Monday, 1 March 2004

PERU MOCHE CULTURE

PERU'S MOCHE CULTURE


Think Peru.  Think Moche, a society who told their story to the world through wonderful three-dimensional pottery, delicate metal work in gold, silver and copper, and fine textiles. Their enormously rich society was based on sea fishing, mining and agriculture. They ‘greened’ one of the world’s most hostile deserts, by a complex system of irrigation channels, so as to spread wide the waters flowing from the Andes to extend the natural oases which today are again confined to the borders of the major rivers. The Incas by comparison are renowned above all for their military achievements, the efficiency and speed with which they established their far-flung empire and built a ‘Roman’ road system along and across the second highest mountain range in the world. But Inca rule lasted only one hundred years before being overthrown by the even more remarkable military skills of a small band of Spaniards, operating in a wholly different environment half way across the world.


We set out to travel in Peru oblivious to the legacy of civilisations much older than the Inca’s. Luckily this ignorance was quickly revealed by a visit to the excellent Museo de la Nacion in Lima. It traces Peru’s history chronologically over tens of thousands of years from the hunter gatherers who first crossed into the Americas via the Bering Straits into Alaska and gradually made their way south to the Incas and built the famed Macchu Picchu. The important transition to the ceramic age occurred just before the birth of Christ. Their beautiful pottery was produced using moulds. They also left the finest ceremonial versions of this pottery, metal work and decorative woven textiles in the tombs of their nobles. What struck us most forcibly was the way the artistic quality declined with each succeeding culture, down to the not very inspiring pottery of the Incas. So although the indigenous races never did establish a written language they recorded so much of their culture in picture form on pottery and masonry.


Most tours follow a well-trodden circuit south of Lima. But to experience something totally different head north. To find out more we took a luxury bus to the coastal city of Trujillo, founded by the Spaniard Pizarro in 1535. It competes for the title of Peru’s second city, and like Arequipa has the pleasant feel of a refined working city, with none of the tourist hassle of Cusco. All Peruvian towns are built round a Plaza de Armas in the centre, but few can match the, colourful, colonial buildings that surround the square in Trujillo, with their elegant wrought iron window railings. The centrepiece, a monument with fine sculptures, celebrates the freeing of Trujillo from Spanish rule in 1820. Our hotel, La Almeda del Peligrino, was in a small pedestrian precinct a short walk from the plaza. Before leaving Britain we had expected to stay just one day, but, partially due to the road blockades signalling Peru’s own winter of discontent with their first truly democratic government for years, we stayed for six, and concluded we couldn’t have been stuck in a better place.


There are two major tourist attractions in the surrounding desert, the Moche site of the Huaca del Sol and the Huaca de la Luna, and the ruins of the large Chimu walled city of Chan Chan, which was built a thousand years later only to be taken over by the Incas. Being new to Peru we hired a taxi to each site and asked him to wait for several hours whilst we looked around, at an all-in cost of under £2 per hour this was hardly prohibitive. With a little more experience we would have reduced the cost to near zero by waving down one of the ‘collectivo’ minibuses instead. Huaca del Sol was plundered centuries ago by the Spanish conquistadors in their search for gold. However the pyramid of Huaca de la Luna is being excavated today. An enthusiastic young English speaking archaeologist from the local university showed us around with one other couple. We read recently that another 300 million dollars had been given to fund continuation of the work. He will have been delighted.

These Moche pyramids were built one level at a time. Every hundred years or so a level was sealed in vertically by adding a flat roof and laterally by extension of the sides, thus providing a bigger base for the next level. The resultant appearance is of huge flat roofed oblong structure matching the colour of the local sand, because it was built of Adobe (mud) bricks. (Such bricks are still hand made throughout Peru and used to self build houses.) A more important effect of the resulting encapsulation of the earlier lower level is that the beautiful exterior decorations of the walls have been preserved from the sand blasting of centuries punctuated with earthquakes and the destructive coastal flooding which results every few years from the El Nino, the effect of which is felt across the pacific from Australia to South America. It is this decoration multi level structure and the wall decoration which now being revealed.


   
Also recommended is a visit to the Museo Cassinelli in Trujillo. Here an almost blind old man will take a few people at a time into locked dungeons to view his lifetime collection of Moche pottery. Doubtless much was bought over the years from grave robbers, but it now has a good home. The pots are arranged in themes, animals, fish, mythical figures, gods, copulation, physical deformities, musical instruments and even abstract designs. But whatever its source, whether it is original or copy, the collection of fine pottery makes compulsive viewing.


Changing plans, on advice from fellow travellers, we carried on north by bus instead of heading straight into the Andes. There is nothing visually attractive about the city of Chiclayo, but we had been told to allow at least four nights because there was so much to see in the vicinity. In fact we spent six nights in the Inca Hotel, and when we left the friendly recepcionista gave us a doll in traditional Spanish dress, which we duly carried around Peru in a separate black plastic bag. Sipan is without doubt the jewel in the crown of the northern coast. Its newly excavated discoveries were featured in a series of articles on Moche culture in The National Geographic magazine in 1990.


It was discovered only twenty years ago when valuable artefacts started to flood onto the antiques market. They had come from grave robbers who had sunk a shaft into the tombs. Luckily expert archaeologists soon took over with the help of armed guards, and they have so far excavated three previously unopened tombs. Those of Lord Sipan and at an earlier lower level the Old Lord of Sipan were major discoveries of Egyptian proportions. We first visited the site of the tombs with an excellent, young,
English speaking guide. They are now laid out with replicas to illustrate how they appeared when first opened. Next day we visited the world-class museum of Tumbas Realas de Sipan, opened just one year ago at the nearby town of Lambayeque, where all the discoveries are displayed. This museum is built in several levels mimics the real tombs. It is entered at the top where it displays the treasures found in the tomb of Lord Sipan and you slowly work your way down, and back in time to the contents of the tomb of The Old Lord of Sipan.


This is the most important display of precious metalwork in South America. The nobles were prepared for burial being adorned with elaborate funeral masks, golden head and nose ornaments, chin decoration, ear rings, large elaborate metal necklaces, huge coral pectoral pieces, strings of stone beads, figurines, ornaments and jewellery. They were given a ritual burial with the consequential sacrificial death of wife, favourite concubine, servant and warrior, and guarded from invasion by the seated soldier at a slightly higher level.



Unlike a conventional museum it is focussed on a single theme, Sipan, and supplemented by excellent photographic evidence of the tombs as they were being excavated. All wonderfully displayed and interpreted in large easy to read textual explanations. (Unfortunately for the more general tourist industry this information is given solely in Spanish.) The excellent well established Bruning museum in the same town presents a much broader view of Peru. It too is essential viewing, but on a separate day so as to avoid losing the impression of the first mentioned. Walter Alva, the Bruning’s Director, led the excavation of Sipan.

Another day trip took us to site at Tucume, the largest sacred site in South America.

Thursday, 5 February 2004

PERU Looking for Paddington Bear

G2      REAL LIVES            5 February 2004


LOOKING FOR PADDINTON BEAR

A two-month search for Paddington Bear in Darkest Peru, adventure enough for an OAP with a dodgy knee and an equally ancient wife with a pair of artificial ones. Posing as cool, grey haired, gap year students with rucksack, return tickets to fly, Lonely Planet and an email hotel booking, we set off for a couple of nights in Lima. But think of us not as backpackers, rather as Michael Palin without a time limit or a film crew, part adventure, part discovery and a lot of curiosity. Time is one luxury most pensioners have. It gives us time to look, to meet, to sit and stare, and to absorb something of completely different ways of life. Leisurely travelling suits us and doesn’t break the bank.


Where to Start? 
Even I know bears are far more likely to be found in the mountains than in the Amazon basin or the coastal desert. But we escaped from Lima via the Pan American highway, having all but run into an armed street robbery of tourists whilst searching for the bus station. Who said bears are frightening!

In The Desert!

First stop a luxury bus ride away was Trujillo where the imposing monument at the centre of the Plaza de Armas celebrates the day they threw the Spanish out in 1820. We had only intended to take a couple of days to relax before heading for the Andes, but we stayed for six. In so doing we discovered a whole new history of Peru, not the militant Incas, who only ruled a hundred years before the Spanish, but the really refined Moche who date back to the first centuries AD. We didn’t know that they had built pyramids in the desert and preserved their story for posterity in the form of wonderful pottery, textiles, gold, shell, stone, silver and copper (electroplated with gold before the days of electricity – only chemists can work that one out).


Already determinedly off track we took the advice of ‘A German from Edinburgh’ who advised us that the next city north, Chiclayo, had even greater treasures. It had, so we stayed another six nights and discovered Museo Tumbas Realas de Sipan. Opened in Nov 2002, this world-class museum is entered by ramp to the top floor so retracing the path of the archaeologists as they dug down through the levels of time.  They opened the graves of the Lords Sipan to discover remarkable funeral masks and jewellery in fine metal, as featured in the National Geographic Magazines of October1998 and June 1990. Not content with this we visited the sites of Sipan and the huge ruined city of Tucume. (Think of the earthquake city of Bam, Iran, and you’ll be on the right track.) This ruined city had 28 pyramids, long ago robbed by the Spanish Conquistadors. Not far away Thor Heyerdahl researched the migration theories that led to his Kon Tiki expedition proving that reed rafts could cross to the Pacific islands.


Bears we did not find, but there were little horses, caballitos, the reed boards on which solo fishermen have for centuries crossed the heavy surf to fish in the calm waters beyond; and smooth skinned dogs with tiny tufts of ginger hair on their heads and the tip of their tail.


In the ‘Land of the Clouds’?
Chachapoyas is reached by overnight bus without a toilet stop, unless you count a couple of chances to pee in unison over the precipice of a deserted mountain road. It used to be the capital of Amazonas when it stretched to the Amazon. Now with no such delusions it’s delightfully laid back. Except that the country people always seem to be busy. Walking idly along the road is out, so women spin thread, or knit, as they walk. What could be cooler than that!


Not too far away was the ruined mountain top city of Kuelap, where we laid claim to being the oldest visitors in 2003. Can you imagine what Machu Picchu must have been like before the property developers moved in? Yes you have it, a wonderful mountain top vista with the remains of round decorated stone houses, giving in gracefully to the cloud forest and its orchids. Just one house was restored with its tall conical thatched roof.


Buried with the Mummies?
Only a few tens of kilometres away, but many hours by taxi, were the sarcophagi, red and white burial houses set high into sheer towering cliffs at Revash and Laguna de la Condores, near Leymebamba. Revash was robbed long ago, but a recent expedition rescued 200 un-embalmed mummies from the mountain lake site. They were preserved in the foetal position and sewn into many layers of textile giving a shape reminiscent of Russian dolls. Now they reside in an air-conditioned research centre where they are tracing the ancestry of the Chachapoyas at yet another fine new museum. Paddington Bear’s DNA would be safe with them.


Land of Milk and Marmalade?
‘That was the greatest day ever in the Andes’ eulogised the young woman who had just jumped off the top of a cattle truck. Hitchhiking workers pay to ride on the top storey, with fantastic thrills and views, whilst the cattle huddle below. We knew then there was no going back. We just had to experience the hairiest East-West switchback in Peru to Cajamarca. There for the first time we would meet women in tall sombreros, compensating for their tiny stature. Trilbies followed as we travelled further south, giving way to bowlers as we neared Bolivia.


But, with a sense of decorum appropriate to our advanced ages, instead of a roller coaster ride on a cattle truck, or a bone shattering ride in a minibus, or a cramped one in the small daily bus, we decided to spend £50, ten times more, with a restaurant owner and travel all day in the comfort of his four-wheel drive. Up through the clouds, over the top and down again to Rio Maranon, then up and over the drier western Andes to a multi-coloured patchwork of fertile fields separated by cactus hedges. Cajamarca exports 300,000 litres of milk a day to Lima, whenever the Pan American highway is not blockaded, and keeps the rest to make the only decent cheese in Peru.


Thinking we had missed the bear and his marmalade we decided to retrace our steps by taxi along that same bumpy hardcore road and to search as we walked slowly back to town. We met and chatted to Indian farmers, who knew how to thresh corn by hand, how to tend sheep, and, how to winkle a favourite 10p floppy sunhat from Joan, a relic from a camel trek in India. But they didn’t get mine because they couldn’t understand my mission, or my Spanish, so the day was but a glorious failure.

In 1532 the Spaniard Pizarro, with only 160 cavalry troops, defeated Atahualpa the Inca leader of 6,000 men armed with slings and axes. The bloody battle at Cajamarca essentially completed their conquest of Peru. Atahualpa was imprisoned and held in El Quarto del Rescate. He negotiated his release for a room full of gold and two of silver. It took his followers six months to collect 6000kg of gold and 12,000kg of silver ornaments from across the country. But they killed him all the same.


Cordillera Blanca
In despair by now we at least hoped to find a polar bear or a yeti in this magical wilderness. Fifty of the highest peaks outside the Himalaya, minibuses drivers and conductors competing loudly, like old fashioned market traders, for the pleasure of taking customers to the snow line at over 5000 metres. It’s no wonder the holiday climbers love this area, for they can get straight out of a colectivo, for that’s what they call these minibuses, and onto the snow. Another 2000 metres and they’ve climbed the highest mountains in South America. Sounds easy if you forget about ‘Touching the Void’.


Even we broke our altitude record from Nepal, at 5200 metres on the glacier of Pasto Ruri, more if you believe the signpost. Mind you we did have a little help from horses. Just to support the local traders you understand! We looked in hope down into the tiny deepest blue crevasses, before stepping gingerly across.

Indian Treasure

One chance remained, a sneaky peak at the Indian’s possessions. So we were delighted when group after group, they paraded into town from their mountain farmsteads, beating home made drums, playing home made flutes and carrying sedan chairs.


Before daybreak that morning students had arrived, school by school, on their buses to disturb our night’s sleep. But we warmed to them when we realised they were intent on decorating the tarmac streets of the Plaza de Armas, chalking designs and then filling them in with flower petals and coloured wood chippings. The images were Christian, from the floor to the sedan chairs.


In the church it was standing room only, as the very Spanish looking clergy and the townie congregation in the pews were overwhelmed with Indian colour from the hills. This was their day out and they celebrated Corpus Christi in some style.


Been there, done that!
Well over half way through we had discovered an unknown northern Peru. We had seen no gap students or package tours and few other travellers, though what they lacked in numbers they made up as characters, full of enthusiasm for their surroundings.


Hope and time disappearing we did the regular circuit of the whistle stop tours. Like Stephen Fry, but with SRL rather than film crew, we looked for Paddington Bear at Machu Picchu. Next we travelled by Michael Palin’s train to Lake Titicaca, and then south to Colca Canyon, where the Condors soar to entertain the gallery of hardy tourists waiting on high at dawn.


For 50 days Joan exercised her duty of care, not on Paddington Bear but on a Spanish dancing doll. She carried her lovingly in a small plastic bag, whilst I struggled manfully with our rucksack. A little travel worn and now with only one leg, she was a present from our favourite hotel recepcionista in Chiclayo. If only Viany had known what we were really looking for!



BRIAN CORBETT     1700 words                    5 February 2004

Tuesday, 21 October 2003

TOO OLD for ADVENTURE?

TOO OLD FOR ADVENTURE?


The very word backpacking is a misnomer for my generation, implying as it does carrying a tent, sleeping bags, cooking gear and everything required for survival in the wild. Hilary Bradt, it seems, alone uses the word in its original sense today, to distinguish it from the easier form of trekking with guides, porters and maybe pack animals. Most of the world has adopted the Lonely Planet usage, travel as cheaply as you can, use a rucksack, but make it light and carry it as little as possible, and if you must trek then use a day-sack. So there you have it, modern backpacking offers flexible adventure travel, without undue hardship, by local transport - trains, buses, river boats, taxis, collectivos, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, horses and camels.


It’s widely known that a large number of young students use their gap year in this way, increasingly joined by those in their 20’s and 30’s who are about to embark on a career change or to settle down to family life. What is certainly less known is that there are an increasing number in the later stages of their working life, free of responsibility for their grown up families, and even OAPs like us. This summer in Peru we met pensioners Peter and Diane from the United States who were just completing a fantastic 30-month jaunt around the globe. We would miss the grandchildren too much to do it in a single block, but they were taking advantage of what they saw as their opportunity. Their middle class friends, like ours, considered them mildly mad for trading the comforts of old age for adventure.


More recently we have chosen to go a little upmarket, because we think we deserve the certainty of comfortable beds and en-suite bathrooms, not that much of the backpacker accommodation, outside major cities, doesn’t also offer this at bargain prices. Like the young, we pensioners have a good deal more time than money, so we tend to prefer the third world where it is much cheaper, and life such a colourful contrast. It certainly raises questions about our consumer lifestyle. In fact the economic conditions frequently remind us of the more austere days of our youth. Are they just fifty years behind? Often it seems so, particularly in fast developing Asia.


With enough notches on our belts already we now travel in depth rather than seek to cover as much ground as quickly as possible. I use my eyes, not a guidebook when looking for somewhere to eat. Flourishing trade, with locals or independent tourists, is almost always a good sign. Often I prefer cheaper local food cooked to order, although when craving the familiarity of western food it’s good to know that pizzas, mountains of chips, banana pancakes, beer and companionship are always available at the popular backpacker haunts.


We almost always find the company of the young backpackers exhilarating, for they have a soft spot for paternal figures when they are so far from home, and we definitely have a soft spot for them. ‘I couldn’t imagine my parents doing this’, has been said so often. ‘How old are you?’ ‘You do give me hope for the future’ said the confirmed vagabond years ago, as we climbed onto the plateau of Phru Kradung in Thailand.

For those with a little more money the backpacker technique works well in Europe at half the price of the cheapest package holidays, though public transport is more restricted because every one else has a car. So my wife and I mix and match - this year two weeks sight seeing, swimming, eating and hiking in the Cinque Terre preceded two months of adventure in darkest Peru, followed by two weeks of ‘culture’ from Venice to Milan.


In advance of such holidays there are only three decisions to be made, where to go, when to go and what to take. A little flexibility can make a big difference to travel costs, especially on low-cost airlines. In fact the same three decisions are faced daily for there is no such thing as a fixed itinerary on this kind of trip, and excess baggage can always be left in store at the last hotel or posted home. That’s the nub of the attraction, for what seems a stressful way to holiday is in fact very relaxing after the uncertainty of first couple of days. Like a place, then stay longer; feeling tired from too much travelling or site seeing, then take time out. A typical package trip to the Galapagos Islands would be a few days; the people we met this summer had been there for over a month and loved every day.


Advance research is invaluable in providing a framework, but it’s amazing how much ideas progress through on the spot learning and chance encounters. As for packing we take less each time and still bring back unworn clothes, even though today everything has to go in my rucksack, for with two artificial knees Joan is excused the heavy duties. One change of lightweight quick-dry outer clothing and multiple sets of underwear are all that’s really required, plus things to keep you warm and dry, and a good camera to guard against failing memories.


Nor is it necessary to have an extensive break. We got hooked over a decade ago whilst we were still in hectic full time employment, and backpacking became the norm for most annual holidays until we retired. That first trip to Nepal was to be an adventure, an antidote to overwork, and so we did not even book ahead for the first night, and rarely do even today, unless arriving late at night. Nepal taught us to find accommodation, organise a trek and get around by local transport without a word of the language or even being able to identify the script, simply by mastering the sound of place names from a phonetic spelling or pointing at their script in a guide book. However, with a little knowledge of their language we would have gained so much more from amazing chance experiences, so now, with more leisure time, I learn some of the relevant language first.




Only once not booking the first night caused what most would consider a disaster, but we remember with delight. We arrived in Kuching, Sarawak, on the eve of the thirtieth anniversary of their independence from Britain, having been told months earlier that all rooms had been sold for the celebrations. Refusing to believe it we toured the hotels at midnight in a taxi, the sky alight with fireworks, before admitting defeat and spending the night on the tiled airport floor. Next morning we were able to join a jubilant national holiday crowd, a seemingly never-ending fancy dress parade representing the different tribes and cultures of Malaysia, from traditional head-hunters to the modern industries of Sarawak and the provinces of mainland Malaysia. If we had insisted on a hotel booking we would have arrived the next day and missed the fun.

Before deciding on Peru this last summer we had extra concerns since it followed several years of immobility with arthritis. It was also our first visit to South America. How would we respond to the highest altitudes of our life? Was street crime and thieving going to spoil our holiday? Would the people be friendly? (Such a bonus in Asia). Was poor hygiene going to lead to the misery of dysentery? The clinching thought was that you never know your limitations until you test them. It was this year or never for we knew if we chickened out we would never try again. Two months later we returned enthusiastic backpackers once again, already planning the next trip to Cambodia, Columbia, Chile or China. Do you know your limitations? We only know we are not giving up adventuring yet.


1305 words by BRIAN CORBETT                 21 October 2003

basically as text submitted to the Independent 21 Oct 03

Sunday, 27 October 2002

ACROSS USA by ROUTE 66 in 1957

See also in newspapers/indep


Dear Lucy Gillmore

A revised version as promised.
Brian Corbett

THAT SUMMER   1957         ACROSS AMERICA by ROUTE 66


An unconventional journey across the Southern States by three young engineers, who emigrated to Canada in the summer of 1956. So vivid still that the first draft was written entirely from memory, but the detail was checked mainly from the letters I wrote at the time to my future wife. Captures the period through, the racial attitudes, popular music and jazz, literature, social issues like divorce and finding the time for living, and the country itself.

Personal Notes

Pioneer in the development of computer systems for industrial process control. Electronic engineering graduate of Imperial College and Fellow of the Institution of Electrical Engineers, I was author of several international conference papers. Now I am an OAP who writes, mainly on political issues and travel. My current interests include independent travel in Europe, Asia and South America (with my wife and a rucksack); languages (both European and Asian); politics (as an observer); tech stocks; ball sports; ‘modern’ jazz and photography.

Northern Peru

We have just returned from two months independent travel, upmarket geriatric backpacking, in Peru, especially the little visited north of that country. Trujillo with Chan Chan and Huaca de la Luna, Chicklayo with Sipan and Tucume, Chachapoyas with Kuelap and Revash, Leymebamba with the mummies of Laguna del Condores, Cajamarca and the Quechua language demonstration, Huaraz with Chavin and the glacier of Pasto Ruri, Caraz with Corpus Christi and Laguna Paron. I intend to write about those experiences and back the copy with quality slides on Fuji Provia 100F film. Interested?


Brian Corbett

62 Radyr Avenue, Swansea, SA3 5DT
telephone        01792 424702  
email:   becorbett@ntlworld.com





ACROSS AMERICA BY ROUTE 66 

‘We’ll give you a car to drive, but you pay the gas’. This wasn’t the regular business of Detroit Drive Away, which was to deliver cars on a commercial basis, but it offered us a way to cross The Excited States, as we called them, for our first annual holiday in North America. Dave from Oxford, Joe from Dublin and I were three of group of twenty new graduate engineers enticed to emigrate the previous year for three times the £550/year starting rate in Britain. Our dream faded fast as we moped around Detroit waiting for a car that August 1957.


Then came the breakthrough, we were first to go to Memphis where we would get a second car to San Francisco. I, just 22, with only six months experience, drove gingerly to the first minor crossroads and nervously slammed on the brakes. We all but went through the windscreen of that brand new car, for power braking was newfangled invention I had not met before. I like to think we delivered Elvis Presley’s pink Cadillac, but in fact we were only taking the car to Indianapolis, and would have to make our own way to Memphis. The others chose to go by train, but I preferred to hitch-hike. I walked out of the city, in khaki shorts with an ex-army rucksack, an innocent abroad, looking every inch the Boy Scout I never was.


One ride I spent in fear of my life with a crazy man, who was overtook everything in sight, even when it meant crossing the brow of a hill on the wrong side of the road. Luckily he was stopped by the police, and ended up in a rapidly convened meeting with a judge resulting in a $13 on the spot fine. A laid back Kentucky painter who, having lost his city job was on his way back to his wife and eight kids, told me in a slow southern drawl, ‘I have a couple of acres so we won’t starve… some people work in the winter snow but I just sits by the fire’. The ruddy farmer whose father came from England in 1885 was on his way to the races at Ellis Park.


The black man had just returned from service with the paratroopers in Korea and Japan, he was the only person I encountered with liberal views. ‘I hate fighting civilians, there’s no point in turning people into killers’. But the overwhelming memories are questions of race. He told me, ‘it’s very unusual for a white to get a lift from a black man’, but he took me into the unfamiliar white area of Nashville to find a hotel. Next day a garage hand in a pick up truck explained, ‘there’s no rivalry between the Yankees and the South any more, we just hate the niggers’. Another expressed the hatred more vividly, ‘Nigger don’t let the sun go down’, that is get out of our nice white town before sunset. He boasted of lynching and hangings from trees outside town, which brought real context to Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit … hanging’.


From Memphis we were to return a stolen 56 Plymouth to its rightful owner. Little did we know when we stopped for the first night at Little Rock that within a month this sleepy town was to be at the centre of world news. The US Supreme Court had ruled in 1954 that segregation of schools was no longer legal and the Little Rock Central High School decided to de-segregate at the start of term on 2 September1957. The nine final year black students who presented themselves that first day were barred entry by the Arkansas National Guard acting on instructions from Governor Faubus. President Eisenhower had to send in 1000 paratroopers before the school was re-opened. The following September trouble erupted again, because Governor Faubus, ordered all three high schools to be closed, and supported by a 94% popular vote they remained so for that whole school year. It was fifteen years before all the schools in Little Rock were desegregated.


To keep our spirits up as we drove through miles of flat, treeless, monotonous prairie we sang our way through the musical Oklahoma, just released on film. ‘Oh what a beautiful morning’, and a risqué version of ‘Everything’s up to date in Kansas City … we’ve even got a sky scraper seven stories high’. Somehow the towns never lived up to the exotic images created by the songs. Towns rarely interrupted the journey, but were always preceded by miles of ugly roadside advertising hoardings.


Dave and I had a burning ambition to ‘do the ton’, which few mass produced cars of the day would reach. In spite of the 60mph speed limit these empty prairie roads seemed to offer the best chance I was ever likely to get. By the time I had wound the Plymouth up to 90 and started to overtake I saw a car approaching fast, but hung on sure of being let in. I wasn’t and the cars were abreast simultaneously, luckily all three drivers held their nerve. My target achieved, I glanced in the rear mirror only to see a car gaining on me. Knowing that could only be a police car I slowed down without braking, and braced myself for the confrontation ahead. But, ‘phew’, he merely sped by.  


Cowboy country and steaks sizzling on hot metal plates started soon after we joined Route 66, which gets to Oklahoma from Chicago. We three went into a bar in the early evening to find the only other customer was a beautiful cowgirl dressed in vivid silks of a sort we never expected to see in real life. Things were about to hot up, we were entering the Wild West.


Santa Fe was a revelation, Mexican and Indian cultures were a heady mix, hot spicy food, and music to match provided a night-life to die for. Now it is one of America’s top tourist attractions, but in those days there were none to be seen. ‘We take the time to enjoy ourselves here’ said the large Mexican waitress, hitching her belt in a few inches. We danced the night away to exciting Latin rhythms, in the same month that jazzman Charles Mingus recorded his most approachable album, Tijuana Moods. It was early morning before we rolled into our giant sized family bed, only to be later joined by two boisterous buxom Mexican women, obviously tipped off by the night watchman. Was I really the prude who stopped everyone’s fun?

Grand Canyon, with its the beautiful range of blues, greys and pinks, plus sheer size, was the first world site to exceed my expectations. Only the Taj Mahal, the Golden Temple and Machu Picchu have followed. On to Flagstaff and the brilliant white Indian trading post with Indian artefacts advertised by totem poles.


In this gambling country the barmen would offer you the chance of rolling dice; win and the drinks were free, lose and you paid double. Las Vegas seemed like Blackpool, full of cheap hotels and glitzy shows, where the Admass spent hours pumping small coins into fruit machines in the hope of making a fortune. (Admass, J B Priestley’s word, was coined in ‘Journey Down a Rainbow’ to describe the soulless advertising driven society of mass production, conformity and consumerism which was spreading over the West, and to contrast his experiences in brash Texas with his wife, Jacquetta Hawkes, writing sympathetically about the artist colony in Santa Fe and the ancient Indian cultures of New Mexico.


Finally across the first desert I had ever seen, the deserted, barren, roadside littered with beer cans, which never rusted, for the only moisture was inside occasional man sized cactus trees. We were one of a few cars crossing the Mojave that day, all the others had prepared for emergency by strapping a five gallon water can to the outside of the door.


What can be said of cosmopolitan San Francisco? Friendly - witness Ralph and Hal, newly qualified as lawyers, who took a day off work and spent several nights showing us around. Unique – the cable car; Fisherman’s Wharf with fishermen; the twentieth birthday of the Golden Gate bridge; the Japanese garden; the automatic piano museum overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Exciting – clubs on the Barbary Coast at North Beach where the verb to Shanghai (a reluctant sailor) emerged. Young Anna Massey was playing The Reluctant Debutant. Gay, in the original sense of the word, the only pubs with atmosphere outside Greenwich Village, a wood panelled basement with a large nude painting whose modesty was protected by a strategically draped red silk scarf, which swayed each time the door was opened! Vivacious girls, wonderful food, jokes with an Australian artist, who claimed to have made the Tate, at nearby Tiburon - a yachting paradise.


Leading edge - San Francisco was then the Gretna Green of still difficult divorce, with columns in the papers for Divorces Filed and Divorces Granted. It was the golden age of west coast jazz with Clifford Brown and Gerry Mulligan. We heard New Orleans star Turk Murphy in the Tin Angel, but regrettably the new trumpet star Miles Davis had just left to play in New York.


Joe and I eventually returned to ‘the old countries’, but Dave soon left for San Francisco and was never heard of again. Like me, an electronic engineer, maybe he struck it rich in the soon to emerge Silicon Valley.


1582 words by Brian Corbett - The Oldie Backpacker            27/10/03





I have some ancient supporting slides if you are interested

1) A clip of me at the wheel of the Cadillac

2) Joe and Dave at the roadside with the Plymouth

3) The Original Curio Store, Established 1603, in Santa Fe

4) The Indian Trading Post near Flagstaff

Friday, 29 December 2000

SUMATRA TSUNAMI Aceh in Perpective

ACEH in PERSPECTIVE


Imagine waking up on Boxing Day in a sweat dreaming that the Welsh coast from Anglesey to Tenby had been wiped out by a giant wave in one frightening hour, and you have a better feel for what happened to the West Coast of Aceh. Imagine too that much of the provincial capital (a Cardiff on Anglesea), had floated away, and begin to grasp the scale of what happened to the city of Banda Aceh.

For several days TV coverage of Aceh amounted only to maps illustrating that the epicentre of a powerful earthquake was nearby, but no hard news or pictures. It’s difficult to bear if you have friends in Tenby, but the existence or destruction of that town is not even mentioned.


Then five days later on New Year Eve your worst fears are confirmed by the first report of a helicopter survey of the coast south of Anglesea. ‘There were four towns of 10,000 people on this coast where ………..tower.’  You know intimately of a radio station on a high headland near Tenby, perhaps someone you know has survived.


But why does the next few days bring no further news? For the simple reason that the infrastructure has been blown away, no roads, no electricity, no communications even for mobile phones, so dependable in many disasters. But the people who survived have quite different priorities especially lack of drinking, or even clean water and pain from terrible injuries.


Individuals all over the globe are sickened by the scale of this natural disaster and cash floods in a great wave of sympathy to charities. But getting it to those in need in Aceh is a huge problem?

Only the military have the capacity in ships, helicopters, fuel, field hospitals and men. Only they can operate effectively and quickly in such an environment for they bring their infrastructure with them. Pity that it’s mostly tied up in Iraq! Then the news that the dynamic much-maligned American military have ordered ships to drop their Christmas visit to the Mediterranean and sail quickly to the effected area. Now they are stationed off the wasteland of Aberystwyth, the nearest point to the epicentre. Their helicopters are the first to ferry food, water and medicines to able-bodied groups of traumatised survivors.


Estimates of the death toll rise daily, idle speculation really because the true numbers will never be known. Now they have exceeded a magic threshold, 120,000 Welsh Nationalists are feared dead. But news emphasis remains on the identification of ten thousand Europeans lost whilst on beach holidays in spots like the Algarve and the Canaries, when the wave struck.


Then news of a kind no one needs. The Prime Minister of Western Europe has diverted his army from the relief effort to complete the ongoing suppression of the Free Wales Army, who are said to be taking advantage of the chaos.


Far fetched? Yes - dragged half way across the globe. But then Wales does roughly match Aceh in terms of area or population, and in the same way Britain does equate to Sumatra, which in turn is just one of the islands which make up Indonesia.


BRIAN CORBETT                        532 words

Monday, 2 October 2000

THREE GENERATIONS IN THAILAND 2000

HOLIDAY TRAVELS  IN SOUTHERN THAILAND

Three generations of Brian Corbett's family backpack in Southern Thailand   


'What an adventure', exclaimed a friend. 'That's a lot of responsibility', said another. I was beginning to get cold feet. What if Joe, the blue eyed, blond, three year old with a passion for exploration and no idea of fear, got lost in a crowded Bangkok market? It had all sounded so easy to Joan as we traveled in Thailand last winter and planned to retrace our steps with the whole family.


Eldest son Jim married Anne-Marie and lives in France with their two bilingual daughters Alice aged eight and Hazel aged five. Judy and Gary and have two children, Rachel aged nine and, the baby of the bunch, Joe. Our bachelor son opted out!  As the time approached the fears came flooding in. How well would the grandchildren cope with the heat, the humidity, the food, and the boredom of so much travel?


The long plane journeys were an endurance test with children, though there were compensations as when a kindly air hostess took them to the cockpit to see the dawn. 'I've been to see the pirate', boasted Joe. 'The sky was brilliant - red, black and sky blue', said Rachel.


We needn't have worried about the effect of the tropics on the grandchildren, for they adapted quickest of all. Even a six hour time shift didn't stop them falling asleep at night, or Joe from waking up at dawn! Sunburn was avoided by use of sun hats and factor twenty five sun cream. In fact the children were full of energy and radiated happiness throughout the trip.


We met the French contingent in an air conditioned Bangkok hotel. Sky train, on stilts high above the Bangkok streets, took us to the Chao Phraya river, where we boarded the Express Boat which allowed us to avoid the fumes of the chaotic traffic. Tropical fruit was everywhere on the pier at Tha Chang, the market vendors were more interested in observing the children's joy on discovering new tastes, than in selling fruit. As we left Wat Po, home of the huge reclining Buddha with a gold head and mother of pearl feet, the heavens opened. A passing monk gave Alice his umbrella. We were in the Thailand I knew, one of the friendliest places on earth.


Next day's visit to the Grand Palace merely confirmed that such sight seeing activities would bore the children. An afternoon on a fast, rolling, long tailed boat, with spray from a huge bow wave was a different matter. Exploring suburban klongs (canals) on the Thonburi side of the river was exciting for everyone.


Then an overnight second class sleeper bound for Trang in the deep south. The children sat and played around one table, constant shrieks of delight amused rather than annoyed the Thai passengers. It was obvious they would get on well with each other and the locals. English, with a French accent,
became the children's language.


We had no sooner arrived at Trang station than Samran appeared. 'Where are you going'? 'Krabi'. 'I'll take you in my car for 1000 baht' (£17 for a three hour drive). He didn't say his car was an open pickup truck! I and the grandchildren rode in the air conditioned cab for the three hour journey. The rest got early exposure to Asian travel. 'It's been fine for ten days, but it's monsoon time on the west coast and should be raining', he said, blaming the unreliability on deforestation. We were to be luckier than expected with the weather.

Krabi, a nondescript estuary town, is a personal favourite because it offers excellent food at night and makes an ideal centre for trips. Beautiful beaches like Ao Nang, Noppharathara, and the most photographed of all, Phra Nang, can be reached by coastal long tailed boat or by songtheaw, the converted pickup trucks which serve as local buses.


We had extremely fond memories of Phi Phi island from a decade earlier. Had it been spoiled by mass tourism and the film industry? True there is now a four story hotel and a new township of air-conditioned bungalows. But away from the port it is still idyllic - in summer (off-season) at least. The kids spent the whole day playing in the warm sea. Joe and Hazel took instantly to snorkeling with water wings over live coral reefs. Brightly coloured fish and eerie dark ones in the shadows, the long trumpet fish, the phosphorescent mouths of clams and huge star fish. It's a wonderful place for family beach holidays, but it isn't Thailand.


'I still want to get a feel for the country', said Anne-Marie. So we spent the third week on the infrequently visited east coast. Shared taxis (minibuses) operate between southern cities. Being a party of ten we didn't even have to wait while they filled up, so we were able to keep road journeys down to two hours. Once at the chosen destination we had only to appear on the street and a songtheaw driver would offer his services, 400 baht for half a day is the going rate for sight seeing trip of the area.


Phattalung was the first stop. The attraction was a boat trip on the nearby water bird reserve at Thaleh Noi. Early next morning we glided through narrow channels in the reed beds which gave rise to the local mat weaving industry. The birds, so numerous in November, had largely left, but the solitude, pink water-lilies, lotus blossom, and the wild buffaloes were consolations.


Travel problems were being overcome, but family meals with young children were less successful - aren't they always! Spicy food is out for them. We quickly learned that chips, unspiced chicken, fish, squid, prawns, are readily available even in Thai restaurants. In addition Chinese restaurants exist all over Asia. Add burgers, milk shakes, eggs, and banana pancakes in those restaurants aimed at backpackers. Food was not a problem. We found some fabulous spicy Thai food, through judicious use of the guide books backed up with careful observation, yet these authentic restaurants attracted surprisingly few tourists.


South again to Songkla where last winter we had met Sao as she operated the wooden cotton weaving loom at her home on nearby Ko Yoh island. Such contacts are the delight of independent travel.

The final stop was Pattani, a quiet Moslem town. At Hat Talo Kapo there is a huge fishing fleet of open long-tailed boats, all fabulously decorated and protected from the sun by shelters of dried coconut leaves. The fishermen go to sea for two days, and fish with cages and nets, for crabs, squid and fish. Sao's friend Nok, who studies English at the local university, showed us around town. A Chinese temple shrine commemorates a Chinese woman who committed suicide after failing to reverse her brother's conversion to Islam.


Back in Bangkok with Pranee's lovely family at her house in the tropical fruit tree jungle on the polders beyond suburban Phasi Charoen. (We had met ten years earlier on top of a mountain in northern Thailand.) There we experienced the traditional waterside lifestyle, where even the mail comes by canoe. 'That was the best day of the holiday', said Rachel. Perhaps she will grow into my type of traveller.


206 words      BRIAN CORBETT                                  2 Oct 2000




CAPTIONS for PHOTOGRAPHS (All except last taken by Brian Corbett)

T00-2   28     Hazel, Alice and Rachel on Phra Nang beach, near Krabi. Note the purses containing identity information for safety purposes.

T00-3   18     Early morning on Long Beach, Ko Phi Phi.

T00-4   21     Lone boatman at Thaleh Noi.

T00-6   13   One of many open fishing boats in shelter of dried coconut leaves at Hat Talo Kapo.

T00-6   35     Hazel shakes out her fortune at the Chinese temple in Phattalung.
T00-7   35     Brian Corbett, The Oldie Backpacker.