Len on the Road

There are many great places in Europe to visit, here is one of them - Prague, the Czech capital. I haven't posted for a while since I've spent all week there, just had to tell people and share with them the knowledge that if you've never been to this place, then try to find an excuse to go.

A beer and some soup for a hungry and thirsty Len

From the main square

Len's mates pictured by Len on the famous Charles Bridge

Len displays some immature humour on the streets of Prague

The Gateway To The Jungle

(Above: Winters and Len, Winters takes time out from his mysterious world to take Len to the Jungle)

The humidity was always uncomfortable in the middle of the day, especially if you had a rucksack with you, sticking to your back and forcing you to only use one of the straps in an attempt to “let your back breathe”. We found the bus stop in the middle of the thriving city, a small 16 seater, but in this part of the world every journey must’ve doubled this so called seating capacity figure…..not to mention everyone’s belongings, from general luggage bags, to boxes of chickens. Sticking out with our 6 feet frames and white complexions we were instantly surrounded by locals wanting to sell us anything they could that would apparently make our journey more comfortable. The fruit sellers amazed me with their assortment – fruits that I had never even seen a picture of, its only a fruit - but at that point you instantly realise you’re not as clever as you hoped you were, and there’s so much to see and learn in this world!

It was a 4 hour rough ride to our destination, the road was littered with pot holes and obstacles that the driver seem to be confident of avoiding at a high pace, the best you could do was to chat and trade cigarettes with your neighbour, and take in a view of the miles upon miles of plantations and the ever looming jungle covered hills and volcanoes that were slowly approaching. Our destination was “the gateway to the jungle” – “Bukit Lawang”, a tiny village located on a fast flowing part of the river on the edge of the jungle. This magical tiny place simply consisted of small huts that were mainly used as guesthouses for the small number of tourists that came by. The main attraction for visitors here are the orangutans, they’re protected here, a government run station is located here that offers protection from poachers in a wild environment. You can see these amazing animals most days, swinging through the trees with such ease, their amazing strength is something to respect, especially when you get close to them, which can often happen if you wade across the river.

Other than the orangutangs there are monkeys, snakes, all things jungle - and of course the Sumatran Tiger, you’ll almost definitely never see a tiger, even if you lived there forever, but every local of course their own story of an encounter, I enjoyed listening to every story, no matter how far fetched I thought it to be. Other than the wildlife here, the visitor also has the opportunity to climb into a giant rubber ring, and be sent down the fiercely flowing river, past rocks and small wooden bridges, with hopefully a fully intact body at the bottom, this is definitely not a place to break a bone.

One of the bars located halfway up the path along the river actually had an old pool table in, we played with the bar owner and other locals one evening, answering their questions about our marital status (a question that is constantly asked to all foreigners in this part of the world), and what its like in the big cities of the west, and of course listening to stories of tiger encounters. It was a great night, I couldn’t show my appreciation enough, these people not only spoilt us with food and drink, but spoke and entertained us in the nicest possible way – the way that came across to me like they were doing this because they enjoyed it, and simply wanted to speak and play pool with us.

It was almost a year after my visit to Bukit Lawang that I heard the horrific news. It was Winters who told me, he mentioned something about “illegal logging activity” and a “burst dam”. The whole village had been washed away in a catastrophic tidal wave. Every building destroyed, hundreds killed, all gone in an instant. The dam that had been created a few miles up stream by these law breaking loggers had not been strong enough to hold back the huge levels of water that should’ve simply run straight out of the jungle through Bukit Lawang. I often think back and look at the photos of my time there, thinking about what happened to my pool playing buddies, and everyone else I briefly came across whose face I can picture. I like to think they all got away unscathed, but of course the truth is that I will never know.

Only my weak mind to blame

Yeah I know, its just weak minded people who struggle with this. Even if its a pack on a night out or just a couple a week, its still there. Here is a poem by my good mate Miller - I couldn't have put it any better:


there's a world without cigarettes
but i can't find it
beyond the tips of my fingers
further than the end of my face
this taste of things to come
this slow subconscious suicide
has swallowed me like a secret

I don't smoke at all really compared to your 10, 20 or 30 a day man, I probably won't touch one for about 2 weeks now, but why do I feel the need?! Why do I bother!? Miller was right........its a slow subconcious suicide.

Let it out........

Ask me, and I will tell you without hesitation how it could be,

I wouldn't change you for all the choices or chances in the world,

That's the difference, this intense feeling,

It must be what drives everyone,

You don't even have to smile or talk,

You make me flow inside like nothing else can matter,

All this and I barely know you.

Being Swedish 1.

Ask a Swede what is the most significant day of the year, they may well answer Xmas day, there may also be one somewhere that will say its "Swedish national day" which does exist in its own right, but is pretty much treated like an insignificant day off work.......no one even goes out and gets pissed, or makes a fuss about cooking lots of food. The one day which you will hear more than any other is midsummers day.

Normally by a lake in a summer house, and all Swedish families have summer houses, is where the celebrations take place. Its really just all about spending a day and all evening (and sometimes all night as the daylight is literally endless) being social, eating barbequed food and drinking beer and schnapps, oh - and I forgot to add the sauna followed by the traditional jump in the lake of course.

Like many other cultures, there is a symbol of fertility here, a large branch, or even a small tree, lopped and covered in leaves. I remember being very young and told to grab a ribbon from the maypole and run (sorry, dance) round it, along with all the other kids in my class, of course we couldn't be told back then that we were skipping around a giant phallic symbol, and of course we didn't give it a thought. In Sweden however, you actually go to the trouble of making some testicles, hanging off another cross piece, made out of more branches shaped into circles and covered in flowers.

Later on in the night, you get to dance round this midsummer pole, the giant cock and balls that were made earlier on when you were almost sober. While performing this ritual which apparently impregnates mother nature, you sing. Most Swedes love to sing, go to any organised party, you'll walk in, be greeted and when you eventually sit down at a table there will be a song book. Anyone can simply stand up and request a song - everyone else will stand up and join you, and of course you finish by downing a shot glass of schnapps. At midsummers though, it wasn't a song about mother nature (or at least I think it wasn't?!), or a song about the continuous daylight, no - that would be too obvious, its actually a song about little frogs?! There I was, happy and pissed, wet fom jumping in a lake and dancing around a Swedish maypole singing (and I attempt a rough translation of the first line) "We are little frogs, we have little tails".....or something very similar to that, anyway it does continue, but with not one brief moment of clarity.

You can't help but like this country and enjoy the people you meet, but I am unsure whether they are aware of how crazy some of the traditions are................maybe I should tell them?!!? The fermented herring (or Surstromming) is also another strange one, maybe another time for that one.

The Kind of Place I Could Live Forever

Like most people, I want to live somewhere beautiful, I used to think about this a lot when I was caged up in that hole of a flat on the isle of dogs in London. I felt sorry for my flatmate, she wanted to fit in, climb the ladder in the city, I just couldn’t share her energy, didn’t want to think about those things, I wanted to get away. That city had me in its evil clutches there and then, when you see the worst side of a place there’s no getting away from it, within a few months my view of bright lights and endless activity had degraded down to a cold, grey, lonely urban wasteland.

It was the hottest summer ever in Europe, 2003 – a perfect time to get away from it all, thankfully, two other friends (Bren and J) had drawn this same conclusion, and that was the only excuse we needed. Bren had a car and we found a caravan in the local paper for £50; it should be good enough to get us there and back, and for a few more trips after that…….??!! Of course we were hopeful with these assumptions, some would say foolish, but in my view you’d be a fool to turn down a chance for an adventure like this.

Just a few hours later, our adventure began, began with a sour taste – stuck on the side of the A303, the caravan was old, very old, made of steel and not aluminium it was heavy, very heavy. The car engine just blew up, couldn’t tow our £50 beast, that last slow up hill drive after passing Stonehenge was just too much. We would not make the ferry that evening, spent three hours stuck on the side of a busy road on the hottest day ever recorded in Britain.

Eventually rescued, we had to plan our escape once more and we had to get a new car, it was the only way. Amazingly that same evening, we had wheels again, the mechanic who’d towed us back took pity on us and told us about this mate of his who was selling an old big red Peugeot for a bargain price, it would be perfect! From that point on things started to turn round, we bought the car, and after a night of plans and a few spliffs, we were off the following morning, this time with an ace up our sleeve. It was the mother of J’s girlfriend who had the cottage, a beautiful thatched cottage in southern Brittany; miles from a newly built plaster board flat on the isle of dogs. She had heard of our misfortune, and instantly told us to stay at the cottage, use it as a base; treat it like it was our own!!

It was mostly a great journey after the ferry, smooth until we were within a few miles of our destination, then two more needless hours with countless U-turns trying to locate OUR cottage. When we eventually did, and I saw it, you couldn’t wipe that smile off my face, we may have only had little over three weeks there, but I knew then that this was the kind of place I could live forever.

The Only Way To Travel

There are 2 rules that must be followed when driving in Medan…..1. Everything must go in the same direction, and 2. Try not to hit anything. You can observe these rules being broken on a daily basis, but on the whole they are obeyed and road rage is surprisingly sparse compared to London with all its markings, lights and warnings laid out for the western driver.

I left the hotel in the morning and had to go and meet a friend, the motorbike taxi guy looked pleased as I was walking towards him as business had been slow that day. He gave me one of his special Indonesian cigarettes that take about half an hour to get through and we hit the road. I was silent the first 5 minutes, thought it could all end here, the drama of it all, people on car roofs, hanging out of windows, seemingly unconcerned with the dangers of the road, maybe they didn’t get policemen and other sorts into schools to talk about road safety in Sumatra like they did in the UK?

After realising that we may actually reach our destination unscathed, I relaxed and suddenly felt excited about this journey, this roller coaster type ride in a small metal cage attached to an old motorbike that sounded like an industrial lawn mower. We cut through the traffic like a rodent scurrying through the rubbish, and the sound of horns, constantly, from every direction, like a deafening mass of Morse code that each driver could understand. If your car or bike horn broke here, you’d better pull over and fix it, it’s as important as having working brakes….almost.

We pulled up and I smiled graciously to the man who had braved the road and delivered me in one piece. I gave him a 20,000 rupee note and he looked at me like a dog who’s just been shown a card trick. I didn’t want to offend anyone! I’d just arrived the previous day, so I pulled out another 20,000 note and handed it to him – again, a look of complete confusion. I had to get this right, pay him correctly and not offend him, was this still not enough? I tried to ask him “how much?” he didn’t understand, but I said “Is that ok?” and tested this with an international thumbs up…..was this ok? He seemed to say a sort of “yeah, but….?” I walked away, and he put the money in his pocket, waved and went on his merry way.

Later I found out that the journey should’ve been 3000 rupees, the look he gave me must’ve been a… “How the hell am I gonna give you change from this!?” Still, I’m glad he made a days wage in 15 minutes, it was a great ride, I took those bike cabs everywhere from that point on, and 20,000 rupees? Well, I’d say it was still a quarter of the price I would’ve paid for a cab in London to go the same distance……and god, so much more fun.