The Berlin Diaries – The Wizard’s Lair

 

Thursday I braved the snow and lashing winds and headed down to the Bürgeramt in Wedding. ‘What is the Bürgeramt, Dan?’ I hear you plead. The Bürgeramt, my friend, is a frightfully dull bureaucratic building, an official government site where you have to sort out all your throat-slittingly boring paperwork, registrations, documentation, whatever. After three months living in the city, I have finally moved into a flat where I am able to register – which is a crucial part of moving here, as it allows me to get a bank account, get health insurance, get paid, you name it. The German word for this kind of registration is Anmeldung, a term which now boils my blood every time I hear it. Continue reading

A List of Shit I’m Going to Do This Year Unless the World Ends, Which It Probably Will, Because Donald Trump is a Moron

Yo yo, no pissing away time with introductory paragraphs on this blog. Nah, here we go, a straight up list written in an impassioned frenzy while listening to Thin Lizzy.

  • Join a gym, get fit again, develop buns of steel, abs of marble and guns of granite.
  • Join boxing classes in order to become DEADLY with my fists to the point where I need to get them registered as concealed weapons and obtain a permit to have them on me at any point.
  • (Assuming Donald Trump doesn’t accidentally-on-purpose destroy life as we know it) Buy a moped for whizzing around the city like a bat out of, uh, Leeds.
  • Visit 10 new countries, specifically including Morocco because I want to ride a camel drunk through the desert while scream-singing ‘Arabian Nights’ until everyone tells me to fuck off.
  • Visit every club in Berlin, because it’d be rude not to.
  • (If we are not incinerated in a nuclear holocaust courtesy of bumbling onion-hakwer Donald Trump) I will sort out the damned hole in my tooth that has been on/off hurting for about a year.
  • Convince my dad that Jeremy Corbyn isn’t the bastard he bizarrely thinks he is, and that Socialism is actually quite a good and pleasant idea.
  • Do not sit quietly and tolerate any more pro-capitalism arguments that are silly and nonsensical, including:
  1. Socialism is just leeching off rich people! (No it isn’t, but capitalism is leeching off poor people)
  2. It’s always been this way! (No it hasn’t)
  3. There will always be rich people and poor people! (No there won’t)
  4. Socialism will never work because of human nature! (Nope, humans are a product of their environment)
  5. But it’s my money! (Kim, there are people that are dying)
  • Stay angry, stay passionate, hold onto my ideals, and advocate positive change in the world.
  • Keep listening to the Clash.
  • Make a shitload of weird new friends.
  • Take up graffiti. Seems fun. I could write choice Clash lyrics. Or draw dicks!
  • Try out a new haircut (just kidding, I’m not going completely mental).
  • Make an arch rival, a nemesis, someone who I can occasionally do battle with, etc. I feel like it’d be a good motivator.
  • (If Donald Trump hasn’t already destroyed literature and held mass book burning rallies) I plan to read ridiculous amounts of books and get really smart and stuff.
  • Either buy a guitar or fly my own over from Blighty. Start a fucking great band and make songs about how shit everything is and do Joe Strummer proud.
  • Get more articles published – Vice and the Guardian are the two I’m aiming for, and they have thus far met my pitches with agonising silence. God dammit.
  • Keep in touch with my friends back home and don’t change into an arsehole just because I live in Berlin now.
  • (If there are any left that haven’t been hurled into camps) I will help refugees, help the homeless, volunteer and try to make things generally better.
  • Get involved in more political activity, maybe get arrested and shot for my beliefs after making an incendiary speech that echoes down the annals of history and eventually leads to the uprising that will free the poor and downtrodden from their shackles, something like that, idk.
  • Never pay that stupid rail fine even if it means I am slung into a gulag and forced to swing a pickaxe for the next 80 years. FUCK THE MAN.
  • Be a successful vegetarian. Learn to cook wicked veggie meals and get buff off of vegetables and prove everyone wrong that said I would fail miserably and look unhealthy and be all pale and skinny. I will eat no meat and I will be a bronzed Hercules.
art274.jpg

‘Look, it’s cold in here, okay?’

  • Pay off my overdraft and for the first time in five years have a bank balance that doesn’t start with a ‘minus’ sign.
  • (Assuming Donald Trump’s greasy fake-tanned finger hasn’t slithered all over the Big Red Button and turned all to ashes) I plan to become more attractive. To either sex. All attention is good.

And last but not least, the most noble of my aspirations for the coming twelve months: get laid in a Berlin nightclub. But, again, that’s not likely to happen, as we will probably have all been machine gunned to death by swooping drones because someone on Twitter called Donald Trump a bull-frog-throated cock ring with a voice like Porky Pig that looks like someone skinned the Honey Monster, then reanimated it’s swollen corpse using a brain taken from one of those small yapping dogs everyone hates.

Good grief, what a visual metaphor.

The Berlin Diaries – The Mystical Pool of Neukölln

*It’s a dark, blustery evening. You lie in bed, but you cannot sleep. The only thing that will do, you decide, is a bedtime story from your favourite grandfather. You creep downstairs, your teddy grasped tight in your little palm. You enter my office timidly, and find me an old man, reclined in a rich leather armchair by a roaring fire, spectacles perched on the end of my nose. I am quietly perusing a large, ornate copy of Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species. I glance up with a start as you close the door behind you.*

Oh, hello my sweet grandchild! Didn’t hear you come in. It’s that time already, is it? Time for another story, ey? Well, you scamp, come hither and rest your arse upon my knee, and I will thrill you with tales of my youth in Berlin. Today’s story is set way back in 2017, on the 2nd of January. Continue reading

The Berlin Diaries – Homecoming

I’m in a wonderful mood this morning. I fly home to England tomorrow for the Christmas holidays. I’m finally returning home, and I never expected I’d be doing it on my own terms. I didn’t fail, I didn’t crash and burn like so many others I’ve met along the way here; the French guys I met back at the hostel who spunked all their money in one month; the homesick kids who come in their droves and fly back after a couple of weeks when they miss sleep and sense; the poor buggers who are overwhelmed and turfed out by the ever unspooling red tape. Moving to Berlin is an upstream salmon odyssey,  battling against the current with hungry bears pawing the shallows. It’s a mad dash for safety under sniper fire, friends being picked off seemingly at random. You’re only ever one U Bahn fine or job interview rejection away from complete failure and a disgraced Ryanair home. But despite everything, somehow, I made it, and it feels so good. Continue reading

Cuba Day 13 – Malecon Wankers

Only a couple of days left of my Cuba diary now, and it’s been a whirlwind up to this point. Today’s entry features a storm on the beach, a concert on the University steps, and a drunken Canadian falling off a very high wall into the sea…

We all woke up nursing a dreadful collective hangover. Got a taxi to the Capitolio building with Martin and Sanya. Got a disgusting ‘meat’ sandwich thing which I ate two bites of before binning. Threw some to a stray dog, which hungrily ate it and hobbled away retching.

Went to a park to get wifi (the parks, for some reason, have wifi) and swapped a hundred or so quid over into my bank. Got cash out and met up with Joe before heading to the beach. The beggars where we got the bus from are the worst I’ve experienced. They refuse to leave even after being told no ten times. One old woman was pleading with us, showing us dirt on her skin. Everything I have read has said tipping beggars harms the economy. Doctors earn 20cuc a month – a beggar can earn twice that easily.

Everyone and their mum's piles down to wifi hotspots. Who are they all texting? Nobody has any bloody internet!

Sanya, Martin, Joe and I got to the beach on a lame tour bus with tourists frantically snapping photos of every building, bush and bird we passed. Got some beers and were metres from the beach when it started to rain. Waited it out in a restaurant, where we cracked our own tins as a frowning waiter looked on.

Beach was gorgeous and quiet, and the sea was warm. Would have been idyllic had furious black clouds not been rapidly approaching from the horizon. Had a swim and a long conversation with Joe about pretty much everything. Started to piss it down again so hopped on the bus back.

Nice, huh?

Oops, spoke too soon. Catastrophic thunderstorm.

At the hostel, we met everyone else, including an Australian guy called John, born in Hong Kong. He’s a doctor of astronomy studying galaxy formation, 28 years old, and is 8 months into a 2 year world trip. He’s done almost every country in South America so far, and is planning on going basically everywhere. He saved ten years for this trip.

Lesley, the German girl I met on my second night (whose name I absolutely cannot remember every time I speak to her), visited the hostel to meet Joe. We all got food from a local paladar – a licensed restaurant. Chicken, rice, avacado and potatoes. Took about an hour waiting for it. Some of the best advice I’ve had was from Kurt in Vinales – you need a lot of patience in Cuba. Nothing happens quickly. It was worth the wait. Delicious. One of the tastiest meals I’ve had in Cuba (although that’s not difficult).

Martin left for the airport. Said a very efficient German farewell.

We bought rum after and I headed to the malecon with Lesley, Sammy and Sanya. Drank rum on the wall. Talked to Lesley about her time in Cuba and it’s effect on her relationship with her boyfriend in Germany – she’s here for 7 months. Told me she has previously had open relationships and considers it completely normal and healthy. Sanya, Sammy and I couldn’t comprehend the idea of our partners sleeping with someone else and being fine with it. I’d be horrified. In theory though, I understand her views. Really interesting conversation in a gorgeous location.

Headed back at 9 to meet Joe and John. Had mojitos at the hostel, then, armed with more rum, we set out to the university amid rumours of a concert taking place there.

The street was packed full of people heading to the university steps, where a huge stage had been erected with a full light show that could be seen all over Havana. Police had made a perimeter a hundred or so metres around the centre and were frisking people as they went in – almost exclusively black people. We passed through without even an eyebrow raised.

Apologies for the blurry photography. I was hammered.

We smoked and drank rum and danced, enjoying watching the locals hanging out of windows, cramming onto balconies and clustering on rooftops to see the show. The booze turned on Sammy and he went from Cliff Richard to Keith Richards in about 10 minutes. We had to hold him back to prevent him running onto the stage. Told him he would most definitely end up slung in a Cuban jail.

Peepin' Cubans

Went for more rum and met a friend of Lesley’s, a dreadlocked Cuban guy called Louis. The longer we stayed, the more locals latched onto us and soon it snowballed into half the street giving us cigarettes, telling us about their cousins in Europe, and asking for rum. Louis was really cool. He works in television editing and works with Avid and Premiere – the same programmes I used at uni. He’s currently working on a documentary about a Dominican man who has collected 5000 handprints from every country in the world.

The show finished and we stayed to chat in the street as the crowd trickled away. As we floated drunkenly back toward the casa, screeching tires gave us all a heart attack. Police cruisers flew past and skidded to a halt fifty metres ahead, and officers jumped out and started knocking some Cubans about. Two groups were busy braying each other but were soon scattered and the main culprits slapped in irons. I already assumed, but now had it confirmed, Cuban police do not fuck about.

We grabbed yet more rum and stumbled to the malecon. Had a pizza each on the way, and lost half the group. Lesley wondered off with Louis, Joe disappeared to find wifi, and John made best friends with a family in the takeaway.

Sanya and I were left babysitting the paralytic Canadian on the sea wall. Any potential conversation was soiled by his constant drunken interjections and subsequent apologies. He began repeating that he needed the bathroom. I told him to go down an alleyway, vaguely hoping he might get lost and not come back. Nice guy, just an annoying drunk.

Lounging drunkenly on the malecon with a warm night breeze - there's no better way to spend an evening.

He ventured off into a dark alley and came back exclaiming that he needed to wash his hands. He tried to reach down to the sea from the malecon, failed due to the sea wall being 10 feet high above the water, dropped his keys to the rocks below, and, before I could even say ‘moron’ he had hopped over the wall.

Miraculously he didn’t die immediately from landing badly on the sharp, slippery rocks. More and more bemused locals were gathering to watch the floundering halfwit scrabbling about among the rock pools in the dark like a pissed up Gollum on his stag do. We shone our torches down for him, and, god knows how, he found his keys.

He yelled up and three squinting Cubans put their beers down and heaved him back up onto the right side of the wall. He repaid them by flopping his arms around them and asking the same questions fourteen times.

Sammy, looking rather like Gollum.

Had a monosyllabic conversation with the Cuban guys, who were refreshingly chilled and gratefully turned Sammy down when he tried to shove a fistful of coins their way. Swapped a cigarette for rum, said goodnight, and Sanya and I carried Sammy home.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 14 – At Last, Some Culture… Oh, And A Flailing Tramp

“A bleeding tramp sat on the floor of the second carriage, kicking people who walked past.”

Cuba Day 11 – Tanning with Belgian Riot Police

After the meteoric crash at the end of my first week, by the time I reached Viñales, things had started to look up. After 11 days, Cuba didn’t seem to hate me anymore. My time in Viñales was spent hanging out with police inspectors from Belgium and choking on massive cigars…

Today is the day I’ve been waiting and hoping for.

Woke up still steaming for breakfast before a horse riding tour organised by my casa. Breakfast is becoming less of a joyous banquet and more of a forced feeding. Crammed myself full of bread, fruit, cheese and coffee before a car arrived at ten. Mojito hangovers are fierce and I struggled to even keep my eyes open as we drove to the horse trail.

Hopped on a horse that didn’t want to walk. Guide kept shouting something at it in Spanish and it eventually started to drag it’s heels (hooves?) in a slow plod that felt almost sarcastic.

Tour guide spoke no English and my Spanish is wank, so the two hour tour was pretty silent, apart from my guide occasionally pointing out various fruit plants.

‘La banana’
‘Cool’

Nothing to see here. Just me looking like an absolute alpha male. Move along.

Saw a cock fighting arena, where two men stood thrashing each other with their genitals. Just kidding. Cockerels were wondering about, but thankfully no fighting was taking place. Gross ‘sport’.

Eventually got saddle sore and wished I’d just gone for the one hour tour. The horse riding itself doesn’t compare to my experience in New Zealand – that felt like I was really controlling the horse and working with it, rather than being ferried along like a sack of spuds on a conveyor belt. Turns out that what I have heard shouted at horses all across Cuba is the word ‘Caballo’. They shout this to get the horses moving. Presumed it means go, or faster. Turns out it means ‘horse’. Ingenius.

Was getting dizzy from the heat, so thankfully we stopped and wondered up to a tobacco farm. Had a delicious mango juice, and met a handful of other horse-trekkers. There was an older Belgian couple, Kurt and Sharon (their names sound much more exotic when they pronounce them) and a young German couple. Watched another cigar being rolled, and passed it around. Had honey on the end, and you could actually inhale without choking.

This chap rolled us a magnificent cigar inside the tobacco drying house. Allowed us to smoke it... inside the building made out of dry leaves. Cubans just don't give a fuck.

The others bought cigars (at jinetero prices, but I didn’t say anything) and we got chatting. They all spoke English – I hate only speaking one language. It feels so ignorant. The Belgian guy spoke French, German, English, Dutch and some Danish. They said they were going to a beach later and invited us all along.

They dropped me back at my casa in their rental car and I chilled for an hour, then met them at the town plaza at 2.30 after grabbing a quick peso pizza from a stall out of someone’s living room window. The peso pizzas here are essentially dough with some cheese on, but it fills a hole, and for about 70 pence I can hardy complain.

The Belgian and German couples arrived, I hopped in the car and we sped off to find some distant beach. Took about an hour, through mountains and pine forests on treacherous old roads. The beach was gorgeous – calm waters and white sands. Unfortunately, snorkelling was crap, as the locals think nothing of lobbing beer cans and other litter into the sea. Littering is a pet hate of mine, and many a time during this fortnight I’ve winced watching the locals finish a can and lob it carelessly over their shoulder without a second thought.

Not bad.

The Belgian couple are police officers, Sharon is an inspector and Kurt is chief inspector working on the French Belgian border. You can tell they love their work – Kurt enthusiastically told me stories about his days in the royal guard, the riot police, and mounted division. Really interesting stuff.

Headed back to Vinales before it got dark and only got lost once or twice. Saw the sun set behind the mountains, turning the whole sky pink.

Cop car photo bombed my shot of the gorgeous afternoon haze. Fuck the po-lees.

Texted Sina and met him and Marie Claire in the same salsa bar as last night. Martin came down too, and Kurt and Sharon joined us. Sina’s Cuban tour guide from his horse trek joined us also, along with his girlfriend. A real motley crew, with three or four languages criss crossing the table constantly and me nodding sagely, smiling knowingly, and pretending I had a clue what anybody was on about.

Stomach started churning after a couple of beers. Entry was a cuc, and so I was loathe to run home to shit and pay in again. Instead braved the bar toilets, grabbing a fistful of toilet roll off the female attendant slumped outside.

Toilet door kept swinging open, didn’t lock, toilet had no seat and no top, so you could see straight into the plumbing. Shat myself down a belt size, and then realised the flush didn’t work and she had given me one square of toilet roll. Somehow, thank christ, I was able to make do, and after many attempts was able to flush away the shame. Fuckin Cuba.

A nice sunset, to help cleanse your mental palette after that unfortunate last paragraph.

Had more mojitos and chatted to Marie Claire in between her enthusiastic if rhythm lacking salsa excursions. Left around 1am and got everyone’s names for Facebook, all agreeing we could stay with each other if we came to each other’s countries. Sina and Marie Claire live in Amsterdam, so if I ever get around to travelling there that would be great.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 12 – Havana Good Time (I’m not sorry)

“At one point our driver pulled over in the middle of the motorway. The gentleman pictured wandered over across the six lane motorway and sold him a string of garlic. They argued about the price for a while. To this day I am yet draw a satisfactory conclusion as to what the hell anyone would need that much garlic for.”

Cuba Day 10 – Viñales Vagabonds

Day 10 in Cuba, and after more than a week of having my ego constantly buggered, things started to look up. More or less. Enjoy!

Was woken at 2am by voices and music next door. Heard a familiar drum beat – someone was playing Alt J! Nearly wept with joy and went to find whoever it was, but alas, their door was closed. Could hear multiple people speaking in English. Was desperate to speak to them but didn’t dare knock and enter their room for fear of looking like a lonely maniac. As I got back into bed, Arctic Monkeys came on. Hearing that familiarity, my favourite band, and with potential friends so close but so far, was probably the lowest point of my trip.

Got up early as I farted in bed and nearly shit my pants. Turns out I have diarrhoea now, to add to my top trumps card of various ailments, maladies and inconveniences.

Paid the casa girl and left. Couldn’t find anywhere open selling food or water, so didn’t drink or eat. Went to Casa de Ania to wait for the taxi. Met a German girl and a girl from Nottingham who were very friendly, on a five month world trip.

Taxi arrived – a big old brown Chevrolet. Picked up six other passengers – two girls and a guy from Isreal, a German guy, and a Dutch couple. Starting to notice a theme here.

We all got chatting as we sped down the deserted motorway, banging our heads on the roof as we bounced over various potholes and being flung to either side as we skidded around trotting wild dogs. We all got on well. Stopped for a break and the Israeli guy went for a shit in a bush.

Waiting for the Isreai guy to poo.

Drove on to a tobacco farm just outside Vinales. Saw the owner roll a cigar in front of us which we passed around amid much photograph taking. Had rum and coffee in his house and bought five cigars for a cuc each – bargain, and very high quality. Not that I would know.

Tobacco farm.

We each got dropped at our casas, mine has a great mountain view in a quiet street. Sat in a rocking chair on the porch and aged 50 years. Was meant to meet the others but I’m bloody knackered.

Part 2

Heaved myself out of bed. Went to find the Dutch couple, Marie Claire and Sina, who is originally Iranian. They’re both doctors. Sky was thundering and lightning but not a drop of rain. They arrived late after getting lost, and had already been on the mojitos, so were pretty relaxed.

vinales

Bumped into the German engineer, called Martin, in the street. We all went for a cerveza or three. Met another German couple whose names escape me. Went to a restaurant but didn’t bother eating, partially due to lack of funds.

Everyone, especially Sina, got hammered. Had a fascinating talk with our Cuban waiter. He used to be a high school teacher but left to become a waiter as the pay is better, enabling him to support his family. He works long hours and lives miles and miles away in the city, as does his wife. He doesn’t think Cuba will change when the Americans arrive – although he hopes it will. He told us that Vinales, Trinidad, Veradero are not real Cuba – this is just what tourists see.

After the waiter's warnings, the sight of these 30 police officers standing stoic on a street corner in the middle of the night was made all the more eerie.

The nation is the most contradictory and enigmatic I have ever visited. The more we talked, the more his frustrations with the country came out. He isn’t supposed to voice his opinions, and kept checking around as he spoke for authoritative ears. He doesn’t like Castro. He said school aren’t incentivised, poverty is rampant and the system doesn’t work. Something in the way he spoke – secretive, passionate, desperate, made me uncomfortable. Every Cuban says something different. I want to see behind the curtain.

As Sina put it when we left the restaurant, ‘A look into the eyes of real Cuba’.

After, we headed to the casa de la musica for drinks. Was forced to have a mojito by the barmaid despite asking for a beer. Meh. Was a good mojito. Spoke extensively with one of the German guys about immigration and Syria, which I pretended to know far more about than I actually do.

When the music started up I heard English accents at the bar and met two English girls. Had a brief chat before the music got too loud and they were whisked away to salsa. Having an extended conversation with a female at any casa de la musica is nigh impossible.

I can't dance Salsa, but I can sing the first few lines of Justin Timberlake's Senorita, which is basically the same thing.

Got pretty smashed with Sina and Martin. Girls don’t ask guys to dance, so if you lack the confidence to ask a girl or the know-how to salsa, you ain’t gonna salsa. The three of us guys stood at the side of the dancing, acting like we didn’t want to dance anyway. Eventually we just said fuck it and got in amongst it.

Booze started to turn on me and we thankfully left just as I was reaching my well documented monging stage. Sat outside with Martin for a bit and were solicited by prostitutes – which Martin turned down because they were too expensive.

Said goodnight and staggered off home, only getting lost briefly in the sleepy streets of the small mountain town. A good day.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 11 – Tanning with Belgian Riot Police

“We were a real motley crew, with three or four languages criss crossing the table constantly and me nodding sagely, smiling knowingly, and pretending I had a clue what anybody was on about.”