Reading is Traveling is Reading

Oi. You. You with the eyebrows. Yeah, you.

You’re reading a travelling blog, aren’t you? T’would be futile to protest otherwise, my friend. Well, since you are here, perusing my site, I do believe it is safe to assume that you have at least a passing interest in travelling. Hey, me too! OMG we have so much in common.

I’ve been grounded here in rainy England for a while due to the fact that I have that tedious and tiresome constraint called a job. But I’ve found a way to feel free, to learn and live, albeit vicariously through others, and that is through an oft maligned practise called reading. Reading is cool.

Wait, come back!

Reading is cool, and if you sneer at those three words you can go and boil your head, oaf. If you’ve time to sit here and read me insulting you, you great mucky Philistine, you can bloody well sit and read a book. A book, I’ve found, offers the same level of worldview-altering, mind-expanding goodness that travelling does. I wouldn’t advocate one over the other, though. In fact they go together pretty well, like cookies and milk, or a bottle of wine and another bottle of wine.

So, because I’ve spent a, for lack of a better word, fuckload of time searching for decent books to read this year, I’ve decided to gift you, dear sweet reader, with the list of books I’ve read these past twelve months. These books have a similar theme – that is, they’re pretty view-altering. You’ll read these and find yourself thinking a little differently. Whether their words stay glowing within you forever or haunt your dreams for a week, these are books that are worth every second you invest in them.

 

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

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A tale of a big tough man and a bigger tougher fish.

 

On The Road by Jack Kerouac

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Jack Kerouac races around North America and Mexico with the incorrigible Neal Cassady stealing cars and raving to jazz and falling in and out of love and being generally brilliant.

 

Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

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Jack Kerouac explores Buddhism with his friend Gary Snyder, climbs a few mountains, meditates a lot, has wild parties, reads poetry, partakes in a few orgies and whatnot, all in the name of the search for enlightenment.

 

Lonesome Traveller by Jack Kerouac

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He’s my favourite author, okay?

Jack Kerouac roams from North America to Mexico via New Orleans, crosses the ocean, meditates in Tangiers, crosses French countryside to Paris, and finally arrives in London.

 

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson

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Hunter S. Thompson and his attorney head to Vegas to write an article for Rolling Stone on a motorbike race, spend their budget instead on an absolute fuck ton of drugs and get very wild and very, very weird. Bad craziness!

 

The Motorcycle Diaires by Che Guevara

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Ernesto Guevara, before he was Che, was a 23 year old Argentinian doctor who just wanted to see the world, drink wine and get laid. And that’s essentially what he did on this nine month tour of South America by motorbike – until he witnessed the abject poverty that was rampant in Chile and Peru, and took the first steps on his journey as a revolutionary.

 

Dubliners by James Joyce

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Fifteen short stories tracing the lives of priests, nuns, maids, undertakers, alcoholics, politicians, sailors, schoolboys, fathers, daughters, mothers and sons, all set in early twentieth century Dublin. Sounds bleak as hell and, not gunna lie, it is, but it’s spectacularly vivid.

 

Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

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Anne Frank was a 15 year old Jewish girl killed in the Holocaust in 1945.  She was also a fantastic writer, an incredibly complex and inspiring person, and her diary is the most stomach-punchingly heavy testament to the horrors of racism and hatred I’ve ever read. Read her diary and you’ll feel like her friend. You’ll understand and relate to this fierce, brave and intelligent girl. This book should be mandatory reading for every single person in the world.

 

Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse

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Siddhartha is a young religious man who sets out to find enlightenment in fourth century India. He finds it in various forms, though never exactly where he’s looking for it.. Everyone will take something different away from this book, but everyone will take something away. It’s stunning.

 

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

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Holden Caulfield is a 17 year old school kid who hates everything and everyone and speaks in a unique youthful vernacular that was considered outrageous at the time and got this book banned everywhere. Caulfield is frustrated and disappointed and shocked by the goddamn ‘phony’ adults he sees all around him. Booted out of goddamn school, he runs away to New York. We have all been Holden Caulfield at some point in our goddamn lives, I really mean it.

 

Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut

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Between the 13th and 15th February, 1945, Allied forces bombed the German city of Dresden into dust, killing some 25,000 civilians in one night. Kurt Vonnegut was an American soldier held captive in the city at the time, and witnessed the destruction. This book tells the tale with a science fiction spin, through the eyes of accidental time traveller Billy Pilgrim. Okay, I’ve made it sound shit. It’s good. Harrowing and deeply unsettling, but good. Hmm. Good might not be the word. Important.

 

Next up, I want to read:

Kim by Rudyard Kipling

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Not too sure of the story, but from what I’ve read about it, it gives amazingly vivid descriptions of India, which makes me giddy with excitement because I’m dying to travel to India this year or next.

To be honest, there are as many books I want to read as there are countries I want to visit. Hmm. Every book and every country in the world. That should keep me occupied for the time being, at least.

 

Backpackers: An Odd Species

I still remember the first backpackers I ever saw. It was the first stop of my big world trip, Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. Arriving at the hostel after our flight, exhausted already by the sticky heat and boisterous Vietnamese city life, my friend and I spotted 15 or so bedraggled western backpackers lounging in the foyer. Even at a glance, it was plain to see they weren’t normal tourists. I wanted to say hi, but I was too shy.

Image result for gif wave hi Continue reading

I’m Moving To Berlin. Woo!!!

 

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I’ve an announcement to make, which will no doubt to bring shock and disbelief to the scores of people who read this website, namely my parents and the occasional random Argentinian man who accidentally stumbles across this site while searching for porn. I wish to inform all three of you that, on the 4th of October this year, I will be moving to Berlin. Continue reading

Berlin Part 1: Hobo Poetry

Well, I’ve found my happy place.

In May I visited Berlin. Flying into Tegel airport (which is shit), I bumbled my way into the city to meet my friend, Michelle, at Leinestraße. I’d not seen her in a year. She’s a little sassy French girl with delightfully tussled hair who parties harder than anyone I’ve met. Her appetite for dancing is never ending. She’s cool. Continue reading

Post Cuba

Actually no, that title’s shit. Need something edgier.

Cuba: A Look Back In Anger

No that’s wank.

Reflections

Jesus.

Erm.

Dan After Cuba

Oh forget it.

So. Assuming you have now read all 15 days of my diary (God bless your patience), you will now have an idea of why I find it so hard to sum the country up in a nice little manageable sentence. Two weeks after the first manic taxi ride took me plunging into the jaws of the mysterious communist island, Cuba belched me back out again, shivering and bewildered and wondering what the hell I’d just been through. Continue reading

How To Become a Travel Writer in 20 Messy Steps — Discover

Stumbled across this in the WordPress Reader. Really inspiring stuff, and my viewpoint on it exactly. Hope my career pans out like this. Have a read, it’s inspiring shit – Dan

“Become, accidentally, an early adopter of a practice that later becomes a juggernaut of marketing in travel, a thing called ‘travel blogging.’ Have a session proposal rejected by BlogHer…for being ‘too niche’ but later, present on that same topic at SxSW to a packed room.” 20 steps, courtesy of Pam Mandel.

via How To Become a Travel Writer in 20 Messy Steps — Discover

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

The 14th day and penultimate entry of my Cuban diary, and I discovered Havana’s empty Chinatown & met a furious hobo. We’ve nearly made it to the end of this slapdash, sun fried, rum stained voyage. Enjoy!

Crawled out of bed. Sammy was dead to the world, bless ‘im. Headed out with John and got breakfast from a few different street stalls. A sandwich here, an ice cream there, dodging fume belching cars and whistling hustlers and steaming bins – even breakfast in Cuba is an adventure.

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Advertising just doesn’t exist in Cuba. It’s exciting to walk down the street trying to spy the local conveniences. The person who invents the sandwich board over there is going to be a billionaire.

Met a couple more Isreali girls who are travelling after finishing their mandatory army service, as is common among Isreali twenty somethings, and a guy from Lebanon with a tattoo commemorating the Cuban revolution. Give him a week of seeing constant Fidel and Che posters plastered over every available service and he’ll be sanding it off.

We said goodbye to Sammy, who was so drunk last night that he couldn’t even remember having anything to be embarrassed about. So I reminded him. As with many of my experiences in Cuba, while last night I was quivering with rage watching the smashed Canadian stagger around Havana offending literally everyone, with hindsight it’s pretty hilarious.

Sanya and I were planning to explore Habana Vieja – the old town. Luckily, John decided to tag along, and thanks to his Spanish made an excellent tour guide. Walked the length of the malecon, saw the castle, the Capitolio, cannons in the bay, and wondered around the police station – which is bizarrely open to explore. You can literally see into the cells from outside. Morose (and mostly black) faces watched us from behind iron bars, some in bandages, presumably (and hopefully) just from boozey antics the night before.

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The Capitolio. Capitol building of Cuba. Just across the road, a crumbling old hovel.

Found some cool town squares. A guy came up to us as we lounged on a bench and told us he was a champion boxer from the Olympics and we could take a photo with him . He had left his medal at home unfortunately. Between this and the fact that I’ve seen more muscle on a ferret, we were rather skeptical and soon hurried off.

Had a beer in the cool but touristy Floridita, Hemingway’s old haunt. A bronze statue of him at the side of the bar watches the sunburnt tourists arrive by the coachload and spend four hundred pounds on a beer.

After, headed to a backpacker bar I had been recommended called El Chanchullero. Had the best meal I’ve had in Cuba. Chicken, sweet potato, Cuban salad (AKA cabbage), and a fuckload of avocado. Backpackers were queueing to get in. The decor wouldn’t look out of place in Camden, with currencies the world over stuck to the walls and a defiant poster reading ‘Hemingway was never here’. I tried to ask the exquisitely bearded Cuban waiter how such a hipster, independent restaurant could possibly exist in the country, but, as is the hipster way, polite conversation is too mainstream and he answered only with a few non-committal shrugs, the self satisfied knob end.

Wandered through Habana’s Chinatown, which looks exactly like every other Chinatown in the world, except for one small detail. A complete and utter lack of Chinese people. They all jumped ship after the Revolution and subsequent breakdown in relations spanning the next 20 years.

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Chinatown. Which is neither remotely Chinese, nor a town.

Got the local bus back to nearby Ania’s. Cost just one peso nacionale, and you can see why. At the first stop began ‘the crushing’, as John put it. What seemed like 400 Cubans with faces like slapped arses piled into the double length bus. Imagine peering inside a clown car after a troupe of them have hopped in and finding 12 clowns molded and crammed right into each other’s orifices, big shoes sticking out of windows and red noses trapped in automatic doors. This is a Cuban bus. A bleeding tramp sat on the floor of the second carriage, kicking people who walked past. Thankfully we got off after two stops.

Had a group meal at Ania’s which was delicious – yet more chicken, avocado and rice. Personally I could eat it every day – and after a fortnight of the dough and ketchup creations that the locals call peso pizza, even a Tesco value macaroni would have been a godsend.

We bought a litre of rum but they wouldn’t let us drink it – apparently in the last day or so Ania’s has decided it’s now a bar as well as hostel and drinks are prohibited. Bah.

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Despite my invariably white photographs, rest assured that Cuba is actually sun drenched and sweltering 90% of the time. My shitty camera just seems to ignore it.

All roads lead to the malecon. Joe, Lesley, Sanya, John and I passed the rum around for a few hours. I was intent on getting smashed and ruining my life with one big fuck off last night, but Lesley hadn’t recovered from the previous night (she threw up and woke up wearing a different set of clothes in a friends bed) and Joe was experiencing the right of passage for all Cuban backpackers that is explosive diarrhoea.

Made a valiant effort with the rum, but in the end called it a night and headed back. Sat up with John for an hour or so looking at his photos from Bolivia.

Not quite the blow out I was hoping for, but a nice night nonetheless. Joe was originally planning on a pool party that he was going to bring us to, but you can’t blame the guy for not wanting to loudly shit his swimming trunks in front a hundred mortified strangers.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 15 – I Fuckin’ Made It

“One last scam. I’ll almost miss them.”

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

Day 12 in Cuba, and I’d fallen in love with the country. The rough ride at the start of the trip was kind of necessary in order to properly appreciate the second half. Just because I was no longer getting robbed and/or electrocuted doesn’t mean there wasn’t an adventure or two left, though…

Very disturbing thing happened last night. Was woken up by a woman shouting in the street at maybe 4am. She was shouting in Spanish, the same thing over and over. I could hear her as she came up the street and as she got nearer, I could hear something in her cries that was chilling. Her voice sounded desperate and fearful, repeating the Spanish phrase over and over, louder and louder, echoing around the silent street. A couple of voices called back to her at one point. I wish I knew what she was saying. It sounded like cries for help – or possibly the wails of a mad woman. Either way, it was horrible and I lay awake in bed long after her screams had faded away into the distance.

At 5am, I was woken again by hammering on the front door, over and over, and then the doorbell ringing frantically. I heard my casa owner answer the door, but heard no conversation. It truly is an intimidating country when you are unable to speak the language. My number one piece of advice to any traveller wanting to visit would be to learn at least basic Spanish, and not to travel alone. Really underestimated the difficulties I would face here, alone and unable to communicate.

I got up for breakfast at 7, moron that I am, because my casa owner speaks no English at all and refuses to slow down her rapid Spanish, meaning I agreed to eat at the crack of dawn by accident in garbled Spanglish. Woke up still hammered again and was subjected to breakfast that was merely huge, rather than the usual gargantuan offering. Consistency is not a concept that exists in Cuba.

After a joyous 30 minute fiesta of a toilet session, which is becoming part of my daily routine as my stomach slowly packs in, I shoved my things in my backpack and left quickly, with the casa owner waxing lyrical about something that I hope wasn’t important because I stared blankly and left.

Went to the bank, asked for 30 cuc, she tried to withdraw 300, took some explaining but got there eventually. Some old guy flogged me a cigar for a cuc which I sat and smoked in the town square as various stray dogs asked for food and stray Cubans asked for my sunglasses.

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The town square. Filled with shuffling priests by day and gyrating prostitutes by night.

Found a taxi to Havana for 15cuc – very cheap, like a 2 hour journey for a tenner. Joining me in the knackered old classic car was a German girl called Hannah who has been here for a month. She is visiting Cuba in memory of her late father, who listened to salsa music all his life, sharing his passion with her. He never got to visit the country. Really touching. Silver lining – he never got electrocuted and impaled in the shower, either.

We had a great conversation about Cuba, music, politics, films and sociology – it’s her degree. She was impressed by my media production degree – I was reluctant to shatter her illusion of it having any practical use. She asked me my three favourite films. Not necessarily favourites, but I recommended Scott Pilgrim, Airplane and American Beauty. Hopefully she’ll enjoy at least one of those!

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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.

Back at Casa De Ania now, Martin and Sanya are exploring the city somewhere. Will no doubt see them later and then it will be party time.

Part 2

Went out and grabbed something to eat from a street stall and had a beer walking through the city. Didn’t hang about as the heat was fierce.

Met a Canadian guy called Sammy at the casa who had just arrived after fleeing the unfathomable dullness of his all inclusive week at Varadero.

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A street. Marvel at it.

Two familiar bronzed German faces arrived back at the casa. Was great to see them again. Martin has a sunburned lip that has become infected. Looks a mess. He’s mortified. Hilarious.

Writing this two days later. Past two days have been a rum soaked blur. Met more people as Ania’s – a 38 year old Chilean woman called Fransisca who visits Cuba all the time, and an English artist called Joe who’s 22 and has been funded to go to Cuba to draw the country – pretty epic.

Fransisca told us about some local place by the seafront and we all piled in a taxi there, four of us crammed in the back on top of each other. Was a cool salsa bar overlooking the ocean with a large dancefloor. As soon as we arrived we grabbed some beers and were dragged onto the dancefloor by Fransisca, where a group salsa lesson was being led by a yelling Cuban man. Failed miserably to keep up with the locals and soon sacked it off and slumped on a wall nursing my beer, watching the Cubans flinging each other about.

Got pretty smashed pretty quickly and somehow lost everyone in a bar about the size of a tennis court. Assumed they’d gone home for some reason and got a taxi back by myself. Driver tried to rip me off by pretending he had no change. Refused to hand over the fiver he was asking for and he soon miraculously found a couple of Cucs in his pocket.

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This photo isn’t relevant to anything. It’s the national ballet theatre or something. It’s a nice photo though. Shame not to include it somewhere. Pretty lights.

Drunkenly woke a homeless man while stumbling past and handed him five Cucs. He was still bleary from his sleep and held the money up to a light to see if it was real. Seemed grateful and confused.

Everyone else got back around 12 and angrily told me they had spent 30 minutes trying to find me. Whoops.

BED

Tomorrow’s entry:

Day 13 – Malecon Wankers

“Cuban police do not fuck about.”