Rush!

Posted on 8 November 2008 by andyq

What a morning to wake up late. My 7th morning in Nepal, and previously, I’d woken up at 5:30 or 6am almost every day. I can’t quite adjust to the 5 and 3/4 hour time difference (did you catch that? a quarter hour time change!). Last night, I fell asleep early too – as I don’t feel like boozing by myself, Kathmandu is not a night-time place for me. And I put my alarm next to my bed. But must not have set it.

So, a deep dream and waking up with a start. Damn. Just after 6am, and I was aiming to be in a taxi now, half an hour away from the airport, where I was supposed to check in for my short flight around My Everest an hour early at 7:30. So, throwing on whatever clothes I could fine, rushing out the door, grabbing things on the way: the camera being the most important. There are no taxis at the bottom of my hotel’s street where they usually are, so I need to run out to the intersection. The taxi driver won’t use the meter – but doesn’t charge as much as I’d expected. 300 rupees, or $6 Australian. Fine, I say, let’s please rush. So, instead he gets out of the car, and another driver gets in. “Are you single?” he says. I’m looking at him in disbelief, and say, “please, to the airport, I need to catch a flight.” “Are you single?” he repeats again, and I motion for him to start driving.

Of course, I realize as we start driving, on roads that are thankfully quiet, that he was asking if I was waiting for another passenger. Nope. It’s like how I can’t get used to the south Asian headbob. Those in the north don’t do it, but a woman I work with sometimes from Kerala, jiggles her head clockwise and counterclockwise, yet fixed in place as if at the back of her head, aligned to somewhere just below her nose. They do it here too in Nepal, but it seems even more pronounced, and somewhat unexpected. At a gut level, I’m understanding “no”, it’s close enough to the negative shake of the head, before I remember that it’s more of a “yes”, an I understand you, sure, whatever.

It takes only 20 minutes to get the airport, I rush in and try to figure out the melee. I jump the queue to put my bag through the x-ray machine ahead of a mountaineering expedition with a dozen packs. The security guard points at my waist as I go through the scanner. “Open, open,” he says, but I don’t have anything to open, no waist-bag (I’ve stopped saying fanny-pack after living in Australia), and my crumpler bag is just now coming out of the x-ray machine. I look at him quizzically. He points at my fly.

An enthusiastic volunteer rushes towards me loudly pointing me this way and that, to the airport tax counter. I’m thinking that I can’t possibly have to pay the foreigner’s exit fee of $35 just for the mountain flight, so brush him off and try to check-in. And get sent back to the tax counter. It’s only $4. They can’t find my time on the passenger list, and slowly think about what to do, before writing my name down by hand. I’m short-tempered these last two days. I find the people here lovely in manner, warm, and with beautiful eyes. As I always try to do when I’m travelling, I chat to people in stores, try to be respectful, when people stare at me in the street, I smile and say “namaste”. But I’m a little tired after a week here.

Inside the boarding area, I rush to the gate. But I can’t figure out what’s going on. It’s crowded, perhaps a hundred of us or so waiting. The guard at the gate looks at my boarding pass, and tells me: “not 7:30am, 9:30” and then “Japanese, are you Japanese?” Which I get here on a regular basis. I don’t mind the assumption, as I’ve been mistaken for Japanese ever since I grew a beard and moustache, but it’s boring having it called after me so often.

I’m tired and flustered. I busted a gut to get here on time, and don’t love the idea of a two hour wait here, but I finally check with another guard, who tells me the flight will be at 8:30, and they’ll call for boarding 15 minutes before. So, here I am, after the rush, in the internet lounge, hopeful for clarity, good conditions, safe flying.

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Some small things about Nepal

Posted on 2 November 2008 by andyq

I wake at 5am. My neighbours have woken the last two mornings at 5:30am; I’ve been roused by a low male voice talking at full strength through the thin walls of the 5 star Hotel de L’Annapurna. I don’t know if he’s talking to someone else in the room, or on the phone, or? So this morning, I’ve pre-empted that – I guess I’m staying on Australia time for now, 5 hours later. I switch on the light, get up. When I look back down at my bed, a small brown bug in high contrast to the white sheets scurries along. Cockroach? Bed bug?
Later, there will a blog post about about my overall impressions of a place I’ve wanted to spend time in, my amazing colleagues, the sites I hope to see. But for now, the small things. As I’ve been in meetings for 2.5 days and have seen little:
I was lucky enough to remember to request a seat on the right-hand side of the airplane as I flew into Kathmandu from Bangkok. I had no idea what to expect, and how beautiful it would be, to see the mountains floating on top of the clouds.
Thai Airways, one of the two Asian airlines that fly into Nepal from Sydney, provide their own version of the customs declaration form for arrival. I loved it. Among the non-consumable items that you are allowed to bring are: Used Portable Music System One Set and Recorded or Blank Cassettes up to 10 pieces; Tricycle 1 piece; Used Fountain Pen One Set. Ball Pen or Pencil One Set; Used Simple Medical Equipment One Set for Doctor; One Set Playing Item for Player; One Set Musical Instrument For Musician; Fishing Rod; Perambulator 1 Piece. Passengers having more than the given quantity are required to proceed to the Red Channel. Dear Reader, I lied. This artist of deception smuggled through my three ball point pens and headed out through the Green Channel.
Outside the terminal, the taxi touts are omniprescent but wander away when I say that the hotel is sending a pick-up. At the ATM machine, I ask for more than the daily limit. I punch in a reduced request, and a women security guard appears suddenly through a door to the side of the machine. “No, no,” she scolds, but I can hear the whir and buzz of a successful transaction. At the hotel room, I see that I received 8,000 instead of 10,000 rupees. You have to admire an ATM machine that gives it what it wants to give you, rather than what you ask for.
The hotel is familiar, the same that I stayed at on my visit in 2005 (painfully short, with little time for sightseeing, I literally had to jog around the famous stupa here to get back to my waiting driver). Traveller’s tales often end in the toilet; I won’t diverge. I love the bottle water they’ve left for me there. “Thirst-Pi”. Named by an admirer of mathematics, or is Pi an allusion to Pee? It was the winner of the internatonal quality award for commercial prestige, in Italy, in 2002. Which I suppose it reassuring. I’ve heard many times over the years of how the western position for toilets is unnatural; squatting is better. This one seems to combine the two. The plastic seat slopes back so that I feel like I’m wedged in place. Neither comfortable nor natural. Comical, I’d say.
I’m gifted with a week in Nepal this time, before the next meetings in Delhi. Unusually for me, I haven’t planned what I’m doing! This morning, I’m visiting a colleague in the hospital, and will visit three organisations during the day. I’m considering going to Nagarkot tomorrow evening, which will then allow me a famous sunrise view. I might as well take advantage of the time I’m waking up!

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Old Poems

Posted on 26 October 2008 by andyq

(26 Oct 08) Today I tackled a folder of old poems on my computer. They were written on old PCs, and are now barely readable by my year-old Mac – being the organised-sort that I am (i.e. so organised that it scares people who are unorganised), I decided to decode them and put them in an archive file.

It was an interesting journey scanning over the first poems that I ever wrote, at university, nearly 20 years ago, and from a few years after. I saw the handful that made it into my first collection of poetry, Slant, others that came close, and more that were never in the running.

As a young writer, I often did not have enough to say in the poems, there was a good idea or image, but not much else. I had the tendency to describe emotions and the world in general and grandiose terms, with an occasional interesting turn of phrase, but often lacking something specific, a detail, which would really bring a phrase to life.

I wrote too often about poetry itself, and language, but being young had nothing wise to say. There were some pieces which are better off as pages of a journal, a few cringe-making earnest political tracts (the one about the anti-fur lobby stood out here).

But I was also drawn to what made good poetry: weight, gravity, grief, joy. There was a lovely youth and liveliness to some and occasionally I could keep an idea uncomplicated but sharp enough to work well. It was interesting to revisit all those seeds and grains and see how they grew into what were published in magazines, and then my books, to see the young poet in formation, in love with words, already on his way.

Peach Stone

This translucent stone
is bright and simple.

I fixed it to my forehead
with apricot jam
and thought of you all night.

Now it reaches you
after having travelled
through spaces
no person could ever fit.

Touch it to the ground once more
and ask from it its secrets.

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Weight

Posted on 17 October 2008 by andyq

Ayumi warns me by e-mail: Please be patient with my English, it has gotten bad because I don’t use it. And: I look older. But she catches herself. I guess we all do. She gives me specific instructions for when and where to meet: the tour is organised so there is a narrow window of time. Friday night. 9pm. Lobby of the Swissotel. Is it a problem to get there?

The CBD is bustling. A few young families, obviously not from here. The Friday night drinks crowd. Girls in heels out for a big night on the town. Seats of cheap Korean restaurants are filled by dozens of young Asian men and women. A gaggle of girls ask me where Kent Street is. I’ve suddenly forgotten but can point them to a map fixed to a post.

I am exactly on time and find them already there. Andy, they exclaim. Ayumi rushes forward, leans into me, pats my back, and I turn towards her mother who smiles broadly and offers me her hand. I was planning on bowing, as low as I could, but she is not as formal as I expected. She is wearing a bright top of floral design with elegant jewelry. I had expected differently. Ayumi had told me about her mother’s problems, how sometimes she would stay on the couch for days at a time, watching TV. I’d predicted crazy, some visible sign.

My mother would not like tea or coffee. She would like something to help her to sleep. So, perhaps we can drink alcohol. Ayumi sounds slightly anxious in her second tongue, as if her mouth isn’t fast enough for her, but her English sounds like the last time I’d heard it. There is a famous hotel bar around the corner. It’s not far away. Only a block. On the way, she tells me, We’ll pay. Let’s be extravagant.

You look good. I’d seen Ayumi three years ago when I was at a conference in her hometown as well as a year before that on vacation. The first time I’d seen her after sixteen years, I was shocked. She had changed though I wasn’t sure how. Her eyes were excited and dull all at once. She had been eating a powdery candy, its traces covering her lips. I couldn’t stop staring at the yellow dust.

Yes, I lost a lot of weight. Ayumi and I have been writing to each other since leaving college. I can remember the square shapes of her handwriting, the delicate paper, and colourful stamps. She wrote her return address in Japanese, and near the end, before we switched to e-mail, I’d copied the Japanese kanji out carefully, though included the English translation just in case. Our routine was that she would tell of her problems: fitting in, failing to get into university, unable to hold down jobs, friendless. I would offer advice: volunteer work, perserverance, counselling, exercise.

The Hilton has door staff, three broad-shouldered imposing men, and a beautiful blonde. A group of people, dressed up, jostle past them and down some stairs. They are holding out cards. Invitations? ID? My nerves jump. Ayumi gestures at her clothes, a light rainjacket over a simple t-shirt. I’d like to show my friends from Japan the bar. Can we get in? I ask. Sure. The doorman gestures towards the stairs without hesitation. The blonde starts to say something, and then shakes her head. Never mind.

But there’s a band playing tonight. Blues. Loud. The interior of the bar is ornate. Roman columns shimmer bronze. Light catches stained pictorial frames. Rich red furnishing and cedar. Designed in 1893, it’s about as old as Sydney gets but I don’t know what else to do but motion at it with my hands. There is nowhere to sit. The customers are beautifully dressed. It’s noisy and crowded, and staff members are shifting leather sofas from the bar to the foyer, almost running over Ayumi’s mother in the process. She has trouble hearing, Ayumi explains. Even in Japanese.

Two floors up, the wine bar is much quieter. We sit at the end of a high table. I get into a complicated exchange with a server who wants a credit card to create a tab. For one drink? He explains that two groups and eight hundred dollars have walked off already tonight. Ayumi’s mother is fidgeting with her purse awkwardly. I tell him, this is awkward, and wait until he leaves.

I can barely find the cocktail list hidden after many pages of Australian wines. Angel’s Eyes, says Ayumi, but it takes me a few times to understand the words. It’s a cocktail her mother had many years ago. But we don’t know what is in it, so I order the house special cocktail for her, an “Australian” (she wants something sweet), a Spanish white from Ribeiro for me, and a mocktail for Ayumi. About three years ago, I got so sick after drinking I decided to never drink again. It’s a good thing, obviously, though at the time I couldn’t blame her. I think I’m an alcoholic, she wrote but I thought: no job, no friends, nothing to do but cook and clean. I’d drink.

We exchange gifts. A large flat paper bag for me. From my father, for you and your boyfriend. I ask whether I should open it, and Ayumi hesitates, then says yes, but I feel awkward to open them here at the bar. Later, a set of two flat paper fans, two folding fans, perfumed, and two sets of 2008 coins from the Japanese mint, in 2005 I’d received from her (and her father) that year’s version. I don’t know anyone who collects coins.

I present mine to them. I know Japan well enough to have prepared. But it’s the same routine: they’ll open their presents at the hotel. So I describe: my latest book signed (even though Ayumi’s sister ordered it and it still might be on its way) and “Runaway” by Alice Munro (beautifully wrapped by the bookstore); for her mother, an Australian version of panforte from Haigh’s and some hand cream made with emu oil (wrapped not-beautifully by me).

When they show me their souvenir photos from Paradise World, each holding a fat, sleepy koala, my exclamations draw the attention of our neighbours at the same table. They add their delighted sounds. They’re confused whether we’re one family, or how we fit together, but are a perfect example of Aussie hospitality and warmth, asking about their trip and wishing them well. The tour, run by a Japanese company linked to their national railways, landed them in Brisbane where they saw Surfer’s Paradise, caves of glow-worms (which would die if you took flash photos), and Lamington National Park (which I’ll look up since I hear both Ramington and Remington). Sheep were sheared for them. They fed small colourful birds, which also perched in their hair and shat on Ayumi’s mother’s hair.

Today, a tour bus drove them past the strip joints at King’s Cross. They had photos taken of themselves in front of the Opera House. Tomorrow, the Blue Mountains; the next day, an early flight with Jetstar. It’s not expensive but they’re never on time. I point outside to the Queen Victoria Building, glowing through the windows of the hotel bar, its Romanesque structures from the turn of last century. Maybe we passed it on the way to King’s Cross? Is it beautiful inside too? But there’s no free time on these tours, no place unguided.

Ayumi’s mother reminds me of a male Japanese friend, a brisk, solid cheeriness. But she stares off into space, partly because Ayumi doesn’t translate our conversations. Ayumi tells me that she was worried about how many sleeping tablets her mother took on the plane trip over, though it was good she slept. Remember I take sleeping pills? Mother has the same problem. The last visit I’d found out her doctor had her on a host of pills. Anti-depressants. Sleeping pills for the last few years, every night. She also had the habit of drinking three litres of diet Coke a day, which she worried cost too much money.

As far as I learned, here is the rest of Ayumi’s life: Her sister did not renew her job at the antenna company. They didn’t ask why, but it is now very crowded for four adults to be in their small apartment at all times. So it is good Ayumi and her mother are away for a little while. Her father is 72 and plays soccer twice a week. Her brother lives in the Philippines with his wife. His employment is precarious but they can’t move back to Japan as his kids speak only Tagalog and English. They have two boys, 12 and 7. The oldest is mentally disabled and counts on his fingers, so learning Japanese would be impossible. Ayumi’s mother visits them twice a year.

Ayumi has discovered facebook, and she writes to our classmates from college. But she confesses, I remember so little about that time. I can’t remember which dormitories everyone lived in. Sometimes I write to people and pretend I remember them, but I don’t. She tells me of those who never wrote back and others who do. I smile at their kindness and wonder what kind of bonds they’ve made with her over the years, and were they ever really friends? I don’t remember either, Ayumi, the rooms people lived in. It doesn’t matter.

But here is a victory. After sixteen years of letters and e-mail, and two face-to-face visits, Ayumi agreed to get out of her house, and to exercise. I took your advice. She goes to aqua-cize every week, without fail. She is still too shy to talk with anyone else, but she likes to listen to the other women’s chatter. She has lost 15 kilos since I last saw her, and is slim. Her face seems stronger, more focused and alive. The doctor says I still should lose more weight. I tell her, no, she looks just fine. For Australia yes, but not Japan. But it couldn’t have only been the exercise. Fifteen kilos. I remember her less healthy but not fat. I got a scale, and I made… and here she points out points on a chart in the air. Yes, a chart and I weighed myself twice a day. I tell her mother to make sure she doesn’t lose too much weight, but I don’t know what Ayumi translates it to.She has also given up Diet Coke, three months ago, and drinks only sparkling water. Congratulations, I say. I’m really proud of you. She leans forward conspiratorially. I heard it can kill you anyways. Aspartame.

Thank you. For writing to me all these years. I think I complain too much. When I write to college friends and tell them about my problems, my mother’s, people don’t write back.

You don’t complain too much. I’m being truthful. The last years she writes of the weather, whether she’s trying to read an English book. Maybe when you write to our classmates, try not to complain. Write of the good things. Tell them about your trip to Australia.

Ayumi’s mother pays our bill. I walk them back to their hotel. When Ayumi and I hug good-bye, it is a soft clash of bones and cartilage, not an embrace. I wonder if it’s stereotype and condescension to wonder if she has ever been held, whether she is held, ever, these days.

At home, my mac computer informs me that an Angel’s Kiss cocktail has white creme de cacao, gin, brandy and cream while Angel’s Eyes has cola, tequila and orange juice. Did I get the name right? Was it of fruit or milk? It’s these details we miss, what we think is untranslatable or what we could never put into words. What country? What bar? Was it of a certain time and place, or simply made up by one person alone?

 

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My next trip to Beijing

Posted on 3 September 2008 by andyq

The inflight magazine on USA airlines had three great suggestions for Beijing, one of which I know already. I want to do these on my next trip there:

  • Go to “Lan” designed by Philippe Starck, on the 4th floor of the Twin Towers (also known as Le Lan, Lan Bar, and Lan Club).
  • Go to “Li Jia Cai” (Family Li Cuisine) at 11 Yangfang Hutong, Denei Dajie, Xicheng District (6618 0107) – near the Drum Tower
  • And revisit the 798 Art Zone / Dashanzi Art District (which I loved on my first visit but wished I’d had a whole afternoon or day to wander around)

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Mexico City Restaurant and Drink Recommendations

Posted on 23 August 2008 by andyq

What a great city for eating!

I’d researched on the internet and found Aguila Y Sol was one of the hottest restaurants…but closed.

So, our choice was Pujol, in Polanco. It was terrific.

I also had a great meal at the Basque restaurant Tezka in Zona Rosa.

I also ate at both branches of La Tecla.

And though warned that Casa Lamm (on Alvaro Obregon) might not have as good food as surroundings, our meal was lovely – and the building and atmosphere is Beautiful!

John and Aran introduced me to Mezcal at Red Fly on Orizaba. A must! (Though when I went back and tried to order on my own, I wasn’t as successful).

And my biggest recommendation is to drink as many “tequila banderas” as possible:

“Order a ‘bandera’ (Spanish for ‘flag’), and your tequila will be served with a lime and another shot glass with ‘sangrita’, a tasty blend of tomato and citrus juice. (The combination is red, white, and green…the colors of the Mexican flag.)”

It’s to be sipped (first tequila, then lime, then sangrita) not sculled (Australian for downed quickly) – and all the locals seemed to have it as an aperitif or with their meals. Fantastico!

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Living the Pura Vida Loca – Andy and Steve in Costa Rica

Posted on 20 August 2008 by andyq

Everywhere we drove there were hawks flying overhead and everywhere we looked, nature was zooming, hopping or slithering over and under us. Costa Rica was a perfect combination, appealing to Steve’s love of nature, and Andy’s affection for Latin America. While Andy thought that the expression “Pura Vida” was an expression invented for the booming tourist industry (it’s everywhere, on t-shirts, in brochures), it turns out to be local lingo which means, well, pretty much anything: a mood, a person, an adjective, but basically pure life = something good. Which is what we experienced for a week.

It’s a country with an interesting history – a peaceful government, an educated population – and incredibly varied geography all within a few hours drive of each other. You can see a lot in short time, which we did! Lucky that Steve’s a brave driver – it was a great way to get around – though amusingly, there’s often few or no signs for turnoffs or even major tourism destinations. Those working in the tourist industry were warm and efficient! I was impressed by the towel art in at least two of the hotels, elaborate flowers and in one case, a pair of swans. On the many backroads we drove on, we’d occasionally receive a bright smile and wave, but generally, people seemed wary of all of these strangers driving around their backyard (“land of the suspicious look”, I coined it). It’s not a cheap place to travel, in comparison with say, Asia, or other parts on Latin America – but it’s cheaper than Europe or North America with a high standard of living. And you can drink the water!

Andy arrived on Sunday morning and was able to catch up with Monica, a Pearson College classmate and meet her wonderful family. They took him for a typical meal up in the mountains and a drive through the centre. Steve was lead into town from the Hertz rental car headquarters near the airport that evening, in a shiny silver 4 wheel drive (later dubbed “Dulcita”) with first experiences with some unusual turning lanes, lack of signs, and potholes. After a restful night at the lovely Hotel Alta we headed up Monday morning to the La Paz Waterfall Gardens where we spent the day. This nature park was an unexpected surprise – an aviary with toucans and amazing tropical birds, the world’s largest butterfy enclosure, enclosures for monkeys, frogs, lizards and snakes and my favourite, an area with some beautiful native felines – two pumas, a tigrito, two ocelots, and a jaguarito, all which were only an arm’s length away, and shown to us by a personal guide. In other zoos, the cats are usually hiding far away, sleeping or otherwise avoiding the humans (wouldn’t you?) A walking trail took us past a few beautiful waterfalls (flush and brown with rain – our first day getting to know the rainy season), and we decided to stay the night at the hotel. The completely over-the-top and expensive standard rooms were all booked out, but we got a reasonably priced apartment right across from the aviary for Monday night.

Tuesday we made sure to be near the hummingbirds at 9:15am so we could feed them by hand (amazing and beautiful creatures) which meant by the time we got to the famous view of the Poas Volcano, we saw… nothing. Just a big mass of cloud. The nearby lagoon was not that pretty either. So we headed onto Volcan Arenal next to Lake Arenal – a beautiful area dominated by the view of a live smoking volcano. We stayed at the very reasonably priced Volcano Lodge ($60 USD) and as it started to bucket down with rain, we headed over to one of the area’s famed hotsprings. One of the local guides recommended Baldi over Tabacon Hotsprings (which I’m still curious about). Baldi Hotsprings (USD 30 entry) is the Caesar’s Palace of Hotsprings with an enormous manmade structure looming in the background that creates a steaming hot waterfall (which Steve loved lying under) which then flows down to the various other sections of the park: waterslides, swimming pool bars, and spa areas, all to a loud soundtrack of 80s music. A good place to spend a rainy night, even though I slipped and broke my favourite pair of Crocs.

We headed up the next morning, Wednesday, to try to get a closer look at the Volcano. The next time, that’s where I’d want to stay, at the Ecological reserve on the slopes of the Volcano. The morning was fairly clear – and you could see smoke streaming up from the lava flows, but I wish I could have seen it glowing at night. We had a good breakfast there (including fried plantains, yum, and the local breakfast specialty, Gallo Pinto (rice mixed with black beans) and went for a walk on the grounds. As Volcano Lodge was booked up that night, we headed for a drive around the lake – a man-made one, the scene could have been from may countries: Canada, Scandinavia, England… but particularly Switzerland, as the further we got around the lake, there were these crazy hotels and lodges with Swiss themes and decor (the guidebook mentioned a revolving restaurant but we couldn’t see it). We took a little detour to stay at the Mystica Lodge past Nuevo Arenal – a gorgeous little place where we were the only guests. There was a yoga and meditation room a short walk away from the restaurant, beyond that a path to an enormous Ceiba tree. On Steve’s hike there, he met a family of howler monkeys in the wild. Back near the room were iguanas, hummingbirds and more butterflies.

Thursday was adventurous driving on really rough roads to get us to Volcan Tenorio. We decided to seek adventure and followed a sign which promised hotsprings and pools (but basically got us to a pretty river and a dead end) – and afterwards spent rather a lot of time trying to decipher instructions from the Lonely Planet guide (incomplete) to get us to the entrance of the National Park. The road was the roughest we experienced, rocks and potholes galore, but it was perhaps the biggest reward: swimming in perhaps the most beautiful waterfall I’ve ever seen, then hiking along a crazy blue river, and to an area with a natural hotspring. Fantastico. Then we headed to the famous Monteverde/St Elena region of the Cloud Forests and while I was worried about reaching it by nightfall, over bumpy roads and with striking views, we made it to the Hotel Sapo Dorado (USD 125 a night), named for a poor golden toad that no one has seen for years. Monteverde is a really strange area, the roads around it purposely kept unpaved to keep tourism low, two major parks protecting the rainforests, and a significant Quaker population. It was dark and quiet and tiny yet had some of the best and most reasonably priced food (Sophia’s and Chimera – Nuevo Latino Cuisine. Rico. Rico. Rico) and has an extensive adventure tourism infrastructure (and a yummy cheese factory).

Friday morning, we had a nice walk in the St Elena Nature Reserve – lush and green and tropical, bromeliads everywhere, yellow breasted birds darting here and there. We saw a sloth (which looked, high above, like a pile of moss) and in the parking lot a local pig, a pecarry, and an anteater-like creature called a coati. In the afternoon, without either of us really planning it, we ended up on one of Costa Rica’s famous Canopy Tours, which was basically an hour and a half of zipping through and over the top of the rainforest harnessed to a zipline. Unlike rollercoasters (which we love), the adrenaline rush is not limited to one hill or loop, but is sustained for rather a long time as you speed down a length of 40 to 770 metres (the longest), and as high up as 130 metres. That night we took a chance on a night walk through the Monteverde nature reserve. It was pouring for most of the two hours, and while it started well – seeing a tarantula, and crazy stick insects in the wet night, it ended up not a full success. Though we shined our flashlights in earnest in every direction, we saw little else, a few sleeping birds, one frog, some spiders. We knew the guide was desperate when he started pointing out the local cockroaches, and Andy eventually started pointing out more Ocelots. “…’At’s a lot of stick insects…”

As an aside, I’d looked up the weather for the week on Accuweather.com and it basically said “rainy” every day with the same range of temperatures. But internet weather doesn’t quite describe the rainy season in Costa Rica. Yes, it rained every day (mostly in the late afternoon), but it was also sunny and beautiful for parts of most days. They should create a new symbol to describe it!

Saturday, before heading back to the big smoke, we drove down to the coast and got a taste of the humidity there – we drove through an awful tourist beach town called Jaco (like Kuta in Bali, or Pattaya in Thailand), past a huge muddy river which had a busload of tourists walking over it and pointing into it inexplicably (we dubbed it El Rio Feo, the Ugly River), ah, and we saw a last waterfall, supposedly one of Costa Rica’s tallest, Bijagual, but from the tourist trap lookout at “Pura Vida Garden” (USD 20 entrance, big ugly concrete paths around a sculpted tropical garden, though we did get photos with a toucan and blue macaw), the view of the waterfall was only mediocre. We spent most of the afternoon on crazy, winding backroads, with more dramatic views of hills and valleys, to get back to San Jose and finished our last night recounting our adventures to Monica and Roger over delicious pizza. Pura Vida!

Posted in Creative Non-Fiction, Travel | Leave a comment

Pigeon Poetry Project

Posted on 22 July 2008 by andyq

The latest literary project that I’m participating in:

The Red Room Company in Sydney has commissioned eight poets from across the country to each write a poem that will be raced by thoroughbred pigeons on August 3, 2008.

Visit the website online to read my poem “A Word From the Feral Pigeon” and back my pigeon Smokey to win in the online, virtual sweep!

If you’re so inclined, come along to the pigeon race in Stanwell Tops on Sunday August 3 to hear poetry read live. I’m sadly overseas at the time so can’t make it myself… But check it out.

http://pigeonpoetry.com/poems/smokey/

From the website: “And they’re off! Mark down Sunday August 3 on your sporting calendar, as the Pigeon Poetry race takes Bald Hill, Stanwell Tops by a sweeping flurry of wings and words. From 12 noon, hear the eight poems commissioned for Pigeon Poetry read live. Eye off the form of the bards and birds, and place your free bet in the sweep to win poetry prizes and glory. The race will begin at 1.00 sharp, swooping from NSW‘s premier hang-gliding launch area, to the breeders’ headquarters in Mt Ousley. Bring your twitcher’s binoculars to follow the race call, as a pigeon-cam feeds the action live to the launch site. Then it’s time to throw off the fascinators, pop those corks and celebrate the grand presentation of the Pigeon Poetry Cup.”

***

It’s been a fun project to participate in. I’m only sorry that I can’t be there for the event. I love the concept. It’s creative and fun. I’ve never been commissioned to do a single poem before. This Saturday I’m going into the studio to do an interview with Johanna Featherstone, the director of Red Room, and read the poem – and I’m also heading to Central Station on Thursday afternoon to have a photo taken with poet Kate Fagan and some pigeons.

Here’s a taste of the poem itself (just the start of it, you have to visit the website for the rest…)

prologue: feather

The quill and shaft, the side branches
attached by barbules and hamuli
the barbs together: the vane.
Evolved as insulation structure
or mating markers, considered
only a secondary purpose: flight.

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L.A. Times says eat here in Tokyo

Posted on 5 July 2008 by andyq

From an article in 2007 that I was just about to throw out, but why not put it up here so I can use it the next time I’m in Tokyo.

Chef Lee Hefter’s fave restaurants in Tokyo, from the LA Times:

  • Kasowaki 2-7-2 Azabu-Juban, Minato-ku – tiny restaurant with dinner Omakase for Bt5,000
  • Kondo, Sakaguchi Building 5-5-13 Ginza, Cho-ku. wonderful tempura, Omakase dinners betw Bt2,300-Bt,4,300
  • Shotai-En, 5-9-5 Ginza, Chuo-ku, Japanese-Korean style BBQ, with great Kobe beef. Bt1,000 per person for dinner
  • Sushidokoro Shimizu, 2-15-13 Shinbashi, Minato-ku. 8 seat sushi bar in a residential alley in Shinbashi. Omakase lunch Bt 3,300.
  • Uchiyama 2-12-3 Ginza, Chuo-ku, an elegant kaiseki restaurant, great value. Omakase lunch Bt 2,800.

Yum! Oishi!

(Photo from Travel and Leisure Asia, “The True Tastes of Tokyo”, stuff ready to be tempura-ized at Kondo)

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Launches on the West Coast of Canada

Posted on 8 June 2008 by andyq

So, I’m back in Australia after nearly 3 weeks away in Hawaii and Vancouver. I managed to do three readings. Not sure when I’ll be able to post up photos from the events but we’ll see!

Sechelt (on the sunshine coast, a ferry ride north of Vancouver) was a good opportunity to visit my dear friend Keith and his family, and Frances at the Sunshine Coast Arts Centre helped me host an intimate gathering. It was a beautiful setting, and a relaxed sunny Sunday afternoon – so a good space and audience to read many poems from Bowling Pin Fire – it was probably the most poems I’ve ever read at one reading!

I took part in a World Poetry event at the Vancouver Public Library as part of Asian Heritage Month. It was a good to meet Todd Wong in person, who’d graciously arranged for me to take part, and catch up (and trade poetry books) with Fiona Tinwei Lam. The event was very strange indeed. An interesting and eclectic range of poets but the announcements for future events, and introductions and thank yous for each writer took more time than the poems themselves…

Finally, my Vancouver launch was at Little Sisters Bookstore, and it was an honour to read at a place that has been such a positive force, a connective glue, a meeting place and cultural centre for the lesbian and gay community in Vancouver – they and manager Janine Fuller have been great supporters of my writing over the years, and I’m truly grateful. My mom and brother came out for it, and various friends from all parts of my life including high school, university and Australia. It was very different than reading in front of Australian audiences – as not only did Canadian friends and family relate to the specific landscape and culture of the poems set in Canada, but they often recognised the stories on which the poems were based!

Reflecting on my readings, they were much smaller than the events for my first books. This reflects a number of factors – further distance between me and Canada, bonds of friendship and acquaintanceship weakening, and that I didn’t have the same sort of energy to encourage everyone to come. Perhaps also that it was a poetry book, which doesn’t draw as many as fiction (or gay erotica)…And at the same time, it feels that both friends and strangers are cocooning. It’s harder for people to come out to events with children and family commitments. Friends don’t bring along their friends (as we might have in younger days) because they’re not sure themselves of whether they can come. Couples often send one part of the couple as their representative.

I had a prominent listing in the local gay newspaper – and thought that previous buyers of my books might have come along – but a friend tells me that less and less people are reading (or closely reading) the gay newspaper (as is happening in Sydney as well) – and perhaps they are cocooning as well!

It’s good to back in Sydney. I have one more small reading in a few months coming up, but I think my active promotion of Bowling Pin Fire has come to a close now – I’ve announced and reannounced to friends, posted reviews on my website and facebook, sent off review copies in Australia, and organised all of these events. It is time, I feel, to turn my attention to a new project. Whatever that may be.

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