Gday from the Gold Coast, peeps. No, not the silicone-and-skin-cancer, high-rises-and-fossilised-pensioners Gold Coast in Queensland. The other one. In West Africa. The one that produces most of the world's cocoa and a shedload of the world's gold. Otherwise known as Ghana. So I guess that should be akwaaba from de Gold Coast, my frien's.
Why I chose to Ghana after leaving London is a bit of a roundabout story that needs some brief explaining. Plan A was to travel home overland, starting in Morocco and going east across North Africa, the Middle East, the 'stans, the Asian Landmass, touch Japan then hook south all the way to SE Asia and a hitchiked yacht ride from Bali to Darwin and then home. I soon realised the visa costs alone would burn over two-thirds of the money I'd be able to save. Scratch Plan A, with many regrets.
Plan B was to just do North Africa - again, more intensive research revealed that half of those countries need you to sign up with an official government tour, have a letter of introduction from your embassy and virtually sign over the rights to your first unborn before they'd let you in. Exactly how I didn't want to see those countries. Plan B - scratched.
Plan C was to go overland around West Africa, starting in Morocco and going south along the coast, all the way under the African bulge to finish in Benin for some intensive voodoo therapy. This option was looking the goods all the way up until about a month-and-a-half ago, when Croydon Payroll and HR started doing their best impression of an African bureaucratic department and whittling away at my finances.
So, in desperation, I turned to Plan D at the last moment. The plan was to fly into Ghana, head west along the coast surfing wherever possible, head into Cote D'Ivoire, Liberia and Sierra Leone, then reverse back to Ghana and head out east into Togo and Benin (I wouldn't touch Nigeria if you gave me a full platoon of mercs and an APC).
But even now that I'm here on the ground at the start of it all, having flown into Accra 5 days ago with a 3-month window of itinterary-free travel before me, opportunities are drying up daily. For reasons which I'll go into below, it doesn't look like I can get into Cote D'Ivoire, which means I've got no way of getting into either Liberia or Sierra Leone (internal flights in Africa are as expensive as return flights from Africa to Europe, and there's no boats going that way - I checked). It now looks like I'll be mainly restricted to Ghana, with an outside chance of getting into Togo and an even slimmer chance of getting over to Benin.
So what's it like there in West Africa, the poorest region on the planet, I hear you ask? Well, far greater people and far greater writers than me have described it all in prose far outstripping anything ol' Muggins here could churn out, so I'll stick to what I've seen, experienced and done so far. It's been a big 5 days....
ACCRA
Picture any stereotype of a Third World African city and you've got it. Physically at least. Decaying concrete, rusty corrugate iron roofs, palm trees, dirt roads, open sewer drains, open fires, shops made from shipping containers, hilarious shop names (the Forget Your Wife Bar, the God Is Adequate Chop kitchen). Goats and the ubiquitous stray dogs running free in every street, half-naked kiddies playing in the same streets from sun-up to sun-down. Dust and wood-smoke and car fumes. Loud, crackly, reverbing speakers washing upvibe local music across the surrounding suburb non-stop from dawn til 10pm. Plus traffic - my god the traffic. They drive slow in Ghana anyway, but the number of decrepit old Daewoos and trucks that look like something from Frankenstein's lab combined with the state of the few paved highways and the dearth of road rules mean a 20km trip can take 4 hours. Which it did.
But I kinda liked Accra. Even though it was horribly similar to Colombo or Alexandria, it was slower, the people were genuinely nicer, and the hawkers and touts seemed largely restricted only to the markets and the central area of Osu. I wandered the streets during the day and during the dark night - surrounded by people at both times. I had drinks with people at the hostel in a pub around the corner, and the next night on the rooftop terrace of the Hostel. It was all good.
CRYSTAL HOSTEL
I pulled into Accra at 2am. There was barely anyone on the flight, and the bus from my hostel wasn't there to pick me up. I was immediately accosted by two taxi drivers ("official airport" taxi drivers, apparently). After many phone calls and rejections of offers, it became clear my bus wasn't coming. I walked out of the airport with the pushier of the two to his car, past the (thankfully) sleeping forms of the dozens of infamous "baggage handlers" I'd heard so much about, and hit the dark, unlit Accra roads. After 20 minutes there were no buildings in sight, and I was flexing my hands wondering how many blokes I could deal with at once. But such concerns were unfounded - civilisation, or what resembled it in the sputtering glare of the headlights, reappeared, and soon we were easing through narrow, high-walled streets and into the compound of my hostel.
I got a huge 4 bedroom dorm all to myself, crashed immediately and woke up 5 hours later. Crystal Hostel was great, I decided. I met a quiet, wraith-like Scotsman named Ewan who was slowly recovering from malaria and a stint in hospital at the town of Cape Coast - an episode of his life he talked about with grim horror. He was travelling solo around Ghana, and is still the only solo traveller I've met or seen. I met Damian and Victoria an hour later. Vic was a cheerful blonde from Northern Ireland who had camped across every continent on the planet bar Antarctica. Damian was a hulking, bald-headed, ferocious-looking Nambour rugby league player who looked like a criminal but turned out to be startlingly intelligent and more well-read and even-handed in his judgements than me. He was also a seasoned traveller, having camped rough across the entirety of the Middle East and South America. They were both off east to do volunteer work at a turtle hatchery and primary school on the Volta delta. Damian and Vic ended up being my buddies in the two-and-a-half days I was in Accra - had a grand time with them.
There were others at Crystal too - Deena the Dutch volunteer teacher and her crew of Eastern European friends, Davic the Nepalese student, James the English gap-year rugby coach - but the nicest person was Anti, the tiny, rotund matron of the house. Her husband, Seth, was a massive brute of a man who handled the business and left the handling of the day-to-day operations to Anti and her daughters. Friendly to a fault without kowtowing, knowledgable, helpful, her slow grace and chortling laugh made the place seem like an oasis in the middle of the busy streets outside the compound walls.
THE COTE D'IVOIRE EMBASSY
I went to the CD'I Embassy my second day in Accra, while Damian and Vic wandered Osu and fended off the hawkers a few blocks away. A relaxed gent in office attire and official-looking ID badges was reclining on the couch in the lobby when I came in to enquire about getting a visa. Don't go, he said lazily. The people in Ivory Coast are rude, think they're better than other West Africans, and hate tourists or anyone they think could be French (ie whiteys). You'll be stopped every block by someone vaguely police-y asking to see your passport and visa and then some dash (bribe money). Every block, or every kilometer if you're travelling between towns. And your backpack will not be safe in your room, no matter where you go. Stay in Ghana, it's far friendlier, more than three times as cheap and safer
Thanks, I said, thinking that this guy was out of a job if the Cote D'Ivoire Tourism Board ever got wind of what he was saying in their own embassy. We talked about football, basketball and Ghana while I waited for the person to show up at the little window I had to go to, then he got up and wandered into the bowels of the building, re-emerging behind the window with the woman I was after. I saw him sit down behind her at a desk with a "Embassy Director" nameplate on it. Righto then.
Another one from England wanting to go to Cote D'Ivoire? she asked. We are very suspicious now, we have many British coming in this week all wanting to get visas. Most unusual. We have instructions to not be so lenient with our assessments because of this suspicious behaviour.
But I'm Australian, I said. You came here from the UK, no? Yes, I was working there. So you could have gotten your visa in London then? I wanted to but. She cut me off with a wave of her hand, looking away in disgust. We are very suspicious of all these recent requests.
She thrust an application form at me through the little opening in the window. Fill this out. We only accept payment in CFA Francs. It takes three days to process your application. It is unlikely you will get it but you can try. The fee is non-refundable.
I thought, Three more days waiting around in Accra, burning money? There wasn't that much to see there. And no guarantee of getting a visa? Dreams of roughing it in Liberia and Sierra Leone disappeared before me. The goddam British tourist hordes had stuffed yet another travel experience for me. Goddammit.
THE CLIMATE
Yes it's hot. The sun is like a hammer, vicious and hostile and pounding everything bold enough to venture out of the shade into submission. And yes, it's humid. More humid than anything I've ever experienced before. When the sea breeze blows across you here in Cape Coast, it's like a warm, wet, salty blanket being draped over you. You sweat non-stop, unless you've got airconditioning, which I can't afford thanks to Croydon Payroll. Did I mention I'm not too impressed with Croydon Payroll's efforts? Anyway. The climate is exactly what you'd expect, exactly as advertised. It doesn't bother me, and I've figured out how to move in it already. Slowly, languidly, like the locals. Save your energy for after dark, when the cool slowly re-emerges.
THE COSTS
Shite. Ghana's more expensive than advertised. More expensive than any of the guidebooks or websites or other travellers I talked to before I came indicated. Other travellers I speak to here say the same thing. The money just disappears in little dribs and drabs and before you know it, you're spent twice your daily budget. Things just crop up here. And everything takes a long time. Buses don't show, so you take a taxi. You know the drill. If Ghana's considered to be cheapest country in the region, then Cote D'Ivoire, Liberia and Sierra Leone were definitely only going to be 3- or 4-day affairs at the most, anyway. Damn.
THE PEOPLE
The first thing I noticed was their looks. Sweet jesus, but they're beautiful. And I don't mean Gold-Coast-Australia- beautiful, either. Or striking. Or simply attractive. Those types are thick on the ground here too. But every half hour or so I look left or right and my jaw drops. Some of the Ghanaians are startlingly good-looking, so much so you stare in a kind of slapped-across-the-face shock, expecting the blemishes or imperfections to come into focus the longer you look. But they don't. The women walk tall, shoulders back, hips swaying in that languid motion, all smooth skin and flashing eyes and muscle tone. They look like models, but far more capable than those pathetic pasty stick figures pouting their way up the catwalks in Milan and Paris. The men are simply beasts. Forget condoms full of walnuts, some of these guys look like condoms full of navel oranges. Regardless of their body shape, 90% of them look like they live in a gym.
A young guy sidled up to me at the National Arts Market in Accra as I was watching Damian and Vic get an impromptu drumming display from 5 trendy guys trying to hawk their wares. "I like your height" he rumbled, and I looked around at him...and up....and up. My nose was level with a deltoid muscle the size of a grapefruit. His naked torso started at a waist about the same size as mine and swelled upwards, finishing in shoulders that clearly necessitated walking sideways through doorways and a neck that wouldn't have looked out of place on a Brahmin bull. "Uh, yeah you too mate" "How old are you, my frien'?" "I'm 34. And you?" "I am 13 next month". I stepped back with eyes wide and looked at this guy for a sign he was joking after a moment of unabashed shock. Nothing. "Yeah sure mate - really, how old are you?" He smiled and said to ask anyone. I asked a wee man walking past with a tv on his head and forearms as big as my thighs. "He 13, he big yeah?" said the little guy, grinning without breaking stride.It's like that here. Incredible.
In Accra, they're friendly. They stare at you, each in their own way, some outright, some shyly. But as soon as you smile at them and say hi they grin and become like your best friend. I got 12 offers of marriage there, just walking the streets or sitting in chop houses. It's an unusual feeling to have Tyra Banks' clone giggling with her friends and offering to be your second wife when you lie and tell her you're already married but thanks very much.
Here in Cape Coast, it's different. Most seem just as friendly, but every single person here is working an angle. At least that's what it feels like, because every single person I've had any contact has hit me up for a donation, or a tip, or to come see their shop, or to flat out just give them money. All after 5 minutes of seemingly genuine conversation and what seems like a connection being formed. And they chase you to start up the conversation, from a distance, dozens of them, the moment you walk out the door. Which is the ugly side of an economy based on tourism. I know they're poor but frankly I'm sick of it. It's not their culture, it's what they've been reduced to. I'm fully aware of all the historical, social, environmental and economic forces at play which have reduced them to this, but I may as well be in Egypt or Malaysia or Sri Lanka. It's the exact same shite. What's the point of coming to a country if this is all you see the moment you step out the door? I'm beginning to wonder - hopefully Busua, where I'm heading today, will be different
THE COUNTRYSIDE
Lots of farms, lots of half-finished concrete buildings scattered amongst the green, lots of thatched roofs 40 minutes outside Accra. Lots of agriculture. Haven' t seen much, just the coast so far. More later.
CAPE COAST
See above regarding the people. The Cape Coast Castle is where the British ruled the country from for hundreds of years. I did the tour and stood in the mortifying slave cells with a crowd of male Ghanain uni students, all of us packed in and sweating in the darkness, and I actually felt something. Don't have the time to explain it fully, but it was more than anything I've felt at a museum in a long time.
PHOTOS
I've taken about 40 photos but it's ncredibly hard. People either get upset if you just whip out the Sony and start snapping away or they demand money. You can ask people politely if you can take their picture (most refuse), but getting a street shot or a landscape is like being a KGB agent during the Cold War. I've had to pay for a few shots already that I thought I could get away with, and it's really getting to be a massive hassle and turn-off. I don't have time to upload the ones I've taken already today because these pc's are ancient and slow, but I'll try to put some on in the next week or so.
Okay, much more to say, but I've got to go as my time's run out. I'm off to Busua down the west coast to hopefully do some surfing and get some volunteer work. Hope you're all well
Saturday, 2 May 2009
Sunday, 26 April 2009
ANZAC Day Weekend Photos
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Photos from top row, left to right: Adelaide Cemetery; ANZAC Memorial Dawn Service outside Villers Brettoneux; Same; ANZAC Memorial upon arrival at 5am; Me after the Dawn Service (freezing); Me at Villers Brettoneux City Hall (note the kangaroo cutouts); Villers Bretoneux restaurant where we had breakfast after Dawn Service; Example of Villers Brettoneux streetsign; Villers Brettoneux Community Service; French Honour Gaurd; Me and "Bluey"; Villers Brettoneux main street; Entering into the Community Hall for the concert after the service; Inside the town's Community Hall; Windmills Memorial; Thiepval British Memorial Arch; Amien with Cathedral in background
ANZAC Day Weekend In France
I don't have the verbal cutlery to adequately dissect for you the five-course banquet that is my stupidity as a traveller. I used to bristle at such a notion, but I've finally accepted this as a sad but immutable facet of my being. By all known laws of logic and probability I should've been run over, arrested, mugged, raped, swindled out of everything bar my underpants, frozen to a man-shaped popsicle or been eaten by something large and toothy many times by now. Why? Simply put, I'm about as observant as a sloth on Qualudes and my mind operates at roughly the same pace (which would also partly explain why I'm so teeth-clenchingly bad at verbal communication compared to my written vents).
As it is, I've so far managed to survive numerous travel episodes afflicted by things nothing more life-threatening than frigid Zodiac rides through mountainous Antarctic seas, hitching late-night rides home through the deserted French countryside with a garbage truck driver, missing an important (*insert transport mode here*) and having to adjust all further plans accordingly, or walking past the place I'm looking for three times before my turgid brain slowly realises what my eyes are telling it - like a caveman slowly realising the noise that's making his head hurt is coming from the rock wall constantly colliding with his forehead as he tries to walk through it.
This doesn't, however, mean that all my travel mishaps are self-inflicted. Far from it. Take the start of this weekend, for example. After waking at 6:00am and going out into the streets of Paris to ask at info kiosks where my ANZAC Day tour group's meeting place (Rue Tronchet was located), I was still asking mystified, map-scanning officials at 8:00am. Seeing as we were supposed to be picked up at Rue Tronchet at 8:45am, I decided to go for option 2 on the itinerary sheet - the Hotel Magellan, where the upper crust tour attendees had toughed it out for a night with their silk sheets and foot-washing coolies.
Ok, maybe the Magellan wasn't that luxurious, but it's five stars was a world away from my feculent hostel lodgings near Gare du Nord. The Friends Hostel (alarm bells should've been ringing when I saw the name, but no, this is Sloth Boy here) was located near Gare du Nord, would've fallen down if someone ran up the stairs and was one of those places surrounded by streets full of loitering, ever-present, leather-jacket-sporting Algerian and Moroccan males standing in clumps, apparently existing on conversation and Camels alone and calling out to the Prada-wearing honeys pulling up at the traffic lights on their gourmet Vespas.
But I digress. After reaching the Magellan at 9am following the usual Paris Metro Fun-For-The-Non-French-Speaking-Tourist hijinks (with 15 minutes to spare according to the itinerary) the lobby staff informed me in impeccable Englais that the tour company had changed the itinerary 48 hours earlier and informed only those staying at the Magellan. And that they'd all been picked up half an hour ago.
Ahhh Paris. My nemesis. A city that lives solely on bread and pastries, with other bits of food inserted as an afterthought (I challenge anyone to find a breakfast in Paris that doesn't contain gluten). A city of stupendous architecture and even more stupendous hairstyles. A city that's picked me off before (City of Love my *ss), and which now, like the evil sniper it really is, had zeroed in on me trying to slink out before it noticed I was even there. The evil b*tch.
Numerous phone calls from the Magenta lobby saw me scrambling back towards my starting point to the tour company's offices like a half-*ssed contestant in The Amazing Race. The tour company staff were, of course, unapologetic, but made up for it by paying for a train to Amiens for me to meet up with the tour group by 11am. Oh, and for sending me to the station with an uber-friendly, half-French, half-Cuban stunner named Yvette to ensure I got on the right trains and to smooth the way with the ticket-vendors, the security staff and basically any male within a 2-block radius of us.
In all seriousness (I can accurately recount this because I'm a taken man and was trying not to think about losing over $1700-worth of weekend tour), male drivers would slow down and drift all over the road, craning their necks back at Yvette nattering away to me as we walked, looking like Ekka ping-pong-ball clowns as they passed us. Gangster-chic Algerian youths would walk past, all swagger and bluster momentarily forgotten, muttering wide-eyed exclamations under their breath as if the Virgin Mary had just descended from heaven in front of them to catch the Number 3 line to Gare du Nord.
She even batted her eyelashes at a mountainous security guard (I'm sure I saw him in Lord of the Rings) who wasn't going to let me onto the TGV platform because I didn't have my Metro ticket. Which Yvette had also paid for and which I'd turfed as soon as we'd brought the TGV ticket to Amiens, thinking I didn't need it. Sensing a pattern with me here? Needless to say, the security cave-troll was reduced to gormless grinning and fawning under the megawatt glare of Yvette's smile, and I was allowed on the train, finally en route to meeting my tour group with a big hug and good luck wishes from Yvette (prompting a conductor to nearly fall onto the tracks and lose his clipboard). What a start to the weekend.
The rest went fairly smoothly. After I met the group in Villers Brettoneux and clambered on the bus we went to Adelaide Cemetery and to the WW1 Museum just outside town (excellent), had lunch there, then checked into the hotel up the road in Abbeville. Being around so many Australian accents again made my head swim a little bit, but I met a nice trio of mid-40's Australian couples at dinner that night. Of course it was our little group who outlasted everyone and stayed up til midnight drinking the local plonk when we had a 3am wakeup call for the Dawn Service the next day. Smart.
The Dawn Service itself was good, 4000+ people, nice setting, got a bit cold towards the end but was bearable. I checked every name on the walls to see if any ancestors were listed, but nothing. Apparently I was shown live on Australian tv as the cameras panned the crowd, so now that I've made the Big Time I will be getting a lackey named Spotswood to write future entries for me.
Following the Dawn Service we went back into little Villers Brettoneux and waited around for the town's own service in honour of the ANZACs saving their town in an epic night attack (look up the story if you don't know it, it's a corker). I wandered across the little park to where I thought the ceremony might be happening and ended up being front-and-centre behind the speaker's lectern just outside the fence and within spitting distance of the monument - right in the midst of the action. Could see myself in the reflection on the boots of the RAAF commander. Beautiful little ceremony, short, attended by all the higher-ups who did the Dawn Service, wonderfully green and lush surroundings. Just a nice, heartfelt little ceremony. And finishing any ceremony with the French national anthem is bound to put a spring in everyone's step.
From there we went to the Le Grand Mine, or Lochnagan, which is the hole left by the biggest mine exploded in the entire war (100m across, 30m deep, heard in London) out near La Boiselle, which was kind of eerie. Then off to a number of other memorials to the Aussies near Pozieres - the "Gibraltar" blockhouse, the First Division Memorial etc. Also the Second Division Memorial at "Windmills", where the ANZACs got the utter tripe shelled out of them (to this day still the heaviest shelling any Australian military force has ever been subjected to) and suffered our heaviest losses ever.
We also visited Thiepval, which has a mammoth arch by the British commemorating their lost situated in a wonderful planted thicket of trees that turn the light green. Thiepval also had an outstanding museum with a free searchable online database where I found a Bartholomaeus buried in Courcelle and a Bunt (my mother's family name) in Ypres cemetery.
It was here in this museum at Thiepval where it all "hit" for the first time. I'm pretty up-to-date with most every detail about the two World Wars, being a bit of a history fanatic of sorts, so sometimes it's hard for me to get myself into the "what it was like to be there", transcendental mindset. But one of the black-and-white movies showing grinning, skylarking ANZAC troops marching to the front lines for the first day of the Somme offensive made my hair stand on end. Because one of the men on the outside line closest to the cameraman, walking past in slow-motion with a fag in his mouth and his sleeves rolled up, looked almost exactly like my father when he was young (g'day Dad) - I mean it really looked like I was watching Dad walk past on the screen. And immediately following him was a younger bloke, blonde, also smiling, cheekily tipping his helmet to the camera, who looked almost exactly like a guy I went to school with in Longreach, Vance Baker. Again, I couldn't see any differences. My jaw hit the floor and the lady sitting beside me cast a wary glance my way.
The next few scenes showing the utter insanity of the Somme offensive and the entire sorry fiasco that was the war made the impression stick even more, somehow. Young guys in those same uniforms clambering up crumbling, sliding trench walls, staggering forward one or two paces, getting their balance, then jerking and falling out of sight. Others gaining the top, turning around towards the camera, reaching with one hand to help a guy below them and suddenly becoming not even human anymore, just a limp store dummy dropping like a bag of meat with their heads smacking into the dirt at the top of the trench with that horrible speed that tells you there's no muscle control there at all, because there's no-one inside anymore. No big Hollywood arms-out, face-contorted, back-arched theatrics, just instant limpness like their bones have suddenly dissolved, and that sickening drop to the ground. The unbelievable contrast between those scenes and the ones immediately before, of the happy marching shots of "Dad" and "Vance", provided all the contrast and the reality check I needed.
Sunday we spent in Amiens, at the huge Cathedral and wandering the even-huger Sunday markets (no I didn't buy anything - an antique chair won't fit in my backpack and a Russian Red Army tank-driver's helmet isn't much use where I'm going). Lunch was had at a nifty little French bar and then we made our way back to Paris in the bus and went our separate ways. I eventually made my way back here to London for one last night via the now-obligatory British "About-As-Enjoyable-As-A-Red-Hot-Poker-Up-The-Rectum" Airways debacle (delayed, surly service, oldest plane I've ever flown in shaking like a reggae band at a Klan rally) and I've since started packing and washing for the next leg of my journeys, starting tomorrow afternoon.
I've got not idea when I'll next be able to write another entry on here, but rest assured I'll be taking snaps and attempting to write down the highlights of each day as they happen, so I'll have something for you all next time, at least. Unless I lose my camera and notebook. Or wallet. Or my way. Should be right :p
As it is, I've so far managed to survive numerous travel episodes afflicted by things nothing more life-threatening than frigid Zodiac rides through mountainous Antarctic seas, hitching late-night rides home through the deserted French countryside with a garbage truck driver, missing an important (*insert transport mode here*) and having to adjust all further plans accordingly, or walking past the place I'm looking for three times before my turgid brain slowly realises what my eyes are telling it - like a caveman slowly realising the noise that's making his head hurt is coming from the rock wall constantly colliding with his forehead as he tries to walk through it.
This doesn't, however, mean that all my travel mishaps are self-inflicted. Far from it. Take the start of this weekend, for example. After waking at 6:00am and going out into the streets of Paris to ask at info kiosks where my ANZAC Day tour group's meeting place (Rue Tronchet was located), I was still asking mystified, map-scanning officials at 8:00am. Seeing as we were supposed to be picked up at Rue Tronchet at 8:45am, I decided to go for option 2 on the itinerary sheet - the Hotel Magellan, where the upper crust tour attendees had toughed it out for a night with their silk sheets and foot-washing coolies.
Ok, maybe the Magellan wasn't that luxurious, but it's five stars was a world away from my feculent hostel lodgings near Gare du Nord. The Friends Hostel (alarm bells should've been ringing when I saw the name, but no, this is Sloth Boy here) was located near Gare du Nord, would've fallen down if someone ran up the stairs and was one of those places surrounded by streets full of loitering, ever-present, leather-jacket-sporting Algerian and Moroccan males standing in clumps, apparently existing on conversation and Camels alone and calling out to the Prada-wearing honeys pulling up at the traffic lights on their gourmet Vespas.
But I digress. After reaching the Magellan at 9am following the usual Paris Metro Fun-For-The-Non-French-Speaking-Tourist hijinks (with 15 minutes to spare according to the itinerary) the lobby staff informed me in impeccable Englais that the tour company had changed the itinerary 48 hours earlier and informed only those staying at the Magellan. And that they'd all been picked up half an hour ago.
Ahhh Paris. My nemesis. A city that lives solely on bread and pastries, with other bits of food inserted as an afterthought (I challenge anyone to find a breakfast in Paris that doesn't contain gluten). A city of stupendous architecture and even more stupendous hairstyles. A city that's picked me off before (City of Love my *ss), and which now, like the evil sniper it really is, had zeroed in on me trying to slink out before it noticed I was even there. The evil b*tch.
Numerous phone calls from the Magenta lobby saw me scrambling back towards my starting point to the tour company's offices like a half-*ssed contestant in The Amazing Race. The tour company staff were, of course, unapologetic, but made up for it by paying for a train to Amiens for me to meet up with the tour group by 11am. Oh, and for sending me to the station with an uber-friendly, half-French, half-Cuban stunner named Yvette to ensure I got on the right trains and to smooth the way with the ticket-vendors, the security staff and basically any male within a 2-block radius of us.
In all seriousness (I can accurately recount this because I'm a taken man and was trying not to think about losing over $1700-worth of weekend tour), male drivers would slow down and drift all over the road, craning their necks back at Yvette nattering away to me as we walked, looking like Ekka ping-pong-ball clowns as they passed us. Gangster-chic Algerian youths would walk past, all swagger and bluster momentarily forgotten, muttering wide-eyed exclamations under their breath as if the Virgin Mary had just descended from heaven in front of them to catch the Number 3 line to Gare du Nord.
She even batted her eyelashes at a mountainous security guard (I'm sure I saw him in Lord of the Rings) who wasn't going to let me onto the TGV platform because I didn't have my Metro ticket. Which Yvette had also paid for and which I'd turfed as soon as we'd brought the TGV ticket to Amiens, thinking I didn't need it. Sensing a pattern with me here? Needless to say, the security cave-troll was reduced to gormless grinning and fawning under the megawatt glare of Yvette's smile, and I was allowed on the train, finally en route to meeting my tour group with a big hug and good luck wishes from Yvette (prompting a conductor to nearly fall onto the tracks and lose his clipboard). What a start to the weekend.
The rest went fairly smoothly. After I met the group in Villers Brettoneux and clambered on the bus we went to Adelaide Cemetery and to the WW1 Museum just outside town (excellent), had lunch there, then checked into the hotel up the road in Abbeville. Being around so many Australian accents again made my head swim a little bit, but I met a nice trio of mid-40's Australian couples at dinner that night. Of course it was our little group who outlasted everyone and stayed up til midnight drinking the local plonk when we had a 3am wakeup call for the Dawn Service the next day. Smart.
The Dawn Service itself was good, 4000+ people, nice setting, got a bit cold towards the end but was bearable. I checked every name on the walls to see if any ancestors were listed, but nothing. Apparently I was shown live on Australian tv as the cameras panned the crowd, so now that I've made the Big Time I will be getting a lackey named Spotswood to write future entries for me.
Following the Dawn Service we went back into little Villers Brettoneux and waited around for the town's own service in honour of the ANZACs saving their town in an epic night attack (look up the story if you don't know it, it's a corker). I wandered across the little park to where I thought the ceremony might be happening and ended up being front-and-centre behind the speaker's lectern just outside the fence and within spitting distance of the monument - right in the midst of the action. Could see myself in the reflection on the boots of the RAAF commander. Beautiful little ceremony, short, attended by all the higher-ups who did the Dawn Service, wonderfully green and lush surroundings. Just a nice, heartfelt little ceremony. And finishing any ceremony with the French national anthem is bound to put a spring in everyone's step.
From there we went to the Le Grand Mine, or Lochnagan, which is the hole left by the biggest mine exploded in the entire war (100m across, 30m deep, heard in London) out near La Boiselle, which was kind of eerie. Then off to a number of other memorials to the Aussies near Pozieres - the "Gibraltar" blockhouse, the First Division Memorial etc. Also the Second Division Memorial at "Windmills", where the ANZACs got the utter tripe shelled out of them (to this day still the heaviest shelling any Australian military force has ever been subjected to) and suffered our heaviest losses ever.
We also visited Thiepval, which has a mammoth arch by the British commemorating their lost situated in a wonderful planted thicket of trees that turn the light green. Thiepval also had an outstanding museum with a free searchable online database where I found a Bartholomaeus buried in Courcelle and a Bunt (my mother's family name) in Ypres cemetery.
It was here in this museum at Thiepval where it all "hit" for the first time. I'm pretty up-to-date with most every detail about the two World Wars, being a bit of a history fanatic of sorts, so sometimes it's hard for me to get myself into the "what it was like to be there", transcendental mindset. But one of the black-and-white movies showing grinning, skylarking ANZAC troops marching to the front lines for the first day of the Somme offensive made my hair stand on end. Because one of the men on the outside line closest to the cameraman, walking past in slow-motion with a fag in his mouth and his sleeves rolled up, looked almost exactly like my father when he was young (g'day Dad) - I mean it really looked like I was watching Dad walk past on the screen. And immediately following him was a younger bloke, blonde, also smiling, cheekily tipping his helmet to the camera, who looked almost exactly like a guy I went to school with in Longreach, Vance Baker. Again, I couldn't see any differences. My jaw hit the floor and the lady sitting beside me cast a wary glance my way.
The next few scenes showing the utter insanity of the Somme offensive and the entire sorry fiasco that was the war made the impression stick even more, somehow. Young guys in those same uniforms clambering up crumbling, sliding trench walls, staggering forward one or two paces, getting their balance, then jerking and falling out of sight. Others gaining the top, turning around towards the camera, reaching with one hand to help a guy below them and suddenly becoming not even human anymore, just a limp store dummy dropping like a bag of meat with their heads smacking into the dirt at the top of the trench with that horrible speed that tells you there's no muscle control there at all, because there's no-one inside anymore. No big Hollywood arms-out, face-contorted, back-arched theatrics, just instant limpness like their bones have suddenly dissolved, and that sickening drop to the ground. The unbelievable contrast between those scenes and the ones immediately before, of the happy marching shots of "Dad" and "Vance", provided all the contrast and the reality check I needed.
Sunday we spent in Amiens, at the huge Cathedral and wandering the even-huger Sunday markets (no I didn't buy anything - an antique chair won't fit in my backpack and a Russian Red Army tank-driver's helmet isn't much use where I'm going). Lunch was had at a nifty little French bar and then we made our way back to Paris in the bus and went our separate ways. I eventually made my way back here to London for one last night via the now-obligatory British "About-As-Enjoyable-As-A-Red-Hot-Poker-Up-The-Rectum" Airways debacle (delayed, surly service, oldest plane I've ever flown in shaking like a reggae band at a Klan rally) and I've since started packing and washing for the next leg of my journeys, starting tomorrow afternoon.
I've got not idea when I'll next be able to write another entry on here, but rest assured I'll be taking snaps and attempting to write down the highlights of each day as they happen, so I'll have something for you all next time, at least. Unless I lose my camera and notebook. Or wallet. Or my way. Should be right :p
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