mobile phone glued to her ear. Excited, I approach, but she starts making apologies, saying it's 3pm, everyone has finished work for the day, including Dragan, who will have gone home and left Bruce to sweat under the polyester blankets all by himself. Tomorrow, she says, after 8am, I'll take you to see Lee.
Disappointment sweeps over me and saying goodbye to the woman, I am incredulous at the difficulties I am encountering, and wonder how the world's most famous martial artist has come to embody the physical and metaphysical struggles of contemporary Bosnia & Hercegovina?
The next day, early in the morning, I call the woman. She tells me that Dragan is waiting, ready to open the gates of Sesame. I go, imagining Lee underneath the synthetic winter blankets, safe in bondages of sellotape and chains.
I find Dragan in a bare office, feet up on the desk. He wears a large moustache and a technicolour shellsuit that crackles when he moves. He looks at me with piercing blue eyes, and I'm thinking he doesn’t like journalists. 'Follow me' he says, crackling off, and I walk behind him through puddles, towards a small warehouse. I am nervous and excited. Nearly there.
Dragan opens the door and reveals Lee wearing nothing but a small blanket over his head. No sellotape, no uber-protection, none of that stuff. Dragan was all talk. Now I give him a piercing look, one that says: 'Where's all the blankets?' but he doesn't flinch or explain himself. Instead, he yanks the blanket with disgust, revealing a battered and bruised Bruce. Then he shouts at his friend outside: 'Hey! There's a young lady here, a journalist, came to see Bruce Lee! Maybe you could give her a closer look?' And roars with dirty-old-man laughter. Within seconds, a small group has formed at the door, watching me take photos of the statue.
I decide I've snapped enough photos and realise the impotence of the bronze Bruce against brutes. So, barraged by double-entedres I leave, smiling, thanking everyone very much, and apologising to Bruce Lee in my mind, for leaving him behind.
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Posted Tuesday, March 13, 2007, 4:28 PM by Lonely Planet
It's been 85 years since the British Isles produced a new nation, so when I was asked to represent Lonely Planet and address a gathering of a freshly-declared independent state in the small rural town of Kelso, I hot-footed it to London's Kings Cross station, the gateway to the north and east of England, and distant Scotland beyond.
My destination was Free Kelso High, a school and now a country in the Borders. This region, unsurprisingly, straddles England and Scotland and for centuries was squabbled over in a manner not unlike the more gory bits in Braveheart. Though little-visited, the Borders are home to lovely market towns, gently rolling hills and the broad, fast-flowing river Tweed - a natural border that even today separates attitudes and dialects. Doe or Die, Kelso's motto, comes from medieval Scots King Robert the Bruce and reflects the areas distinct accent and slang.
The Borders is perfect for a cycling or walking trip away from the crowds, who rarely give the region a second thought as they hot-foot to Edinburgh and the Highlands beyond. Even the recent hoohah cause by nearby Rosslyn Chapel being named as the resting place for the Holy Grail in the Da Vinci code seems to have barely impacted on the tranquil pace of life round here.
Perhaps irritated by this oversight, Kelso High School has decided to leave behind the petty squabbles of England and Scotland and go it alone as Free Kelso High. This year marks the 300th anniversary of the Act of Union between the two countries, and to mark the event two students read out a Declaration of Independence. Free Kelso now has it's own flag, fluttering in the stiff early Spring breeze, currency (bawbees) and is flirting with the trappings of nationhood. The school is issuing its own passports, but failed to check mine on entry, raising questions about the porous nature of FKH's borders.
Rector and Head of State Charles Robertson, a man of passion and vision, invited Lonely Planet to add our thoughts to those of the UN and European Union. They had provided an insight into what it means to be a working country. I had a slightly different message: that you could make pots of money by behaving eccentrically. Citing the examples of self-proclaimed success stories like Hutt River Valley Province, Sealand and the Copeman Empire, I suggested how Free Kelso could not only survive, but thrive. Tourists and souvenirs can bring in revenue. Very new and very old things can be tourist highlights. Kelso, I learnt, is know for its onions. If all else fails, students can get out the papier mache and make an Aussie-style Big allium cepa.
The flag of Free Kelso will flutter over the school until next Thursday until a referendum - covered live by BBC Scotland, who are keenly following events - will decide whether the school goes it alone or comes back into the British fold. The students have an interesting choice - the school is at the heart of the debate raging about whether Caledonians are Scots, Brits, Europeans or something else altogether. I'll let you know what they decide.
***Update, 15 March 2007: in today's referendum the citizens of Free Kelso High voted 437 to 113 in favour of independence, with a 90% turnout! ***
See Micronations for more mini-country tomfoolery.
- Tom Hall
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Posted Monday, March 12, 2007, 4:47 PM by Lonely Planet
Cannes, Sundance and Glastonbury eat your heart out. If you're anywhere near Texas at the moment and have a penchant for great independent film, good music and week-long parties, the annual
South by Southwest (SXSW) festival in Austin is where you want to be.
As one of the most energised and progressive events on the festival calendar, SXSW acts as a showcase for undiscovered and overlooked music and film talent. During the 'week-long' event (9-18 March 2007) there are thousands of gigs, film screenings, panel discussions and industry conventions.
Austin's historic 6th Street has long been a significant stop for touring musicians - and this is where SXSW is concentrated. Closed to traffic, 6th Street turns into the progressively debaucherous festival Mecca. As evening rolls around and hangovers subside, every bar dedicates itself to a steady roll-out of bands, while the curb-sides become destinations for minute-meetings, celebrity-spotting and frenzied note-swapping.
SXSW works on a
badge system. The more you pay, the higher your badge status and the better your chances for gaining entry to the band/film of your choice. Unless you have a Platinum badge be prepared to stand in a lot of lines and don't be too dismissive about the idea of sticking to one venue per night - you'll see a lot of obscure music which you might never otherwise discover. One way to get around the pricey badge fees is to volunteer. The festival offers a huge range of options to willing volunteers in exchange for festival tickets! As accommodation options are usually scant in Austin around the festival, enquire about billeting options through the festival. Austinites are generally a friendly, laid-back bunch who enjoy opening their homes to foreigners.
Make sure you investigate the various 'barbeques', parties, after-parties and after-after-parties at SXSW. It's in the wee hours of the morning, when the instruments are packed away and the projector has stopped flickering, that the show really begins.
- Ghita Loebenstein
Photo: Zan Rowe
Labels: Festivals and events, The Americas
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Posted Tuesday, March 06, 2007, 8:06 PM by Lonely Planet
Lonely Planet author Vesna Maric was curious to find out what had happened to Bruce Lee after his disastrous start in Mostar, Bosnia-Hercegovina, but getting a closer look proved remarkably difficult.
The office in charge of Mostar's parks is supposedly where Bruce is hiding. I walk into the '70s Yugoslav socialist-modernist-cubist building and ask a woman with a bulging neck where I could talk to someone who'd show me Bruce Lee. She says, with a faint smile you might direct at a lunatic, that I should go upstairs to room number 1 and ask someone there.
Inside room number 1 two women are drinking coffee and smoking. I knock and get a dead-pan reception. Bruce Lee is so last year. After I realise that my mother knows one of the women personally, everything changes: you can go from a sub-zero degree reception, to being bathed in human compassion within seconds of dropping the right name. The women smile, make phonecalls. They call a man called Dragan, who is in charge of guarding Bruce. Dragan is taking his role as 'The Guardian of Lee' very seriously:
"I was given orders" says Dragan, "to wrap him up in two blankets and tie the whole thing up with selotape. Then they said I should also wrap him up in a newspaper. They also said no one can see him unless the authorities say so, so I'm afraid you can't come here unless you have permission. I can only say that I wish I was as well protected as he is!"
So I go look for 'the authorities'. I get a number. The woman, apparently in charge, is out of the office. So, thinking I may not get a look at Bruce Lee after all, I go to the city park to take a picture of where he used to be. The place is graffitied, unimpressive. The park is completely dug up and five thousand new lights are being installed. There's so much light in the park, the couples who used to come here exclusively for the darkness will have to look elsewhere for petting grounds.
Defeated, I go home, where my mother tells me she is friendly with 'the woman in charge'. She calls her and: ta-da! I am invited to go and see Lee immediately. I run, bits of lunch still fresh on my shirt. 'I'm gonna get Lee, I'm gonna get Lee' I keep thinking.
Labels: Europe, Travelsnitch
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Posted Monday, March 05, 2007, 6:54 PM by Lonely Planet
Carolyn McCarthy ponders the glamorous life of a travel author as she goes into serious write-up mode for the new Central America guide...
I woke up this morning still grasping for the words to describe that hotel I saw in my sleep. Charming has been banished, yet it still pops stubbornly to mind. Infused with personality? Relaxing and innovative?
Welcome to my world. In the past month I've written 94,000 words of guidebook prose and now find I'm doing it in deep dream phases. One hand types while the other slaps myself free of cliches which come at the eleventh hour to taunt and tempt me.
Descriptions - the details travellers need to know come in clean, immaculate and spotless, but get to be so repetitive that I savour dingy, grubby and unkempt. But those are a last resort. If a description need be so terrible, it needn't be in the guide, right?
This is what happens to a former Comparative Literature major stricken with wanderlust. My prose might have lost its poetry, but I am now able to deconstruct (a la Derrida) your basic hotel description...
A few months ago I was travelling with a friend in Central America and she suggested one hotel. I bristled. She wanted to know why. To her it sounded adorable, charming, woodsy.
'It says rustic, that's all.'
And what do you know? The charming, rustic lodge is hidden under overgrown foliage. Talk about character - the cabins have rough-hewn wooden beams, wicker rockers, splendid views. But the bath tiles are practically grouted with mold, the mosquito nets gnawed into Swiss cheese. It is a certifiable dump.
Guidebook writing will surely ruin me. 'Tell me about yourself,' a date might ask. And in 35 words or less...
'Popular with artists and neighborhood pets, this eclectic charmer is one of the best bargains in the 'hood, her strong suit being a sturdy double bed and a.m. French-press brew that could strong-arm Schwarzenegger.'
Luckily, for now I don't have to worry about personal matters. Or a personal life. I'm off on one serious Multinational Mildew Inspection. I ask you, is there anything charming about that?
Labels: Inside Lonely Planet, Travelsnitch
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Frances Linzee Gordon has just completed an unprecedented research assignment in Saudi Arabia for Lonely Planet's forthcoming guide to the Arabian Peninsula. As the first person ever to be granted a visa to visit the Kingdom as an independent tourist, she kept a diary of her adventures. In the fourth of eight blog posts, Frances starts to feel at home...
As we turned into town, it began to drizzle. I rubbed rather dismally at the fogged-up car window.
'The Japanese, they don't like it' Abdullah said sadly, shaking his head. 'But we Saudis, we like it very much... Look - clouds!', he pointed excitedly at the murky miasma enveloping the town.
Arriving in Abha, perched 2200m above sea level, was truly a shock to the senses. Not only was it palpably cooler - or colder (both hail and ice aren't unheard of) - but it was the neat green lawns, marigolds, mountains and mist that made the greatest impression. I blinked; I could easily be back at home in Scotland.
Asir - the name of these mountains - means 'difficult' in Arabic, after the legendary difficulties involved in crossing the crags by camel. No such problems today crossing by car.
'The Bin Ladens, they build the road, you know.' Abdullah said, hoping to raise a reaction at last.
The family behind one of the largest construction companies in the country had crafted many of the Kingdom's highways. The road, beautifully built, took us through steep escarpments, patches of juniper forests, and valleys that dropped dramatically to the torrid, torpid lowlands beneath. It was stunning scenery, but impossible to believe it was 'Saudi'.
During the journey, we had passed one of the famous 'flower men' of Asir, so-named for the garlands they traditionally wear in their hair. After stopping to ask for a photo, I returned to the car for my notebook. Suddenly, a terrible commotion broke out: Abdullah and the flower man were having a row.
'What happened, Abdullah?' I asked alarmed, when he too soon returned to the car.
'What do you mean?' he asked perplexed.
'The man - he was very angry...'
'No!' Abdullah laughed. 'He was inviting us to eat! But I try to explain we have no time... but he not accept it... What can we do?'.
Merhaban alf - 'a thousand welcomes' is the traditional greeting of the Asiri people. It seemed to sum up supremely the hospitality of the people of that region.
During our days there, every man we met pressed us to eat with him; every meeting we had ended with a present; every parting, a fond farewell. It had happened at last: I was beginning to fall for this curious country.
Labels: Frances Linzee Gordon in Saudi Arabia, Middle East
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