Uncle Travelling Flash

Sea, Surf & Socialism

flashorton — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 11:12:00 GMT

The basic tenet of Marxism and therefore socialism, as defined by Karl Marx:

“To each according to his need, from each according to his ability”

The basic tenet of capitalism is basically the opposite and could be described as:

“To each according to his ability, from each regardless of their need”.

In a surfing lineup, the capitalist system generally prevails, which roughly translates to the best surfer using his skill and experience to bag the most waves. Meanwhile, the snake is also a capitalist. He is taking waves that don’t belong to him, purely for selfish reasons. There is no redistribution of wealth (waves) to the poor (surfers less able) as we would expect from a socialist.

Occasionally, usually while surfing an un-crowded, consistent point or reef, I have had the pleasure of experiencing a socialist system in action. It’s sometimes referred to as ‘first cab off the rank’. The surfer at the front of the lineup takes their wave, then joins the back of the line and waits patiently for their turn. The skilful surfers give (from each) tips and encouragement to the beginners (to each).

The beginners catch more waves because they are being helped, not hassled. The expert never blows a wave because they were forced too deep, snaked, or dropped in on out of ignorance or frustration.

It’s an ideal system of mutual cooperation and harmony. And, like socialism itself, it is all too fragile. As soon as the supply of waves is outstripped by demand from surfers, socialism goes out the window, and capitalism comes in through the door.

The 14-handed Bali Massage

flashorton — Fri, 28 May 2010 22:13:00 GMT

The ‘4-handed massage’ is considered by some to be the ultimate sensual experience: two people, two pairs of hands, working in unison to overload the recipient’s nerve centre with pleasurable input; rubbing, stroking and squeezing them into a state of sheer bliss. Exclusive holistic spas offer it as their deluxe treatment; writer Neil Strauss used it to engineer threesomes in his seminal pick-up novel The Game.

Well, I can go one better than that. Ten better in fact. A fourteen-handed massage. And of course it happened in Bali.

Bali is the global epicentre of massage. Ok, the quality in Thailand is probably better, but it’s hard to beat Kuta for quantity. Walking around the smiling hustle that is Bali’s tourist town, you are greeted at every third or fourth step by “massage?” from a chorus of smiling, fresh-faced Indonesian girls. Sometimes an effeminate boy will offer: “massage with her…” and, as you walk past with a smiling shake of the head, will follow up with a camply hopeful “or me..?” At the beach, old ladies appear from nowhere and begin crooning the massage mantra, all the while kneading your sunburnt shoulders with fingers like tree roots.

So there I was, walking around Kuta on my last day in Bali, with a couple of hour’s and100k ($10) of Rupiah to burn before heading to the airport. Ten bucks goes a long way on Poppies lane, and I figured it should get me a good hour’s massage, plus a Bintang vest and a pair of fake Raybans. Rather than shop around I decided to take the very next offer, which took all of 3 seconds; a sweet smiling girl standing at a busy corner. With price and duration agreed on, she led me off down a series of quickly narrowing side streets until we were distinctly off the beaten track. At this point I would have been worrying about walking into some kind of ripoff situation, had I not been distracted by the flock of girls that was attaching itself to our party. They were all squealing, “massage?” at various pitches, while squabbling violently amongst themselves. Meanwhile my attempts to deter them with firm-sounding No’s were thwarted with warm smiles and “don’t worry, free!” assurances. I knew it wouldn’t be free of course, but at that point there wasn’t much I could do. By the time I was led into the massage ‘studio’, if one bed in a small room really qualifies, the flock of 10+ girls had been reduced to a team of seven, ranging in age from early teens to mid forties. After a few more weak protests, I pulled off my shirt, lay on my belly, and let them get on with it.

So, you wonder, was it the unforgettable sensory experience it should have been? Was true bliss attained?

No. Seven pairs of hands giving you a half-assed massage still equals a half-assed massage. The girl I had originally selected did a decent job of my back and one of the older ladies worked efficiently enough on my left leg, but the other five weren’t really giving it their best, I could tell. They just sort of selected a small area of flesh and stayed there, tweaking it absent-mindedly: an elbow here, a calf there, a small patch of back, a forearm. And so, while my senses may have remained utterly underwhelmed, I had to love the situation I’d found myself in, and enjoy the silly banter that was better than the massage itself.

Predictably, the ‘hour’ lasted about 25 minutes, and everyone demanded payment. I made a big show of explaining that I had only agreed to pay 50k to one girl, BUT: as they were very nice and I was very kind, I would pay an extra 50k, to be shared between everyone else. This was accepted as reasonable, with only a token amount of sad-face pulling, and soon I was waving them goodbye, heading to the airport with an empty wallet, a big smile, and yet another Bali story to tell.

Gallery: A Good Day in Mundaka

flashorton — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 12:19:00 GMT

An all-time day at Spain's best wave

A Good Day In Mundaka

flashorton — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 12:05:00 GMT

Winter had come. It had been two weeks since the WCT road show had rolled out of town, shaking its head at the travesty of a Brazilian small wave specialist running away with Spanish gold. Two days since I first awoke to numb ears and the sight of my own breath inside my van.

For those patient ones without prior engagement, the reward for waiting out a long, flat summer and autumn popped up on the charts. Wednesday promised blue sky, offshore winds and a 16’ swell, all synchronising nicely with a lunchtime low tide.

By 11am the party was in full swing. A high proportion of Burgundy neoprene announced a Basque majority in the 80-strong lineup, naturally. The old guard leisurely descended the harbour steps armed with an assortment of seasoned rhino-chasers. The youngsters threw their sleek white Pukas semi guns off the harbour wall and dived in after them. All were soon in the grip of the current that took them, willingly but surely with some trepidation, quickly out to the head of the lineup. Was someone humming Highway To The Danger Zone? Probably not.

And then comes the heckling, hassling, laughing and jostling as the pack asserts itself, always with a beady eye on the horizon. And then comes the next set.

The wise and the skittish paddle out further, others turn and go for it. Sometimes they catch it, make the drop and steer cagily through the mass of bodies littering their path, ducking below an overhang of body and surfboards itching to fill their spot, most pulling off at the last moment, others dropping in regardless, patience and protocol dissolved in adrenaline. Those that back off the wave turn quickly towards the horizon, knowing that the next will be bigger, the one after that bigger still. Those that make it either race down the line, or deliberately stall to pull into the kind of barrels most of us only dream of telling our mates/kids/grandkids about. Those that gambled and lost, the ones that fudged the drop or got burned, fumble for their board (or the remains of their board) or simply bob there in the wash, wondering what just hit them. Then they prepare themselves for the gruelling ordeal of getting out of the impact zone and back into the lineup, with three more monsters yet to come. Others, caught bang-to-rights on the inside, surrender to the irresistible frothing energy that mashes them into the estuary, where a lengthy paddle to gain the channel awaits them, past the clicking, hooting crowd lining the way. Those with boards and limbs intact remain in the channel to have another crack at it. Those with damaged boards, body parts or spirit scrabble for the safety of the harbour, and the dry land beyond. Meanwhile, out back, the waves keep getting bigger, meaner and browner, dredging sand upwards and hurling humans downward.

As the decapitated boards pile up, the tide drops, the waves become hollower, the swell grows still further, and so does the pack. One local young gun runs dripping back to his van with half a board, and, looking distraught, fishes out a fresh one. I tell him that his nose section with his friends over there, whereupon he swims like an otter across the harbour to retrieve it: “I need the sticker” he gasps, peeling it free with numb fingers and hastily re-applying it to the borrowed board before returning once more to the lineup, happy to be back in the arena with a correctly decaled board, at low tide, on the best day of the year.

Vegas Baby: Roulette

flashorton — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 17:49:00 GMT

I'm back, after eight years. Eight years since I sat at the wheel and studied the sequence of reds and blacks, odds and evens, trying to decipher a pattern within randomness. Making smart money from dumb luck and vice-versa. It's not as busy as I remember, perhaps last time was a weekend, or maybe the global economic meltdown has even reached Sin City. Strategy is simple: stick to playing the outside; an almost 50-50 chance of doubling your bet, and wait for a long string of reds and blacks, odds and evens to happen, then start betting the opposite way. If you lose, increase your bet by double plus a bit more, that way you'll always make money... unless you lose it all by hitting a losing streak and emptying your wallet or reaching the table's maximum, whichever comes first. The dealer spots my accent and gets to talking about how I don't get American comedy because British humour is so dry. I'm trying to focus my attention on where his little ball will tumble to a halt, so I don't reply, even though I'm thinking, "what about Benny Hill?" To my left stands an Asian guy in glasses and a pink Ralph Lauren Polo shirt, chain smoking and scattering hundreds of chips across the table. Sometimes he wins big and sometimes he loses big. Big booms and bigger busts, followed each time by the fishing out of another $100 bill, then another, then another, until there are only 20's left, and then finally there is nothing, and he vanishes. A short, stocky Italian-looking guy with slick hair and a slick silk shirt stands with his back to the table talking loud-drunkenly with two others. He turns, drops a single $500 chip on black, and turns back to continue whatever it was he was saying as the ball clatters slowly to a stop on red. Glancing back, he shrugs and lurches off after his companions who have already moved on. It's now been five reds in a row, and in my mind (and in my mind only) the probability of it being black next time has risen significantly. I drop a $20... and lose. So I double up and lose again, and again until it's eight reds in a row and I don't have enough cash left to double up so I just throw in what's left in my wallet and then it's nine fucking reds in a row and I'm walking quickly away from the table looking for an ATM, knowing that by the time I get back with more money it'll be too late, the ball will have finally stopped on black and I'll have missed it, and I curse my stupidity, knowing dumb luck had nothing to do with it.

The Fa'afine

flashorton — Mon, 6 Apr 2009 17:47:00 GMT

In traditional Samoan society, there is a certain elasticity regarding gender roles. Both men and women wear lava lavas (skirts) and gender tends to be defined by the the kind of work being done more than anything else; fishing, hunting, building vs. cooking, cleaning etc. When it comes to kids growing up within the relaxed, fun-loving, matriarchal extended families, it seems that male children with feminine tendencies feel free to become 'one of the girls' - helping around the house, dancing, singing and even wearing mum's makeup. Historically, in larger families with lots of boy children, the youngest may even be encouraged to cross over to help out mum. But, it seems, the real contribution of these 'Fa'afine' shows itself around puberty. In a society where frisky young boys are denied access to chaste young girls, it's perhaps no surprise that a large proportion of young Samoan males have their first sexual encounter with a Fa'afine. While the Fafa's have long been a part of Samoan village life, times change, and so have they. Many have now moved to Apia, the capital city, where their behaviour and dress has gradually become more overt, more liberated, more... tranny. Much like the ladyboys of Thailand, they now have their own nightclub and dance show, although that's where the similarity ends... there's no mistaking the fact these gals are guys, they are seriously chunky. So are they homosexuals? Transvestites? Transexual? While it's very easy to get tangled up in tags, maybe the clue is in the name; Afine is the Samoan word for woman, and Fa'afine means literally 'in the manner of a woman'. Gay, trapped in a man's body, or just happy to be pretending, who cares? The Fa'fa's provide a welcome splash of colour to this mixed up mother of a shook up world.

The Family Name

flashorton — Wed, 18 Mar 2009 09:53:00 GMT

Lately Isabel and I have been constantly reminded of weddings and babies. Parisa is getting hitched, Nick & Beanie just had a baby, so did Droidy, Mike's got one in the oven, so have Jools & Johno, Chris Moran... and so it goes on. Here in NZ my old schoolfriend Lynsey is expecting again, Ian and Katie have little Kaylee, and now we're staying with Ed and Sian who have their plates piled high with Suki and Oscar.

All this knot tying and sprog dropping has definitely left its mark on us, becoming a fairly regular conversation topic as we tour the world in a state of glorious irresponsibility that we know won't last forever. We're pretty much agreed that we are desperate to start a family of our own... in about 6 years time. Meanwhile, talk of marriage seems to lurk in the shadows, (as after all, in my book you either propose or you don't, and you avoid the topic as much as possible beforehand) but once you get onto babies it's hard not to move onto baby names, and after that it's only natural to consider how it fits with the surname. And what will that surname be? Would Isabel become a Horton, would she stay a Steiner, or would we opt for the increasingly popular double barreled option, and become Steiner-Horton's?

Hmm. Isabel is understandably not too hot on Horton (boring), and although we both think my christened name of Gomez sounds way cooler, it's not really worth being disowned by half your family for. I'm equally unimpressed with Steiner (German for Stoner), and the double-barrel option is horrible. So what to do?

Simple. Make up a new one, using the BEST letters from both our surnames to create a flashy, über cool surname!

So:

STEINER + HORTON

ROTNIRTESOHNE

NITROHORSE!

So there you go. A pretty awesome surname as I'm sure you'll agree, and a happy compromise, as all good marriages should be. I can't wait to see the vicar's face when he busts that one out.

Pure Gold

flashorton — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 09:24:00 GMT

The Gold Coast, or the 'Goldy' as it's known to a nation of abbreviators, is the Costa Del Sol of Australia. A place where every bus stop has a kid with a bodyboard wedged under an arm, every beach has a shower, a BBQ pit and a surf lifesavers club. Every other male under 25 wears a Bintang vest and drives a Ute.* Everyone wears sunglasses - over the eyes by day, over the head by night. Everyone on the beach has a tan, and, thanks to the relentless scary pseudo-scientific campaigning of the cancer council, everyone is obsessed with skin cancer. But, for every bronzed lifesaver running and swimming on the beach, there is a pale fatty chowing down in Macca's**. There are two categories of people here - the freakishly fit and the freakishly fat: as well as the most sport-obsessed, Australia is now the worlds most obese nation. Surfing is the true national sport. 11% of the population surfs, and at least 10% of the vehicles here have a surfboard on the roof. Gambling is the other. While blonde haired teens in teeny bikinis steal waves from under your nose, dishing out sexual and surfual frustration in equal measure, in the surf clubs and RSL's old folk fritter away their pensions away on the Pokies**.

It's all so sun-bleached, loud and trashy, and I love it.

* Abbreviation of 'Utility vehicle', although with their lowered suspension, chrome rims and custom paint job, many Utes are far from utilitarian.

** Abbreviation of Poker machines.

The (Barking) Mad Dog of Brulee

flashorton — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 15:06:00 GMT

We rolled into the small carpark next to a small estuary with oysters clustered over rocks at the neck, pelicans and gulls, and one Border Collie wading around the shallows, barking sporadically. Dusk fell, we ran out of cooking gas, drove around looking for gas, returning to the same spot as dusk advanced to find him still there, paddling around the sandy shallows, woofing to no-one and everyone. I started to wonder where his owner was, if perhaps he was somehow under there, drowned and lost in ankle-deep water, as his loyal friend paced fruitlessly, waiting for him to re-surface. At some point it got too dark for barking and peace fell, but the next morning he was back. Ears pricked, tail aloft, making high kicking steps through the silty water, staring intently below the surface. Woof. Woof. Fishing? Never seeming to attempt to catch anything, nor was there apparently anything to catch. Mad? He seemed healthy enough, wore a collar, though nobody seemed to have any claim on him. Senility? Well, he wasn't that old looking. OCD? This was as obsessive compulsive as it gets, and our attempts to distract him with a thrown stick or doggy talk were completely ignored.

Maybe he was a bit mad, or maybe he was busy patrolling his shoreline, seeing off the sealife. Or, as Isabel put it, "maybe he's just here, and this is what he likes to do".

Gallery: Oz

flashorton — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 07:48:00 GMT

Travel Photos

First Koala Sighting

flashorton — Thu, 4 Dec 2008 07:35:00 GMT

It's not a bear, but you can see why they call it one; this is the closest thing to a teddy bear that lives and breathes (and sleeps, and sleeps).

Two cloth ears of the softest, most feathery grade. Two stoned little beady eyes. A big black beetle for a nose. A luxurious fur coat and a cute little bum. They might not like being cuddled as much as they look like they should enjoy being cuddled, but they are still the most adorable creation on this green earth.

Ayu

flashorton — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 00:08:00 GMT

While Kuta Bali is about as far removed from the Real Indo as it gets, Kuta Lombok is a different story. Here, tourism has painted the thinnest veneer upon the land and people, and beneath it lies a Muslim community where prayer call disturbs your sleep daily at 4am; where everyone has a shiny motor scooter, yet many have never gone beyond a 10-mile radius of their village.

It was here that we visited Beth’s friend Ayu, who invited us to dinner at her family home – a simple dwelling set back behind the strip of beach-facing guesthouses. While we ate the delicious spread prepared by Ayu and her pal Kelly, bought at that morning’s market with Beth and Isabel in tow, the girls cross-examined Ayu about her life, culture, and recent marriage to Pete, a 40-plus Australian.

First fact: Ayu is shy, sweet, funny, unworldly… and breathtakingly beautiful. Sitting there hearing her story unfold, as a man it wasn’t difficult to put yourself in the (absent) shoes of Pete and wonder if you wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing.

- You’re only 18, is that a normal age to marry here?

- Quite old. By the time a girl gets to 20, she’s already too old for a man to want her. 13 or 14 is quite normal here, but I wanted to finish school first.

- How did you meet Pete?

- I was selling Saris and I met him at the hotel he was staying at. He went away for 3 months, then came back again.

- What happened next?

- (giggling) He stole me from my village! Paid some boys to grab me and bring me to his hotel in Mataram (Lombok capital city) where he was waiting. Afterwards, I was really scared, because if I didn’t come back without a husband...

- What?

- ‘Kuhkkkkk…’(makes gesture of throat being slit) get killed.

- By who?

- By my family. Tradition.

- Has this ever happened before in your village?

- Yes, to a girl I knew. She went to Mataram with a boy in secret. But someone saw and told her family. So her brothers killed her. She was tied to a tree, hands behind her back, and beaten with sticks, then they cut her throat. (giggling) Lots of blood coming out!

- What did they do with the boy?

- Nothing. Just the girl.

- Did the police arrest the brothers?

- No. It’s the tradition.

- So, once he’d taken your honour, Pete had to marry you?

- Yes. He had to come to my village to meet my father. And he had to become a Muslim.

Ayu’s father stops by briefly. A small, quiet, frail old man with 3 deceased wives and a face devastated by the cancer that has eaten it away for the past 11 years. It smells of death and decay.

- Was everyone happy with the match?

- My family were all very happy about it, but some people from the village said bad things about me, about marrying a white man. But Pete paid 5 million rupiah for a big party, and everyone came and had a good time.

Over the course of the evening, Ayu reveals more about her life to come with Pete. How she wants to move to Oz with him, how she has never drank alcohol, and how Pete, a reformed alcoholic, doesn’t want her to start. How Pete finds it “hard to relax” when she is around other men, and worries that she will cheat on him. And, when we ask her if she’s looking forward to getting her Australian passport, her surprise, saying “really? Pete never told me about that…”

Diary of a beginner surfer in Arugam Bay

flashorton — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 02:47:00 GMT

8.00am: Wake up cold, with the fan blowing hard through the mozzie net. The sound of the surf crashing against the shore, the fan rattling, the yowling and screeching and squeaking of the dogs and crows and chipmunks. Feel the night’s bites start to itch.

8.30am: The long walk to the point. Barefoot, either following the high line of the beach with its trash and spiky hazards or the inside line, shorter, firmer sand but always dodging the rushing foam.

8.45am: Reach the lagoon, almost at the point, where the fishermen need help landing their jellyfish-loaded boats. Help fishermen drag their boats out of the water OR ignore the fishermen because the novelty has worn off and you’re feeling grouchy.

8.55am: Arrive at the hut on the point. Order a coffee, white, no sugar, having learned that no sugar = sweet, with sugar = unbearably sweet. Put on your rashie and reef boots and head to the paddle out spot, hoping this will be your day.

9.05am: Wait for the set to finish and paddle out, quickly. Before you know it, you’re in the lineup. Let the current drift you past the lineup (where the good surfers are) to the outside (where scum like you belong).

9.10-10.30am: Watch what everyone else is doing. When they paddle away from the shore, so do you, to avoid getting caught inside when the cleanup set arrives. Try to work out a spot to catch a wave from, and maintain your position there. Try to sit on your board in a casually cool and relaxed way. Fail. Settle for trying not to look like you’re riding a mechanical bull. Nod in a casually cool way to the good surfers who are doing multiple laps around you, nod in a friendly ‘me too’ way to the other kooks floating around cluelessly. Start to glare at the Israeli guy on your inside who has taken the past 5 waves you had any chance of catching.

10.31am: A wave comes, you’re in the perfect spot. PADDLE! PADDLE! The wave passes under you. Turn around to see a bigger wave about to crush you. PADDLE! DIVE! Roll around underwater for a few minutes wondering where the surface is and if you’re gonna be dragged across the reef and if you’re gonna die and reflecting that no, you’ll probably be ok (or will I?). Reach the surface gasping for air and pulling your leg rope to retrieve your board and hope you’re not too close to the reef and taking a deep breath because here comes the next wave and DIVE! Roll around some more and return to the surface gasping like an asthmatic marathon runner and start paddling out of the impact zone as fast as your oxygen starved arms will carry you. Keep paddling until you are at least 10 metres further out back than anyone else and wait for your heart to slip back down your throat.

10.45am Cautiously, make your way back to the lineup. A wave comes, you’re in the perfect spot. PADDLE! PADDLE! Just as the peak reaches you, realize that Israeli guy just snaked you and is now shouting at you to get off his wave, meanwhile a Sri Lankan kid is dropping in on both of you, so you back off the wave.

10.55am A wave comes, you’re in the perfect spot. PADDLE! PADDLE! The wave breaks just behind you but you don’t realize because you are rubbish. Wave picks you up and takes you over the falls, meanwhile the leg rope has got tangled around your leg and is now trying to amputate you at the ankle. Reach the surface gasping for air and… here comes the next wave.

Repeat for another few hours a day, every day, for 3 weeks.

Chaweng Ladyboy Show

flashorton — Thu, 26 Jun 2008 23:40:00 GMT

Glazed swollen lips synching alluringly or grotesquely through an Abba medley, My Way, Heaven (must be talking to an angel), Diamonds Are A Girls Best Friend. The songs follow each other seamlessly, each one with its own costume change and choreography, each more dazzling than the last.

Perfect, untouchable bodies wrapped in shimmering clinging fabrics radiating feathers, glitter, gossamer. Narrow strips of fabric cover crotches lacking even Venus's mound. "Taped under ass" nods my guide assuredly. "I know him," she adds, pointing at one, "he has a big one".

I'm dazzled by the glamour, energy, femininity of it all. Helped by my 5th cocktail, the illusion engulfs me completely. I love it. I love them all, and they bask in our adoration.

At the end, they skip down the catwalk and form a line outside the bar, smiling radiantly, slim chests heaving inside padded basques. Our tips are the only payment they will receive tonight, and for every 20B note I offer, a smile, kiss, curtsey or hug is demurely offered in return.

One, after quickly quizzing my guide on our relationship basis, pulls me in for a 2nd, more meaningful hug. and her expression becomes more suggestive, predatory; male yet not masculine. How fascinating, these (lady)birds of paradise.

Dirty needles and Ladyboys

flashorton — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 03:43:00 GMT

So after leaving it way too late to get all the jabs I needed, I finally went to the doctor's to get some immunity from life's little biological assassins.

Stab! Ow! Typhoid. Stab! Ow! Hepatitis A. Stab! Owwww!! Polio? Hard to focus on what she's saying. Stab! Ow! Fuck! Hepatitis B.

"now I've only given you one of the three Hep B's, so you're only partly protected. And it's too late to get the Rabies shot," said the nurse, "so no ladyboys, no tattoos, and don't try to tickle any monkeys under the chin..."

Damn. Could she somehow be reading my mind? If so, she's wasted with the NHS.

"Because that's what one lady did, and it nearly took off the end of her finger."