Stark contrasts

You'd think that with a marijuana cafe next door, writing this blog would be easy. You'd be wrong though, it's closed, presumably Rastafarians also need a day off. Oh, and it is Sunday, so most of Germany is closed too. Which was a blessing on the road. Driving the Autobahn is a cathartic experience; there's no worry about being caught speeding because there are no speed limits. Why this brilliant idea hasn't caught on anywhere else in the world is mind-boggling. Paulo was in his element, Lilith was her usual dower self (but I'm warming to her), the music was on loud (although listening to the songs for a second time might not have been too bad, there is fear that those lovely tunes will soon become tiresome) and the miles simply peeled away. There were some suggestions that a tour of Germany should include the Black Forest. Which holds a problem - there's no 'Black Forest' on any of my maps and what's all the fuss about anyway? It seems to me that Germany is just one big forest with little blobs of civilisation in-between. I suppose I could have asked Lilith to find it, but it was nice to hear her being silent for a change. Which brings to mind something that everyone in South Africa used to say: "Speak Afrikaans when you're over there," they said knowledgeably, "It's almost like Dutch and German, and you'll be liked a lot more by the locals because they hate the English". Well bull to all of that. After speaking Afrikaans in Belgium, Holland and in Germany, I can honestly say no one had a clue as to what I was talking about. Speak English and everyone understands you. And you don't get those stupid stares either... But we digress... Leipzig was the destination for the day, and it seemed there would be more than enough time, so a way-point expedition was a distinct possibility. This was simply a matter of closing the eyes and plopping a finger down on the map somewhere between Hamburg and Leipzig. Gottingen was the result, and despite it being a Sunday and almost completely devoid of human life, it was beautiful; perfect even... Much like everything else in this country (This perfection is becoming a bit of an irritation really, just one upturned dustbin or something would be a welcome change to the norm.) In fact it is an example of what every medium sized-town should look like. And that's about as much as anyone can say for it. (It's a lot easier to write about stuff when it doesn't work than when it does; the journalists in Germany must be amongst the most bored and frustrated people in the world - which also, perhaps, explains the local population's penchant for media of the soft-porn variety). The real story begins where West Germany ends. It's almost as if there's a straight line drawn between East and West. Well actually there was, and there are sign posts depicting barb-wire fences and sentry towers to show where it was. But visibly the difference in the landscape is obvious... the forests, black of otherwise, disappeared and to be replaced by wind-farms in open fields. Miles and miles of them. The villages are visibly different too: those in the west are all very similar; there's a large church steeple in the middle with a bunch of houses placed snuggly and concentrically around it. These villages are always neatly tucked down in a valley - all dainty-like. The ones in the east are different; there's a huge chimney stack in the middle and you can't quite see what's under the stack because surrounding it are huge concrete blocks that, one assumes, are apartment buildings. They look a lot like prisons. Admittedly, I only saw one village that looked like this, but that was the only village I saw before getting to Leipzig. Other things I saw included a large power generating facility that looked decidedly nuclear and what might have been an oil-refinery. Whatever, it is all very depressing: One minute you're in a scene from a Christmas postcard and the next you're in the middle of a Dickens novel. George Orwell even. And then you arrive in Leipzig. Which somehow explains everything but leaves you clueless nonetheless. It gives you a headache. Truly it does. But someone has tried to make this miserable place look all perky and modern and vibrant and naff stuff like that. Coming into the town you cross two bridges; the first painted pink with yellow cross bars, the second painted purple with yellower-than-yellow crossbars. Then there's the road signs... Everywhere else the road signs are blue and white; here they're all black and yellow. It's glaring; like everything is a warning. But whatever the warning it doesn't prepare you for the city itself. It's weird. Decidedly weird. Initially it's so modern and lovely. All the way in, the roads are beautiful, the verges manicured, the traffic signals bright and new. Then you enter town and it's all these old buildings, but brand new. And there's something odd about them. Initially you don't see it, but your mind registers something wrong. But yeah, there it is... Everything has graffiti over it; they've tried to scrub some of it off the newer buildings but you can still the marks where it was. In some places they seem to have just given up trying to scrub it off, mostly around the train-station area. Walking around it gets even more strange. Here there's this magnificently refurbished building, bold and impressive; and next to it there something that might have been a building once, but now it's little more than a pile of rubble. Next to this there's a building in the throws of refurbishment. The new facade going up serving only as a new canvas for graffiti artists. It's like a major struggle between construction and destruction. The west is moving in and making everything new, but there's an anarchic east that is fighting relentlessly against progress. It's odd. Mind you, one can see why the German economy is so strong, they're building, and building, and building; all at a furious rate out here in the east. You see it in the new highways and the new buildings. Somehow everything feels plastic though. A city shouldn't be this new and try to look old. It just feels fake. Maybe that's the graffiti artists' point, maybe that's why they're protesting. But who knows, who can judge... I'm only here for a day; glad to have experienced it, but awfully glad to leave tomorrow too. Oh my, if this is what East Germany is like, what joys does the Czech Republic hold? Tomorrow... Prague... Gulp! And to think that the dagga joint next door is closed!

50 Shades of Grey

It was just after seven-thirty in the morning, but for all the dark wetness, it might as well have been as early as five. It had rained all night and it was still pissing down - sunrise was a non-event. The prospect of travelling to Amsterdam and closer the North Sea was not appealing. So eastwards we went with less-than-trustworthy Sat Nav leading the way; her voice as drab and monotonous as the unforgiving deluge that poured from the heavens. It was like this all the way to the German border; rain changing from intermittent to relentless, and back to intermittent again. Everything ahead; just grey... sometimes darker, sometimes lighter, but always shades of grey... About 50 shades if I was to hazard a guess. Certainly, a lot more than anyone would care to shake a windscreen-wiper at. The trip to Hamburg, Sat Nav had carefully calculated, would be 389 miles. Since we were reduced to less than 40 miles an hour in places, this was going to be an awfully long trip and it seemed that the 87 songs on the iPod would run out before the miles did. Strangely, the trip through the Netherlands passed relatively quickly - about two hours - and it was onto the Autobahn... The little Polo, who has been baptised Paulo-the-Polo, was thrilled to be in the country of his origin and quickly revved himself up to over 100 miles and hour. For all of about two miles, then we hit traffic and Sat Nav, bright lass that she is, informed us of this fact after we'd been crawling along at 15 miles an hour for the past 20 minutes. This was followed by construction on the road. On-and-on the construction went, providing plenty of opportunity to take in the surrounds. Germans drive German cars, and most drive VWs. There are more makes of VW in Germany than anywhere else and they have makes that no one outside of Germany has probably ever heard of. None of the Germans drive a VW Go! or Lupo though; one suspects the Germans sell these to the British as some sort of joke. Golfs alone come in all sorts, there's a station wagon type and a peculiar Golf Plus that looks like a people-carrier. Others drive BMWs and Mercs; but whatever they drive, they only come in two colours: Black and grey - but admittedly, there's a lot of shades of grey. About 50 if I was to hazard a guess. Certainly more than you could rev your engine at. There is a lot of white too though. Frankly, there's way too much white. These take the form of motor-homes and caravans and it seems there's almost as many of them as there are normal passenger cars. And they slow the traffic. If there's any colour in this part of the world, then it is at the many roadside petrol stops, and it can be found in the uppermost shelves of the magazine racks. Truly, the folk in this part of the world have quite a thing for porn - there's rows and rows of it. I've always thought that if I bought Playboy then it would be for the insightful articles, sadly here, I don't know the language and would be reduced to looking at the pictures which aren't at all grey. I leave these little pit-stops with cups of caffeine-sans-Jameson's-because-we're-driving and wistful thoughts of warmer climes where clothing is less a necessity than it is a fashion option. We left Gouda at a cheesy seven-thirty; we pulled into Hamburg - the rain eventually dissipating - a little after three in the afternoon. Seven-and-a-half hours in all, and all there was to see along the way was 50 shades of grey and the odd seductive hint of colour. But the joy of arriving! The sun and blue sky burst out in welcome and Paulo purred in delight. Well, not really purred as such, but rather made generally happy engine sounds. Sat Nav, who really does need a name, struggled to get her tongue around the street names but got us to the motel without too much fuss. After checking in, it was out again and Sat Nav found us an actual shopping mall, which had actual automatic bank tellers. So, with brass in pocket, it was off to find the centre of town. And what a centre it was... To describe it here would be folly... View the photos and make your own judgment (although the Rough Guide To Europe On A Budget describes Hamburg as such: 'Germany's second city is infamous for the sleaze and hectic nightlife of the Reeperbahn strip...' - It's the primary reason I chose to visit it!). Save to say that I was impressed even if I didn't make it to the strip. It was the people who impressed me the most though. Like their cars they all wear black... and grey. Many shades of grey, perhaps as many as 50. Certainly more than you could shake a knitting needle (or soft-porn magazine) at. Oh, and I've concluded that Sat Nav's name is Lilith (those who have watched Frasier will understand), it just seems appropriate and, to be fair, grey (in any shade) suits her.

Damn Rotten

The North Sea shed a good portion of itself over the coast of northern Europe last night and for much of today. Not terribly nice if you're living in a tent. Although, one learns during these times; the first is that waterproof tents really keep the water out... but the sides are as wet and chilly as an oil rig off the Scottish coast and anything that touches them becomes totally soaked. These include the thick winter jacket, the foot of the sleeping bag and the road atlas - although the latter getting wet may have more to do with the half empty bottle of water that was knocked over sometime during the early hours. It's also important to have change with you when you plan to camp. Or at least you need it at the campsite in Brugge where the shower operates from electricity which can only be kick-started with a One Euro coin. Having left all my change with a decidedly happy, but still old, bar maid, the only option was a cold wash-up over the basin. That dreadful affair, along with the evil weather outside led to the decision to spend the next night in a proper hotel with proper amenities. And so, with the rain lashing down, the wind pumping and a very distinct smell of deodorant abuse all around, it was off to a brief stop in Antwerp and on to discover the wonders of Rotterdam. Antwerp wasn't enthralling and is hardly worth a mention except to say that it exists.* Rotterdam was something else altogether and it is a wonder. As in: it's a wonder that it works. The traffic intersections are the worst and... well... what kind of insane mind designed them? Never mind three or four phase traffic lights; these are a several multi-confusing phases variety. This is necessary because not only do motorists, cyclists (they are numerous and impolite and not averse to using their little ringy-bell-things in disdain at anything that looks remotely like a foreigner) and pedestrians use them, but trams do too. Drive on the wrong side of the road, take weird turns at strange intersections, criss-cross these turns with tram lines and even the Sat Nav will do its head in. Which it probably did, considering the events of the rest of the day. Anyhow, if you think it might be a good idea to get out of the car and take a walk; forget it. There aren't any vacant parking spaces and the few that do exist are connected to horribly complicated parking meters that require a credit card to use and then cost an arm and a leg and the utterance of several expletives to get them to work.. So, figured I, just ask the Sat Nav thingy to find a shopping centre - they always have free parking and I needed to get to a hole-in-the-wall anyway and there weren't any openly visible on the streets (even if there were, there wouldn't be any way to park close enough not to go through the whole expletive thing again). The Sat Nav came up with several options, the most likely seemed 'The Promenade' and it was less than a mile away.. What could go wrong? Just bloody everything; the first being the complicated nature of those tram-lined crisscross intersections which led me to drive around the block where 'The Promenade' was located. It was during the second circling that it became apparent that there was no entrance to a parking area, except one that was private. Fortunately there was a vacant parking bay along the street and Two-Euros-via-credit-card later, the car was safely parked for half-an-hour and it was off to 'The Promenade'. As it happens, 'The Promenade' shopping mecca, as suggested by Sat Nav, is not any ordinary shopping centre and it has exactly three shops - all of them cafe-like. Sure it's in this big impressively modern building, but the vast majority of it is hidden from the public and the little bit around those cafe-type shops is frequented by people in long flowing black robes gracefully adorned with frilly white bibs strung around their necks. It's a freaking temple of lawyers... it's presumably the magistrates' court even if the bailiff's office looks more like a banking hall. And it had no hole-in-the-wall. Despondently, it was back to the car to ask Sat Nav for directions to a hotel; the Mariner Hotel was visible across the bay and it looked clean enough but not that clean that it would be as expensive as the parking facilities. Sat Nav got us there, terrifying though the journey was, but there was no parking for three blocks around the place. It was time to throw in the towel - the North Sea was still pissing down on the place and while there appeared to be some good photo opportunities around the harbour, it just didn't seem worth it. Finally, Sat Nav was told to find a hotel near Gouda, if nothing else, any town named after cheese, even if it isn't Cheddar, must be a bit of alright. Sadly, Sat Nav with it's usual inefficiency found the Tulip Inn, which just happens to be very far outside of Gouda, but very close to the highway. That's enough for me, and even if the room is expensive, the parking is free. So is the internet and that's why you are reading this. A long deep-soaking bath later and everything seems okay again - except that the hotel rooms don't have a kettle and the accompanying packets of coffee, long-life milk and packets of sugar or sweetner... But that's okay, because for just 50 cents, the machine in the road-side petrol station next door will give you a shot of expresso, and for just one Euro more, you can add into the expresso a dose of something that must be coffee because it looks like it to fill the paper cup. It might be colder than a witch's tit outside, but this stuff - along with a generous dash of Jameson's that someone was clever enough to buy at the duty-free at Folkestone - is enough to make a brass monkey not worry about freezing balls. Tomorrow? Well tomorrow's another day.

*Along the road to Antwerp there was a stop off at a road-side petrol station for some semblance of breakfast, amazingly the young lady at the counter was very good at English this despite working in a place that is on the border of several countries where people speak Dutch, German and whatever-it-is-that-Belgium-folk-speak (it doesn't sound French). This mystery was, perhaps, solved while driving along in Holland and listening to local radio stations - all the songs are English (well mostly American really... but that's just English spelt incorrectly, isn't it?)

An Englishman In Brugge

This must be the most beautiful city in the world, not that I'm such an experienced traveller that I can say this with a great deal of authority, but certainly it is prettier than anything South Africa has to offer. Its narrow cobbled roads, medieval architecture (even the most recently constructed buildings emulate the style), rivers and canals; make for a charming setting. The sweet smell of marijuana that hangs around the youth hostel suggests that Brugge isn't too far from Holland and, as if to confirm this, there are a number of windmills dotted along the river bank. But this is a modern world and the new electricity-generating variety vastly outnumber the traditional type that Don Quixote made famous. Even early in October, with the autumn chill settling down on Europe, the city is overrun with tourists; one simply wonders what it must be like at the height of summer... perhaps, not the best place to be. The tourists make the city almost impossible to navigate by car, never mind the innumerable bicycles and horse-drawn carriages that dominate the streets. Not that the locals seem to mind, they zoom down the narrow streets regardless of the pedestrians and barely slow down in the face of oncoming traffic. How they miss each other is a wonder, but then they are in left-hand drive vehicles which are all the better for driving on the wrong side of the road with. Out in the country, near the campsite where my tent has been pitched, the local provides some clues as to the nature of the rural Belgium population. On the entrance door and stuck to a huge fly swatter (which hangs behind the bar and has the words TEXAS FLY SWATTER emblazoned upon it) are no-smoking signs; despite this, the old bar maid lights up a cigarette having just extinguished her previous one. Behind her, hanging over the bar are the words: "Niet zagen maar pinten bragen." I have no idea what it means, but it must have something to do with beer, so I immediately feel quite at home.

(The little pub where I met the local folk)

The pub is neat and clean, so the calendar hanging on the side of the bar which boasts a well endowed and decidedly topless blonde seems just a little out of place. Regulars, and they must be regulars because the barmaid greets them by their first names as they come in the door, are equally oblivious to the no-smoking signs and within minutes of opening (which doesn't happen on Mondays and Tuesdays) the establishment is filled with a blue smokey haze that would delight the youngsters hanging out at the youth hostel, but would have the politicians in the European Parliament in Brussels having hissy fits. Perhaps the rural Brugge folk feel the same way about Brussels, and its laws, as the British do. That may as be, but the traffic laws have certainly gone decimal, everything is in kilometres per hour, which plays havoc with the GPS and it insists on travelling in miles; and it being a new accessory; I've no idea how to adjust it. Driving here was simply a matter of going a little faster than the trucks, a little slower than any BMWs and keeping pace with anything that remotely resembles a family station wagon. Having said that, the Flemish must be perpetual law breakers because every single traffic light intersection boasts a red-light camera - South African taxis simply could not exist on these roads. On that note, it's probably a good idea to be heading off back to the campsite, the police here are as bad with drink-driving as Sergeant Rose was back in Newcastle... 'Til next time.

Colour has a taste

There is almost nothing that can't be taken in black and white that would not make for a great photograph.
A beautiful model... a sunrise or sunset... and action scene...
It really doesn't matter, it all looks good in black and white.
Except food.

It's unlikely that McDonalds will put out menu photos in black and white anytime soon.

P.S. This is what I'm enjoying while watching Newcastle take on Aston Villa. Newcastle couldn't, realistically, be in anything other than Black 'n White.

Post Halt No. II - Driven to solutions in a roundabout way

Gatvol of reading about Hardwick Street? 

Maybe, but not quite as gatvol as those who have to travel the wretched road every day.

Funny thing though, there are some who think that the stop streets are great because it forces people to come to a stop obey the rules.Those who believe this obviously do not use the road frequently.

Certainly those who turn into Murchison Street don't come to a stop. Two vehicles will drive round quickly in succession. Don't worry about jumping on the hooter in frustration because these drivers look dead ahead and remain oblvious to the middle fingers being jabbed upwards and towards them from all directions.

They know they're doing wrong, but they don't care.

What has always confused is why the powers-that-be have never considered installing traffic circles.

Certainly, there's no on-going electricity cost, they calm the traffic without bringing it to a standstill and there's something pleasingly asthetic about them.They work for both major intersections and smaller ones.

The traffic light on Allen Street near BMW and Majuba College would be ideal for a roundabout. Sure it will take time for taxi drivers to be taught how to use them, but as with Pavlov's dog, they'll get the idea eventually.

Absolutely ideal would have been the N11 and Allen Street intersection - you don't need convoluted three-phase traffic lights or anything - just a big round thing with a pretty garden right at the entrance of the town. 

If there's one palce that definitely needs one, it is that horrid traffic light that welcomes you to Ladysmith from the Newcastle side. This must absolutely be the worst designed traffic light intersection in the universe.

Then there's all the stop streets and speed bumps along Victoria Street. Remove the speed bumps, put in a small circle at every intersection and, Bob's your Uncle, the traffic is slowed down - but never to a complete halt. Sure there will be an outcry from local shock-absorber replacement workshops as trade takes a massive slump, but, hey, you can't keep all the people happy all of the time (besides, they probably already have enough business from Memel Road travellers anyway).

Be all of that a it may, perhaps just one of people who take a municipal salary and ply their trade in the over-populated town planning department will take note of the traffic circle idea and set about investigating the viability of it.

They can even claim the idea was there's orginially, it doesn't matter.

All that matters is that general conversation can centre around normal things like the weather again, because all this talk about Harwick Street is about as enjoyable as sitting in one of those stop-go queues on the N11.

The beginning

I think I'm blogging... I really think I am... But I think journalism is easier.