1. Lovely Andorra La Vella.

Featured: July 2004

The low cloud and encroaching darkness helped conceal our position as we lay flat in some off piste powder waiting for the final marshals to ski past as they scoured the slopes for stragglers on their way down the mountain. If we got caught - we'd forfeit our ski passes but it didn't matter as this was the last day, no - the last hour of our snowboarding trip. "Give me your word that we'll be back here in two years, feet strapped to a board, legs burning from exertion, and a mountain to conquer." I thought about Bryan's offer - it was like asking a 2 year old if he wanted some more ice cream. As appealing as it sounded, Jacqui and I were planning on having our second child around then, so it wasn't a viable option. I turned to him, swallowed hard, played the role of the responsible father and said..."You got it! First man down gets to choose where!"

I didn't choose Andorra. Don't think I would've even if I had beaten him home. I mean where is Andorra anyway? It sounds like a South American country at the foot of the Andes. One that makes use of yaks and lamas (you know, the non-spitting species) to drag skiers to the tops of their snowcapped mountains, where sherpers sell black coffee and bottled oxygen in exchange for ballpoint pens! I mused with a smile at my initial impressions as the ski lift effortlessly wafted us up into the icy blue sky, way above the snow white and perfectly groomed slopes of one of Andorra's five ski resorts. This little excuse for a country measures a massive 25km north to south and 29 km east to west, lies nestled between Catalunya and France, and boasts some of the most dramatic scenery and best skiing in the Pyrenees.

Baby had arrived, and was no doubt being fussed over by doting grandparents at this very moment, but the arrival had meant that budget skiing was top of the priority list. Thankfully Andorra fitted snugly into that category. Lift passes (your ticket to ride!) are much cheaper than most other European resorts. Outside of high season which ends in early March you can get a 5 day ski pass valid for all resorts for just over one hundred euros, and the other 'hidden costs' follow similar suit... ski hire is around 8 euros, and snowboard hire about 15 euros a day. A week’s too short and two too long, so ten seems to be the perfect number of days away. Buoyed by the strengthening rand (at eight to one - excluding those extra valuable cents that banks somehow work into the conversion ratio - to pay for those big signs that say "No commission charged") and the fund friendly country - we extended our stay.

Back on the lift I smiled again at the amount of snow that frosted the mountain. The risk you take when going on a skiing trip out of peak season is that the snowfall could be less than desirable, if even there at all - and who wants to stay indoors playing board games when you've flown across the world to play outdoors on your board!? Despite the unreliable and unpredictable snowfall that Andorra has battled over the past decade the gamble paid off - more snow, less skiers. Most European schoolchildren were back behind their desks, which is more important than you realize. The psychological battering you take, as you struggle to stay upright while a knee high mite ski's circles around you will cost thousands in therapy at a later stage, especially if you carry a large male ego around with you.

The smile continued as the ski lift cable dragged us onward and upward - I'd paid my dues, bruise for bruise - and was now fairly competent on a snowboard, the harder of the two chief disciplines. Skiing is a classic sport, it's ballet on the slopes, and there's only one way to do it - the right way. Snowboarding on the other hand has a more freestyle approach - anything goes, the more unconventional the better. You can tell a beginner skier by their snow plowing tactic and a novice boarder by their aching wrists and rears. And maybe it's the relentless blows to the behind that make boarders more "hip" conscious than their split footed counterparts, but there's a definite divide when it comes to coolness. So if it's the right image on the slopes that you're after, your question's been answered, but if it's a good time you want then the best advice is to strap on some skis, get down to a ski school (Approx 70 Euro for 5 mornings of group tuition … or 700 Euros for Group therapy later on should you choose to go it alone!) and you'll go from nouveaux to beau in no time at all. You'll also find that climbing off of a moving lift on ski's is a lot less stressful than on a board...

Which is why that smile subtly turned to quiet discomfort as the point of landing loomed closer. Two and a half years ago it had taken me the better part of a week to master the art of gracefully gliding off the ski lift without getting my board tangled up with the passenger next to me, causing a pile up in front of the attentive eyes of all those who had gone before and successfully left with their dignity in tact. I shifted nervously in my bindings, but for some reason could not feel my legs! Impossible, they couldn't have gone to sleep in such a short space of time - my body's toying with my mind, or the other way around. Either way it doesn't matter because I still didn't have full control of my lower limbs! I looked around. Everyone seemed so self assured, completely unaware of my predicament. Had they not been close friends, I would've fallen for the facade, but I saw through their bravado - further evidenced by the fact that all spontaneous conversation about the beauty of the surrounds from up here, had diminished to the sounds of ineffective coughs, and silence. Relentlessly the high swinging chariot dragged us closer to the top at what was now breakneck speed. No more excited glances were being exchanged, each of us staring ahead with dogged determination - it was each man to his own. And then as if my paralysis wasn't enough of a disadvantage, my goggles started to fog up - a sure sign that you're getting flushed and angst stricken, but before I could think of an appropriate excuse - he was suddenly there! Through the misty haze of polycarbonate lenses I could see his smug expression. The ski lift marshal, sitting like a Judge on a giant seat of power - gavel in hand (gavel... shovel, same difference!) I wasn't fooled by his bored appearance, I knew that his beady eyes were always on the lookout for unsuspecting victims falling prey to the icy patch that he vindictively prepared every day around the landing point. Like doctors defending their kind, no-one would admit to this malpractice - but my gut reaction told me it was true. My gut turned to more pressing matters as soon as the armrest was lifted though. It was only moments to go now as we shifted fretfully onto the edge of our seats. Keep your line, don't think about falling, forget the fogging goggles... just don't crash... and then it happened. Touchdown... all four of us, with heads held high, dismounted like seasoned pros gliding across the snow like we owned the mountain - a magnificent coup de grace and not a spectator in sight! Only the disgruntled marshal trying to get my attention in a foreign language (Andorra's official language is Catalan, but most locals speak Spanish) I on the other hand couldn't even use Spanish in self defense, so it took some obvious gesturing before I realized that I'd dropped a glove during the triumphant exit and that he'd gone to get it for me ... nice guy. OK, so maybe I was wrong about the vindictive nature of the marshal - though the same can't be said for Andorra's drivers, who must rank as Europe’s most reckless, hurtling around the congested narrow streets of its capital, Andorra La Vella, as if propelled by a death wish.

Rush hour extends from early till late, and traffic is always at a standstill thanks to the eleven million visitors who flock to the city annually, attracted by the skiing and the duty free shopping (especially renowned for its inexpensive electronics, photographic and sport equipment) - the latter industry growing out of smuggling French goods to Spain during the Spanish Civil war and Spanish goods to France during the WWI - Andorra remained neutral during both.

Today no Visas are required; authorities reckon that if Spain or France let you in, that's good enough for them. So your closest point of international air entry is either via Toulouse (180 km North) or Barcelona (225 km South) - from where you can catch a bus or a train or hire a car (just remember to get one with airbags!)

There's an invention that would go down well (honestly, no pun intended) - airbags for snowboarders. Skiers don't fall like we do - and as I watched Jacqui assail the slopes with speed and grace, she looked every bit as cool as the boarders she was flying past - so I might have been wrong about the coolness of skiers as well. But I wasn't wrong about choosing Andorra ... alright, I can't take credit for that either - so the only thing I did do right was to make the effort to go skiing.

For a week we entered no museums, visited no cathedrals, saw no sights and listened to no guides - we just skied. Like the handicap nature of golf that levels the playing field between pros and amateurs, skiing allows a group of friends or family of differing ability to enjoy the same experiences at the same time. And that's just what we did. We enjoyed the company, the icy bite of the wind at altitude, the quietness of blanket snow, the thrill of boarding off piste, of carving through powder snow, getting air, getting sprawled, getting high on endorphins, getting the most out of the day and the least out of the night - that's the thrill of snowboarding .... and for everything else there's South Africa.

2. Croatia

Featured: June 2004

“Where’s that again?” I said as nonchalantly as possible, not wanting to expose the obvious void in my geographical grasp of the planet we live on. “On the eastern Adriatic coastline!”... Hmmm, still fuzzy... “Across the sea to the right of Italy!” She’s onto me, saw right through the well traveled façade, and is treating me, well... like my geography teacher used to! We pour over a map together, I locate Italy’s boot and trace my finger right, I mean east, and there it is... Croatia, a tiny little country that boasts 2000 kilometers of Mediterranean coastline, and a total population of almost 5 million people (equal to the number of football players in Germany alone, so Croatians are to be applauded for their success during the last few World Cup tournaments.) The travel guide waxes lyrical about crystal clear seas, lush islands, unspoiled fishing villages, roman ruins and medieval cities, but all I can recall are the newsflashes of war torn towns and a battled ravaged countryside plastered all over our TV screens back in ‘91. By now though civil war has dissipated, communism has collapsed and no news is clearly good news, but you never know... so I pack in a flack jacket, some plasma (blood doesn’t travel well), make sure my will is in order and tell my folks that I’m going to Crete – which is what Croatia sounds like if you muffle the phone and gargle whilst speaking... it was either that or I’m going to “Go Asia” – which was a little too broad a travel itinerary and would’ve invited more questioning.

We touch down in the Capital city of Zagreb without incident – I glanced expectantly out of the window ... no armoured vehicles, no military presence, not even a metal detector wielding flight attendant scouring the tarmac for landmines! I was very wrong about Croatia. It was a hard won independence, and yes the implosion of former Yugoslavia and the birth of one of the world’s newest countries was agonizing, but when the dust had settled in ’95, peace rested on this former tourist Mecca, along with a single-minded doggedness and determination to regain the ten million visitors that once had flocked over its threshold annually.

Most travelers make a beeline for the coastline, but that would mean missing out on the energetic hub of Zagreb with its melancholy mix of east block culture and old world graciousness. With a caravan of crew and equipment in tow, a whistle-stop tour was about as likely as hearing Afrikaans on the tramway – so we took a ruthlessly selective stance, and spent an afternoon contemplating the meaning of life in on of Europe’s most beautiful burial grounds, the Mirogoj cemetery, where people seemed better housed in death than they ever were in life.

Life for us wouldn’t have been the same without the Croats – after all it was they who invented the ballpoint and the fountain pen... the tie ... the French plagiarized a unique scarf worn by 17th century Croatian soldiers, referring to it as “a la Croat” which ultimately became the root word for La Cravate ... and you thought ties came from Thailand! But it’s Nikola Tesla, the father of radio and alternating electrical current whom the Croats are most proud of... he and Marco Polo. Venetians claim his birthright, but Croatians have proof that it was on the island of Korcula that the author of the worlds very first travel guide was born. But I digress... which is something you can’t help as you wind your way along the idyllic Dalmatian coast that boats an island for every taste, ranging from stark, sun baked outcrops to softly contoured Shangri-las replete with meadows, lakes and forested hills.

Dubrovnik, the picture poster pearl of the Adriatic, took its name from the oak tree Dubrava that carpeted the surrounding mountainous region, and has been popular with tourists since the 7th century. (It’s’ rumoured that Agathie Christie spent her second honeymoon there!) Once inside the 25m high walls that surround the city, I couldn’t help but pay a visit to the oldest pharmacy in Europe – been serving up cough mixture since 1317, and they still haven’t found a cure for the common cold! What struck a real chord, other than my vocal ones, was a plaque above the city gate that read: “Freedom is not to be sold for any Gold in the world” – a reflection of the passion that kept a nations head high as it battled through the crosshairs of a civil war. For all the beauty of the Plitvice lakes, the charms of Split and Trogur, the pristine pebble beaches and azure waters of the warm Adriatic, it was the spirit of the average Croatian, who without saying a word, said welcome to my country ... my pride & joy.

It’s inconceivable to me that no famous writer has extolled Croatia’s culture (erhum, until now!), no filmmakers have set car chases within its narrow medieval streets, and bikini-clad movie stars are not regularly photographed on its shores. Yet the absence of a pre-packaged prospects can be liberating. Unburdened by preconceptions and expectations, a visitor to Croatia can experience the increasingly rare sense of wonder that transforms mere tourism into travel. She still is a rough diamond, waiting to be polished smooth by the soles of adventurers who want to capture her living essence before time & tourists put the experience on a postcard and send it to the rest of the world.

3. "I want my mummy"

Featured: October 2004

Egyptians don't like Graham Hancock very much. His best-selling controversial sleuthing saga has kept many a whodunit fan awake long after midnight wondering about the mysteries and conspiracies he toys with. I'm one of them - and though I can't claim to have read "Fingerprints of the Gods" cover to cover, I have dipped into his fascinating and somewhat fantastical theories on Egypt in particular. The gist of his fact or fiction novel starts with the discovery of the Piri Reis Map dated at 1513 AD which showed the coastline of Queen Maud Land in Antarctica free of ice – a condition it had not been in for some 9000 years. It’s only in recent times that modern man has been able to map this coastline using sub-surface surveying techniques that can penetrate the ice sheet that lies on top of it. How a map existing in the 16th century could have acquired such knowledge was a mystery, and the catalyst for extending his search to the Pyramids of Giza – whose layout points to a date many thousands of years earlier than the time of its supposed construction, a date revealed in the astronomical alignments of the Pyramids, the 'mansions of a million years.'

Ever since then I've had a yearning to "see it for myself" - to make up my own mind, based on a real life experience of seeing and touching these monolithic monuments of time. How old exactly? Who knows, but these monuments are old. They were ancient even before the Greeks or Romans had a word for ancient. When the Chinese first started laying the Great Wall, the Pyramid of Zhoser had already stood for two millenia. “Man fears time” says an Arab proverb, “but time fears the pyramids.”

It appears though that man fears more than just time. In 1997 tragedy struck tourism in Egypt - 70 foreign visitors were gunned down by militant’s intent on destabilizing the country. The steady influx of visiting hordes ground to a staggering halt... as did our plans of heading northward with a camera crew in tow. "We have a responsibility to our viewers not to encourage tourism to dangerous countries" explained my producer. She was right, and it would be another 6 years before a Top Billing crew touched down in Cairo...

July 2003, forty degrees in the shade ... what shade!! His name was Mr. Monsour - and he demanded respect because of his responsibility as ‘groundskeeper’ of the Pyramids of Giza. And he was a busy man (must've been, since he kept us waiting longer than it takes to bake bread in an oven - which is how we we're feeling at the time.) Every minute outside the pyramid is a minute less on the inside, but I contained my frustration and greeted him warmly (a sweaty palm in other words) as the camera started to roll. I had prepared a few soft questions to get him warmed up (as if anyone needed any more warming up!) before I planned to pounce on him the only question I really wanted answered. “Nearly 5000 years ago,” he began, “Giza became the royal burial ground or necropolis for Memphis, capital of Egypt. In less than 100 years the ancient Egyptians built these three pyramid complexes to serve as the tombs for their dead kings.” Maybe it was the midday sun, or the fact that he'd already warmed (more warming!?) to the thought of being famous in a foreign country - but on impulse I decided to forego the formalities and shot out of the starting blocks with "Who really built the Pyramids?" It was a mistake. I could see he was insulted and took great offense. "You read Hancock didn't you?" he said. The question triggered my second judgment error for the day. The correct answer would've been a) “Who’s Hancock?” but I opted for b) “Yes, most of it.” Like a Great Whites eyes close as he opens his jaws to engulf his prey, our affronted custodian started spouting forth rhetoric that he'd obviously done so many times before... "What everybody fails to see" he continued sternly, "is the significance of the recent finding of thousands of graves near to the pyramids, graves that belonged to those who built these triangular tombs with the sweat on their backs & brow, and paid the ultimate price in the quest for their and their kings’ immortality..." Ironic I thought, but I do not doubt that fact per say - I'd just love to know how they did it, or who was responsible for motivating the dieing masses?

According to my homework, completing this construction in the allotted 20 years would require 100 000 workers, labouring 10 hours a day, 365 days a year. They would need to place 62 blocks per hour or one every minute. That’s a three ton (on average) block of stone that’s inconsistent in size. Looking at the exterior, some of the stone steps are knee high, some chest height. The ledges between the blocks are sometimes only a footstep wide, 50 meters above the ground. One slip would mean instant death as the ill-fated labourer bounced and ricocheted off sharp angles of unyielding stone. That’s also one of two reasons that climbing the Great Pyramid has been forbidden since 1980. The other is to protect the monument from ... Graffiti! Complaints date back as far as 1840 about the pointless scribbles on these precious blocks of stone – one of which includes the will of someone who climbed to the top and committed suicide.

So laborers not only needed the strength and agility of mountain goats and nerves of steel, but they would have to stay in peak physical condition. That alone would require plenty of water to drink (especially in this heat!) and food to eat, not mention some form of crude air conditioning to work in the cramped interior. A quick calculation reveals that 100 000 people drinking two or three liters of water a day amounts to 300 tons of fresh water daily ... where none existed! And let’s not forget the 20 000 tons of food procured, cooked and delivered to the workforce spread out over an area of many square kilometers - requiring a miracle to the tune of five loaves and two fishes, every day.

But those questions were not going to be answered today, not by Mr Monsour anyway - whose rhetoric had reached it's climax with a sweeping statement that concluded any further discussion: "There is no doubt that these Pyramids were built by the Egyptians. Period." He left a little more heated than when he'd arrived, after that warm welcome, then warming up to the idea of being on TV, and now this! The upside for us was that the outside work was done and the inside beckoned.

Heading hastily toward the only known entrance of Pharoah Khufu’s Great Pyramid, one of the 7 wonders of the world, you look up at this colossal construction realizing that still more mysteries cloak it, and you haven't even stepped inside yet. For one, I find it strange that this 15 million ton mass wasn't wisely built close to an area rich with raw material, but rather exactly on the 30 degree line of latitude, one third of the distance between the equator and the north pole. Ah, location, location, location – and what’s more Mr. Pharoah, your new home is North facing! Somehow the ancients aligned the Great Pyramid with the geographical position of the north pole, to an accuracy of 3 sixtieths of a degree. They were not supposed to even know where the geographical pole was, and to this day no GPS type instrument that may have assisted them has been found. Not bad precision, especially when your manufacturing medium is 2.3 million blocks of solid limestone, moved by muscle alone. Just another co-incidence or planned that way? (Speaking of which, if you do plan to step inside – do it early, as the crowds and heat later in the day make it almost unbearable)

The Great Pyramid, as has been accurately established, is 131 metres high and 921 metres in circumference, a perfect square ... well, almost; the greatest difference in length between the four 230m sides is a whopping 4cm... the engineer should be hung! The apex is exactly in the centre of the base, meaning that the slope of all the sides must have been controlled to a remarkable degree of accuracy. Even the minutest deviation from this incline would have displaced the apex... but that's not all folks! It is only when you divide the circumference by the height that you realize that this measurement defines the mathematical quantity PI, the mathematical relationship between the circumference of a circle and its diameter.

What's more, the Great Pyramid describes exactly the Northern Hemisphere to a scale of one in 43 200. The distance from the equator to the north pole is described by the height of the pyramid, while the equatorial circumference of the earth is described by the length of the sides. Of course, the ancients weren’t even supposed to know that the earth was round at this stage, that fact was only discovered thousands of years later.

Enough already, let’s go in. Standing at the entrance of a dark hole that leads into the Pyramid, I'm still happy to credit Pharoah Khufu as the architect of this awesome monolith knowing that in 2600 BC he had the wealth and power to command the greatest minds and manpower on earth. But that's just the exterior, the interior goes beyond all reasonable capabilities, and presents us with even more baffling dilemmas.

Once out of the reflective glare of sand & sun, it takes a few moments to adapt to the dark interior. A narrow passage leads to an even narrower staircase with a ceiling height of about 9m. Limited to single file progress, this tunnel is not for the closet claustrophobic or the unfit.

At a certain point within the pyramid look upwards to find one of three narrow air shaft (historians assume that’s what they were used for) just 200mm by 200 mm, cut through the massive stones above by forces still unknown today. 25 920 years ago we would have been able to see a single star through that shaft. Further up through another opening, we would have been able to see another star. And still further over, a third star - locking our exact position within the cosmos in time and space by an alignment that would not repeat itself for another twenty millennia. Huh? These mysteries boggling my mind as we crouch to shuffle through the last few meters of the tightening passageway.

At this stage, as far as I'm concerned, Lara Croft can keep her job – though the exhilaration of being in the centre of the Pyramid in the Kings chamber washes away the encroaching claustrophobia. It's an exactly rectangular room built under millions of tons of stone in the exact proportion of 3 to 4 to 5 – another important mathematical ratio only to be discovered by Pythagoras, the Greek mathematician, a thousand years on.
The room is 2 and a half meters long, 2 meters wide, oriented exactly (not approximately, exactly!) north-south. Eighteen huge slabs of granite have been laid like the gables of a modern house and then hollowed out from underneath to form a perfect concave barrel vault. A roof made of 70 ton slabs above your head fitted together like a jigsaw with almost invisible joints. Yet another mystery: Each slab is extremely heavy and there is no possibility that they could have been lowered into position from the outside, they can only have been raised upwards from the floor. However, the catch is - only a few men could cram into this chamber at any one time. Shoulder to shoulder maybe 40 men would fit at a push, far too few to raise 70 tons way above their heads. How then, was it done? The block and tackle hadn’t been invented. Was there some other method using a now forgotten system of levers? Some machine of which we have found no trace?

And then there's the Sarcophagus, the final resting place of the pharaoh. 2m long and 68 centimeters wide, it's made from a single block of pitch-black fine-grained volcanic rock known as diorite, one of the hardest materials on earth. It is too large to have been carried into this chamber and must have been made here on site and in situ. The walls are 100 mm thick, the outer and inner sides exactly parallel and at precisely ninety degrees to each other, perfectly rectangular and symmetrical. No instrument available today could have hollowed out the sarcophagus to such accuracy and such precision. Something, some instrument, was used to repeatedly penetrate to the bottom of the block. There is evidence showed by measurements of scratch marks on the sides of the sarcophagus that whatever was used penetrated the material at a rate similar to that of a knife through butter. One cut delivered by super-human strength, with a repeatable accuracy to fractions of a millimeter, by a machine of which we have no knowledge and have found no trace, no fragment of a broken drill bit, nothing...

Having reached the end of the road, literally for us, and figuratively for the Pharoah – we turn to leave... with more questions than answers. We know how they lived and died, we know that they invented beer, that they were the first to domesticate cats and use pigeons as messengers – but it’s what we don’t know about Ancient Egypt that sparks the imagination and draws all manner of mankind into the belly of its timeless tombs.

I’m the last to leave, for a priceless moment all alone in the Kings chamber. I turn off the torch and in the thick darkness that threatens to choke me, I try to imagine what happened here many millennia ago. But as my pulse races, and silence echoes off the stone cold walls, only one thought comes to mind ... “I want my Mummy!!”

5. Galapagos

Featured: February 2004

6. "From Rush Hour with Love"

Featured: February 2004

The doors opened and I stepped into a palatial hallway – marble lined floors and arches, life sized bronzed statues, gold mosaics, glittering chandeliers and stained glass windows. No different really from The Palace of Versailles or Neuschwanstein Castle – except possibly for the regular hiss and screech of brakes and hydraulics as Moscow’s underground Metro couriered its load to and fro between the ostentatious stations. Most major cities use their underground to take you to a destination, in Moscow – the underground IS the destination. It’s regal and splendid, and quite simply eye-popping, but it’s by no means a defunct museum – as the Metro ferries nine million commuters a day, which is more than London and New York’s systems collectively. It was (and still is!) an underground in more ways than one, a symbol of resistance to invasion, fronting both as bomb shelters and headquarters from where the Russians planned their first offensives against the Nazi’s in World War II, and where Stalin addressed his Generals on the night before the Red Army marched off to the front. The Metro was an integral part of Stalin’s extravagant plan to rebuild Moscow, it was meant to inspire the people and extol the virtues of a Soviet regime, serving as a showcase for socialism. Inspire and impress it did, though communism no longer gets the credit. Medals were bestowed on builders who were then regarded as heroes, today they’re awarded to English tourists who manage to find their way out of the stations without a Russian guide. For instance, what would you do if an armed man approached and said:

“????????????! ??? ?? ?????? ????????????”
Which sounded like: “Zdravstvujte! Chem ty seychas zanimaeshsya?”
Which meant: “Hello, what are you busy doing?”

All I could muster from a basic grasp of Cyrillic - the Russian alphabet named after Cyril the monk who developed it in 860 AD - was:
“? ?????????, ? ???? ?? ?????? ??-??????.”
Which sounded like: “K sozhaleniyu, ya poka ne govoryu po russki.”
Which meant: “Unfortunately, I can not yet speak Russian…”

Yeah right! In my mechtayu! … my dreams. We would’ve been hopelessly lost were it not for Nikolai – an unashamedly proud Moscovite who not only spoke perfect English, but more importantly had a deep understanding of Russian custom and culture – a vital ingredient if you are to appreciate the nuances and beauty of this somewhat foreboding city with it’s distinct lack of Anglo Saxon signage.

It’s no co-incidence that our driver was also called Nikolai, as was the bellboy, the artist we met in town and the vendor who sold us cheap caviar. Nicholas is the most popular name for boys in Russia, named after the 11th century saint (6th of December is St Nicholas day) who had a reputation for the miraculous – and that was our Nikolai, a man of many miracles. In a country riddled with red tape, I now know that it’s not what you know but who you know, and how to know what who you know knows about who knows what – y’know!

Yet it was not through the monuments or museums, but through Nikolai, that we experienced the many meanings of Ruuussia – said correctly by replacing the “u” with a long “ah” sound (the longer the better!) If there was one tradition that he was most passionate about – it had to be Vodka, and like water down a ducks gullet, it never seemed to affect him, which garners great respect in Soviet kingdom (yet another miracle!) Tea-totallers and testers are caught between a rock and a hard place since refusing to drink as much as the rest of the company is considered disrespectful (Drinking alone is tantamount to alcoholism!) A business deal doesn’t go down in Moscow without a few shots of paint-stripper (vodka to a new user) with the logic being that no-one can hold a hidden agenda when he’s tanked on alcohol (maybe using logic in that sentence was not a wise choice of words!?) Russians don’t drink without a reason, and although any reason will do, the process is very specific: glasses must be fully charged, then someone proposes a toast: “Na zdorovie” (for our health) is the widely recognized call for bottoms up, but there’s also “Daj Bog ne v poslednij raz” (hopefully this is not the last time we drink, with God's help) – of course I’m thinking just the opposite: “Lord, please let this be the last time we drink!!” Then follows the customary clink and everyone must polish off his or her vodka or otherwise imply that they do not support the toast. The whole process is repeated every 5 to 10 minutes! I hear the food is pretty good too…

It was during one of these many toasts that I learned about the other side of socialism. A jovial Nikolai, waving sturgeon fish on fork in hand, had turned to me and said “Your toast!” Having secretly substituted my vodka for water I boldly held up the tot glass and declared: “a toast: to the end of apartheid, and the fall of communism...” I may as well have said “Heil Hitler!” The mood changed in an instant, I guess much like when Darwin declared to the world that we were all once monkeys – which is exactly how I felt. We arrogantly believe that Capitalism conquered communism for the good of the people – yet from Nikolai’s perspective, as he graciously explained to me… Russia was a big family back then, we all struggled through tough times, but we pulled through together, we relied on one another and looked out for each other, comrades were really … comrades. Sadly as capitalism takes root, it‘s become every man for himself, dog eat dog – and the divide between haves and have nots has become insurmountable.

True. Ever since Gorbachev announced his policy of Perestroika (restructuring) in 1985 Russia changed dramatically. In the good old days life was unsurprising and stable, people were assured of the bare minimum, but now it’s become unpredictable. Anything can happen, as “Black Monday” showed. On the 17th of August 1998 the national currency lost 25% of it's value three days after the president's public promise that there wouldn’t be any inflation in the near future because the situation had never been more stable. But Russians are survivors, and they reacted with that world renowned resilience. Instead of rushing to change the government, they ran to change rubles for dollars. Despite having lost the advantages of the socialist state, and having yet to experience the benefits of capitalism – Russians love their country and will defend it fervently… a toast said somebody else at the table: “To Russia with love” – and the dark cloud lifted.

We later stumbled (figuratively!) across another toast - any reason will do, remember? Whenever a guests shouts “Groika!” at a wedding, the bride and groom are expected to swig a little Vodka and follow it with a kiss – the deeper meaning of which is the sweetness of love to counter the bitterness of life. And if they can arrange a photograph under the Equestrian statue of Peter the Great, founder of St Petersburg, they’re almost assured of a match made in heaven.

On the subject of a celestial destination - the majority of Russians belong to the Orthodox Church, a great achievement for a country where atheism was the official state religion for over 70 years. Believer or not, their churches have to be seen to be believed. St Basil’s cathedral, a riot of colourful gables and onion domes overlooking Red Square is one of Moscow’s icons. It was commissioned by Ivan the terrible, who was so enamored with its beauty that he had the architects eyes gouged out to prevent him from replicating this masterful work. The tyrannical ruler was also rumoured to have had an elephant executed for failing to bow before the Tsar … clearly got stuck in the terrible two stage, hence his nickname! The Church on Spilled blood, a must see in St Petersburg, was constructed on the site where Tsar Alexander II was assassinated and is somewhat of an elaborate reproduction of St Basil’s. The awe-inspiring cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, leveled by Stalin in 1931 and rebuilt in ’94 through public donations alone, was originally built to commemorate Moscow’s victory over Napoleon’s army. An unusual triumph as Muscovites set their city alight and fled, leaving no shelter or provisions for the advancing French militia. Forced to retreat without supplies, and ill prepared for the harsh winter, only 30 000 of the 600 000 men eventually made it back.

The only case of enemy combat I experienced was with a bear on one of the many magnificent bridges that interlace and span the now frozen waterways of St Petersburg – a city that vies with its water born sister Amsterdam for the title of “Venice of the North.” My advice – don’t get a tad tardy with teddy. Feeding the cuddly carnivore is free, but get too close and it could cost you an arm and a leg … muzzled or not! Fighting to escape the clutches of the clawing mammal I recalled an e-mail some years ago that criticized me harshly for running with the Bulls in Pamplona – citing ‘cruelty to animals.’ “What’s next!” she had said “Bear fighting in Russia!?” I wonder what she’ll say now? But who’s to argue with a thousand year old tradition as verified by frescoes in a cathedral at the turn of the last millennium?

Russia was built on tradition, from the simple to the significant. They don’t wear shoes inside their homes, they pay their fines on the spot (at a massive discount naturally), they never kiss on the forehead except at funerals, and never send an even number of roses. The list is endless, but it quickly becomes apparent that the all time favourite Russian tradition is declaring anything and everything worth doing … a Russian tradition! Yet as jocular as some customs may be, they’ve given a country spanning ten time zones over a land mass of seventeen million square kilometers an incredible sense of identity and pride, despite its diversity and size.

“In a country that big, what should we see in Russia?” many have since asked. Simple … see the people, feel the complexities and intricacies of a fascinating nation.
Shrek once said: “Ogres are like onions, they have layers.” In the same way Russians are like Matryoshkas dolls (their own world renowned lacquered souvenirs), they have layers too – and you can’t say that you’ve experienced Russia unless you’ve peeled away a layer or two! (Note: You may, however, want to rethink that statement if you travel to Russia in winter, at minus twenty degrees - you’ll want all the layers you can get!)

Having visited this spellbinding place for what amounts to a brief moment in time, I’m forced to live with this paradox – that I now know less of Russia than I ‘knew’ before.

But I’m in good company…

“All we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human wisdom.” – Tolstoy.

7. "Vietnam is not a War"

Featured: February 2004

Vietnam is a country, not a war – but you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Ever since the final shot rang out at the close of the 2nd World War, this little Jack Russell of a country on the east coast of the Indochinese peninsula has been synonymous with conflict – first with the French, and then the Americans. Though the vestiges of war remain in bomb craters (now fish ponds) and tunnels turned tourist traps, the memories of combat are fading. Today, more than half the Vietnamese population were born after the end of the Vietnam war – the first generation in many years not to know ferocious battle in their backyard. A generation that’s looking beyond yesterday’s lingering history of conflict, with its engendered propensity for wariness toward foreigners, and is opening their arms to the world and bidding us come. Come and see the pride and passion of a people in an impoverished land who were able to defeat giant powers and superior technology. Come and see the natural splendor of the Red River Delta in the north, the Mekong Delta in the south, and the patchwork of luminescent green rice paddies dotted with conical hats in between. Come taste the cuisine, and sip on life under the shade of a beached coconut palm. Come and experience firsthand, the warmth and hospitality of a nation who holds no grudges... we listened, and we came.

There were cyclo’s everywhere – like a massive swarm of bees pouring out of a burning hive, these small powered scooters filled the narrow streets of the marketplace, buzzing relentlessly as they ferried not one, nor two, but in some instances families of six (or even a couple of live pigs) on a single seater motorbike to an important gathering somewhere that everyone was obviously late for. With dogged determination and a steely stare they plough headlong into an intersection that can only be justly portrayed by a battle scene from Braveheart – as with similar fire in their eyes, the Scots run full gallop into an advancing English army brandishing their weapons high in the air. I almost expected to hear the same clash of metal on metal at the intersection – but all I heard was the off key drone of a million hooters demanding their right of way. No traffic lights, no traffic officers ... and no zebra crossings! I could taste my Chicken satay lunch as it threatened to come up and be re-tasted. Or was I simply feeling chicken at the prospect of attempting to cross the road. (Why did the chicken cross the road again?) It’s simple the guide had said – pick your spot on the other side, step onto the road with a bold movement, and walk determinedly. Don’t dash, don’t stop, don’t even bother to look – just walk. Hiding behind their various roles that required them to stay put on the pavement (in relative safety) the camera crew watched gingerly as I attempted to venture into the unknown. The camera’s red light came on, tape was rolling, I had little choice (if only that red light belonged to a robot!) Taking a small step for man and a giant leap for mankind - it actually happened: Not quite the parting of the Red Sea as I had hoped, but somehow as I strode resolutely to the other side, cyclo’s – darting this way and that, avoided me like the plague. I stepped onto the yonder sidewalk, expecting to hear a crowd roar with applause, but of course there was nothing – what I did was nothing, that’s just the way life is in Hanoi – no-one noticed.

It’s hard to get noticed in Hanoi, a city that overwhelms your senses from all sides. Formerly the capital of French Indochina – and often referred to as the Paris of the Orient, it’s somewhat of an architectural museum, with its ochre block buildings reminiscent of a 1930’s provincial town in France. The soul of the ancient city rests in the Old Quarter, an area of artisans & craftsmen that’s been bustling for close on a thousand years, and remains one of Vietnam’s most lively and captivating places. Street names change every 2 blocks, so forget your map book, but they do describe the merchants in that area; For instance there’s pickled fish, paper or Silk Street - selling just that. There’s even Counterfeit street where you can buy bogus dollars to burn (at certain ceremonies) at a rate of one thousand Vietnamese dong to a hundred thousand pseudo dollars. At the bank the tables turn though; one dollar will officially get you around fifteen thousand dong - exchange seventy US dollars (R500) and you’re an instant Vietnamese Millionaire. Even for the Rand conscious revelers, it’s not easy spending that much money in one of the poorest countries in the world though – but it’s worth the try! Aside from the time-honored lacqueware and fine fabric, there are ten dollar back-packs, one dollar DVD’s (99% pirated, which would classify you as a pirate viewer – be warned) and everything in between. The only commodities that aren’t fake are the tans, largely because most Vietnamese women try to avoid the golden brown glow of too much sun. Pale is pretty in Vietnam, which explains the elbow length gloves, full face masks and conical hats worn in forty degree temperatures, not too mention the elegant and graceful national dress known as the ao dai – a close fitting tunic with long panels at the front and back worn over loose slacks. It was designed for the Vietnamese hot weather, and is worn as a uniform by most school girls.

A few clicks north east and you can add some humidity to the heat in Halong Bay, one of the worlds natural marvels with its several thousand limestone islands rising up from the emerald waters. Add the gliding sails of junks and sampans to the numerous grottoes and bizarre rock sculptures jutting dramatically from the sea – all engulfed in swirling mist, and you have the makings of an enchanted timeless world, befitting it’s name Ha Long which means where the dragon descends into the sea. Sailors being what they are, have often spotted a marine creature of colossal proportions, the more suspicious among them, an imperialist spy submarine, while travelers from abroad believe they’ve exposed Vietnams version of the Loch Ness Monster. And like the Scots (again!), the locals have cashed in on this larger than life legend as tourists flock to the docks for an excuse to cruise the bay for a day, and get lost in the mind boggling maze of stone monuments that feed their awe-inspiring imaginations.

It was Hoi An however (almost like Hanoi – just very different) that captured my imagination. A fishing village in Central Vietnam that has warded off the march of time for the past three hundred years, bowing only to the modernization of motorized transport - though some parts of the old town are still off limits to cars. Because it was relatively untouched by the American War, it serves as a living museum of Vietnamese times gone by. Wooden buildings, sun-scorched homes, yin-yang rooftiles (convex on concave) that turn bright green when the moss springs to life in rainy season, the “Watchful eyes” in all the doorways and shop fronts shuttered with horizontal planks at night – yesteryears architecture that no longer exists today. It was mesmerizing. And yet amidst life at the pace of a sluggish snail I found a tailor shop that sparked. Within minutes of saying “thuoc chong muoi (Any insect repellant?)” ... of course I meant to say “Toi khong hieu (I don’t understand)” – which was now self evident - I was flipping through the 2004 Italian Summer periodical of mens suits. “Quite like the pinstripe” I mused quietly – which was all the subtle permission Madame Thu Thuy needed to whisk me off to a spot below the fan where I was measured from every angle, head to toe. No-one’s ever wanted to know the circumference of my elbow in flexion – impressive service. But it paled in comparison to the three piece suit that was delivered to my hotel five hours later. It takes more than a week to get a hem raised at home – so this was phenomenal, and needless to say, the suit fitted like a suede glove ... especially around the elbow!

Twisting my arm is generally a rewarding experience as I’m game for any new encounter, especially when it may be the only opportunity I get in a country far from home. Two nights later I was regretting my eagerness while we watched in stunned awe as the proprietor of a snake cuisine restaurant on the outskirts of Saigon (officially now Ho Chi Min City) toyed with his venomous meal. He looked up and said “run home” – which is exactly what I felt like doing, but our guide edged in closer; “Ran Ho” he whispered ... “Cobra!” The snake was mad, it reared wildly, splaying it’s hood and darting at the camera. Unperturbed, the snake charmer (bad description!) controlled the fiery serpent by its tail. I noticed some purple bruising on his handling hand, and a scar on the other – evidence of a cobra’s revenge. He would later tell me that they were well equipped for an accidental snake bite ... cut the area with a knife he explained, suck really hard for a few minutes, and apply some herbs to the puncture wounds... had I known that, I wouldn’t even have walked in the front door! The courting dance now complete, and the clientele awed, I expected him to put his pet away and show us to our tables. Instead, he grabbed the snakes head, anchored it’s tail with his foot and with a knife in his free hand slit the belly of the snake down the middle. I balked. With deft skill and intimate knowledge of its anatomy, he reached in vitro and cut out the snakes’ heart. I watched with morbid fascination as it continued beating in a small saucer, unaware that it no longer served any purpose. He then held the heartless snake over a glass of rice wine and bled it – the blood coagulating with the wine as it spattered the inside of the glass. My heart nearly stopped at what he did next... pouring the bloodied wine mixture into a smaller tumbler, he scooped up the beating heart, dropped it into the ominous concoction and in a gesture of great honour and respect handed it to me. I stared long and hard at the macabre cocktail in my hand, thinking of the more heinous delicacies that had made their way across my taste buds before... ants, bollocks, birds nest soup – none came even close to what I was about to ingest. I looked around, sensing an air of great expectancy, no-one moved, unlike Hanoi – everyone would notice; that unforgiving little red light on the camera was flickering brightly ... what choice did I have? I swallowed hard, then swallowed whole. It went down so quickly that I can’t tell you what it tasted like. I acknowledged his gesture with a bow, praying that I wouldn’t gag and turned to face a barrage of questions racing into my head about the consequence of knocking back this viper vermouth. It wasn’t the medicinal properties that touted cobra as being a powerful aphrodisiac (the more poisonous, the worthier its reputation) that concerned me, as much as the concept of imbibing the beating heart of an animal that moments ago was alive & well. It did nothing for my appetite at dinner a little later, as I listened to the crew claim that snake tasted, yes ... just like chicken! My consolation came later that night in the form of a verse from the book of Matthew: “What goes into a man’s mouth does not make him unclean, but what comes out of his mouth...” Case closed, conscience appeased. It bears mentioning that snake meat is not a common consumption in Vietnam, but a delicacy – as is bat, sea horse and shark fin, and as disturbing as it may be to think that Fido could end up on the menu (believed to bring good fortune, as long as it’s only eaten during the second half of the lunar month) we must accept that it’s an acceptable cultural practice. Given the opportunity again, I wouldn’t eat - simply because it indicates support for such practices and adds to the demand for these endangered products. We live and learn...

I learned of the Vietnam war through the experience of a former veteran, Oliver Stone. His hard hitting movie Platoon piqued my interest in one of the bloodiest wars the world has ever witnessed, a curiosity that I will admit, was top of my list of reasons to visit Vietnam (and there were many!) On the 27th of January 1973, after almost a decade of conflict, the scorecard tallied as follows: Direct cost – US$ 165 Billion; 15 million tones of ammunition expended, almost 4 million civilian casualties and a number of MIA’s still unaccounted for... do we really live and learn? The debate rages on as to how the North Vietnamese and the Viet Cong managed to usurp a far superior power. Dig a little deeper and you’ll discover that part of their secret was a network of underground tunnels. In Cu Chi alone the subterranean labyrinth crisscrosses for 250km’s, parts of which were several stories deep and included untold trap doors, living areas, weapons factories, field hospitals, command centers and kitchens. Specially crafted chimneys fed smoke away from the poorly ventilated warrens and opened on the surface under the guise of anthills and termite mounds. Wooden trap doors camouflaged with earth and branches were virtually invisible to the unknowing eye – and caught all of us off guard as we started our tour of the tunnels standing on top of one of them. Despite large scale ground operations involving thousands of troops, chemical defoliants and napalm – the Americans were unable to detect these tunnels. They tried using German Shepherds with their keen sense of smell to locate trapdoors, but the VC started using American soap which the dogs identified as friendly, and ignored. Upon discovering a passageway, the army sent men down, tunnel rats, soldiers who sustained appallingly high casualty rates in the process. In a last ditched attempt to gain control, B-52’s carpet bombed the area, destroying most of the tunnels – a vindictive act, as the military was already on its way out of the country by that time. The tunnels that remain today offer a palpable glimpse of what the Viet Cong must have endured, and the tenacity that was required, to live underground for weeks and months at a time, under what can only be described as abysmal conditions. Not only did I find it cramped, claustrophobic, and stiflingly hot – but I couldn’t imagine wielding a weapon or performing surgery in this network of lairs. For the cost of US$1 per bullet though, you can experience firsthand the recoil of an M16 or an AK-47 assault rifle, an opportunity most people will never get... but the closest you’ll come to experiencing underground surgery is a handful of acupuncture needles and a “how to” kit, which is not recommended!

But in a sense that’s what Vietnam does – it gets under your skin, enthralls, intrigues – it begs for a longer, lingering visit. And though red tape has kept investors and visitors at bay for nearly two decades, the floodgates have opened – and tourists are pouring in. So prepare to be beset by the sublime beauty, the spellbinding history and the gracious “People of the South” – which is the direct translation of “Viet nam” ... I wonder if Dali Thambo knew that?