I remember the first time we met – I was a young, naïve student in Australia. We met at a friend’s house and I was totally blown away by you. I think there may have been a rugby match on, or something we had all come to watch. I was dazzled by you – couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were a Fox. You were so different from anything I had experienced growing up in Zimbabwe. I saw you several times over the four years I spent here as a student but never thought I would ever have you. I wanted you badly. You were beyond me. I couldn’t even pluck up the courage to talk to you, or email you, instead resorting to gawking at you across the room whenever we crossed paths.
I moved to London in 2001 and wondered if I would ever have the pleasure of seeing you again. Amazingly, I met your sister Sky. I shouldn’t have been surprised, she was so popular, and everyone knew her. Everyone loved her. And she loved everyone. She wasn’t like you, but she did look a lot like you. She was more arrogant, more aloof, further out of reach. Just like you she loved her sport and movies, but from what I heard she liked money the most. I must have seen her in almost every pub I ever visited. Slag.
When I moved back to Australia for good eight years later you were still on my mind. I wondered what you would be like if we ever bumped into each other again. It wasn’t long before I found out – I saw you in a shopping mall. You hadn’t changed much; you were more breathtaking than you had ever been – like you were in HD, or something. You were promoting an end-of-financial-year sale. I couldn’t resist, I simply had to talk to you. There was no point asking if you remembered me, I knew you wouldn’t, but I told you I remembered you very well and had thought about you all those years in London. You were flattered but didn’t have time for small talk, so I cut to the chase and asked if you wanted to get together. You said yes! I was so, so happy.
The first six months together were bliss. The early months were in winter 2009 and we spent as much time as we could indoors at my flat, remember? Those were the days. You were happy to let me watch whatever I wanted and we had those infinite comfortable silences. Watching sport with you was amazing. Sometimes we would have to record it if there were other things to do, if you know what I mean. Of course you know what I mean, you always did have a great IQ. Coming home from work was the best – you knew when I didn’t want to talk and just left me to control the remote undisturbed. Sometimes we would go for months with hardly any conversation. I know I shouted at you once in a while, and to your credit you never once talked back. And at least I can say that it didn’t take me long to work out how to press your buttons. People say your kind is complicated, but you really aren’t. You don’t want or need much, just to be turned on once in a while, right? A little … electricity every now and then? A little spark? I thought that was enough. Sadly, I was wrong.
I don’t know what happened to us after the first six months. We hit a rocky patch. I wish it was as simple as the batteries just running flat, but it wasn’t. I started to ask if I really needed you in my life. I know you didn’t need me, I could tell. We were beginning to turn each other off. Your movie selections left a lot to be desired. I took to reading, jogging, golfing, watching DVDs and going to the cinema. You just sat there. Square. Boring. So we decided to take a break from each other.
Well, life just wasn’t the same. I kept seeing you out and about and people kept asking about us. We must have been apart for a year or so. I eventually broke – I couldn’t take it anymore. I called you and begged you to reconsider, but I didn’t have to beg, did I? You wanted the same thing! I was over the moon when we got back together! It was a crazy time … I wanted to have you in every room! We were insatiable together, like something off Animal Planet! I promised to spend more time focussing on Lifestyle and less time on ESPN, you promised not to demand so much financially. I promised to pay more attention to TLC, you promised not to cut me off all the time. We had a good run. We had a lot of laughs. We spent a lifetime watching Seinfeld re-runs, but the question always lingered, didn’t it? Was this right? Was this meant to be? Was this love? No. Emphatically, no.
I know the precise moment I realised things weren’t going to work out between us. I was supposed to be cleaning one morning. I couldn’t motivate myself. I was doing some half-hearted dusting in the bedroom. I thought I would go and put the kettle on, but what the hell did I stumble across? I’ll tell you what … your Discovery Turbo Max +2. What the hell was this? I was speechless. Livid. I’d never felt so betrayed. Just when I was trying to figure out how to talk to you about it, you got your friend Bethany to call me at work. That was a low blow. I was so taken aback that I didn’t know what to say to her. When she told me this relationship was unsustainable in its current form, I was devastated. Who is she to tell me? Bethany explained that you were leaving on July 8th, and that nothing I could say would change your mind. I was helpless. My paltry offer of $57 a month to get you to stay in all your glory just wasn’t enough. It was like I was on the verge of losing a part of me. I went home and slumped into my recliner, and stared at the wall. And you know what? I got out of that recliner and made a Thai red curry. I turned on the radio and listened to the BBC World Service – they had a report on about how a German pianist was redoing AC/DC’s entire collection as classical concertos. I put some pictures up on the wall. I set up internet. I went for a walk. Washed the car. Phoned my family. Rode my bike. Booked a holiday. And you know what I realised? That there is a whole world out there without you! I HATE you Foxtel! I never want to see you again, ever! I HAVE the entire Seinfeld collection on DVD, for God’s sake. Why the hell would I watch it with you? I’m free! Free [view] at last!
Ahem … does anybody know what the score is in The Open Championship?
Friday, 20 July 2012
Monday, 19 March 2012
Hey Adam, can we have our football back?
Rarely is my patience for idiocy stretched to the point where I feel I must dust off the keyboard and clear my virtual throat for a rant. And seldom do I express a loathing for anything relating to sport, notwithstanding my previous berating of Elderick Tont Woods – and yes, that is his name; a name that befits an ageing has-been. Sadly, however, idiocy and sport too often meet. They have, once again, eloped into a sordid sunset for a brief and catastrophic romance, which, on this occasion, has resulted in the national icon, Eddie McGuire.
Before I continue, allow me to douse the flames of abuse already crackling in the mouths of Eddie-lovers out there. I have nothing against the man. I have always admired his autocue and earpiece skills used with aplomb to give the impression of being intellectually gifted on Millionaire Hot Seat. I have watched in awe at the restrained, eloquent advice he often metes out to umpires when proudly wearing a Collingwood tie. It is along this AFL vein, however, that I take umbrage. The season is finally upon us and this year we have been subjected to countless instalments of Eddie’s supposedly rousing AFL promotional message.
In this glossy marketing video, we are treated to a string of astonishing marks that defy gravity, a montage of emotional moments from the 2011 season and a series of references to pride, strength, grit and determination that appear to make up the modern-day player. However, the last line out of Eddie’s multi-chinned mouth suggests that the things we love about football today – the drama, the excitement, the skill, the sublime, the unfolding seasonal stories of success and failure – have absolutely nothing to do with the game’s natural, historical evolution. Apparently, according to Eddie, old Tom Willis was not one of the founding fathers of this great game back in 1858. Apparently, according to Eddie, the origins cannot be traced back to rugby or the even older “foot balle” played in Ireland in 1527. According to Eddie, this game’s origins go much farther back, to the dawn of time, in fact. According to Eddie – wait for it – footie is “the greatest thing God ever invented.”
Yes people, footie is not just the greatest sport God invented, but the greatest thing He invented. Never mind the apparent genius behind the construction of a woodpecker’s tongue. Never mind the deft touch it must have taken to knock together the Great Barrier Reef. Evidently, as God was engineering an entire planet – in the dark, as Ricky Gervais so brilliantly points out – He amazingly had time to suggest a quick backyard Garden of Eden kick-about for Adam and Eve. Of course! It wasn’t an apple, it was a shiny new Sherrin!
What an absurd, ill-advised and ignorant thing to say about a sport. I say ill-advised because I can only assume, somewhat in Eddie’s defence, that some ad agency flunkie with a scraggly beard, a John Deere cap and Onitsuka Tiger trainers, who is convinced he sits somewhere near the Stephen Colbert end of the wit scale, has stuffed these pearls of wisdom into Eddie’s mouth. But more fool Mr. McGuire for uttering the words without protest! Isn’t it bad enough we invented the idea of a God, let alone the notion he returned the favour with an oval-shaped leather ball? Are we delusional? Why can we not just give ourselves a pat on the back and say, “footie is the greatest thing we’ve ever invented”? OK, it’s not, but you get my point.
At the end of the day, I must confess it is neither the fault of Edward McGuire, nor of the Zach Galafianakis-wannabe ad agency flunkie. It is the fault of the AFL’s governing body who commissioned this drivel. The magic of sport, in all its disciplines, is that it is supposed to circumvent all things relating to politics and religion, ensuring it is played in its purest of forms and most natural of manners: competitively; respectfully; enjoyably. If the AFL is aiming to embrace a multitude of cultures and communities in this country, then why is footie not the greatest thing Allah ever invented, or Ishvara, or Yahweh? Well, I’ll tell you why: for the simple reason that we humans, through a period of amazing evolution, invented footie ourselves. As we did the wheel, the second wheel, tiddlywinks, cheese rolling and the ahh-bra.
Before I continue, allow me to douse the flames of abuse already crackling in the mouths of Eddie-lovers out there. I have nothing against the man. I have always admired his autocue and earpiece skills used with aplomb to give the impression of being intellectually gifted on Millionaire Hot Seat. I have watched in awe at the restrained, eloquent advice he often metes out to umpires when proudly wearing a Collingwood tie. It is along this AFL vein, however, that I take umbrage. The season is finally upon us and this year we have been subjected to countless instalments of Eddie’s supposedly rousing AFL promotional message.
In this glossy marketing video, we are treated to a string of astonishing marks that defy gravity, a montage of emotional moments from the 2011 season and a series of references to pride, strength, grit and determination that appear to make up the modern-day player. However, the last line out of Eddie’s multi-chinned mouth suggests that the things we love about football today – the drama, the excitement, the skill, the sublime, the unfolding seasonal stories of success and failure – have absolutely nothing to do with the game’s natural, historical evolution. Apparently, according to Eddie, old Tom Willis was not one of the founding fathers of this great game back in 1858. Apparently, according to Eddie, the origins cannot be traced back to rugby or the even older “foot balle” played in Ireland in 1527. According to Eddie, this game’s origins go much farther back, to the dawn of time, in fact. According to Eddie – wait for it – footie is “the greatest thing God ever invented.”
Yes people, footie is not just the greatest sport God invented, but the greatest thing He invented. Never mind the apparent genius behind the construction of a woodpecker’s tongue. Never mind the deft touch it must have taken to knock together the Great Barrier Reef. Evidently, as God was engineering an entire planet – in the dark, as Ricky Gervais so brilliantly points out – He amazingly had time to suggest a quick backyard Garden of Eden kick-about for Adam and Eve. Of course! It wasn’t an apple, it was a shiny new Sherrin!
What an absurd, ill-advised and ignorant thing to say about a sport. I say ill-advised because I can only assume, somewhat in Eddie’s defence, that some ad agency flunkie with a scraggly beard, a John Deere cap and Onitsuka Tiger trainers, who is convinced he sits somewhere near the Stephen Colbert end of the wit scale, has stuffed these pearls of wisdom into Eddie’s mouth. But more fool Mr. McGuire for uttering the words without protest! Isn’t it bad enough we invented the idea of a God, let alone the notion he returned the favour with an oval-shaped leather ball? Are we delusional? Why can we not just give ourselves a pat on the back and say, “footie is the greatest thing we’ve ever invented”? OK, it’s not, but you get my point.
At the end of the day, I must confess it is neither the fault of Edward McGuire, nor of the Zach Galafianakis-wannabe ad agency flunkie. It is the fault of the AFL’s governing body who commissioned this drivel. The magic of sport, in all its disciplines, is that it is supposed to circumvent all things relating to politics and religion, ensuring it is played in its purest of forms and most natural of manners: competitively; respectfully; enjoyably. If the AFL is aiming to embrace a multitude of cultures and communities in this country, then why is footie not the greatest thing Allah ever invented, or Ishvara, or Yahweh? Well, I’ll tell you why: for the simple reason that we humans, through a period of amazing evolution, invented footie ourselves. As we did the wheel, the second wheel, tiddlywinks, cheese rolling and the ahh-bra.
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Tiger? It's Eldrick, actually.
Tiger back on the winner’s podium? Pah!
His own tournament, unsanctioned by any of the tours, against a selection of journeymen pros, some of whom at their best can just compete on the world stage. He’s hacking away trying to get past Zach Johnson down the stretch, on a course he has played a thousand times, whilst the genuine quality players (Kaymer, Donald, McIlroy (won in Hong Kong this weekend), Westwood (won in South Africa this weekend), Day, Scott, et al) were all noticeable by their absence. Tiger is a hack. His record on day one of the President’s Cup a few weeks ago shows us exactly where he is.
He’s had the cushiest of years, having barely played, where everyone else (the field in this tournament included) have slaved away from one side of the world to the other. He was fit and fresh this weekend, at a time where the rest of the world are about to have their well-earned end-of-season break.
Having said that, it should be noted that Tiger likes to win. And a win is a win. I don’t think … actually firmly do not believe … that he will win another major. The majors are won by class players who seduce the game of golf over four consecutive rounds. The only seduction he has ever been capable of is of trailer-park trash who were looking for a kick. I have never warmed to the man. He took the sport of golf to another level, I will concede, but he did nothing for the game of golf. He ruined it … not just by his off-course antics, but by this arrogance and belief, whether intentional or not, that he was the game. He wasn’t. He isn’t. He will never be. And yes, the sport and the game are different. It could be argued he has turned it into a sport, some say for the better, but I don’t think so. Sadly, money talks, and he brought shed-loads of it into the game, opening it up for a plethora of average Joes who now thought this was the coolest thing in the world. The greatest relief for me is that no sooner had he met his demise, than his impact on the game paid dividends in the introduction of several young stars, many of whom would have watched him as nippers (Fowler, Ishikawa, McIlroy). Fortunately, where he may have inspired these people into the game, the only way to really make it these days is through the structured, morally solid, measured world of College golf in the USA, which as far as I can tell is run by true aficionados of the game. Couple this with the overall authority being the Royal and Ancient, and golf lives on … long after Tiger has become caged and toothless.
Of course, I claimed back in 2001 he would struggle to win more majors. I also have the yips, and my short came achieves less these days than a dung beetle rolling a ball of poo, so who am I to talk?
His own tournament, unsanctioned by any of the tours, against a selection of journeymen pros, some of whom at their best can just compete on the world stage. He’s hacking away trying to get past Zach Johnson down the stretch, on a course he has played a thousand times, whilst the genuine quality players (Kaymer, Donald, McIlroy (won in Hong Kong this weekend), Westwood (won in South Africa this weekend), Day, Scott, et al) were all noticeable by their absence. Tiger is a hack. His record on day one of the President’s Cup a few weeks ago shows us exactly where he is.
He’s had the cushiest of years, having barely played, where everyone else (the field in this tournament included) have slaved away from one side of the world to the other. He was fit and fresh this weekend, at a time where the rest of the world are about to have their well-earned end-of-season break.
Having said that, it should be noted that Tiger likes to win. And a win is a win. I don’t think … actually firmly do not believe … that he will win another major. The majors are won by class players who seduce the game of golf over four consecutive rounds. The only seduction he has ever been capable of is of trailer-park trash who were looking for a kick. I have never warmed to the man. He took the sport of golf to another level, I will concede, but he did nothing for the game of golf. He ruined it … not just by his off-course antics, but by this arrogance and belief, whether intentional or not, that he was the game. He wasn’t. He isn’t. He will never be. And yes, the sport and the game are different. It could be argued he has turned it into a sport, some say for the better, but I don’t think so. Sadly, money talks, and he brought shed-loads of it into the game, opening it up for a plethora of average Joes who now thought this was the coolest thing in the world. The greatest relief for me is that no sooner had he met his demise, than his impact on the game paid dividends in the introduction of several young stars, many of whom would have watched him as nippers (Fowler, Ishikawa, McIlroy). Fortunately, where he may have inspired these people into the game, the only way to really make it these days is through the structured, morally solid, measured world of College golf in the USA, which as far as I can tell is run by true aficionados of the game. Couple this with the overall authority being the Royal and Ancient, and golf lives on … long after Tiger has become caged and toothless.
Of course, I claimed back in 2001 he would struggle to win more majors. I also have the yips, and my short came achieves less these days than a dung beetle rolling a ball of poo, so who am I to talk?
Monday, 4 October 2010
Even Fawlty Would be Jealous
It is probably important for me to establish one simple fact from the off: the InterContinental Hotel in Lusaka is unquestionably, stunningly, terrible. As I sift through the hastily-retreating memories of my three long nights in Zambia’s “preferred destination for businesspeople” I am finding it hard to recall anything remotely positive about the experience, aside from leaving – alive, at that. I will, however, make one glowing remark: this overpriced, oddly-staffed, brothel-cum-diplomatic meeting point excels at consistency. In fact, across all services offered by this “leisurely escape”, I can confidently say that the InterCon may be the most consistent hotel I have ever visited.
To start with, I know revolving restaurants that rotate faster than the InterCon’s swivelling front door, and from the very moment I shuffled through it with two unfortunate colleagues who had pleaded with me to consider staying elsewhere, I knew we were in for an interesting time. Our bags, naturally, were snatched from our grasp as we emerged from the taxi by an unsmiling doorman who gave nothing more than the obvious impression that this was his role and that, if he had to, he would beat a tip out of us once his duties were fulfilled.
We bundled into the hotel reception at 10pm each longing for three things: a cold beer, followed by two even colder ones. What we got instead was a display of such splendour and brilliance that, halfway through, I was tempted to spoon my eyes out with my corporate credit card and pour the stub-filled sand from the nearby cigarette ashtray-pillars into the sockets, just so I no longer had to witness it. Including floor staff, door staff and receptionists there must have been five or six hotel representatives present at the time we checked in. Between them, they managed to drag out our check-in to almost an hour. We endured this process without so much as an apology, a smile, a drink, a chair, or even complimentary access to one of the numerous bar-dwelling hookers. Not only had the reservation team failed to record our agreed rate in their system – we later discovered that the lady I agreed this rate with while booking over email was destined for big trouble for even suggesting that this five-star shebeen would discount its rates to USD185 – but they also had failed to take note of two key words in the reservation paperwork, copies of which I was brandishing like my own personal constitution: DOUBLE and DELUXE. Indeed, double turned out to actually mean single, in the military camp bed sense. “Double” also failed to be clearly understood in the bar later that night, but that is altogether another equally distressing issue. “Deluxe” usually means a normal room in Africa but, at least for two of us, translated into smoke-filled dungeons with tornados for toilets and built-in audio links to all adjacent plumbing. The third of our party was upgraded to a room on The Club Floor, also known simply as floor number seven, for it was nothing more than a replica of the lower floors with the words Club Floor stencilled on the wall facing the rickety lift.
We asked for the manager several times during check-in, and we may just as well have been asking for the Pope to present himself to us donning budgie-smugglers, whilst grasping a tall and frosty Singapore Sling in one hand and Isabella Rossellini in the other. “The Manager” is not a term that the reception staff at Lusaka’s InterCon are entirely familiar with, and this begs the question: are they managed at all? As a result of their zombie-like display of total ignorance and unconcern, one can only assume that The Protea and Taj Pamodzi Hotels (Lusaka’s other, vastly superior business hotels) have jointly embarked on the world’s greatest guerrilla marketing initiative, whereby they have paid imbeciles to apply for jobs at the InterCon in the knowledge that said imbeciles would drive travellers and businesspeople to insanity, leaving them no option other than to desert a household brand in favour of hotels less known. Genius!
Speaking of genius, whose idea was it to publish an extensive and exotic dinner menu for the InterCon’s restaurant, only to remove 99 percent of the items listed citing exhaustion of supplies? It would be like McDonald’s presenting a chicken jalfrezi option with garlic naan and side order of aloo gobi, but going on to inform the customer twenty minutes after ordering that the cook isn’t entirely sure what a chicken jalfrezi is and that, if he did know, there wouldn’t be any available anyway. We ordered two “succulent” lamb kebabs and, if memory serves me correctly, an Italian dish of the pizza variety. The waiter scuttled off with enthusiasm. We sat. We drank. We were visited a lifetime later by the same waiter who informed us that the lamb was out of stock, but that he would unquestionably recommend the amazing burgers. At this juncture, the three of us had precisely the same thought; we slugged down the rest of our lukewarm Mosis and marched off, amid mutters and grumbles of offensive complaint directed at anyone listening, towards the house bar. I can tell you that over three nights at this hell-away-from-home we did not eat a single thing produced by the InterCon kitchen. Actually, I lie. I did rise every morning to indulge, along with the sparrows and various other local birdlife, in the reasonably adequate breakfast buffet. Were it not for the teapots that had a habit of dispersing tea liberally across the stain-dappled tablecloths like a garden sprinkler, I would list the breakfast buffet as a very lonely plus point for the InterCon.
I could go on, but am exhausted. Simply recalling the memories of my three nights in this despicable establishment saps the very life from my bones. For the record, the Mosis (Mosi being the local brew) were the wrong temperature, expensive, and stale. In other words, they were perfectly matched to the nearby prostitutes like bad cheese to cheap wine. Strangely, both the Mosis and ladies were very much favoured by an eternally drunk and vocal Australian we bumped into in the bar, who latched onto us the moment he saw our branded shirts. Shaking him was as enduring a process as staying three nights at Lusaka’s InterContinental Hotel. There are no highlights of these three nights. There is no happy ending. Our respective bills could very well have been lobbed at us like rolled up newspapers from the back of a passing bicycle. In fact, if he had an iota of nouse, the doorman could very well have taken these rolled up bills and bashed us senseless in search of a tip, as we ran the gauntlet from reception to awaiting, and hugely welcome airport taxi.
To start with, I know revolving restaurants that rotate faster than the InterCon’s swivelling front door, and from the very moment I shuffled through it with two unfortunate colleagues who had pleaded with me to consider staying elsewhere, I knew we were in for an interesting time. Our bags, naturally, were snatched from our grasp as we emerged from the taxi by an unsmiling doorman who gave nothing more than the obvious impression that this was his role and that, if he had to, he would beat a tip out of us once his duties were fulfilled.
We bundled into the hotel reception at 10pm each longing for three things: a cold beer, followed by two even colder ones. What we got instead was a display of such splendour and brilliance that, halfway through, I was tempted to spoon my eyes out with my corporate credit card and pour the stub-filled sand from the nearby cigarette ashtray-pillars into the sockets, just so I no longer had to witness it. Including floor staff, door staff and receptionists there must have been five or six hotel representatives present at the time we checked in. Between them, they managed to drag out our check-in to almost an hour. We endured this process without so much as an apology, a smile, a drink, a chair, or even complimentary access to one of the numerous bar-dwelling hookers. Not only had the reservation team failed to record our agreed rate in their system – we later discovered that the lady I agreed this rate with while booking over email was destined for big trouble for even suggesting that this five-star shebeen would discount its rates to USD185 – but they also had failed to take note of two key words in the reservation paperwork, copies of which I was brandishing like my own personal constitution: DOUBLE and DELUXE. Indeed, double turned out to actually mean single, in the military camp bed sense. “Double” also failed to be clearly understood in the bar later that night, but that is altogether another equally distressing issue. “Deluxe” usually means a normal room in Africa but, at least for two of us, translated into smoke-filled dungeons with tornados for toilets and built-in audio links to all adjacent plumbing. The third of our party was upgraded to a room on The Club Floor, also known simply as floor number seven, for it was nothing more than a replica of the lower floors with the words Club Floor stencilled on the wall facing the rickety lift.
We asked for the manager several times during check-in, and we may just as well have been asking for the Pope to present himself to us donning budgie-smugglers, whilst grasping a tall and frosty Singapore Sling in one hand and Isabella Rossellini in the other. “The Manager” is not a term that the reception staff at Lusaka’s InterCon are entirely familiar with, and this begs the question: are they managed at all? As a result of their zombie-like display of total ignorance and unconcern, one can only assume that The Protea and Taj Pamodzi Hotels (Lusaka’s other, vastly superior business hotels) have jointly embarked on the world’s greatest guerrilla marketing initiative, whereby they have paid imbeciles to apply for jobs at the InterCon in the knowledge that said imbeciles would drive travellers and businesspeople to insanity, leaving them no option other than to desert a household brand in favour of hotels less known. Genius!
Speaking of genius, whose idea was it to publish an extensive and exotic dinner menu for the InterCon’s restaurant, only to remove 99 percent of the items listed citing exhaustion of supplies? It would be like McDonald’s presenting a chicken jalfrezi option with garlic naan and side order of aloo gobi, but going on to inform the customer twenty minutes after ordering that the cook isn’t entirely sure what a chicken jalfrezi is and that, if he did know, there wouldn’t be any available anyway. We ordered two “succulent” lamb kebabs and, if memory serves me correctly, an Italian dish of the pizza variety. The waiter scuttled off with enthusiasm. We sat. We drank. We were visited a lifetime later by the same waiter who informed us that the lamb was out of stock, but that he would unquestionably recommend the amazing burgers. At this juncture, the three of us had precisely the same thought; we slugged down the rest of our lukewarm Mosis and marched off, amid mutters and grumbles of offensive complaint directed at anyone listening, towards the house bar. I can tell you that over three nights at this hell-away-from-home we did not eat a single thing produced by the InterCon kitchen. Actually, I lie. I did rise every morning to indulge, along with the sparrows and various other local birdlife, in the reasonably adequate breakfast buffet. Were it not for the teapots that had a habit of dispersing tea liberally across the stain-dappled tablecloths like a garden sprinkler, I would list the breakfast buffet as a very lonely plus point for the InterCon.
I could go on, but am exhausted. Simply recalling the memories of my three nights in this despicable establishment saps the very life from my bones. For the record, the Mosis (Mosi being the local brew) were the wrong temperature, expensive, and stale. In other words, they were perfectly matched to the nearby prostitutes like bad cheese to cheap wine. Strangely, both the Mosis and ladies were very much favoured by an eternally drunk and vocal Australian we bumped into in the bar, who latched onto us the moment he saw our branded shirts. Shaking him was as enduring a process as staying three nights at Lusaka’s InterContinental Hotel. There are no highlights of these three nights. There is no happy ending. Our respective bills could very well have been lobbed at us like rolled up newspapers from the back of a passing bicycle. In fact, if he had an iota of nouse, the doorman could very well have taken these rolled up bills and bashed us senseless in search of a tip, as we ran the gauntlet from reception to awaiting, and hugely welcome airport taxi.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Putting The 'On' in London
As I met a distant relative today, whom I have not seen for 20 years, I was reminded of two things: how old I am, and how great it is to be able to refer to London as home. Unlike my age, which I never really enjoy referring to in any context unless I am conversing with people over the age of 40, the ability to refer to London as home is one that always evokes a certain feeling of pride. Yes, I left London over a year ago for sunnier climes, but I still remember that feeling you get when someone asks you where you live. Most cities or towns would be mumbled quietly in response, perhaps as you thrust your hands defensively into your pockets and look down at the ground; “Um, Oswaldtwhistle, you know, just outside Blackburn … up north?” You might even throw in a general geographic reference to minimise the damage. But when you reside in one of the world’s truly great cities the response is completely different. You still might put your hands in your pockets but this time with your head held high, and perhaps with an accompanying pivot on the toes and gentle pelvic thrust, depending on the company: “LONDON.” You spit it out at the interrogator like you’ve just slapped down an unbeatable hand in poker. You challenge them to better it. Few can, except perhaps Parisians and New Yorkers. But it is days like today when London gives you a glimpse into the heart of what truly makes it great. Forget the multicultural faces of Oxford Street, or Somers Town alleys full of pubs and chippies. Forget the black cabs and red buses. Today, tonight, it is all about White Hart Lane.
With the English Premier League season drawing to a breathless close all eyes are focussed on Manchester United and Chelsea. United are doing their best to hold on to their chances like a slippery bar of Cussons Imperial Leather; Chelsea are positioning themselves perfectly to take advantage when the soap is dropped. But there is another entity lurking in this misty, steamy shower scene, dagger in hand, waiting for that Hitchcock moment to yank back the shower curtain: Arsenal. Do not be fooled by the studious Wenger and his perceived lack of killer instinct. Arsenal have not been in this position for almost ten years and believe you me, they are not about to waste it. The French have a habit of conjuring up some real magic when it matters most – please resist the urge at this point to think of that famous volleyball player Thierry Henry, or that martial arts expert Eric Cantona – and I suspect the “prestige”, as magicians say when referring to their big finale, is very close to being revealed by Wenger and his charges. With respect to some amazing clashes at both ends of the table this season, tonight may very well be an all-time classic. Arsenal are up against their greatest rivals Tottenham Hotspur, and it’s this sort of clash that brings life to the streets of North London. Occasionally a bit of death too. Spurs are smarting from their recent FA Cup exit. Arsenal are potentially timing their run for the league title to perfection. The resulting clash could prove astonishing.
The distant relative I was speaking to earlier told me she now lives in Hackney, and it immediately brought back those fond memories of just what life in London meant to me: kebabs, ale (not usually in that order), shops, good food, great music, movies, shows, traffic, tube delays, rain, crime, Gordon Brown. I think I just remembered why I left. I digress … I only ever watched two Premier League games in my eight years in the capital of England – neither of them London derbies – and few sporting occasions, barring perhaps Wimbledon, the FA Cup and the Olympics, can bring such a buzz and vibrant atmosphere to the city. Tonight will be a massive show, but such is the sheer size of London it will probably go largely unnoticed by the majority of Londoners. And that’s part of the brilliance of the place. There is always something going on that satisfies every interest. So as I sit here on the other side of the world preparing myself for yet another early morning in order to watch a recording of the match, I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy. An old colleague who sat across from me in London is equipped with as much wit in his sense of humour as he is with passion for his beloved Arsenal. He attends every game, which I guess makes him very witty. He is one of those lucky few who, tonight, are part of something special; part of the great beating heart of London. It reminds me of the day when managed to catch the opening stage of the Tour de France shooting by outside Buckingham Palace, followed by a quick beer in a Kensington pub, and the final few sets of the mixed doubles semi-finals at Wimbledon on my way home. Those were the days. I guess I will have to settle for the Red Bull Air Race this weekend in Perth. For the record Arsenal will win 2-1. They will also go on and win the title. I hope the pigs that fly don’t hit any planes at the Air Race.
With the English Premier League season drawing to a breathless close all eyes are focussed on Manchester United and Chelsea. United are doing their best to hold on to their chances like a slippery bar of Cussons Imperial Leather; Chelsea are positioning themselves perfectly to take advantage when the soap is dropped. But there is another entity lurking in this misty, steamy shower scene, dagger in hand, waiting for that Hitchcock moment to yank back the shower curtain: Arsenal. Do not be fooled by the studious Wenger and his perceived lack of killer instinct. Arsenal have not been in this position for almost ten years and believe you me, they are not about to waste it. The French have a habit of conjuring up some real magic when it matters most – please resist the urge at this point to think of that famous volleyball player Thierry Henry, or that martial arts expert Eric Cantona – and I suspect the “prestige”, as magicians say when referring to their big finale, is very close to being revealed by Wenger and his charges. With respect to some amazing clashes at both ends of the table this season, tonight may very well be an all-time classic. Arsenal are up against their greatest rivals Tottenham Hotspur, and it’s this sort of clash that brings life to the streets of North London. Occasionally a bit of death too. Spurs are smarting from their recent FA Cup exit. Arsenal are potentially timing their run for the league title to perfection. The resulting clash could prove astonishing.
The distant relative I was speaking to earlier told me she now lives in Hackney, and it immediately brought back those fond memories of just what life in London meant to me: kebabs, ale (not usually in that order), shops, good food, great music, movies, shows, traffic, tube delays, rain, crime, Gordon Brown. I think I just remembered why I left. I digress … I only ever watched two Premier League games in my eight years in the capital of England – neither of them London derbies – and few sporting occasions, barring perhaps Wimbledon, the FA Cup and the Olympics, can bring such a buzz and vibrant atmosphere to the city. Tonight will be a massive show, but such is the sheer size of London it will probably go largely unnoticed by the majority of Londoners. And that’s part of the brilliance of the place. There is always something going on that satisfies every interest. So as I sit here on the other side of the world preparing myself for yet another early morning in order to watch a recording of the match, I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy. An old colleague who sat across from me in London is equipped with as much wit in his sense of humour as he is with passion for his beloved Arsenal. He attends every game, which I guess makes him very witty. He is one of those lucky few who, tonight, are part of something special; part of the great beating heart of London. It reminds me of the day when managed to catch the opening stage of the Tour de France shooting by outside Buckingham Palace, followed by a quick beer in a Kensington pub, and the final few sets of the mixed doubles semi-finals at Wimbledon on my way home. Those were the days. I guess I will have to settle for the Red Bull Air Race this weekend in Perth. For the record Arsenal will win 2-1. They will also go on and win the title. I hope the pigs that fly don’t hit any planes at the Air Race.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Masters of their Domain
Will he or won’t he? Everyone wants to know, but not everyone is asking the same question. Will he win? Will he make the cut? Will he be the golfer he once was? Will he be as dominant? Will he return to his old ways? Will he overhaul Nicklaus’s 18 major titles? Every person walking the emerald fairways this week at Augusta National has one such question on their lips, perhaps even Tiger Woods himself, but frustratingly few people are even bothering to consider the most important question of all – who will win this year’s green jacket. It seems like a banal, facile question to ask, but here’s why it isn’t:
Such is the impact Tiger Woods has had on the game that sadly only one thing is more noticeable than his presence on the course, and that is his absence. When a player’s absence in any sport detracts from the actual playing of that sport, questions have to be asked; even more so when that player’s return to the sport overshadows the grand event in which they are due to make their return. No golfer is bigger than the game itself. But Tiger Woods, in his admission that he felt “entitled” to the various indiscretions in which he became involved, has all but admitted he felt above the very spirit and tradition the game is supposed to instil in its fans and players. The spirit and tradition of golf arguably both apply as much on the course as off it, and Tiger has as much impressed as failed to in both departments.
There is no debating what Tiger Woods has done for the game through ratings, charities, raising of the bar, and challenging history, but surely it would ultimately come down in the end to how a player has conducted themselves as a competitor, a role model, a winner, and as a loser? Tiger can take golf to as many grassroots as he likes, but if the children at those levels are aspiring to be him, then we should feel very sorry for them. His recent activities off the course are abominable enough, but what is almost worse is the willingness of the fans and the media in the last few weeks to simply roll over and take him back. Elin Woods is not the only one who has been lied to and left broken-hearted – so has everyone who loves golf. Why do we so easily forget Tiger’s antipathy towards Ryder Cup golf, perhaps the greatest event in the game? Why has nothing more been made of the driver he released in anger in Melbourne in 2009, which bounced about four rows back into a tightly-packed crowd and cracked someone on the head? Why do we look the other way when he swears, spits, and roars in frustration on every other hole? When he slings a club at his bag in disgust? Why do we shrug and simply nod our heads at him when he arrogantly stares down a crowd of journalists at a press conference and answers questions in the most aloof fashion imaginable? Are we that much in awe of the man? He is not the man we once thought he was. Shouldn’t we now start treating him as a golfer, not a god?
Tiger, in his new efforts to be “less hot” on the course, has admitted that his negative and positive outbursts will be kept in check. He has admitted that he has done a lot of soul searching and inward analysis, and that he didn’t like what he saw. But what he was before, which was evidently an arrogant, detached, self-important, over confident and at times obnoxious brat, is precisely what made him into the barely beatable mega-golfer he was. Put yourself in his shoes; if you had found a lethal recipe that enabled you to concoct the most audacious performances on and off the course, would you really, truly, try to throw all that away just because you got caught out? I’d bet my dust-covered golf clubs that you wouldn’t. What you would do, and what I will go out on a limb and suggest Tiger is about to conjure up, is figure out a different way to apply that recipe and return to those heady days you remember so well. How else does he intend to return to the top of the game, and arguably be the best sportsman, let alone golfer, in the world? If he genuinely is changing his ways and is approaching life as a different person, then I am afraid he is saying goodbye to the killer instinct. Nice guys finish last, after all.
So, I’ll ask again; who will win this year’s green jacket? Simple. The person, come Sunday afternoon, who deserves to. And it ain’t Tiger Woods. He knows it, we know it. There are many stories out there this weekend in Georgia; Steve Stricker, the comeback kid. Ernie Els, the resurgent Big Easy. Phil Mickelson, the humble, talented southpaw. Padraig Harrington, the hard working Irishman with the voice of a jockey. What about the Molinari brothers? Kenny Perry? Camilo Villegas? The 16-year-old Matteo Manassero? McIlroy, Poulter, Ishikawa? We need to move on from Tiger. I suspect he has some wins left in him, but his day has come and gone. We are entering the very early stages of the post-Tiger era. However, he has proved me wrong time and time again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he does again. After all, Jack Nicklaus donned his last green jacket at the ripe old age of 46 in the mid-eighties. He was then, and still is, happily married.
Such is the impact Tiger Woods has had on the game that sadly only one thing is more noticeable than his presence on the course, and that is his absence. When a player’s absence in any sport detracts from the actual playing of that sport, questions have to be asked; even more so when that player’s return to the sport overshadows the grand event in which they are due to make their return. No golfer is bigger than the game itself. But Tiger Woods, in his admission that he felt “entitled” to the various indiscretions in which he became involved, has all but admitted he felt above the very spirit and tradition the game is supposed to instil in its fans and players. The spirit and tradition of golf arguably both apply as much on the course as off it, and Tiger has as much impressed as failed to in both departments.
There is no debating what Tiger Woods has done for the game through ratings, charities, raising of the bar, and challenging history, but surely it would ultimately come down in the end to how a player has conducted themselves as a competitor, a role model, a winner, and as a loser? Tiger can take golf to as many grassroots as he likes, but if the children at those levels are aspiring to be him, then we should feel very sorry for them. His recent activities off the course are abominable enough, but what is almost worse is the willingness of the fans and the media in the last few weeks to simply roll over and take him back. Elin Woods is not the only one who has been lied to and left broken-hearted – so has everyone who loves golf. Why do we so easily forget Tiger’s antipathy towards Ryder Cup golf, perhaps the greatest event in the game? Why has nothing more been made of the driver he released in anger in Melbourne in 2009, which bounced about four rows back into a tightly-packed crowd and cracked someone on the head? Why do we look the other way when he swears, spits, and roars in frustration on every other hole? When he slings a club at his bag in disgust? Why do we shrug and simply nod our heads at him when he arrogantly stares down a crowd of journalists at a press conference and answers questions in the most aloof fashion imaginable? Are we that much in awe of the man? He is not the man we once thought he was. Shouldn’t we now start treating him as a golfer, not a god?
Tiger, in his new efforts to be “less hot” on the course, has admitted that his negative and positive outbursts will be kept in check. He has admitted that he has done a lot of soul searching and inward analysis, and that he didn’t like what he saw. But what he was before, which was evidently an arrogant, detached, self-important, over confident and at times obnoxious brat, is precisely what made him into the barely beatable mega-golfer he was. Put yourself in his shoes; if you had found a lethal recipe that enabled you to concoct the most audacious performances on and off the course, would you really, truly, try to throw all that away just because you got caught out? I’d bet my dust-covered golf clubs that you wouldn’t. What you would do, and what I will go out on a limb and suggest Tiger is about to conjure up, is figure out a different way to apply that recipe and return to those heady days you remember so well. How else does he intend to return to the top of the game, and arguably be the best sportsman, let alone golfer, in the world? If he genuinely is changing his ways and is approaching life as a different person, then I am afraid he is saying goodbye to the killer instinct. Nice guys finish last, after all.
So, I’ll ask again; who will win this year’s green jacket? Simple. The person, come Sunday afternoon, who deserves to. And it ain’t Tiger Woods. He knows it, we know it. There are many stories out there this weekend in Georgia; Steve Stricker, the comeback kid. Ernie Els, the resurgent Big Easy. Phil Mickelson, the humble, talented southpaw. Padraig Harrington, the hard working Irishman with the voice of a jockey. What about the Molinari brothers? Kenny Perry? Camilo Villegas? The 16-year-old Matteo Manassero? McIlroy, Poulter, Ishikawa? We need to move on from Tiger. I suspect he has some wins left in him, but his day has come and gone. We are entering the very early stages of the post-Tiger era. However, he has proved me wrong time and time again, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he does again. After all, Jack Nicklaus donned his last green jacket at the ripe old age of 46 in the mid-eighties. He was then, and still is, happily married.
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Go West.
For a long time now I have been convinced that I would one day retire in the South of France. Since stepping off a flight at Aéroport Nice in 2003 on the first of six annual pilgrimages, a love and appreciation for everything about the region has grown unhindered in my heart. In the Côte d’Azur grace meets kitsch, beauty meets brutality, history meets modernity, the Mediterranean meets the Alps, and your wallet meets its hasty death. You don’t really care about the latter, for the heady scents of a French summer, the golden tans of the wine-swilling locals, and the taste of celebrity in the air are all you need to induce a coma of blissful ignorance. Having said all that, the six collective months I have spent in Cannes have been largely under the expense of an employer. From what I hear, living there under your own steam is not all about filet de boeuf overlooking Boulevard de la Croisette. Life there does not revolve around mirror-ceilinged bedrooms and weather-beaten French windows. The days are not endlessly sunny and hot, and the traffic can be excruciating. Particularly if you venture over a pedestrian crossing on foot and forget to give way to speeding Clios and Piaggios.
Cannes’ famous Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, home of the Festival de Cannes, is a glorious display of retro patchwork architecture that draws in hordes of tourists for clichéd red carpet photographs. Ironically, however, the Palais’ basement areas (rarely seen by the general public, but in which numerous events are held) appear tired and in desperate need of repair. In times of high rain and heat it is not uncommon for cascades of leaking water to fall from any given ceiling, and only an unlucky few can claim to have smelled the blocked drains down on Level 01. It could be said that the Palais is a true reflection of the region in which it sits; outwardly impressive, famous, photogenic, and lavish, but inwardly old, exhausted, and verging on spent. As far as my retirement plans go, it is therefore just as well that I recently discovered Denmark.
I’m not talking about the Scandinavian land of butter and bacon – although I can’t deny that does sound like my own personal nirvana – I am talking about Denmark, Western Australia. If you’ve never heard of Denmark before you will hear about it soon. The Lonely Planet, a bible in the eyes of most of the world’s intrepid travellers, is listing the South West of Australia (in the heart of which Denmark sits) as one of the world’s top ten destinations for 2010. Like a lot of small towns in the South West, you stumble into the very centre of Denmark town before you notice where you are. The beautiful winding road that leads into the town takes you on a rollercoaster tour of some amazing coastal regions. Mandalay Beach can’t claim to belong to Denmark, as it’s probably more the property of Walpole, but if you are coming in from the west you will have a chance to stop here. It’s easily overlooked, but is worth a visit. I was lucky enough to be exploring the area in early December before local school holidays, and when I tell you I had a two-kilometre stretch of white sand and blue sea all to myself, I am not kidding. I even managed a brief stint of nude sunbathing, which didn’t help to scare off the formidable flies. Be prepared to put up with them, they are incessant. Some even bite. And they like tender spots.
Pushing on towards Denmark you will come across another extraordinary beach known as Greens Pool. I have been lucky enough to see Mauritius’ world-famous Ile aux Cerfs, apparently one of the greatest beaches in the world. It lacks the subtlety, class, and quietness of Greens Pool. Be sure to take a walk to the left over the big granite outcrop. Follow the sign for Elephant Rocks and you will stumble upon a lagoon surrounded by boulders the size and shape of woolly mammoths. It’s quite breathtaking and virtually impossible to describe in writing. The stone is a bright reddish orange in the right light, and the gentle lapping sea is turquoise. The sand? What else, but the colour of crème brûlée?
Eventually you will come to the sleepy hollow of Denmark itself. My first drive into town came to an abrupt halt when I encountered a road block manned by a smiling orange-vested gentleman. My initial frustration at not being allowed into the town centre abated rapidly at the realisation that the main streets had been cordoned off for the annual Denmark Christmas pageant. What a delightful mix of the bizarre, the old and the young. Each street corner had a peculiar musical performance in full swing. There was a cover band made up entirely of female pensioners who sounded as if they had just taken up rock ‘n’ roll as part of their very own bucket list. There is no stranger site than an elderly lady brandishing drumsticks as if they were knitting needles. Moving on down past the public library and award-wining pie shop (regretfully unaffected by a visit from my stomach) I came to the main junction, on the edge of which was a group of youngsters bashing away at recycled drums, cans, tins, and bottles. Their offering of rap-rock was surprisingly rhythmic and catchy, inducing some very peculiar jigs from several male onlookers who clearly were more used to wielding axes and herding sheep.
I looked around me at the selection of residents (are they Danish or Denmarkers?) and realised this was a land for hippies. Everything was organic and handmade. There were barefooted ladies with strings of flowers in their hair, and hessian sacks for skirts. There were men willingly wearing man bags and puffy shirts. I felt as if I had stumbled into another dimension, where the character of Camden, the coast of KwaZulu-Natal, and the hills of Nyanga had collided to create a microcosmic world of peculiarity that resembled a scene from Philip Pulman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.
I shouldn’t get carried away with Denmark, because it would be a crime to forget about the simply stunning Pemberton, the historical Albany, the ghostly and downright Australian Gnowangerup, and the delectable Margaret River. The latter is made for surfers and wine lovers. The two might strike you as being at completely different ends of the cultural spectrum, but you’d be surprised just how serious both camps are about their hobbies, and just how often they cross over. For a look at a classic and charming surfing town right off the pages of a Tim Winton book, pop into Gracetown. In Pemberton you will see some of the truly great forest areas of the world. Karri trees stretching as high as the eye can see seem to be taking over the road in some parts. Years ago, before helicopters and satellites, karris were used as fire lookouts. You can still climb some today. I have jumped four times into the gorge below Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, and once out of a plane in Pinjarra, but the most sweat I have ever had on my palms was at 70 metres above the ground at the top of the Bicentennial Tree. The platform you reach at the top is surrounded by a wire cage and has solid wooden planks on which you can stroll around and take in the panoramic view, but it’s the climb up there that gets the breath shortening. It’s a testament to the nature of the South West that all they have in the way of safety is a simple sign at the bottom warning you of the dangers of climbing. There is no supervision, there is no safety cable, there is no emergency phone, or catching net. There is just a spiral of sturdy pegs from the ground up, with flimsy wire mesh around the outside. It’s great! And particularly fun when you are 40 metres up and there is a group of excitable, shrieking girls making their way down. I gave way to the descending party by standing on the outer edge of a peg resting against the mesh. This is what activities are like before tourist numbers increase and the predictable safety measures fall into place. The South West is, as yet, virtually untouched by commercialism. There are no massive hotel chains and resorts. There are no theme parks, no major airports. There’s barely even a phone signal.
Pause for a moment here and consider the size of Australia. Many people around the world can only dream of visiting. Most of those who manage to venture ‘down under’ invariably end up going east, resulting in holiday photo albums of opera houses, trams, surfing lessons, and cuddly koalas. It’s not that visitors don’t want to go west; it’s just that nobody wants to miss the east. And when you consider Western Australia is five times the size of Texas, not to mention a four or five hour flight from the east coast, you realise that most travellers end up having to make a choice: Sydney, or Yallingup? I’m not suggesting Western Australia is undiscovered, but I am suggesting it is unfamiliar, and bloody enormous. This translates to it being largely uncrowded and unspoiled by crowds of camera-happy tourists.
Bunbury, Western Australia’s second city after Perth, was listed in 2007 as the country’s fastest growing town. With a new and pristine freeway leading directly to it from Perth (meaning you can skirt round the surprisingly overrated Mandurah), it is easily accessible. Two hours in a car and you are suddenly trundling down Ocean Drive overlooking Back Beach, the home of the Bunbury Surf Lifesaving Club. Don’t let their name or presence scare you, for much of the time during summer the sea is inviting, calm, and free of the throng of tourists that blight Perth’s Scarborough and Cottesloe beaches. If you have worked up an appetite, why not resolve the crisis by tucking into a big breakfast at Café 140 at the Southern end of the charming and dainty Victoria Street. If you’re in the area during the winter months, do not pass go without indulging in the seafood chowder at Nicola’s, a friendly Italian restaurant using the best of local produce. Wild dolphins (not on the menu) visit Bunbury daily at the Koombana Bay Dolphin Discovery Centre, where you can wade in up to your knees to greet them. Bunbury is a great way to start a journey to the South West, and despite being close to Perth the slightly lower average temperature is often welcome during summer.
Head on down the coast towards Busselton, where you can walk along the longest wooden jetty in the southern hemisphere. At 143 years old be careful where you step! Be sure to push on down to Bunker Bay and Cape Naturaliste, for a quite exquisite display of limestone cliffs, crystal-clear rock pools, and vivid blue seas. Venture further southeast and you will come across Ngilgi Cave, one of many such remarkable features in the region. Choirs have recorded songs in its depths. On a more serious note, the cave is an integral and interesting part of local Aboriginal culture and history. The quaint surfing town of Yallingup is not far from the cave and means ‘place of love’ in the local Aboriginal dialect.
The South West of Australia is just that; a place of love, and a place to love. It might not be for everyone, but give it a chance and it won’t take long for its subtle, unassuming lines and curves, its mild caressing breeze, its sultry ocean movements, and its pure beaches to sweep you off your feet and have you coming back for more. If I am honest, and I had to choose between a Western Australian beachside picnic of seafood and wine, or lunch at Saint Paul de Vence’s La Colombe d’Or, I know which I’d prefer to be doing every weekend, and which I could only afford to do once a year. I guess that's why I live here now. Western Australia’s South West region is a very well kept secret. Please don’t spread the word.
Cannes’ famous Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, home of the Festival de Cannes, is a glorious display of retro patchwork architecture that draws in hordes of tourists for clichéd red carpet photographs. Ironically, however, the Palais’ basement areas (rarely seen by the general public, but in which numerous events are held) appear tired and in desperate need of repair. In times of high rain and heat it is not uncommon for cascades of leaking water to fall from any given ceiling, and only an unlucky few can claim to have smelled the blocked drains down on Level 01. It could be said that the Palais is a true reflection of the region in which it sits; outwardly impressive, famous, photogenic, and lavish, but inwardly old, exhausted, and verging on spent. As far as my retirement plans go, it is therefore just as well that I recently discovered Denmark.
I’m not talking about the Scandinavian land of butter and bacon – although I can’t deny that does sound like my own personal nirvana – I am talking about Denmark, Western Australia. If you’ve never heard of Denmark before you will hear about it soon. The Lonely Planet, a bible in the eyes of most of the world’s intrepid travellers, is listing the South West of Australia (in the heart of which Denmark sits) as one of the world’s top ten destinations for 2010. Like a lot of small towns in the South West, you stumble into the very centre of Denmark town before you notice where you are. The beautiful winding road that leads into the town takes you on a rollercoaster tour of some amazing coastal regions. Mandalay Beach can’t claim to belong to Denmark, as it’s probably more the property of Walpole, but if you are coming in from the west you will have a chance to stop here. It’s easily overlooked, but is worth a visit. I was lucky enough to be exploring the area in early December before local school holidays, and when I tell you I had a two-kilometre stretch of white sand and blue sea all to myself, I am not kidding. I even managed a brief stint of nude sunbathing, which didn’t help to scare off the formidable flies. Be prepared to put up with them, they are incessant. Some even bite. And they like tender spots.
Pushing on towards Denmark you will come across another extraordinary beach known as Greens Pool. I have been lucky enough to see Mauritius’ world-famous Ile aux Cerfs, apparently one of the greatest beaches in the world. It lacks the subtlety, class, and quietness of Greens Pool. Be sure to take a walk to the left over the big granite outcrop. Follow the sign for Elephant Rocks and you will stumble upon a lagoon surrounded by boulders the size and shape of woolly mammoths. It’s quite breathtaking and virtually impossible to describe in writing. The stone is a bright reddish orange in the right light, and the gentle lapping sea is turquoise. The sand? What else, but the colour of crème brûlée?
Eventually you will come to the sleepy hollow of Denmark itself. My first drive into town came to an abrupt halt when I encountered a road block manned by a smiling orange-vested gentleman. My initial frustration at not being allowed into the town centre abated rapidly at the realisation that the main streets had been cordoned off for the annual Denmark Christmas pageant. What a delightful mix of the bizarre, the old and the young. Each street corner had a peculiar musical performance in full swing. There was a cover band made up entirely of female pensioners who sounded as if they had just taken up rock ‘n’ roll as part of their very own bucket list. There is no stranger site than an elderly lady brandishing drumsticks as if they were knitting needles. Moving on down past the public library and award-wining pie shop (regretfully unaffected by a visit from my stomach) I came to the main junction, on the edge of which was a group of youngsters bashing away at recycled drums, cans, tins, and bottles. Their offering of rap-rock was surprisingly rhythmic and catchy, inducing some very peculiar jigs from several male onlookers who clearly were more used to wielding axes and herding sheep.
I looked around me at the selection of residents (are they Danish or Denmarkers?) and realised this was a land for hippies. Everything was organic and handmade. There were barefooted ladies with strings of flowers in their hair, and hessian sacks for skirts. There were men willingly wearing man bags and puffy shirts. I felt as if I had stumbled into another dimension, where the character of Camden, the coast of KwaZulu-Natal, and the hills of Nyanga had collided to create a microcosmic world of peculiarity that resembled a scene from Philip Pulman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.
I shouldn’t get carried away with Denmark, because it would be a crime to forget about the simply stunning Pemberton, the historical Albany, the ghostly and downright Australian Gnowangerup, and the delectable Margaret River. The latter is made for surfers and wine lovers. The two might strike you as being at completely different ends of the cultural spectrum, but you’d be surprised just how serious both camps are about their hobbies, and just how often they cross over. For a look at a classic and charming surfing town right off the pages of a Tim Winton book, pop into Gracetown. In Pemberton you will see some of the truly great forest areas of the world. Karri trees stretching as high as the eye can see seem to be taking over the road in some parts. Years ago, before helicopters and satellites, karris were used as fire lookouts. You can still climb some today. I have jumped four times into the gorge below Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, and once out of a plane in Pinjarra, but the most sweat I have ever had on my palms was at 70 metres above the ground at the top of the Bicentennial Tree. The platform you reach at the top is surrounded by a wire cage and has solid wooden planks on which you can stroll around and take in the panoramic view, but it’s the climb up there that gets the breath shortening. It’s a testament to the nature of the South West that all they have in the way of safety is a simple sign at the bottom warning you of the dangers of climbing. There is no supervision, there is no safety cable, there is no emergency phone, or catching net. There is just a spiral of sturdy pegs from the ground up, with flimsy wire mesh around the outside. It’s great! And particularly fun when you are 40 metres up and there is a group of excitable, shrieking girls making their way down. I gave way to the descending party by standing on the outer edge of a peg resting against the mesh. This is what activities are like before tourist numbers increase and the predictable safety measures fall into place. The South West is, as yet, virtually untouched by commercialism. There are no massive hotel chains and resorts. There are no theme parks, no major airports. There’s barely even a phone signal.
Pause for a moment here and consider the size of Australia. Many people around the world can only dream of visiting. Most of those who manage to venture ‘down under’ invariably end up going east, resulting in holiday photo albums of opera houses, trams, surfing lessons, and cuddly koalas. It’s not that visitors don’t want to go west; it’s just that nobody wants to miss the east. And when you consider Western Australia is five times the size of Texas, not to mention a four or five hour flight from the east coast, you realise that most travellers end up having to make a choice: Sydney, or Yallingup? I’m not suggesting Western Australia is undiscovered, but I am suggesting it is unfamiliar, and bloody enormous. This translates to it being largely uncrowded and unspoiled by crowds of camera-happy tourists.
Bunbury, Western Australia’s second city after Perth, was listed in 2007 as the country’s fastest growing town. With a new and pristine freeway leading directly to it from Perth (meaning you can skirt round the surprisingly overrated Mandurah), it is easily accessible. Two hours in a car and you are suddenly trundling down Ocean Drive overlooking Back Beach, the home of the Bunbury Surf Lifesaving Club. Don’t let their name or presence scare you, for much of the time during summer the sea is inviting, calm, and free of the throng of tourists that blight Perth’s Scarborough and Cottesloe beaches. If you have worked up an appetite, why not resolve the crisis by tucking into a big breakfast at Café 140 at the Southern end of the charming and dainty Victoria Street. If you’re in the area during the winter months, do not pass go without indulging in the seafood chowder at Nicola’s, a friendly Italian restaurant using the best of local produce. Wild dolphins (not on the menu) visit Bunbury daily at the Koombana Bay Dolphin Discovery Centre, where you can wade in up to your knees to greet them. Bunbury is a great way to start a journey to the South West, and despite being close to Perth the slightly lower average temperature is often welcome during summer.
Head on down the coast towards Busselton, where you can walk along the longest wooden jetty in the southern hemisphere. At 143 years old be careful where you step! Be sure to push on down to Bunker Bay and Cape Naturaliste, for a quite exquisite display of limestone cliffs, crystal-clear rock pools, and vivid blue seas. Venture further southeast and you will come across Ngilgi Cave, one of many such remarkable features in the region. Choirs have recorded songs in its depths. On a more serious note, the cave is an integral and interesting part of local Aboriginal culture and history. The quaint surfing town of Yallingup is not far from the cave and means ‘place of love’ in the local Aboriginal dialect.
The South West of Australia is just that; a place of love, and a place to love. It might not be for everyone, but give it a chance and it won’t take long for its subtle, unassuming lines and curves, its mild caressing breeze, its sultry ocean movements, and its pure beaches to sweep you off your feet and have you coming back for more. If I am honest, and I had to choose between a Western Australian beachside picnic of seafood and wine, or lunch at Saint Paul de Vence’s La Colombe d’Or, I know which I’d prefer to be doing every weekend, and which I could only afford to do once a year. I guess that's why I live here now. Western Australia’s South West region is a very well kept secret. Please don’t spread the word.
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