Photo of Holg about 1997 - http://mail.im.tku.edu.tw/~jacobsen/HolgCV.html
Photo of Liping in 1999 - http://mail.im.tku.edu.tw/~jacobsen/Liping/a5.html
Saturday, January 25, 2003
Subject: Confessions of a Cultural Barbarian
Lascaux, France, Autumn 2000
Although I have traveled wide and far, I have hardly seen any of the "sights". Most of the time, I am not trying to get a look at some man-made structure, painting or other artifact, but I am drawn towards scenic beauty. My favorite is truly rough, untamed wilderness anywhere. The Himalayas or mountains in general, any big desert, the jungle, the Arctic and of course the ocean.
When I do get to one of the "sights", it usually gets ruined for me by the thousands of people crowding into a much too small space, by the postcard- and ice-cream stands, by the whole ugly commercialization. I prefer not to have it spoiled for me and so most of the time I simply don't go.
Very rarely, once every few years, I do stumble across one of those things that leave a profound impression.
--
In 2000 Liping and I had closed down the language center for two months in order to make a big round-trip of Europe. We bought an old VW micro-bus for a couple of grand and drove from my hometown next to the Danish border down to Munich, through the "Ötztal" and the "Himmelsjoch" or "Passo di Rombo", where the trip almost came to an abrupt end as our aging camping van had serious trouble climbing up all the way to the top. We visited a neighbor from Taiwan in his home in Riva del Garda, Italy, drove on through France, Spain, Portugal and back into Spain and France. We saw a lot of beautiful scenery all over the place and had planned to visit a writer in Poitiers, France, near the end of our trip.
We had miscalculated the time, though, as he was still in Poland. I forgot to mention that the other part of our trip was devoted to the quest for truly delicious food. And since we found ourselves in Bordeaux with a few days to spare, we decided to head towards the Dordogne and the Périgord. But since you can't eat good food, collect walnuts and mushrooms all day and listen to the deer's mating calls all night, Liping idly thumbed through a copy of the Lonely Planet for Europe and suggested we have a look at the caves.
Well filled with the most delicious food and best wines the area had to offer, I didn't object and off we went in search for the cave. The scenery was lovely and after a bit of searching we found Lascaux, where the cave is located.
I had always assumed that cave paintings are rather crude sketches of stick animals which (with the help of a lot of imagination) can be likened to actual animals or people.
Not in my wildest dreams had I imagined what we actually saw there in the reproduction of the original cave (which is closed to the public, because of the destruction it would cause). That people in the stone age 17,000 years ago could create art of such beauty and quality was for me nothing less than a major revelation. These guys had dedicated years and years mastering their craft, and had spent a long time creating their masterpieces. They had to build a kind of scaffolding to be able to paint the ceiling and they had to get up and down all the time, to see what it looked like from down below. They incorporated the natural contours of the limestone rock to create visual effects in their paintings - or should I say sculptures? http://www.culture.fr/culture/arcnat/lascaux/en/
They couldn't possibly have had the time to do any hunting or gathering, they probably didn't even have time to cook their food. Most likely they had the support of a whole bunch of people who not only encouraged them, but actually supported them while they created the paintings.
The more time I spent in that cave - in real time it was probably only a couple of hours, but it felt a LOT longer - the less I noticed the other people and the quieter I became. (Very unusual for me, as I keep up a lively chatter or mumble at all times ;-). When later I talked to the guide, I found out that I was not the only one so affected. He had come as a student for a simple summer job, but he was so fascinated by it, that it literally changed his life. He gave up pursuing his original career and got a permanent job there, trying to learn as much as he could.
I am sure it was quite a relief for my friends, since, for a little while at least, I talked about other things than my usual favorites.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18101837
Lascaux, France, Autumn 2000
Although I have traveled wide and far, I have hardly seen any of the "sights". Most of the time, I am not trying to get a look at some man-made structure, painting or other artifact, but I am drawn towards scenic beauty. My favorite is truly rough, untamed wilderness anywhere. The Himalayas or mountains in general, any big desert, the jungle, the Arctic and of course the ocean.
When I do get to one of the "sights", it usually gets ruined for me by the thousands of people crowding into a much too small space, by the postcard- and ice-cream stands, by the whole ugly commercialization. I prefer not to have it spoiled for me and so most of the time I simply don't go.
Very rarely, once every few years, I do stumble across one of those things that leave a profound impression.
--
In 2000 Liping and I had closed down the language center for two months in order to make a big round-trip of Europe. We bought an old VW micro-bus for a couple of grand and drove from my hometown next to the Danish border down to Munich, through the "Ötztal" and the "Himmelsjoch" or "Passo di Rombo", where the trip almost came to an abrupt end as our aging camping van had serious trouble climbing up all the way to the top. We visited a neighbor from Taiwan in his home in Riva del Garda, Italy, drove on through France, Spain, Portugal and back into Spain and France. We saw a lot of beautiful scenery all over the place and had planned to visit a writer in Poitiers, France, near the end of our trip.
We had miscalculated the time, though, as he was still in Poland. I forgot to mention that the other part of our trip was devoted to the quest for truly delicious food. And since we found ourselves in Bordeaux with a few days to spare, we decided to head towards the Dordogne and the Périgord. But since you can't eat good food, collect walnuts and mushrooms all day and listen to the deer's mating calls all night, Liping idly thumbed through a copy of the Lonely Planet for Europe and suggested we have a look at the caves.
Well filled with the most delicious food and best wines the area had to offer, I didn't object and off we went in search for the cave. The scenery was lovely and after a bit of searching we found Lascaux, where the cave is located.
I had always assumed that cave paintings are rather crude sketches of stick animals which (with the help of a lot of imagination) can be likened to actual animals or people.
Not in my wildest dreams had I imagined what we actually saw there in the reproduction of the original cave (which is closed to the public, because of the destruction it would cause). That people in the stone age 17,000 years ago could create art of such beauty and quality was for me nothing less than a major revelation. These guys had dedicated years and years mastering their craft, and had spent a long time creating their masterpieces. They had to build a kind of scaffolding to be able to paint the ceiling and they had to get up and down all the time, to see what it looked like from down below. They incorporated the natural contours of the limestone rock to create visual effects in their paintings - or should I say sculptures? http://www.culture.fr/culture/arcnat/lascaux/en/
They couldn't possibly have had the time to do any hunting or gathering, they probably didn't even have time to cook their food. Most likely they had the support of a whole bunch of people who not only encouraged them, but actually supported them while they created the paintings.
The more time I spent in that cave - in real time it was probably only a couple of hours, but it felt a LOT longer - the less I noticed the other people and the quieter I became. (Very unusual for me, as I keep up a lively chatter or mumble at all times ;-). When later I talked to the guide, I found out that I was not the only one so affected. He had come as a student for a simple summer job, but he was so fascinated by it, that it literally changed his life. He gave up pursuing his original career and got a permanent job there, trying to learn as much as he could.
I am sure it was quite a relief for my friends, since, for a little while at least, I talked about other things than my usual favorites.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18101837
Subject: The Middle of Nowhere?
Iowa City, Iowa, Summer 1998 - First reaction of friends and acquaintances: "What do you wanna go there for? Boring, flat, nothing but cornfields. Pretty far from the sea, too."
"Iowa Writers' Workshop" http://www.uiowa.edu/~iww/ doesn't ring a bell all that often, and "Iowa Summer Writing Festival" http://www.uiowa.edu/~iswfest/ not at all. Good thing I went anyway.
First thing I notice is that it isn't flat at all. These people never heard of Holland? German west coast? Now, that is flat, whereas here I see gently rolling hills, very green - and a lot of destruction from a tornado or something that hit the place just before I arrived.
A River Runs Through It (the middle of the city), brimming with water, colored green by algae. Weeping willows by its side remind me of "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of The Rings". "This is beautiful!" I think, wondering if even one of my friends has ever been near the place.
But it is not only the looks which are enchanting. Maybe it is because of the summer holiday at the university or maybe it is always like that. I don't know and it doesn't really matter. The whole city feels as if it is still the early 70s. In the middle of the pedestrian zone, there's this jazz musician dude, playing his horn for spare change, busking. He's good, too. Squirrels and sparrows don't seem to have a care in the world, one can almost touch them. (One can touch them, my wife tells me one year later.)
I book into the least expensive accommodation around, which happens to be a dormitory called "The Mayflower" about a mile out of town. Weird feeling to be in a dorm - always had my own flat and so the experience is novel. Apropos novel, the cab driver that dropped me off, has two published and is working on his third. Later in the evening I walk into a smoky Irish pub which is pretty empty. Start talking to the bartender. He's a published writer, too.
"These guys making fun of me?" I wonder. I guess I do look like one of the about 1,200 people who are expected for the writing festival. Later on I find out that they weren't making fun of me, but that they have to make money somehow. They like the place, stay around, but jobs are scarce. Writing obviously doesn't pay.
The weeks of the program are like being stoned all the time. Euphoria? Suddenly there are so many people to talk to and nobody thinks it is strange. Almost everybody is serious about writing and many came from far away. I even run into another guy from Taipei. Awesome!
I get up very early, maybe six o'clock, and read fellow students' manuscripts, scribbling notes between the lines and on the margin. Breakfast consists of Doritos and a can of Coke - no time for anything else. Then morning classes, mostly spent discussing manuscripts. Lunch at Taco Bell's, with another student, still discussing stuff. Afternoon classes pretty much like in the morning. Dinner often in a group - we are getting to know one another. Twelve students per class, a pretty good group.
Bar or pub only occasionally, there is simply not enough time. There are reading and writing assignments, eleven manuscripts per class to read and critique, and by the time I am finished it is often past midnight. Never before have I worked so hard. And it certainly has never been that much fun, either.
After four or five weeks of this my time is up. I fly back, my head brimming (and swimming) and one thing I know for sure. I'll be back next year.
Now what happened to my boat drink? :-)))
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18040900
Iowa City, Iowa, Summer 1998 - First reaction of friends and acquaintances: "What do you wanna go there for? Boring, flat, nothing but cornfields. Pretty far from the sea, too."
"Iowa Writers' Workshop" http://www.uiowa.edu/~iww/ doesn't ring a bell all that often, and "Iowa Summer Writing Festival" http://www.uiowa.edu/~iswfest/ not at all. Good thing I went anyway.
First thing I notice is that it isn't flat at all. These people never heard of Holland? German west coast? Now, that is flat, whereas here I see gently rolling hills, very green - and a lot of destruction from a tornado or something that hit the place just before I arrived.
A River Runs Through It (the middle of the city), brimming with water, colored green by algae. Weeping willows by its side remind me of "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of The Rings". "This is beautiful!" I think, wondering if even one of my friends has ever been near the place.
But it is not only the looks which are enchanting. Maybe it is because of the summer holiday at the university or maybe it is always like that. I don't know and it doesn't really matter. The whole city feels as if it is still the early 70s. In the middle of the pedestrian zone, there's this jazz musician dude, playing his horn for spare change, busking. He's good, too. Squirrels and sparrows don't seem to have a care in the world, one can almost touch them. (One can touch them, my wife tells me one year later.)
I book into the least expensive accommodation around, which happens to be a dormitory called "The Mayflower" about a mile out of town. Weird feeling to be in a dorm - always had my own flat and so the experience is novel. Apropos novel, the cab driver that dropped me off, has two published and is working on his third. Later in the evening I walk into a smoky Irish pub which is pretty empty. Start talking to the bartender. He's a published writer, too.
"These guys making fun of me?" I wonder. I guess I do look like one of the about 1,200 people who are expected for the writing festival. Later on I find out that they weren't making fun of me, but that they have to make money somehow. They like the place, stay around, but jobs are scarce. Writing obviously doesn't pay.
The weeks of the program are like being stoned all the time. Euphoria? Suddenly there are so many people to talk to and nobody thinks it is strange. Almost everybody is serious about writing and many came from far away. I even run into another guy from Taipei. Awesome!
I get up very early, maybe six o'clock, and read fellow students' manuscripts, scribbling notes between the lines and on the margin. Breakfast consists of Doritos and a can of Coke - no time for anything else. Then morning classes, mostly spent discussing manuscripts. Lunch at Taco Bell's, with another student, still discussing stuff. Afternoon classes pretty much like in the morning. Dinner often in a group - we are getting to know one another. Twelve students per class, a pretty good group.
Bar or pub only occasionally, there is simply not enough time. There are reading and writing assignments, eleven manuscripts per class to read and critique, and by the time I am finished it is often past midnight. Never before have I worked so hard. And it certainly has never been that much fun, either.
After four or five weeks of this my time is up. I fly back, my head brimming (and swimming) and one thing I know for sure. I'll be back next year.
Now what happened to my boat drink? :-)))
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18040900
Subject: Of fences and academic fields
Berlin, Summer 1983
How I'd come to earn the honor of being invited to my professor's home for dinner, I didn't know. I had only gone back to Germany for an exam and planned to continue my studies in Taipei after that.
The whole event got off to a bad start, too. Those days I was driving an old Volkswagen Beetle, the kind with a semi-automatic transmission which was designed for war veterans with one leg missing. Meaning, there was no normal clutch (rather a clutch relying on the centrifugal effect), but you still had to switch gears manually. Only this one didn't work very well, so my car tended to move in hops and jumps when I tried to take off.
So, while parking in front of his home, my beetle made one of these sudden jumps and flattened Professor Yu's Jaegerzaun - a very nice, well tended and beautiful wooden fence. It lay there on his lawn and I was mortified.
But Professor Yu didn't seem to mind very much and the evening went ahead as he had envisaged. Conversation was interesting and after dinner he took me down into his basement where I found myself in a library. Books on all four walls, all the way up to the ceiling. They looked old and expensive and they all seemed to be in Chinese.
"Do you think you will ever be able to read these?" Prof Yu asked me.
"Aehm, probably not, no," I answered, somewhat anxious. After all he was my professor, I studied China Studies and here were all these books in Chinese. Had he coaxed me down here for a little informal test in my reading skills? That would have been disastrous, as I had just barely scraped through the exam a couple of days ago.
"Let me tell you something," Prof Yu continued. "Even I can't understand everything in these books, which by the way, are all about ancient Chinese culture and especially coins. I have lived with this language all my life, and still..."
I was more than a little taken aback. Was he hinting that my Chinese was so atrocious that I was wasting my time? Was it really that bad? Finally I asked him what he was trying to tell me.
"It's very simple," he said. "Do you know how many people with an MA in Sinology there are in Germany? Do you know how many of them will never find a job in this field, but will instead end up driving a taxi, become mail carriers or work in a bar?"
I told him that I had no idea.
"It is not a pretty picture," he continued. "And I am very much afraid that one day you might join their ranks. I would not like to see that. And that's why I invited you over here today. To have this little friendly chat."
I didn't know how to respond to that, but finally I blurted out, "But what do you want me to do?"
"Well," he said and let it hang there. "You were doing well in my business class. And then there is always engineering. I want you to reconsider your options, that's all really. You should consider whether you really want to forge ahead and spend several more years of hard work to end up with an MA that might not be all that useful for you. Or whether it might be a better idea to add some 'hard skills' like engineering or business to what you have now."
"But I have zero aptitude for engineering!" I almost shouted at him, pretty much in a panic now. "And I simply detest those business types, who only think of how to climb the corporate ladder to line their own pockets. I wouldn't fit in there at all!"
"I just want you to think, that's all. You told me that you are going back to Taiwan. Fine. What I can do for you, is draw up a letter of recommendation to the best business school in Taiwan. It's up to you whether you want to use it. Just be aware of what the future might hold in store for you."
I went home very much in thought that night. And several weeks or months later, can't remember, I did indeed present his letter and even got accepted to the school.
What a strange journey life is. First my double major was biology & chemistry. Then philosophy, later China studies and suddenly MBA. To be followed later again by TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language). Weird. But interesting.
And I never heard about the fence again, either.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18084141
Berlin, Summer 1983
How I'd come to earn the honor of being invited to my professor's home for dinner, I didn't know. I had only gone back to Germany for an exam and planned to continue my studies in Taipei after that.
The whole event got off to a bad start, too. Those days I was driving an old Volkswagen Beetle, the kind with a semi-automatic transmission which was designed for war veterans with one leg missing. Meaning, there was no normal clutch (rather a clutch relying on the centrifugal effect), but you still had to switch gears manually. Only this one didn't work very well, so my car tended to move in hops and jumps when I tried to take off.
So, while parking in front of his home, my beetle made one of these sudden jumps and flattened Professor Yu's Jaegerzaun - a very nice, well tended and beautiful wooden fence. It lay there on his lawn and I was mortified.
But Professor Yu didn't seem to mind very much and the evening went ahead as he had envisaged. Conversation was interesting and after dinner he took me down into his basement where I found myself in a library. Books on all four walls, all the way up to the ceiling. They looked old and expensive and they all seemed to be in Chinese.
"Do you think you will ever be able to read these?" Prof Yu asked me.
"Aehm, probably not, no," I answered, somewhat anxious. After all he was my professor, I studied China Studies and here were all these books in Chinese. Had he coaxed me down here for a little informal test in my reading skills? That would have been disastrous, as I had just barely scraped through the exam a couple of days ago.
"Let me tell you something," Prof Yu continued. "Even I can't understand everything in these books, which by the way, are all about ancient Chinese culture and especially coins. I have lived with this language all my life, and still..."
I was more than a little taken aback. Was he hinting that my Chinese was so atrocious that I was wasting my time? Was it really that bad? Finally I asked him what he was trying to tell me.
"It's very simple," he said. "Do you know how many people with an MA in Sinology there are in Germany? Do you know how many of them will never find a job in this field, but will instead end up driving a taxi, become mail carriers or work in a bar?"
I told him that I had no idea.
"It is not a pretty picture," he continued. "And I am very much afraid that one day you might join their ranks. I would not like to see that. And that's why I invited you over here today. To have this little friendly chat."
I didn't know how to respond to that, but finally I blurted out, "But what do you want me to do?"
"Well," he said and let it hang there. "You were doing well in my business class. And then there is always engineering. I want you to reconsider your options, that's all really. You should consider whether you really want to forge ahead and spend several more years of hard work to end up with an MA that might not be all that useful for you. Or whether it might be a better idea to add some 'hard skills' like engineering or business to what you have now."
"But I have zero aptitude for engineering!" I almost shouted at him, pretty much in a panic now. "And I simply detest those business types, who only think of how to climb the corporate ladder to line their own pockets. I wouldn't fit in there at all!"
"I just want you to think, that's all. You told me that you are going back to Taiwan. Fine. What I can do for you, is draw up a letter of recommendation to the best business school in Taiwan. It's up to you whether you want to use it. Just be aware of what the future might hold in store for you."
I went home very much in thought that night. And several weeks or months later, can't remember, I did indeed present his letter and even got accepted to the school.
What a strange journey life is. First my double major was biology & chemistry. Then philosophy, later China studies and suddenly MBA. To be followed later again by TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language). Weird. But interesting.
And I never heard about the fence again, either.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18084141
Subject: The Road To Shanghai
The Road To Shanghai, Summer 1981
When studying Sinology/China Studies most of our class decided to go to China for a three-month summer course in Mandarin Chinese. It was going to be held at Fudan University in Shanghai and it was going to be a first. To make things a bit more interesting (and a whole lot less expensive), my classmates decided that they wouldn't fly over there, but take the Trans-Siberian Railroad from Berlin, via Moscow, Siberia, Mongolia and Peking to get there.
I had no intention to go, as I am not a fan of group tours and have always valued my privacy when traveling. My girlfriend, Sabrina, was going though, and we decided to maybe spend a little bit of time at a beach somewhere after the course was over. So off she went by train while I hitchhiked to London to get a flight to Asia.
That was my first time in the UK and my English wasn't all that great, either. Still, I managed to get to Heathrow Airport without any problems and when I'd found the BA counter, I asked the woman there for the cheapest flight to Asia.
"Where in Asia?" she wanted to know.
"I don't really care, " I said, " as long as it doesn't cost much."
"But you have to tell me where you want to go! Malaysia, Philippines, Thailand, Hong Kong, ...."
"It really doesn't matter," I replied, getting slightly irritated. It probably didn't help much that I was still lugging a fairly heavy rucksack around on my back while all this was going on.
"Well," she said after checking her terminal for a bit, "we do have the 'Bargain Hunter Fare' to Hong Kong for 129 pounds one-way. But you'll have to wait until Thursday for the next flight."
I wasn't sure whether I qualified as a hunter, but the price sounded pretty good.
"That the cheapest one? In that case, I'll take it." Amazingly, she didn't ask for any kind of hunting permit whatsoever, took my cash and handed me the ticket right away. The wonders of modern travel, I thought.
I spent the next few days in a place called Maidenhead sleeping in a field in my sleeping bag. A fox came by once in a while, I read some good books and in the evening I went to the local pub, where I was looked upon with suspicion or amusement. Since I was hungry, I ordered a bag of potato chips which I could see on a shelf behind the bartender.
"Chips?" he asked. "We don't sell any chips."
I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. They evidently didn't like 'Krauts' here, I thought. Or maybe foreigners. Or perhaps strangers. I felt slightly annoyed. But I was still hungry and I was damned if I let that bloody bartender treat me that way. So I tried another tack.
"Could you please give me a bag of those, please?" I asked while pointing to the potato chips.
"Ah, CRISPS you want, alright. Here you are, then. That's seventy-five pee."
Musing about the strange foreign language where chips weren't called chips but crisps and where money was counted in 'pee', I handed over one of the heavy coins that had me walking lop-sided since I had changed money. The chips tasted delicious, though, especially the vinegar-flavored ones. There were other ones which were flavored with an ominous substance called haggis.......
If you eat plenty of chips you will also get fairly thirsty and although I was definitely a budget traveler those days, I figured that one beer would not do my finances too much harm. So I ordered. When the bartender asked me which one, I just pointed to the same kind of beer everybody else was drinking and I got one very promptly, which kind of surprised me. (In Germany you usually have to wait at least five minutes, because the glass has to be filled in several steps and the beer has to settle every time.)
I took a sip - and almost spewed it all over the bar.
"Now I know that foreigners' joke about you lot here drinking warm beer, but that's no reason to play a practical joke on me!" I exclaimed, more than a little pissed off.
"But you ordered a bitter, not a lager," said the bartender, this time without a smile on his face. He shook his head, too.
This is how I got introduced to English beers. After the rocky start we all became great friends in that little pub and I had not a little difficulty making my way back to the fields, my sleeping bag and my fox.
The days passed in a hurry and when I hitchhiked back towards the airport, I got picked up by an old Jaguar. I was very much impressed. Leather seats, everything else some expensive kind of wood. I had the distinct feeling that a guy driving a Jag would not have picked me up in my own country. I was beginning to positively like the place, not the least because I had acquired a taste for English bitter.
The flight was uneventful, but never boring. I had a Rubik's Cube which kept me busy. I was getting so absorbed by the damn thing that I had no time for anything else. Suddenly we were going to land in Hong Kong. Next to me an Indian guy was sitting, but so far we hadn't talked much.
It looked pretty amazing with all those tall buildings, the water all over the place and the green hills. I only felt slightly uncomfortable when the plane seemed to head straight for those buildings. My discomfort changed to alarm when I saw those same buildings whizzing by outside my window. I winced and sucked in my breath.
"Gets me any time," the Indian gentleman next to me said. "I've been flying here for twenty-five years and I still think landing in Hong Kong is plain terrifying. Bad news for somebody working for an airline."
I nodded. I could only agree silently, while trying to swallow some non-existent saliva to get my ears into working order again. I thought of a little gust of wind smashing the plane into one of the skyscrapers and of the runway being so short and of all the air disasters I'd ever heard about.
Well, we made it safely and without anything even resembling a bump. Still, I was very glad when I was standing on solid ground again. Something had been nibbling at the back of my brain ever since I purchased the ticket back in London. What if I walked over to the Chinese embassy and tried to get a visa for China? I'd never heard of such a thing simply being given to somebody who just turned up at the visa office, but earlier experience had taught me that this didn't mean it was impossible to get one.
So off to the visa office I went. I told them my story and that I wanted to study at Fudan University, because by now I was missing Sabrina very badly. To hell with previous plans; I simply had to see the girl. What a surprise that would be! First, surprise was on my side, as they guys at the embassy told me 'no problem'. Huh? Since when could a foreigner simply waltz into here and get into China just like that?
But it was for real. I got issued my visa without further ado, checked out of the 16th Floor, Block A, Chung King Mansions on No. 40 Nathan Road in Kowloon - a whole story in itself, that place, or perhaps several stories - and made for the train station. I was going to go by train all the way. Couldn't be much more difficult than in India, or so I thought. I soon got into a line in front of the ticket counter. In front of me was a Chinese peasant with a bamboo stick across his shoulders. On both ends his luggage was suspended in solid-looking canvas bags and while I was examining this first sign of having reached the Far East the man suddenly turned around. The sticks slammed into my chest. Caught unawares I tumbled over onto my back. Fortunately the fall was cushioned by my rucksack which I was carrying at all times. I lay there like a beetle the wrong side up and it took me quite a while until I regained my footing, by which time said peasant had disappeared. So had my wallet which I had held in my hands in order to pay for the ticket. And I had thought that I was a seasoned traveler! I went to the police who looked rather bored and in the end I concluded that the wallet and all it contained would be gone for good. Fortunately I had all my important documents and travelers' checks in a different place and so the journey could continue.
The train looked as if it had been in use in the time of Jozef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski. The locomotive was burning coal, which resulted in a lot of soot coming in through the permanently open windows. I was used to grime and messy traveling, but this particular trip will certainly stick in my memory in that regard. Filthy is not adequate to describe how I felt. It was still pretty interesting, though. Take the 'Tiananmen' Cigarettes, for example. If they were held vertically, all the tobacco would immediately obey the law of gravity and slide to the floor. And if one lit one of the vile things, that end would turn into a kind of mushroom with glowing embers falling off no matter which way one held the cigarette. A whole new aspect of smoking was revealed to me.
Outside of the windows, there were fields of hemp. Huge! I wondered what kind of hemp it was and what the CPC boys were gonna do with all that stuff. It had to be tested, just to make sure what kind it was. A scientific self-experiment to further human knowledge. But that had to wait.
When I finally arrived in Shanghai, I found out that the rest of the gang hadn't arrived yet. Some screw-up had caused them to stay in Beijing longer than originally planned. I was a bit disappointed, but other problems were more pressing. It looked as if the university wasn't going to allow me to take part in the course, since I had not organized the whole thing in advance. They held a meeting, two meetings, many meetings. I drank bucketloads of green tea and waited. They gave me an unoccupied room and I waited for the arrival of my classmates. I was getting *very* impatient to see Sabrina again.
Since I had so much time on my hands, I went out and collected a huge bag full of that hemp right there on the university campus and dried it in my room. Then deposited it in my drawer until I couldn't stuff in any more. By this time I had performed said experiment and to my delight the results were mind-blowingly positive.
Now it so happened that the floor below the German floor was the Japanese floor and the floor above was the American floor. And since the fragrant fumes flew up, it didn't take all that long until there came a gentle knock on my door, which caused one of the worst bouts of paranoia I have ever experienced. But it was only Amy. She said that she had smelled something wonderful and asked whether she could come in. Or course she could. Soon we became best friends. (To my very great sorrow she was later shot down by a Russian missile as a passenger on flight KAL 007)
Finally my classmates arrived and while I anticipated a joyful reunion with my girlfriend, it turned out that it was a bad idea to surprise girlfriends (and probably boyfriends, too) with unannounced visits. Sabrina was not pleased at all and our relationship took a drastic turn for the worse from that moment on and foundered about a year later.
But at least I didn't have to stay in a dormitory, had a single room and a whole drawer full of fragrant herbs to enhance my language learning abilities and tide me over the summer. And a whole bunch of new friends on the floor above us as well.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18222053
The Road To Shanghai, Summer 1981
When studying Sinology/China Studies most of our class decided to go to China for a three-month summer course in Mandarin Chinese. It was going to be held at Fudan University in Shanghai and it was going to be a first. To make things a bit more interesting (and a whole lot less expensive), my classmates decided that they wouldn't fly over there, but take the Trans-Siberian Railroad from Berlin, via Moscow, Siberia, Mongolia and Peking to get there.
I had no intention to go, as I am not a fan of group tours and have always valued my privacy when traveling. My girlfriend, Sabrina, was going though, and we decided to maybe spend a little bit of time at a beach somewhere after the course was over. So off she went by train while I hitchhiked to London to get a flight to Asia.
That was my first time in the UK and my English wasn't all that great, either. Still, I managed to get to Heathrow Airport without any problems and when I'd found the BA counter, I asked the woman there for the cheapest flight to Asia.
"Where in Asia?" she wanted to know.
"I don't really care, " I said, " as long as it doesn't cost much."
"But you have to tell me where you want to go! Malaysia, Philippines, Thailand, Hong Kong, ...."
"It really doesn't matter," I replied, getting slightly irritated. It probably didn't help much that I was still lugging a fairly heavy rucksack around on my back while all this was going on.
"Well," she said after checking her terminal for a bit, "we do have the 'Bargain Hunter Fare' to Hong Kong for 129 pounds one-way. But you'll have to wait until Thursday for the next flight."
I wasn't sure whether I qualified as a hunter, but the price sounded pretty good.
"That the cheapest one? In that case, I'll take it." Amazingly, she didn't ask for any kind of hunting permit whatsoever, took my cash and handed me the ticket right away. The wonders of modern travel, I thought.
I spent the next few days in a place called Maidenhead sleeping in a field in my sleeping bag. A fox came by once in a while, I read some good books and in the evening I went to the local pub, where I was looked upon with suspicion or amusement. Since I was hungry, I ordered a bag of potato chips which I could see on a shelf behind the bartender.
"Chips?" he asked. "We don't sell any chips."
I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. They evidently didn't like 'Krauts' here, I thought. Or maybe foreigners. Or perhaps strangers. I felt slightly annoyed. But I was still hungry and I was damned if I let that bloody bartender treat me that way. So I tried another tack.
"Could you please give me a bag of those, please?" I asked while pointing to the potato chips.
"Ah, CRISPS you want, alright. Here you are, then. That's seventy-five pee."
Musing about the strange foreign language where chips weren't called chips but crisps and where money was counted in 'pee', I handed over one of the heavy coins that had me walking lop-sided since I had changed money. The chips tasted delicious, though, especially the vinegar-flavored ones. There were other ones which were flavored with an ominous substance called haggis.......
If you eat plenty of chips you will also get fairly thirsty and although I was definitely a budget traveler those days, I figured that one beer would not do my finances too much harm. So I ordered. When the bartender asked me which one, I just pointed to the same kind of beer everybody else was drinking and I got one very promptly, which kind of surprised me. (In Germany you usually have to wait at least five minutes, because the glass has to be filled in several steps and the beer has to settle every time.)
I took a sip - and almost spewed it all over the bar.
"Now I know that foreigners' joke about you lot here drinking warm beer, but that's no reason to play a practical joke on me!" I exclaimed, more than a little pissed off.
"But you ordered a bitter, not a lager," said the bartender, this time without a smile on his face. He shook his head, too.
This is how I got introduced to English beers. After the rocky start we all became great friends in that little pub and I had not a little difficulty making my way back to the fields, my sleeping bag and my fox.
The days passed in a hurry and when I hitchhiked back towards the airport, I got picked up by an old Jaguar. I was very much impressed. Leather seats, everything else some expensive kind of wood. I had the distinct feeling that a guy driving a Jag would not have picked me up in my own country. I was beginning to positively like the place, not the least because I had acquired a taste for English bitter.
The flight was uneventful, but never boring. I had a Rubik's Cube which kept me busy. I was getting so absorbed by the damn thing that I had no time for anything else. Suddenly we were going to land in Hong Kong. Next to me an Indian guy was sitting, but so far we hadn't talked much.
It looked pretty amazing with all those tall buildings, the water all over the place and the green hills. I only felt slightly uncomfortable when the plane seemed to head straight for those buildings. My discomfort changed to alarm when I saw those same buildings whizzing by outside my window. I winced and sucked in my breath.
"Gets me any time," the Indian gentleman next to me said. "I've been flying here for twenty-five years and I still think landing in Hong Kong is plain terrifying. Bad news for somebody working for an airline."
I nodded. I could only agree silently, while trying to swallow some non-existent saliva to get my ears into working order again. I thought of a little gust of wind smashing the plane into one of the skyscrapers and of the runway being so short and of all the air disasters I'd ever heard about.
Well, we made it safely and without anything even resembling a bump. Still, I was very glad when I was standing on solid ground again. Something had been nibbling at the back of my brain ever since I purchased the ticket back in London. What if I walked over to the Chinese embassy and tried to get a visa for China? I'd never heard of such a thing simply being given to somebody who just turned up at the visa office, but earlier experience had taught me that this didn't mean it was impossible to get one.
So off to the visa office I went. I told them my story and that I wanted to study at Fudan University, because by now I was missing Sabrina very badly. To hell with previous plans; I simply had to see the girl. What a surprise that would be! First, surprise was on my side, as they guys at the embassy told me 'no problem'. Huh? Since when could a foreigner simply waltz into here and get into China just like that?
But it was for real. I got issued my visa without further ado, checked out of the 16th Floor, Block A, Chung King Mansions on No. 40 Nathan Road in Kowloon - a whole story in itself, that place, or perhaps several stories - and made for the train station. I was going to go by train all the way. Couldn't be much more difficult than in India, or so I thought. I soon got into a line in front of the ticket counter. In front of me was a Chinese peasant with a bamboo stick across his shoulders. On both ends his luggage was suspended in solid-looking canvas bags and while I was examining this first sign of having reached the Far East the man suddenly turned around. The sticks slammed into my chest. Caught unawares I tumbled over onto my back. Fortunately the fall was cushioned by my rucksack which I was carrying at all times. I lay there like a beetle the wrong side up and it took me quite a while until I regained my footing, by which time said peasant had disappeared. So had my wallet which I had held in my hands in order to pay for the ticket. And I had thought that I was a seasoned traveler! I went to the police who looked rather bored and in the end I concluded that the wallet and all it contained would be gone for good. Fortunately I had all my important documents and travelers' checks in a different place and so the journey could continue.
The train looked as if it had been in use in the time of Jozef Teodor Konrad Korzeniowski. The locomotive was burning coal, which resulted in a lot of soot coming in through the permanently open windows. I was used to grime and messy traveling, but this particular trip will certainly stick in my memory in that regard. Filthy is not adequate to describe how I felt. It was still pretty interesting, though. Take the 'Tiananmen' Cigarettes, for example. If they were held vertically, all the tobacco would immediately obey the law of gravity and slide to the floor. And if one lit one of the vile things, that end would turn into a kind of mushroom with glowing embers falling off no matter which way one held the cigarette. A whole new aspect of smoking was revealed to me.
Outside of the windows, there were fields of hemp. Huge! I wondered what kind of hemp it was and what the CPC boys were gonna do with all that stuff. It had to be tested, just to make sure what kind it was. A scientific self-experiment to further human knowledge. But that had to wait.
When I finally arrived in Shanghai, I found out that the rest of the gang hadn't arrived yet. Some screw-up had caused them to stay in Beijing longer than originally planned. I was a bit disappointed, but other problems were more pressing. It looked as if the university wasn't going to allow me to take part in the course, since I had not organized the whole thing in advance. They held a meeting, two meetings, many meetings. I drank bucketloads of green tea and waited. They gave me an unoccupied room and I waited for the arrival of my classmates. I was getting *very* impatient to see Sabrina again.
Since I had so much time on my hands, I went out and collected a huge bag full of that hemp right there on the university campus and dried it in my room. Then deposited it in my drawer until I couldn't stuff in any more. By this time I had performed said experiment and to my delight the results were mind-blowingly positive.
Now it so happened that the floor below the German floor was the Japanese floor and the floor above was the American floor. And since the fragrant fumes flew up, it didn't take all that long until there came a gentle knock on my door, which caused one of the worst bouts of paranoia I have ever experienced. But it was only Amy. She said that she had smelled something wonderful and asked whether she could come in. Or course she could. Soon we became best friends. (To my very great sorrow she was later shot down by a Russian missile as a passenger on flight KAL 007)
Finally my classmates arrived and while I anticipated a joyful reunion with my girlfriend, it turned out that it was a bad idea to surprise girlfriends (and probably boyfriends, too) with unannounced visits. Sabrina was not pleased at all and our relationship took a drastic turn for the worse from that moment on and foundered about a year later.
But at least I didn't have to stay in a dormitory, had a single room and a whole drawer full of fragrant herbs to enhance my language learning abilities and tide me over the summer. And a whole bunch of new friends on the floor above us as well.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18222053
Subject: Re: Le cuisine chez Barbenegre
When my first boat literally disintegrated under my feet I happened to be in Kourou, French Guiana. Low tide in my wallet forced me to quickly find a job, any job.
Enter Jean-Yves, about two meters tall and almost one meter wide. Extremely short hair and looking more than a bit mean.
That at least must have been the impression of the legionnaire from the French Foreign Legion, who was about to beat me up in a cozy little bar called "Cepi Blanc". Jean-Yves tapped him on the shoulder and said something I didn't understand.
The effect was astonishing. Not only did the thug apologize profusely, but three *bottles* of "Johnnie Walker Black Label" materialized on the bar in front of us.
It turned out that Jean-Yves was the maitre d' of the best hotel and restaurant in the whole country - and he could organize a job for me. But first he invited me to sample the delights.
When I got to the place, I didn't dare to go in. Not only did I not have a tuxedo - or anything even remotely similar - but my jeans were faded and showed the unmistakable signs they always show when you happen to live on a boat, anchor in a muddy jungle river, row against a very strong current to wade the final few meters through muck, mud and dead stingrays. I was plain terrified to walk into the joint the way I looked.
Finally I managed to catch Jean-Yves' eye, but he wouldn't allow me to come back another time, more properly attired. And when I sat at a table with starched table cloth and so many different glasses, that I could hardly count them, things went from bad to worse. I didn't know a single dish - and the prices could have paid for the upkeep of a boat for months! Mortified, I tuned the pages of the menu.
Meanwhile Jean-Yves had served some chilled "Moet & Chandon" and almost got angry when I wanted to order the cheapest dish on the menu. He took it out of my hand and ordered for me, telling me that I was a guest in HIS restaurant and that I would eat and drink the best and only the best. The meal took hours and ended with a huge assortment of Cuban cigars. Truly a memorable evening.
I got the job and with the job came all kinds of perks, like free food and free wine. Needless to say that the staff ate and drank just as well as the guests. Every day, for breakfast, lunch and coffee-time. The job (l'entretien) wasn't hard, the money wasn't bad, I got residence and a work permit. When I arrived my French was pretty much non-existent, but now I picked up enough Street-French, heavily interspersed with their version of French Creole (Nuka chape!) and life was altogether pleasant.
Especially when Jean-Yves came up with another great idea. I had a boat, he had all these friends who were chefs or maitre d's. And there were the islands of "Papillon" fame out there, the Isles du Salut.
I would take the whole gang out there for the weekend, and they would be in charge of food and drinks. They did not worry about excess fat or excess anything for that matter. They were of the "rare or ruined" school as far as meat was concerned and every meal was perfect. There was only one thing that they just couldn't do right. No matter how hard they tried, they could not mix cocktails. Their home-made apple "Alembic" was pure fire-water and so I stayed with the "Moet & Chandon" every time.
That was how the trouble started. I got into good food with a vengeance and when I loaded up my second boat with food and drinks, it looked as if it was gong to sink. (The people working in the "Da Hua" Chinese supermarket in Irvine probably still remember us with wonder... :-) My wife couldn't cook at all when I first met her, but later people would call us the "floating five-star restaurant" for good reason. When we sold the boat again after only ten months, we had both gained five kilograms in spite of all the work. We went around the Chinese restaurants in Tonga to sell our excess supplies. They were very glad to buy our remaining "wood ears", black mushrooms, water chestnuts and the like. The 220 liters of excellent Californian wine had somehow disappeared and so had all the other drinks. I guess they just don't last in the hot tropical weather.
We are still into good food now. Every Sunday evening we get a few friends together for a really good meal. But the rest of the week we try to eat more what is good for us and not just good for the palate. I would never give up the delicious food, though. No way in hell!
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18020555
When my first boat literally disintegrated under my feet I happened to be in Kourou, French Guiana. Low tide in my wallet forced me to quickly find a job, any job.
Enter Jean-Yves, about two meters tall and almost one meter wide. Extremely short hair and looking more than a bit mean.
That at least must have been the impression of the legionnaire from the French Foreign Legion, who was about to beat me up in a cozy little bar called "Cepi Blanc". Jean-Yves tapped him on the shoulder and said something I didn't understand.
The effect was astonishing. Not only did the thug apologize profusely, but three *bottles* of "Johnnie Walker Black Label" materialized on the bar in front of us.
It turned out that Jean-Yves was the maitre d' of the best hotel and restaurant in the whole country - and he could organize a job for me. But first he invited me to sample the delights.
When I got to the place, I didn't dare to go in. Not only did I not have a tuxedo - or anything even remotely similar - but my jeans were faded and showed the unmistakable signs they always show when you happen to live on a boat, anchor in a muddy jungle river, row against a very strong current to wade the final few meters through muck, mud and dead stingrays. I was plain terrified to walk into the joint the way I looked.
Finally I managed to catch Jean-Yves' eye, but he wouldn't allow me to come back another time, more properly attired. And when I sat at a table with starched table cloth and so many different glasses, that I could hardly count them, things went from bad to worse. I didn't know a single dish - and the prices could have paid for the upkeep of a boat for months! Mortified, I tuned the pages of the menu.
Meanwhile Jean-Yves had served some chilled "Moet & Chandon" and almost got angry when I wanted to order the cheapest dish on the menu. He took it out of my hand and ordered for me, telling me that I was a guest in HIS restaurant and that I would eat and drink the best and only the best. The meal took hours and ended with a huge assortment of Cuban cigars. Truly a memorable evening.
I got the job and with the job came all kinds of perks, like free food and free wine. Needless to say that the staff ate and drank just as well as the guests. Every day, for breakfast, lunch and coffee-time. The job (l'entretien) wasn't hard, the money wasn't bad, I got residence and a work permit. When I arrived my French was pretty much non-existent, but now I picked up enough Street-French, heavily interspersed with their version of French Creole (Nuka chape!) and life was altogether pleasant.
Especially when Jean-Yves came up with another great idea. I had a boat, he had all these friends who were chefs or maitre d's. And there were the islands of "Papillon" fame out there, the Isles du Salut.
I would take the whole gang out there for the weekend, and they would be in charge of food and drinks. They did not worry about excess fat or excess anything for that matter. They were of the "rare or ruined" school as far as meat was concerned and every meal was perfect. There was only one thing that they just couldn't do right. No matter how hard they tried, they could not mix cocktails. Their home-made apple "Alembic" was pure fire-water and so I stayed with the "Moet & Chandon" every time.
That was how the trouble started. I got into good food with a vengeance and when I loaded up my second boat with food and drinks, it looked as if it was gong to sink. (The people working in the "Da Hua" Chinese supermarket in Irvine probably still remember us with wonder... :-) My wife couldn't cook at all when I first met her, but later people would call us the "floating five-star restaurant" for good reason. When we sold the boat again after only ten months, we had both gained five kilograms in spite of all the work. We went around the Chinese restaurants in Tonga to sell our excess supplies. They were very glad to buy our remaining "wood ears", black mushrooms, water chestnuts and the like. The 220 liters of excellent Californian wine had somehow disappeared and so had all the other drinks. I guess they just don't last in the hot tropical weather.
We are still into good food now. Every Sunday evening we get a few friends together for a really good meal. But the rest of the week we try to eat more what is good for us and not just good for the palate. I would never give up the delicious food, though. No way in hell!
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18020555
Subject: Shipping News
Leningrad, USSR, summer 1979
The MS Eider was lying in the roads and the owner was fuming. He also happened to be our captain and until we arrived, we had gotten along pretty well. But every hour out there cost him a lot and all that money reduced the profit margin which again made it more difficult to pay the banks. That's why most owners of small cargo vessels have sold out and given up. Much easier to work for somebody else without all the worry and risk, with an excellent salary and long paid vacations. Family life still suffered, no matter whether on your own ship or somebody else's.
My long blond hair was covered in gray paint, which was almost impossible to get off again. That wasn't the only problem with long hair, though. The bosun just hated the sight of it and made my life miserable wherever he could. Once, when nobody else was around, he chased me around and around the mess-table, finally grabbed hold of my ponytail and threw me to the ground. His dislike of my hairstyle was probably why he had me paint the interior of the anchor hold in 32°C. Outside, of course. But those days I never even considered cutting off my hair, no matter what.
After half a day or thereabouts, we were finally allowed to enter the harbor and dock at the pier. Several soldiers with submachine guns were positioned in front of the gangway and every time we went ashore we had to hand them our seaman's papers. No visa necessary, by the way. We were admonished in no uncertain terms to be aboard again before midnight or we would lose the privilege to go ashore here. Permanently. So, we swore to try our best since we intended to be back long before midnight anyway.
Our first trip into the city proper was a shock. The roads were cratered, in many buildings the window panes were broken and altogether it looked as if WWII had ended but yesterday. Colors were missing, everything seemed to be in shades of gray. Even the black had faded while the white was dirty. We were shown around by a Russian woman who spoke excellent German and she took us on a little tour. Not my cup of tea, but I figured that there would be time for proper exploration later on. When we got to a library, I asked for a book about Che Guevara.
"But he was a terrorist!" the woman in charge exclaimed.
"I thought you would think him a hero," I replied in complete surprise.
"Not at all. We don't like terrorists over here," she said firmly.
"Well, I would still like to read about him, if it is not too much trouble," I told her. She said she would try her best and we left it at that.
(Several days later she surprised me by giving me an excellent biography of Che Guevara written by a Russian and told me that I could keep it. When I took it back to the ship, the captain at first wouldn't allow me to bring the book of a communist on board, but I told him that it was none of his business and after some grumbling it went into my cabin. I still have it today.)
We went to have a look at the subway (excellent) and tasted the delicious ice-cream they make there. Finally the tour ended in the Seaman's Mission where we met sailors from all over the world. It was a first for me and incredibly exciting. Here were hundreds of old salts, who had literally been all over the globe. Most everybody spoke English, but it was a very weird English, heavily interspersed with other languages and some of the accents I could barely understand. But plenty of other languages were spoken as well, many of them I couldn't place at all. Was that Lithuanian or Finnish or what? I didn't have a clue.
The topics were pretty down to earth. Where the best exchange rates were to be had, the best caviar, vodka or Crimea champagne. Which night spots or girls were to be avoided. And, very often, what would happen after the trip was over.
We were back on board long before midnight, but I couldn't fall asleep. It was way too hot in my little bunk and I kept thinking about all the things I had seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt all day. So wonderful! More than wonderful, it was a promise. Finally, a whiff of the world.
In the morning our ship was invaded. Not by soldiers or the KGB or anything like that, but by dockworkers and longshoremen who wanted to trade. A big bottle of vodka was their usual currency. But they had brought other Russian specialties as well. In return they asked for foreign cigarettes and magazines. Even better, pornography. And French cognac. Jeans. Whatever. If we had wanted to, we could have traded away pretty much everything we owned, but since we needed most of the stuff ourselves, the trading was rather limited - at least for first-timers like me.
After that we didn't see anyone around our ship doing any more work. It was like a big union-organized strike, except that the only reason was that every longshoreman was drunk. Not only that day, but the day after. And after and after. Our captain was in absolutely the worst mood imaginable. Ever heard of harbor fees? He had to pay them, day in, day out, never mind that it wasn't his fault for being in port so long. We fairly tip-toed around him, and found it particularly difficult o hide our enthusiasm for this state of affairs. You see, we could go ashore every day, as long as this lasted.
As soon as we were past the goons with the guns, we could do whatever we wanted and go everywhere, too. First stop was somewhere on one of the many bridges where the black market guys hung out. Highly illegal, of course, but the exchange rate was very much better than anywhere else. Those same guys could organize pretty much anything else you wanted to buy including the best black hash ostensibly from Afghanistan. (Which was kinda weird, since it wasn't gonna be 29 December for another half year.) The stores were pretty much as I had expected them; empty. Which explained the lack of lines in front of the shops.
But I got a definite feeling that there was a lot happening in the city. The black market was only a first indication. From the other sailors I could glean that the nightlife was rather spectacular - it sounded like Shanghai a long time ago - and they talked of whores and their sisters, of booze, and a decadence which I only knew from books. Sex & Drugs & Rock'n'Roll the Russian way. Ian Dury would have felt right at home there.
Alas, all good things must come to an end and so did our stay in Leningrad. One last night out and the next day we were to sail for Denmark. My nemesis, the bosun, didn't make it back until after midnight. He was escorted aboard completely drunk by two guys in uniform who informed him that he would never be allowed ashore in Leningrad again.
I don't know whether that was the reason for his subsequent decline, but from then on he was never sober anymore. Wisely he had stashed vodka all over the ship and told none of us where. He must have known that the old man would try to bribe us into telling him where his stash was. Nothing doing. He stayed drunk all the way to Denmark where he got booted off the ship. Lost his job there and then. But he didn't seem to care and hailed a cab, which he rode all the way from Copenhagen, Denmark to Cuxhafen, Germany.
I decided to get off the ship, too. There was a girl back in my hometown and it would be fun to hitchhike up to Norway to see the Hardangervidda with her.
Cheers!
Holg
http://boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18196331
Leningrad, USSR, summer 1979
The MS Eider was lying in the roads and the owner was fuming. He also happened to be our captain and until we arrived, we had gotten along pretty well. But every hour out there cost him a lot and all that money reduced the profit margin which again made it more difficult to pay the banks. That's why most owners of small cargo vessels have sold out and given up. Much easier to work for somebody else without all the worry and risk, with an excellent salary and long paid vacations. Family life still suffered, no matter whether on your own ship or somebody else's.
My long blond hair was covered in gray paint, which was almost impossible to get off again. That wasn't the only problem with long hair, though. The bosun just hated the sight of it and made my life miserable wherever he could. Once, when nobody else was around, he chased me around and around the mess-table, finally grabbed hold of my ponytail and threw me to the ground. His dislike of my hairstyle was probably why he had me paint the interior of the anchor hold in 32°C. Outside, of course. But those days I never even considered cutting off my hair, no matter what.
After half a day or thereabouts, we were finally allowed to enter the harbor and dock at the pier. Several soldiers with submachine guns were positioned in front of the gangway and every time we went ashore we had to hand them our seaman's papers. No visa necessary, by the way. We were admonished in no uncertain terms to be aboard again before midnight or we would lose the privilege to go ashore here. Permanently. So, we swore to try our best since we intended to be back long before midnight anyway.
Our first trip into the city proper was a shock. The roads were cratered, in many buildings the window panes were broken and altogether it looked as if WWII had ended but yesterday. Colors were missing, everything seemed to be in shades of gray. Even the black had faded while the white was dirty. We were shown around by a Russian woman who spoke excellent German and she took us on a little tour. Not my cup of tea, but I figured that there would be time for proper exploration later on. When we got to a library, I asked for a book about Che Guevara.
"But he was a terrorist!" the woman in charge exclaimed.
"I thought you would think him a hero," I replied in complete surprise.
"Not at all. We don't like terrorists over here," she said firmly.
"Well, I would still like to read about him, if it is not too much trouble," I told her. She said she would try her best and we left it at that.
(Several days later she surprised me by giving me an excellent biography of Che Guevara written by a Russian and told me that I could keep it. When I took it back to the ship, the captain at first wouldn't allow me to bring the book of a communist on board, but I told him that it was none of his business and after some grumbling it went into my cabin. I still have it today.)
We went to have a look at the subway (excellent) and tasted the delicious ice-cream they make there. Finally the tour ended in the Seaman's Mission where we met sailors from all over the world. It was a first for me and incredibly exciting. Here were hundreds of old salts, who had literally been all over the globe. Most everybody spoke English, but it was a very weird English, heavily interspersed with other languages and some of the accents I could barely understand. But plenty of other languages were spoken as well, many of them I couldn't place at all. Was that Lithuanian or Finnish or what? I didn't have a clue.
The topics were pretty down to earth. Where the best exchange rates were to be had, the best caviar, vodka or Crimea champagne. Which night spots or girls were to be avoided. And, very often, what would happen after the trip was over.
We were back on board long before midnight, but I couldn't fall asleep. It was way too hot in my little bunk and I kept thinking about all the things I had seen, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt all day. So wonderful! More than wonderful, it was a promise. Finally, a whiff of the world.
In the morning our ship was invaded. Not by soldiers or the KGB or anything like that, but by dockworkers and longshoremen who wanted to trade. A big bottle of vodka was their usual currency. But they had brought other Russian specialties as well. In return they asked for foreign cigarettes and magazines. Even better, pornography. And French cognac. Jeans. Whatever. If we had wanted to, we could have traded away pretty much everything we owned, but since we needed most of the stuff ourselves, the trading was rather limited - at least for first-timers like me.
After that we didn't see anyone around our ship doing any more work. It was like a big union-organized strike, except that the only reason was that every longshoreman was drunk. Not only that day, but the day after. And after and after. Our captain was in absolutely the worst mood imaginable. Ever heard of harbor fees? He had to pay them, day in, day out, never mind that it wasn't his fault for being in port so long. We fairly tip-toed around him, and found it particularly difficult o hide our enthusiasm for this state of affairs. You see, we could go ashore every day, as long as this lasted.
As soon as we were past the goons with the guns, we could do whatever we wanted and go everywhere, too. First stop was somewhere on one of the many bridges where the black market guys hung out. Highly illegal, of course, but the exchange rate was very much better than anywhere else. Those same guys could organize pretty much anything else you wanted to buy including the best black hash ostensibly from Afghanistan. (Which was kinda weird, since it wasn't gonna be 29 December for another half year.) The stores were pretty much as I had expected them; empty. Which explained the lack of lines in front of the shops.
But I got a definite feeling that there was a lot happening in the city. The black market was only a first indication. From the other sailors I could glean that the nightlife was rather spectacular - it sounded like Shanghai a long time ago - and they talked of whores and their sisters, of booze, and a decadence which I only knew from books. Sex & Drugs & Rock'n'Roll the Russian way. Ian Dury would have felt right at home there.
Alas, all good things must come to an end and so did our stay in Leningrad. One last night out and the next day we were to sail for Denmark. My nemesis, the bosun, didn't make it back until after midnight. He was escorted aboard completely drunk by two guys in uniform who informed him that he would never be allowed ashore in Leningrad again.
I don't know whether that was the reason for his subsequent decline, but from then on he was never sober anymore. Wisely he had stashed vodka all over the ship and told none of us where. He must have known that the old man would try to bribe us into telling him where his stash was. Nothing doing. He stayed drunk all the way to Denmark where he got booted off the ship. Lost his job there and then. But he didn't seem to care and hailed a cab, which he rode all the way from Copenhagen, Denmark to Cuxhafen, Germany.
I decided to get off the ship, too. There was a girl back in my hometown and it would be fun to hitchhike up to Norway to see the Hardangervidda with her.
Cheers!
Holg
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