ROAD POETS IN BANGKOK AND SAGADA

Two contrasting takes on life, both appearing on walls, one in Bangkok and the other at Sagada in the Northern Philippines.
Independent travelling anywhere can be a roller coaster, not only because of where you are geographically, but where you are, emotionally and mentally, and how you interpret what you see. There are no ultimate truths. You see it all through the filter of your own mind, your life experience and its accumulated baggage. You don't see a jitney driver, a baby soldier, a beautiful temple, a sweating labourer, a frenetic marketplace, a spaced-out traveller, a moody border guard, a magnificent sunset. You see your judgments and opinions on them all.
Amid the chaos of Bangkok, then and, I suspect, now, I came across some lost soul's observation.
For freaks, the Thai Son Greet was for many years an iconic watering hole and shelter from the storm in a frenetic, and not always, predictable city, where few could be trusted and your stay could be either heaven or hell - on the same day! Did the author ship out the next day, in a disillusioned haze I wonder.

circa September 1976

Welcome stranger.
Welcome to the anus of the Universe
To the asshole of the World,
Welcome to everything you left behind
And travelled thousands of miles to find.
Welcome to the army of mirror images
Of yourself marching the well-trampled trail
Like blind lemmings in search of nothing.
Welcome to the hapless tribes dancing
Their well-rehearsed bathos,
To your slick cameras and tapes.
Welcome brother to the divine rip-off,
You’ve arrived.

In June 1979, I was high up in the mountains, 8000 feet above sea level, in the mountain province of Sagada, north of Manila at Saint Joseph's Resthouse. I remember the peace, silence and simplicity of this wooden-framed retreat house and how every morning the mountains, like islands rose through the layers of cotton wool clouds below us. This tranquility certainly inspired someone. It couldn't have been a greater contrast to Bangkok.

circa September 1979

No one will ever get out of this World alive.
Therefore maintain a sense of values.
Take care of yourself.
Good health is everyone’s major source of wealth.
Without it happiness is almost impossible
Be cheerful and helpful. People will repay in kind.
Avoid angry and abrasive persons. They are generally vengeful.
Avoid zealots. They are generally humourless.
Listen more and talk less. No one ever learnt by talking.
Be chary in giving advice: wise men don’t need it and fools won’t heed it.
Be tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, tolerant of the weak and the wrong.
Sometime in life you will be all of these.
Don’t equate money with success. There are many successful money makers who are miserable failures as human beings.
What counts most about success is how a man achieves it.
Love someone you did not love for love is the enriching ingredient of life.

BREAKFAST WITH TOLSTOY

Breakfast is a routine enough event, isn't it? The kitchen wakes up to the sound of porridge being stirred, toast being burnt under my watchful eye, fish oil capsules bouncing as they hit the side plate and plummet onto the floor, the teapot steaming under my Mum's tea cosy.
John Humphrey's strident, but somehow comforting, tone emanates from the radio as I dart out the back door to stampede the squirrels off the bird feeder.
The wild card at the breakfast table is always the presence of human beings and the possibilities arising from conversation!
As I put a comforting layer of honey on my toast (on top of the layer that was already there), my wife tucked into her porridge. An item on freedom of expression in Putin's Russia came and went on Radio 4.
"I don't think I've ever read a Russian classic novel., I said. I think of them as magnificent of course but tragic and sombre and - well, heavy".
Having passed judgement on something I knew nothing about, satisfied, I rested my case and focused on the prunes and yoghurt once more. "Four or five", I pondered.
"It just depends what you read," came the reply from the other side of the table.
"Is there any of that nice Waitrose honey left?", she said.
While my wife continued seamlessly,I made myself useful and hunted it down. It was cowering behind the pepper grinder.
"What do you mean?" I said. Distracted by thoughts of blueberry jam, I'd let the genie out of the bottle.
"For instance, you'd love Pages from a Huntsman's Diary by Turgenev or The Cossacks by Tolstoy. Oh, and Years of Childhood by Aksakov is brilliant. Do you think this milk's off?"
While she spoke, she poured the Twinings and I stumbled around frantically for a biro and something to scribble on.
"Oh, yes - and don't forget Goncharov's Oblomov and", as she closed the dishwasher door, "any short stories by Pushkin. They're so beautiful. Do you fancy going to the gym later?
And whatever you do, you must read A Hero of Our Time by Lermontov."
"It's ok. I've got them all!
Right, I think I'll go and have a bath" - and off she went, happy as a sandboy (apparently they delivered sand, the precursor of sawdust, to pubs and theatres in the 18th century. Why that made them happy is anyone's guess!).
Reeling, I noted the last of the names down and collapsed, exhausted and amazed, not for the first time.
All that knowledge, all that love of the novel, of the 19th Century, here and abroad. I'd pressed a button and a stream of consciousness had flowed out, from the mother lode, lovingly and unpretentiously. About a minute's worth, no more.
For her, it was an effortless process of enthusiastically assembling a 'shopping list'.
For me, I saw her love of reading and what it's always meant to her - and given her. All that secret reading under the bedspread, late into the night as a little girl.
And it somehow colonised me over my muesli.
I was gobsmacked,- in awe really. I may not read any of them.
I feel like I have.

THE WAY WE WERE

A downsizing tsunami is sweeping through our household at the moment and the local charity shops are bravely coping with the flood of books, office paraphernalia, unloved, clothes and other detritus. They've all had a slice of the action. It was in this spirit that I came across an ancient, petite little suitcase, given to me by kindly American relatives in 1968 when I was visiting them and had no suitcase of my own!
Since then, it put a roof over their heads with a bewildering array of 60s and 70s memorabilia. It's only seen the light of day, about once every 10 years. It takes a few seconds to prise it out, of the loft and openness, but an hour to close it again. The diary of a road trip to Greece in 67, St Edward's Preparatory School photo 1956 (including Miss Wilson, my first love), the Anfield Review for 21st November 1970, (a derby match, I will never forget), my Indonesian driving licence bracket. Not pretty!), Divers scouting badges, a Greyhound bus baggage check from Fort Worth, Texas.
IN the dark recesses of the case, long forgotten, I found three old diaries, hiding. The Lett's Boy Scout diary 1963 (13 years old), the Catholic Diary 1966 (16 years old) and my Liverpool University diary the 1967 to 1968. I was sucked in by the image of "me" 50 years ago. A range of emotions, really. Fascination, sympathy (not always for me!), Amusement, sadness, distaste, love, disappointment. It was all there -lots and lots of judgements. A minute later, two hours had sauntered off, never to return.
The Letts Scout Diary.
It was 1963 and the Beatles were exploding all around us but we were too young still for clubbing. We were in that awkward period where you can’t go in pubs, don’t have your own space and anything vaguely resembling a ‘party’ is usually ‘monitored’. So we just ‘hung out’ (an expression which, curiously, first appears in Pickwick Papers) in our garden shed, on the streets or the Mersey waterfront promenade on long ‘patrols’ looking for action. We were impatiently waiting for it all to start happening.
The beginning of the diary is full of lots of useful information, including the scout promise, the scale more, details about the Chief Scout, the Queen Scout medal, various knots, and simple whipping (no comment). It gives the days for hoisting flags on government buildings, first aid, arm slings, axemanship, fire lighting, cooking, lashings, ropes, orienteering, first class journey, camp kids, Gadgets-diagrams of how to construct a patrol dining place, shoe rack, utensils holder for the kitchen, fire crane towels or clothes. After that, there's the history of Scout movement, prayers, the Scout Promise and the sea areas used in weather forecasts.
Included under "personal memoranda" I had to put my height, 7ft. 4 inches and my weight, 24 stone! I then had to give various obscure other measurements such as, for example, "span of thumb and forefinger." Why? , I must have asked myself – and still do - did anyone want to know that?
I've made an initial note-"the reminders at the bottom of each page are completely childish and, although logical, completely impracticable. No evidence of any thought! Mr Letts is a money grabbing sod-(oh, I'm so terribly unscoutly.)” This whiff of rebellion becomes a regular feature of the diary ahead.
That New Year at midnight we went down to the waterfront and listened to all the ships on the river sounding their horns and later in January I was in front of the footlights at the Scouts Play. Me and one other scout, Dave Phillips were brilliant in a sketch about a B&B landlady and her guest. First and last time I dressed up as a woman.
We must have been able to lay our hands on alcohol and I was still leading a double life as an altar boy. Hence the entry “boozed up. Served mass.”
I loved the family being together and when my sister, her husband and their first child left after Xmas, I wrote “Gerry, Laine and Mark are going today and I feel sad. I will miss the baby, especially.” I seem to have conveniently forgotten banging the baby’s head on the frame of the swing seat in veranda – accidentally!
My New Year resolutions were sound – “save money, help mummy and daddy and work hard in school.” Not sure if I lived up to any of them.
I studiously followed my other sister’s love life, hoping to pick up tips - “Ro came in at 5:30 am. She gave Ian the push.”
Between me and my friends we seem to have had a small arsenal of airguns. “Went to Doddy's. Byrny shot me twice. Shot at birds with airgun but didn't hit any.” And as my siblings departed for college once again after Xmas and normal service resumed, it didn’t pass unnoticed. “Rosaleen goes back. John goes back - hitching. All my friends go back to school.”
Amid the Avengers, the Longest Day, smoking cigars at my cousin’s wedding, railing against teachers “Lunt is a bloody bastard”, working up my career as an arms dealer “Went round to Byrny to talk about the gun. Gave me some slugs. Mike wants to buy a gun but he’s a stupid git. I won’t sell it to him. Needs spring and slugs”, cruising Cressington park for a sight of a girl I was infatuated with (she gets lots of mentions in despatches), getting my fire-fighter badge, being traumatised by a series of weekly dentist visits, there is my faultless performance as an altar boy at St. Austin’s.
Though the Beatles weren’t following my rite of passage to adulthood, I was following their’s - “Beatles in America this week.”
I sometimes don’t recognise myself. “Hit copper with beer can.” appears in mid May. Did I really do that? I find it difficult to swallow.
Even sarcasm begins to show up. “Got 200 valentines.”
My recollection of our local catholic church is one of order and respect so I was shocked to see this entry in August - “Fight at back of church”.
I then remembered that the ‘ushers’ who took the collection plate round sometimes had to double as seating organisers/bouncers, especially at midnight mass.
As the autumn term began, I still had my issues with school.
“Went back to Bloody school.”
On September 1^st, I seem to have packed a lot in - “Fight with fellow at top of Mersey Avenue. Black eye. Served at 9 AM mass, watched wrestling with Doddy and Fizzy-Jackie Paolo. Mummy sent a letter to Judith Chalmers-very rude.” (What was that all about?)
And through it all, my first unrequited love is often in my thoughts, “I'll die if I don't see GL soon” and “I’ve got to say something to GL. She's Beautiful.” This is despite the efforts of friends to distract me “Terry is trying to get me off with some Scotch bird.” 35 years later, I did so. I remember weaving so many pure and wholesome fantasies around GL. We eventually met at a party and she quickly despatched me. She was as immature as I was. No longer the goddess, just an ordinary human being, like me.
The helpful printed messages at the foot of each diary page are often brutally rejected.
"Are You a Proficient Cyclist?" “Yes, so Get Stuffed!!”
"Is your personal camp kit ready-you've grown since last year?" “No, so bugger off”.
“Dentist Appointment. Wants me to Have four out and have a small plate due to front-abscess. No! So Get Knotted.” He got his way, eventually. At 16 you don’t have much clout!
We had so much freedom and that year we spent several weekends away hitchhiking and camping or at parents’ cottages. “At Fizzy’s cottage with Doddy, Fizzy and Byrny. Went to Llanfillin for beer and cigarettes. Oswestry market day. Had fish and chips. Went in with Mr Mills and Mr Adams. Went into Llanfillin again with Byrny cider and ciggys.”
I have great memories of that iconic weekend at the cottage, sneaking into pubs in sleepy little welsh villages, tickling trout and gathering raspberries for our supper. Looking moody and bohemian, with pipes in our mouths, in photos. At that age, it just didn’t get any better, but we didn't know it of course. When we headed for home, we walked across the fields and hillsides and woods in bright sunshine, single file in our combat jackets, rolled up umbrellas, cradled like assault rifles. We then split up to hitch back to Liverpool.
Masters of the Universe.
Even Scout camp at Skipton in August got a mention. Why half us weren’t killed I’ll never know. This was pre health and safety - “Aerial runway across the stream. Wide game. Mr Turner’s son ran over a cliff in the wide game at about midnight and and ambulance took him to hospital”. My first-class hike. Duty patrol, the seniors are being made scapegoats. Cleaned up camp for parents visit.” I remember how proud I was when my sister, Rosaleen, brother John and my Dad visited.
That was it. A 13/14 year old’s 1963. In the next 2 years we hitchhiked around Ireland and had more sorties to North Wales and up to Keswick and the Lakes. Once there we didn’t do much except revel in being ‘not at home’.
I expect those self-absorbed and unpolished diary entries are unremarkable and when boiled down to their essential elements were about a young adolescent’s search for his part in the new 60’s zeitgeist that was exploding, trying desperately not to be left behind! We had a pretty good idea we knew it all, or soon would – like every generation perhaps.
I still wonder if GL thought anything of me. I think I like it best as a question.
And GL, wherever you are, don't get in touch!
Nuff said.

TRAVELLERS' TALES

                                          Sunset over the Mekong near Vientiane, Laos

Recently, a friend emailed me about a recent trip to Laos, a country he'd visited as a traveller over 40 years before.  From the comfort of leafy Headingley, it was fascinating to here about his travels and some long-forgotten memories of my own rose to the surface.
I spent about 10 days in Vientiane, the Laotian capital, in 1975, while travelling overland from England to Australia.
Although I had a permit to go on to Luang Prabang in the North of the country (I think I still have it somewhere, along with my Indonesian driving licence!) , I never used it as I was freaked out by an incident at an international trade exhibition towards the end of my stay.
At the time there was an uneasy truce between the Laotian government and the Pathet Lao, the insurgency, and troops from both sides were much in evidence on the streets. I'd had such a lovely time in the first 6 or 7 days, staying in a decrepit but beautiful old French hotel with long balconies, invaded by creepers and undergrowth, allowing access to the rooms. The balconies were bordered with beautiful, but neglected wrought iron railings.
 Daytime was spent in cafes run by French old timers who had just never left. I had the most beautiful banana flambant everyday for next to nothing in an old French restaurant that had seen better days.  The owner was a french national, clearly a relic from the era of french indochina.
I also witnessed an act of incredible cruelty when the drunken or drugged owner got upset with a little kitten that had peed on the floor.  He lifted it up above his head and threw it as hard as he could down onto the ground. Amazingly, it survived, but the incident was straight out of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness. I was a bit too 'inebriated' to do anything about it. I wandered the streets of Vientiane, streets full of rickshaws, opium dens and with a 'Saigon just before the fall' atmosphere.
If Robert De Niro and Christopher Walken had appeared around a corner it really wouldn't have surprised me.
Among other signals to me that the vibes were not perfect was the number of travellers banged up at the local police station, several of whom I'd spoken to briefly when I got my Luang Prabang pass. (Their cells were alongside the main footpath) 2 Aussies and an American.  They looked pretty chastened.
 One afternoon I decided to take in the International Trade Exhibition, everything seemed very normal, lots of suits, no doubt attached to trade missions, wandering round, locals and a few freaks. I felt very relaxed, normal, not a traveller but a regular tourist.  My instincts had gone awol for a while. 
I was in the centre of a big tent, looking from a distance at the exhibits around the walls when I spotted a young Pathet Lao soldier. His livery was Vietcong circa 1968, and he couldn't have been more than 14. Starry-eyed, he was making his way round the walls. He looked quite sweet and innocent. I had nephews his age. I saw this clash of ideologies, the exhibition, East versus West. I had to have that image. Significantly, he was packing an AK47. It was almost as big as him! What a photo opportunity, I thought. I also thought I was quite a clever, seasoned traveller and I would point the camera directly at a section of wall and when the little soldier crossed the line of the camera I'd take the shot. What could go wrong? - you're thinking. I'm sure you aren't but I was!
He arrived, I took the shot that was going to get me the Pulitzer Prize and then all hell broke loose. The flash went off and he came running over pointing the gun at me and jabbing at my stomach, without making contact. Immediately an interested crowd materialised, more soldiers, on both sides, and someone translated what he was saying. "The light went through me". As you might imagine I was back-pedalling furiously, feigning innocence and looking desperate. He got more an more agitated and angry, emboldened by the support he was getting from some of his mates. The gun was still pointed at my stomach. "Was the safety on or off? He may panic, make a big mistake and loose off 30 rounds. I'll be dead and he'll, hopefully be sorry, but that regret will eventually fade and he'll get on with his life. Meanwhile, I'll still be dead. Why did I just do that?" Just a selection of my thoughts over a couple over the the following seconds that seemed like days. Did my cringing and snivelling help? No chance.

I was marched off to a P/Lao military hub where someone a bit further up the chain of command left me wetting myself for 2 hours and then gave me a right bollocking and exposed the whole camera film in an unnecessarily theatrical fashion, I thought (I didn't tell him that). It had been the last shot on a roll of 36. Instantly, Darjeeling, Thailand and Burma went up the spout, Including shots at sunrise from Tiger Hill. The photos may not have been much anyway but I was gutted. So I said to him, "I'm a British citizen and we were running 50 or more countries like this with one arm tied behind our back, before you were a twinkle in your Dad's eye, skylark and why shouldn't I just squeeze your head like a pimple - and come to think of it, where's the little git with the AK shot off to?" . Would I be writing this blog if I had said that ? I don't think so.  I got what I asked for. 

Thanking them profusely for their extraordinary compassion and generosity, I was then released but not heaved into the Mekong, as I was expecting. I was so shaken that I took the first motorised canoe out the next day.  All in all it was a useful learning experience.  Unfortunately the same experience rarely pops up twice.  A lesson I continued to learn long after I left Laos - and still am!

I was having my post-yoga swim in the pool at Kirkstall Leisure Centre this morning when a 10 year old dive bomber reminded me of Garston Baths and another lifetime. Nowadays, the swimmers like me are neatly cordoned off from school holiday mayhem and even that is 'health and safeteyed' into submission

In the 60s noone would have understood what a "leisure centre" was or going to a "pool" for a swim. Garston Baths was about a mile and a half from where me, Steve, Luke and Fizzy all lived at Aigburth. Outings to the Baths was a daytime escape for us from the age of 11 upwards. It's now been levelled and is being offered as a 'site for redevelopment'.

On a Saturday we would extract 2 shillings (10p) from our parents and catch the 82c bus down to Garston for an adventure. Garston was rough - still is. So it was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation that we entered the old victorian era baths with numerous nooks and crannies and changing cubicles, with wild west saloon style doors, running down the sides of the pool. No locks.

The noise was usually deafening and it was everyman (and woman) for themselves. Anarchy prevailed with only the occasional intervention by an attendant (who were usually the scariest people there) when an ambulance was needed or the smell of riot was in the air. There were two pools as I remember it and you could promenade between the two if you needed to chill away from the psychopaths.

Dive-bombing was de rigeur and I don't think it ever occurred to us to use this leisure opportunity for swimming. It was all so exciting and edgy for genteel Aigburth residents like us and we all emerged high as kites and starving.

Then it was decision time. An enormous and painful dilemma. Remember we'd started with 2 shillings.

Sixpence fare in each direction and a schilling to get into the Baths.
We had sixpence left, - just enough to get us home by bus.
We could either take the bus back home or, lulled by the siren smells of the chippy across the road and the prospect of Wooly's broken biscuits, blow the sixpence on food and walk it on our tired little legs.

Sixpence worth of chips usually won the day and I have no regrets. I've never tasted better or enjoyed better company.

OUR URBAN FOX

We have a fox's den at the bottom of our garden. It all started about 4 years ago when as we tumbled our way through getting dressed for work and having breakfast, we spotted a fox through the back window, patrolling around the sun lounger itself,as a couple of its young played on the lounger itself, totally chilled out and protected by Mum. As we gulped our teas with one eye on the clock along came a third, then a fourth, quickly followed by a fifth and sixth! It was the start of their relationship with each other, with their mother, and ours with them.
Sadly the six didn't last and in the days that followed they dwindled to three, before Mum sent them on their way, doubtless to find their own territory.
In the years since, each year we've had a little brood. Are we looking at more pups from the original Mum or her grandchildren. Who knows. Our part in the plan is to keep the ancient ancestral pile available. An honourable task.
They really ask no more of us and in return, there is the occasional spellbinding meeting as they saunter quietly and nonchalantly through the garden on the way to the woods across the road for a bite to eat. Don't ask. I just hope it's a grey squirrel and don't get me started on them. There are presently one adult and two kids in residence.
I was standing outside the garage one sunny morning about six weeks ago trying to make some sense of the confusion that is our garage, but also just enjoying the sunshine. Something made me look to my left and there was a fine-looking fox no more than 7 or 8 feet away from me, very cool, just watching me. I watched back.
There was such an air of calm and composure in the way it stood there. No nerves no darting glances to right or left, no threatening growls or frightened yelps. No indication of fright or flight about to take over. Just curiosity. We had a quiet unspoken exchange. Live and let live. And then, when the fox had had enough and remembered his main purpose today, as with every day, was to find enough food to survive, It moved on. Not at a pace or looking over his shoulder to see what I was doing, but with a quiet, unhurried dignity. Beautiful.
They don't push their luck. Not like those 'in your face' squirrels!
Meanwhile we leave them to their little wilderness at the back.

EDUCATION - A BROAD CHURCH WITH HIDDEN GEMS

We entertained on Saturday evening. We hadn't met our friend's female partner before but we're very interested to meet her as she started a 'Montessori' school about 25 years ago and it continues to thrive.
What is a 'Montessori' school, you may be thinking.

By coincidence, we had recently seen the french film, The Class, about the jungle and battleground that is secondary education in inner city french secondary schools. No different from many of our own. Defensive, unruly, demoralising, sullen environments in which no one is in control and there is a 'slow-burn war of attrition between teachers and a minority of disruptive kids where the few often manage to prevent the education of the many from reaching their potential. Brilliant film but with a dark message.

Montessori' is not a trademark or a brand, but a teaching method developed by the Italian physician and educator, Maria Montessori, who died in 1952. She believed that we should support children to explore and use thier inner natural guidance for self-directed development. The method can be applied to children from 2 years old up to 13 years of age.

We were intrigued and our guest, whom we will call 'Maria' without being preachy or sententious, fielded our questions impressively. The whole experience, it seems, of children in such a school is one where the child's true interests are focussed on and nurtured while the child remains interested in them and until the child wants to move on, not the teacher.

A recipe for disaster, you may think, but this is a school which has consistently been given top marks on inspection and whose children when moving on to secondary schools or higher education achieve high standards and are seen as well-rounded a extremely literate and confident young people.

This was a dinner party, not a press conference, and so we didn't linger too long on the topic but, having spent an evening with 'Maria' we were very impressed and both felt that we wanted to be whisked back 50 years in a time machine and implore our parents to get us into such a school. Simplistic? Possibly. However I have no doubt that there are many children for whom mainstream schooling is anathema and for whom this alternative would be a lifesaver, giving them a touchstone, some bedrock for their self esteem and confidence for the rest of their lives.

Our friend's school is clearly run on a modest budget but amazingly there are many volunteers, some of them professional people, giving expert help, support and guidance, for nothing, simply because of their belief in the project.

It was uplifting to hear such a hopeful message on a cold January evening as we extricate ourselves from another winter.

In our next lifetime, that's where we're heading!