Bigpond.com

MICHAEL OWEN

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-06T20:04:12+01:00

On that fateful day we were nearly struck by the runaway bus the local football team, Barranquilla Junior were playing Cali. Junior Barranquilla are probably the best known and their stadium the most famous in Colombia. Carlos the upstairs neighbour asked me to go and take a look. An offer I took a rain check on, much to my regret, since Juniour stuffed Cali by three goals to two and it was by all accounts a thouroughly riveting affair. The trucks of armed police that I saw heading for the ground, looking like they were suppressing a coup d'etat rather than policing a soccer match were a little cause for concern. I wanted to take the young lads but the ladies were having none of it. They were muttering something about 'stampedes". I thought it was a game of footie rather than a running of the bulls. Carlos said the ladies were exaggerating (as usual) and that it just depends on which end you go to. Much like the West End or the Kop at Highfield Rd I suppose. Like so many other things in Colombia it just seems to be a matter of common sense and following the right pointers.
I certainly intend to go and check out a match while I'm here. Carlos presented me with an away strip shirt for the occaision so it would be churlish in the extreme not to take him up on the offer. On the day of the Cali game the whole town was jumping like a bucket full of beans and chilli. They really love their football here. Every radio and TV that can be is tuned to the match. Everyone turned out in the Junior colours of red and white.
The girl below is one of the cousins, Veronica.She is eighteen years old and she claims to be Juniors second to biggest fan, the number one biggest fan being her boyfriend. Despite this she is in love with Michael Owen and swoons at the very mention of his name. She has studied Colombian eco-science all year long like a good girl and hopes that Papa Noel will bring her a new England jersey with the name Owen emblazoned on the back. This so she can "more enthusiastically support the English ones at the World cup of the next year..." SO if anyone out there know Michael Owen then please ask him to e-mail me for her address. One shirt can't be much for a little Colombian girl, especially considering I seem to recall the name Owen being on the score-sheet twice when we stuffed Colombia in this year's 'friendly'.

LARGATIJA

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-06T20:11:17+01:00

Found this little fellow hanging upside-down in the bathroom. Persuaded Kelly to come to take a look and to tell me what it was. "Aiiiieeeee Largatija...." she squealed. I got out of the bathroom pretty quick, thinking by her reaction that it must be some sort of Gila monster. When I finally got the story translated it went as follows; one of these little fellows was scrambling across the kitchen ceiling of an unspecified Colombian family. Overcome by the heat it dropped into the cooking pot. Apparently while it doesn't bite there is some sort of toxin in it. The family unwittingly ate the soup. The children died and the adults spent four days hallucinating violently.
Phew. Luckily for the Largatija they never heard of it's exsistence in the West Midlands in the 60s and 70s, there would have been armies of Roy Wood/Ozzy Osbourne/Robert Plant look-alikes combing the shrubbery and boiling up these little chaps by the tub full.

UNTITLED

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-01-25T17:45:58+01:00

The Blog has been suspended for present due to the sudden, unexpected and untimely death of my oldest and only son Jason. Son, if you are reading this: I LOVE YOU.

BACK FROM THE DEAD

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-27T21:18:52+01:00

Well what a carry on. I can't believe that it's been the best 8 months since the blog was updated. I've got rakes of excuses but I don't think I should go into that here. Just get started again and try to get some continuity back into the posts. I kept all the photographs of the travels, luckily enough but apart from the odd hand jotted note I don't have a lot of consecutive text. Ahh but what the feck. I'll just tag some stuff onto the photos untill I get up to date. I'm back in Holland at the moment but that won't last for long. It's colder than a gravediggers arse and the old joints are seizing up and heeding the call of warmer climes. I hope to be out before Christmas. Health issues have clouded my southern skies for the past few months. But those are other stories. Part of catching up. If you have the time and inclination to stick with me then we'll be back on track in no time. So where should we start. Probably at the point of departure. I boarded a plane for Curacao at the beginning of May as I remember it. This with the lively intention of connecting with an Avior flight to Valencia in Venezuela. Ahhhhhh. The best laid plans of mice and men. Missed the transfer. Curacao airport dies as soon as the last flight leaves and of course no one takes euros. Churlish of me to expect that an ex-dutch colony would prefer euros to dollars. You might as well try paying in conch shells. No taxi. No sympathy. The only place to change euros was the nearest hotel...bar...casino...shit-hole. They call it the airport hotel but only because it corresponds approximately with the end of the longest runway. That shit I wrote about packing a small bag was actually just that. Shit. The bag I had was something akin to the rock of Sisyphus. I think all my problems later in the journey were probably due to dragging that burden along miles of featureless road. But I made it. Checked into the hotel, hit the bar and tried to stay sober enough to get back to the airport by eight the next morning. Didn't manage to say sober but did manage the early start, thanks be to the lord for those tap-dancing cockroaches.Anyway no alternative flight to Valencia. Got ripped on a small 15 minute flight to Punto Figo. At least I got onto the mainland. Next post Venezuela.

TU PAPA

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-14T22:56:58+01:00

After a day of sweaty chaos we arrived at the game barely on time. Carlos had arranged the tickets and there was no way he was going to let me back out of another game. Unlike the players I'd been wearing my generic, nylon, Junior away shirt all day, this had been soaked with sweat and sun-dried at least four times that day and was ripening rapidly. It's a wonder anyone was prepared to sit within three rows of me on the terraces. Unfortunately it was a day of overlapping commitments; We were moving to a new house in barrio Mercedes that day and despite the fact we had booked a truck for 08:00 hours we did not anticipate the running of some sort of marathon race that morning. The police were not letting any vehicles up or down Calle 69 till the race had finished. Only a trickle of taxis were allowed to cross it. STRICTLY no trucks. The police told us it was a bicycle race but as the first contestants appeared on foot I could only assume that either the cops were wrong or these lads had been robbed of their bikes on the way through Centro and were being chased for their trainers. Unfortunately for our schedule it turned out to be a race on foot. Race is probably something of a misnomer, a few of the early contestants seemed to be trotting along merrily, as the field stretched and thinned on the baking concrete most of the contestants seemed to be just out for a Sunday morning stroll, ambling along pleasantly in Somberos and designer running gear that they obviously did not want to ruin with sweat. We hooted derision from upstairs windows, taxi drivers hit claxons and snarled but all this fell on deaf ears. The race trundled on to its inevitable conclusion about an hour behind schedule. the moving truck was a further hour late so by the time we had the move made and ourselves undusted we had a full half hour to get from Mercedes to the Stadium, through a heaving Murillo. Well we did make it and were in place for kick-off clutching quart beakers of the good Aguila beer,(Sponsors of Junior Barranquilla, the Colombian national squad and my newly reborn beer habit), just in time to be infected with the pre-match tension which is OH so important to an enjoyable 90 odd minutes of good footie.
Junior had their backs up against it to qualify but played valiantly. An early and thouroughly well deserved penalty put them well on track and I must say that with the way they were playing they could have been three up at half time. Cali looked a little dazed and didn't really look as if they knew whether to try to cling to their aggregate lead or to try to advance it. At the beginning of the second half Junior came out with all guns blazing and the quite brilliant Emerson Ocuna scored a goal that had the Colombian TV pundits still raving two days later. For some reason better known to himself the Junior trainer deemed it wise to substitute Emerson. This threw the whole rhythm of Junior's attack out of balance and allowed Cali the chance to come back and with a single soft goal put the final nail in the coffin of Junior's Cup hopes this year. To be fair I'd say this is the best I've seen Junior play this season. On the other hand, equally fair; it is the only time I've ever seen them play.
Keep it up lads!!! I'll remain a loyal fan to both you and your sponsors.

CREATURES OF A LOST WORLD

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-15T23:00:25+01:00

I think that it was Baudelaire, (correct me if I'm wrong here), who once described cats as "the insects of a lost world". I wonder what the bardlike frenchy would have made of Colombian riot police. These fellows have a covering top to toe of some sort of kevlar body armour, buffed hard and black, keratinised, distinctly scarab like. I'm sure this wasn't just for show. Due to their presence and a moat full of little chaps in white spats, helmets and matching clubs, seperating the fans from the pitch. The whole match proceeded in a most orderly fashion. I remember some sort of legend about South American footie clubs having moats full of crocodiles between the pitch and the fans. Looking at some of these lads I think I might prefer the crocodiles, you'd die more quickly and mercifully.
As the floodlights came up The opposing teams of Barranquilla Junior and America de Cali frothed out of the mouths of two giant inflatable Aquila bottles while the arbiters appeared from a seperate white mini-tunnel. There they were sheltered by a 'turtle' of riot shields until they were beyond the reach of projectiles. Three of these human shields were also placed around the corner flags to protect the player taking the corner from a similar shower of projectiles. I took it that they weren't talking about projectiles of the rotten tomato variety here. The kevlar body armour looked a little like that stuff that the evil lads wear in "The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers". It could easily deflect a SAM-7 missile.
Carlos told me cheerfully as I made my way to the bathrooms to tap off the ninety minutes of beer that I should be proud; I was probably the only englishman in the stadium. The penny didn't actually drop on that one until I was elbowing my way to the trough in an overfilled, sweaty, stadium toilet, being leered at by a horde of unsteady disappointed little brown drunks. Just like hooligans but smaller. It did occur to me, for a fleeting moment, that I was the only one in an away strip too but that was probably the least of the contrasts. Here, trying to flip it out between a white belly and overtight waistband, above a urinal that was the right height for a six-year old, trying to avoid, not entirely sucessfully, splashing onto the throng around me, I was definitely the swine of a lost world.
But like every other activity in Barranquilla so far everything went swimmingly. We melted away happily into the heaving tumult of Murillo: the bars, lights, music and the smell of chuzos cooking on charcoal permeating everything.

FATA MORGANA

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-28T23:42:32+01:00

The plane from Curacao to Punto Figo takes about 15 minutes but everyone on that flight was portly and all the seats were small. Also we shared the company of a hyperventilating Latino gentleman who spent the short flight on the edge something bordering extreme panic and hysteria. I spent the short flight on the edge of my seat, not through fear but simply because the lady next to me, Naritza, was as fat as a chunky pig and half a buttock was all I could get on the seat. It was a short flight though and Naritza promised me that she would hook me up with a cousin of hers who drove taxi. I was still a good eight or ten hours from my final desination of Maracai and a taxi was the only viable means of reaching my destination within a reasonable time. We went through the usual rigmarole at the airport. Naritza lost her luggage and I was constrained to wait for a few hours at the airport before she could hook me up with the family. Her mother was very much enamoured of me an thought I might be a 'keeper'. Luckily Carlos the cousin was more interested in the eighty dollar fare. This fee being agreed we set off through the ugly petro-chemical plants of Punto Figo on an eight hour journey across salt flats and deserts in a clapped out Chevy Caprice with shot leaf springs and no side windows. The only real joy was the discovery of Polar beer, which is a treat and right up there with Carib and Aguilla, this and the convenient front bench seat of the Chevy, like the old Hillman Minx, which accomodates not only driver and passenger but a cooler with twenty-four cans on ice. The surface of the earth quivers in the heat and amid this the actual prescence or else mirages of countless wild goats. I spent a lot of time pissing onto the scorching ground. By the time we reached Maracai Carlos and I had ironed out all but two of the beer cans. I gave these to Carlos as a tip and slipped into the Posada.Which is to say into a world of reconciliation, recognition, memories and mangos. More about that later.

POSADA EL LIMON ONE

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-28T02:04:40+01:00

The Posada in El Limon in Maracai is a phenomenon. Make no mistake. I should have visited years ago. The owner, Bart, is one of my old friends and he has worked his ass of getting the place to the stage it is now. Along with that most of my oldest friends have spent time there working to build the place up: Mr. Szweda and Mr. Sedge-Willet to name but a few. The latter who seems to have started a whole artistic culture in that particular part of the world. More about that later. Suffice to say that the Posada is something of an oasis in a turbulent world. Great stuff, but unfortunately I was still in the mood for turbulence when I got there. It was great though to be there visiting for the first time. I wasn't really in the sitting still mode. After a short respite I decided to Foxtrot Oscar to Trindad to watch the pre-world cup friendly football match against Peru. First game with Beenhakker the new dutch trainer. Turned out to be a bit of a wanker in the long run. Flew all the way to Port of Spain for a draw. Give me Hiddink anytime. But it was nice to spend some time pissing it up outside of Smokey and Bunty's in St James' there in Port of Spain. Got some jerked pork and a belly full of Carib anyway which was worth the ticket. England kicked their asses in the world cup anyway but 10 out of 10 for trying. Flying visit though. Trinidad is going the wrong way. Too little Rasta too much LA gansta. The taxi drivers will tell you the truth. Trinidad is turning Yardie. Shame really. Luckily Tobago is still a treat. Took in Santiago de Leon de Caracas on the way which was another complete TRIP. Cementario...Ranchero...these are forceful barrios..The poorest and most desperate places and the stamping grounds of the lawless men. Must admit I have a sneaking amiration for Senor Hugo Chavez. I'm not yet an enlightened student of contemporary Latin American Politics. But Hugo hates Bush, likes Castro, Ken Livingstone and Diego Marradona so there must be something going on there. Want a good biography of Simon Bolivar for Christmas so if anyone stuck thinking what they can buy me. Keep the socks and sweaters. Simon is the lad for me. More over the Posada the next time around.

VIA VENEZUELA

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-29T17:47:40+01:00

It was a bit of a spiky old trip back from T&T back to the Simon Bolivar International Airport at Malquetia in Venezuela. The frequent flying and more frequent drinking was starting to take it's toll. Due to circumstances I can't even begin to remember I decided to take the 160 or so kilometer ride from Caracas to Valencia in a taxi. Vague echoes in my memory seem to whisper in waves of diminishing repetition that this had something to do with having missed yet another flight. Too late to recall now. I'd been feeling a little green around the gills and a little light in the bowels for a few days, but due the aforesaid circumstances had put it down to "travelers belly". I had failed to take too much notice of the mounting numbers of blood-sucking insects I had fallen prey to in my meteoric passage through the Caribbean. Strange symptoms on the way back to Maracai though. My eardrums went into a sort of implosion mode and despite all attempts to recover my usual sense of hearing I spent much of the next few days listening to the world as if through earfuls of cotton wool. The Taxi drive back to Maracai was somewhat protracted due to the collapse of a viaduct on the main road between Malquetia and La Guaira. A route I was to come to learn well. The contingency road that winds and weaves tortuously up into Caracas, is a nightmare that left me gasping for liquid. Unfortunately 24 hour stop and shops are not well advised along the highways and byways of Venezuela. Even for the beer hungry. Despite the impressive public works that have taken place under the patrician guidance of Senor Chavez this country can still be a hive of lawlessness once daylight has failed. The process of the collapse of the viaduct was recorded on the photo here under. Later it would collapse completely into the underlying ravine. But Luiz and I did not stop either for beer or to wonder at the civil engineering. A stop on the hard shoulder anywhere around these environs even to urinate, would leave one susceptible to abseiling villains descending, armed to the teeth, from the barrios above. Hugo Chavez, never short of the odd inspiring word, summarised the collapse in his own familiar way: "Let's hear it for the viaduct! The viaduct is dead! May it rest in peace! (...) Media are now likely going to stage a show around the new viaduct (currently under construction.) Long live the contingency road! Long live the new viaduct and the new Caracas-La Guaira freeway we are going to build!" By now this may already be completed. Public works inspired by petro dollars march on under a gold, red and blue banner. When I eventually returned to Maracai I drank To that.

POLAR & PARROTS

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-29T19:17:13+01:00

Believe me it was a joy to return to the Posada El Limon. For any of you not familiar with this little jewel, set providentially between national parks, white, sandy beaches and some of the best that Venezuela has to offer, then let this be my recommendation.The management and staff are a blessing and are more than capable of helping you with any particular nature of study, stimulation or entertainment that you might desire from a visit to Latin America. For me it was a short opportunity to wonder and to take a little rest before careering on with my journey along the Caribbean coast. I say that not only because the management are old and dear friends of mine, but because a stay there presents nothing but relaxation and joy. All the contact guff is in the Lonely Planet guide but I'll include all the contact details in a later post. You can save yourself the price of the guide and keep your money for the good Polar Beer. Something I probably imbibed a little to much of on this particular visit. Bernadus and his good lady wife Selina, plus the kids Pablo and Jade gave me a good time of it. Unfortunately I did visit in the rainy season which meant not only the customary of showers of rain but a hail of ripened mangos. The big Mangos come down like mortar shells and the smaller starch mangos rattle off the the rooves like machine gun fire. A fruity fusillade. None the less i had at least a few days to recover from the stress of over enthusiastic travelling and had the chance to meet a few old friends that I had not seen for years. In addition to this the eclectic collection of guests were included: Georgina, the niece of Jenny Agutter. (Still my beating heart). And a Welsh professor of ancient languages from Tondu. I've lost or never never rembered to write down those e-mail addresses but should either of you read these lines then get in touch. Or at least Georgina...get your Aunt to. We still have outstanding issues. .I have a few unresolved questions which stem back to my teenage years. The words naked and pond come to mind Bdah bdah.

BROKEN THINGS

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-29T20:49:34+01:00

Between memory and truth somewhere falls the shadow. Bart still maintains that during a weeks stay I managed to drink ten cases of beer. This seems improbable in the extreme but not impossible. During the rainy season the insects proliferate and for some reason they have their eyes and probosces fixed firmly on me this year. I'd been feeling progressively more dicky as the weeks wore on but had put this down more to my age and the rate of travelling rather anything else. My great friend B.M. had turned up from the Islands, something he'd be threatening to do ever since I first started haunting this corner of the Caribbean and he took me off to an old friend of his: Juraco, who is not an unknown figure to many of my childhood friends. He is also someone who holds the English crew in great affection. The politics run a little contrary since Juraco is a great "Chavezniste" much as myself. This is not a universally shared sentiment among my immediate friends. Especially Bernadus. Nonetheless we trooped down to regard the legacy of Mr. D. Sedge Willett, a man held in special high regard in these regions but better known to us as the wee grey fellow. The world and his brother are now earning a living here with mozaik techniques perfected and performed by the wee grey one. He and his fine son Helmut are well remembered in this corner of the world. We had a wonderful barbeque with the artist and his family. This was probably to prove my last flirtation with red meat and green peppers and laterly my enduring romance with alcoholic beverages. A fine time was had by all and between the profit and the loss we celebrated old and new friendships and the virtue and value of broken things.

PLUS CA CHANGE

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-11-30T16:39:31+01:00

You can only drink beer and dodge falling mangos for so long. I'm not sure about Venezuela. It surely seems like a fine country and I'm sure that the time I had spent there was not long enough to form a conclusive opinion. I guess that takes a lifetime really. There is a strange magnetism that draws me to Colombia however, maybe it's the same attraction that drew Bolivar. He was born in Caracas but gave up the ghost in a borrowed shirt in Colombia. Cartagena I think. The Venezuelans claimed his bones and shipped them back to Caracas. I'm not sure what happened to the shirt. The 24 hour rule would have surely run out on that one. Colombia is more edgy, which appeals to me. Echoes of Coventry I think. Bishops gate. The taxi ranks on a Friday night after chucking out time in the clubs. That brooding sense of impending doom which threatens but never actually arrives.A punch in the head which really isn't that bad. After an uneventful flight from Valencia to Caracas I think I must have been musing on this as I touched ground in Bogota. Magic of all magic, wonder of all wonders, there is a WIMPY bar in the airport at Bogota. Will my luck ever run out? They even have the smooth brown mustard, "french mustard" I think they used to call it in the Wimpy bar in Coventry. Tasted like brown vinegar icing. While I was sucking down that stuff I seem to remember my bro and sister prefering the ketchup and this made me feel very interesting and continental. Jesus God I loved that stuff. Colombia may be the last repository of me and all things Coventry. I already have the borrowed shirt. But know this. When the town council demand, upon the threat of severe repercussion, the repatriation of my bones, as surely they will, then I want to buried at a point of triangulation between where the Coventry Theatre used to be, where the Kinks played and the Who first got banned for smashing up their instruments, The Jaguar pub where Bill Beckett gave me my first hit of acid, and the Wimpy bar where I first tasted something french. It may require some drastic civil engineering but that has never been an issue in my home town. Everything has gone: Jaguar, Triumph, Rover, Humber, Francis Barnet,Alvis, Austin, Morris, the Rootes group, Cov Rad, Fishy Moores, Two Tone, the piss-house in the upper precinct, Norman Butter, The Locarno where Pink Floyd previewed Dark side op the Moon with Hawkwind in support, The Lanch, Barclay James Harvest on the same bill as MC5 (kick out the jams), Highfield Rd., Beefheart at Warwick Uni, demonstrations, citizens help, The Paris, The Gaumont, Rolls Royce, Bob, Mum & Dad and Jase, most of my family and most of my mates. In fact what hasn't gone has gone to fuck. But just as there is a time for leaving then there will be a time for returning. The Sky blues WILL win the champions league. Lady Godiva will be doubled up on the back of the horse of Simon Bolivar. The taste of a Wimpy on Bogota airport brings it all flooding on in and flooding back. How far do you really have to go to find the way back? Bogota is the mustard.

'QUILLA

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-12-02T00:52:36+01:00

Rain, rain rain.
"The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness,
far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, is the central and inevitable
fact of human existence."What did I read there? The Wolfe man again in dedication. Travis Bickle knows the rain that I mean. It's definitely the wet season when I touch ground in Barrranquilla. Mi tierra querida. The troops are out on the streets again and all the way from the airport the soldiers are on every street corner as if to welcome me. They are stop and searching, Barranquieros spread-eagled against walls getting the bad man pat down. I guess they don't want to take any chances when I'm in town. Of course it's Uribe again. He always seem to time his visits to coincide with mine. It's election time now though and he is doing a little band-standing. The thought of a Colombian general election is almost as exciting a prospect as Carnival. It's going to be an exciting visit this time. Not only the elections but Miss Barranquilla is running for Miss World in Las Vegas. I try to up myself a little on Latin American history a little more each time I visit. I learned that the current president Uribe had his father kidnapped and despite paying the ransom got his Dad back in chunks on the doorstep in a dustbin bag. It's hard to be optomistic about the thoughts of any political reconciliation. The fact that he even acknowledges the para-militaries is something of kindness. The good that has been slaughtered in this country beggars all belief. I've recently read the biography of that head job Escobar. The murder of Luis Carlos Galan. Probably the best hope this country ever had. The shoe shining comedian whose name I do not even remeber. To even excercise political comedy can cop you a head shot from the cheerless armed actors here, who coke or Bush driven run rampant in this wonderful country. I wonder who is buying all these bullets? Wonder if anyone like Galan will ever come again. Ingrid Betancourt is still in the hands of kidnappers if she is even indeed alive. It will need bags of that Colombian resolve and conviction. Oh and yes, a world that even gives a fuck. That would be a nice one. I managed to get down to the University for election day but was too chicken shit to take photos of the hordes of might morphin' power rangers lining the streets. But fuck that, the amazon will be gone in it's entirety in twenty years, all eyes on Iraq and Afghanistan That's a fact. Britain is shovelling more up it's nose than anywhere outside of the US. Makes a change from sniffing Yankee bum i suppose. This may be as as good as it gets. Wake up and smell the coffee my friends. It's probably Colombian. End of political ranting. Uribe won. Miss Barranquilla didn't.

SHY BLUE

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-02-08T14:37:42+01:00

It was a sad day in Longford when we carried Jason's body to the ground. All that I can say at present is that he has at last found peace and that the bad and the sad will eventually disappear and all that will be left at the end will be the good memories we all have and had of him. May his boys grow as tall and strong as their father and may Katherina find solace in the fact that she brought more happiness to him than he had ever known in his life. Any other words I might say at the moment would be platitudes. I'm sure I speak, not only as his father but on behalf of all of his family in Ireland and England and Holland in thanking all of you who were kind enough to make long journeys to respect him or otherwise sent your heartfelt condolences. As you can see his grave was as sky blue as his life and just the way he would have wished it. In that small plot of the world in Longford there will always be a part of Coventry. He was buried with a block of the old Highfield Road stadium. Sky blue or Shy blue, trust in it Jay, home or away, we'll fight till the game is won.

THE JANUARY MAN

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2007-01-22T22:56:37+01:00

There are belated New Year greetings from all the fish here in the big-pond. The server has been down for a few weeks now, so I extend even more greetings to those faithful enough to keep visiting despite the downtime. Hopefully we'll be up for a while now and I can catch up on the lost posts of 2006, including Caitie's first visit to Colombia and our mini bus epic from Barranquilla to Venezuela. It was rum old year, one to stir life to the roots and stir the pot to the bottom. On the one hand there was great sorrow and loss, for me the shadow of Jay passing will overshadow everything and mark the year of 2006 darkly and indelibly in my memory for the rest of my remaining years. I know that there have been big changes for all of us, old friends reunited, changes in both address and attitude. New relationships and new arrivals, (more about those in the next post). There is a wealth of promising things looming on the near horizon. For me the impending completion of my personal physical and dental repairs will be high on the list, followed by the Barranquilla Carnival where I will be joined by a small, hand picked group of European hedonists who will use this immense cultural event to attempt to learn temperance in preparation for Lent, or more probably to learn how to dance 'Cumbia' on a table wearing nothing but marimonda masks, while balancing beers on their heads. (Again these are separate posts in which I will also sing praises to the standard of Colombian health care). In all I'm in an optimistic and sunny mood. That's easy to say, I know, when it's thirty degrees and blue skies. But on the whole I'd say it's a question of heart and eyes and keeping all of them open, regardless of how bleak things may seem at times.
On the phone today with Ireland I asked Jamie what the weather was like in Longford; "There's a beautiful clear sky and a full moon...." he said. These natural wonders seemed more interesting and remarkable to him than the storms that have been lashing Europe and the frosty grass crunching under his boots on his way home from Monica's. Both our Jamie and things are looking up.

(Photos: Caitie and Cosmo in Barranquilla, Colombia and Caitie in Maracay, Venezuela. August 2006)

NO TIME LIKE THE PLEASANT

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2007-01-26T18:23:59+01:00

Well it's going on February life is quickly putting time between me and my annus horribilis. Aye yes, there are many things in this confounded life I'm never going to get to grips with (like Shakira for instance) and even more things that I do not have any ready explanation for; like nearly everything on earth except the hiccups. Funny, because I'm reasonably sure I knew everything when I was younger. Still I continue to live my life in the cheery expectation that things will eventually become clear. I'm back in the Caribbean which is a good thing: sunshine, sea and sand. Apparently the weather is going from bad to worse for the European and American contingents of family and friends. An Exception being my dear brother David who is working nights in the freeze box of a packing plant and, as such, does not know the meaning of weather anymore. But by eye witness accounts he is looking very well on it. Maybe I should join you Hedge. Get some gut off and get the blood pressure down. We'll both last longer; like a pair of Inuits,(at least that�s how I think that�s how you spell it).
Yes I do miss being away from those I love but still feel the itch to keep on the move while I still can. I also feel a compelling need to catch up on all the old posts that I've missed between May and September last year. That's proving difficult because new stuff just keeps happening as life's rich plot develops. Writing these posts isn't a problem; the laptop still seems to be holding up since it's last repair,(cheers Ike), the last words haven�t been wrung out of it yet. Pics are more of a worry. My little digi-camera has been going steadily to bollix since Charlie lubricated it with maple syrup last year, so I think photos are going to be few and far between. Actually my little silver friend might loosen up and start working again now that the ambient temperature is higher and the syrup thins a bit, its switches have tended to loosen up while I'm here, as have mine. I do get the odd encouraging message on the e-mail with added attachments which means I can poach a few photos of your photos too. These coupled with some old shots from last year mean that I can still share some snaps through the magic of the Internet, without the massive effort and not inconsiderable risk of lifting a camera to my eye. Anyway enough of the tech guff.
Gillian, star of stage and screen, has finally completed her newest production:"The Snapper". A fine little girl as you will all see for yourselves. I haven't got the weights and measures, but she'll probably turn out about as shy and reticent as her mother. 2006 was a veritable incubator of a year for some. Veronika and Yessenia in Colombia also had daughters Nancy and Sherice. No pics of those yet. It seems that however dark and cold and foreboding things might appear,there is always some glimmer of light somewhere. Gillian didn't send any photos of the proud dad, Alan, so he's going to have to be imaginary Alan for the time being. Gillian says he's a mad Irish fisherman and doing more than his share to keep the Atlantic salmon running. Good Man. So God bless them all and I'm sure we'll flick a fly together someday. The only things hatching at the moment are the brutish Aruban mozzies that are eating me alive while I write this. Welcome to the world Elizabeth and congratulations to Mum and Dad.
I think we're (by we I actually mean Elkie) are going to have to make a hall of fame photo gallery on this blog as soon as 'we' have relocated 'our' computer. Anyway I'm also including a photo of Ma in her pre-Ma Hollywood days. Sorry Gilli, next time send three snaps, I have to keep the numbers up!
Next post I'll be on my way to Venezuela and the pics will be coming from Longford!

PORK BITS,SPUDS AND UDDERS

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-27T23:54:56+01:00

Well, just in time for those of you looking for a few pointers on adding a little variety to the Christmas cuisine, I've decided to make an attempt to broach the subject of food.
Initially I made a few mistakes here on the food front. I offered to cook a meal for a family birthday early on into the trip. This was greeted with much enthusiam and as something of a novelty since Colombian guys do not seem to spend much time in the kitchen, that is unless the wife is hobbled and they are forced to stray to the refridgerator to fetch their own beer. The cardinal mistake I made was in assuming that all Latin Americans love spicy food. They don't. The spicy lads are called Mexicans. I decided to whip up a quick throat tickling lentil curry. Wrong choice. A wrong choice made with twenty and thirty guest on the way. Luckily the look of horror on the faces of those who first tasted it, and the way they ran around the room fanning at there open mouths, betrayed the problem just before the shops closed.
Colombians to not seem to like the fiery stuff at all.(I still cause something of a stir at breakfast by putting habanero sauce on my eggs). The second mistake I made was in assuming that they would be happy with a meal without meat. When they had recovered both their senses and the power of speech from the chillies, they started poking around in my pots looking for where I had cleverly hidden the meat. I raced off to the supermarket, bought enough mint and yoghurt to make a bucketful of Raita, onions and cucumbers and a couple of kilos of ground beef. With these and a couple more ingredients I managed to serve up mince and lentil curry with rice, lashings of cooling raita and red cabbage with apples. This washed down with tumblers of my now famous Sangria that, while not perhaps following any particular Spanish recipe had enough Mendellin rum in it to strip the paint off the Ark Royal. It was an unconventional meal but who was to know? A few members of the family probably think it is the national dish of England. Eaten traditionally at birthdays. I was probably drunk enough to foster and nourish such an assumption. What the hell, I might try Dutch pea soup and mince pies on them for Christmas. Conceptual English fusion cookery, like that bod who's dishing up snail porridge at a hundred and fifty quid a head,freezing gooseberries in liquid nitrogen and zapping lobsters with lasers to challenge our ideas on how we get stuff cooked. I've got a few of my own ideas on that. But I digress.

PORK BITS, SPUDS AND UDDERS 2

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-27T00:02:14+01:00

In Barranquilla it's very hard to avoid the constant flow of street food. Much of this is cooked over charcoal grills or barbeques and sad to say for our vegetarian friends, a great deal of it is meat. I was managed to stay away from my flesh gorging habits for the six months prior to my departure but it's near on impossible to avoid eating meat or being sure that what you are filling your face with does not contain a meat derivative of some kind. I have yet to meet a Colombian vegetarian and am not even sure if such a creature exsists. It would be crazy to try to sum up the national cuisine of a country in a few words but below is a grab-bag of the stuff I've picked off of smoking grills around the city. Some of it a little more 'challenging' than the rest. The dark sausage shaped lads are Colombian black puddings, or morcillas, and are pretty much indistinguishable from their northern English cousins. They are very nice and I'm sure would be set off a treat with a few stewing apples or pears. The skewers of beef are called 'chuzos', these fellows also come in chicken flavour. The Colombian spuds are absolutely out of this world. ( I keep forget that the humble potato started it's life in this neck of the rain forest), I haven't tasted potatoes this good since I was a kid. On the 'chuzos' they are stuck at each end of the skewer. Seen here glistening from brushed on oil or butter and ready for a final trip to the grill.
The big mixed grill at the bottom shows two different sorts of potato. The wrinkly things that look a bit like pigs' ears are actually cows udders, a bit like Manchester melt. These folk are not shy of scarfing down any manner of viscera and seem to eat pretty much everything from snout to trotters. The only thing I've really had a problem with was the cow foot soup which didn't seem to contain anything recognisable, just a few nondescript gelid lumps and was in general an experience I can only describe as sucking warm suet out of tubes of gristle. It may be an acquired taste but I certainly won't be going around for seconds on that stuff. Anyway you might spot a bit of tripe in there. Some roughly stuffed pork sausages and any amount of crackling you like. It might not be everyones cup of tea but I will dedicate a little time on the fruit and vegside to strike some sort of balance. Promise.

Feliz Navidad

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-12-27T00:05:17+01:00

littlefish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2008-06-09T22:46:52+01:00

This blog has been suspended due to the death of it's author.
We miss him more than our words could express...

AFRICA

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-11-13T16:26:50+01:00

Just a few token shots here until we get the posts sorted.

SOUTHERN CARIBBEAN

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-11-13T16:40:54+01:00

A few token shots until life is blown into the blow by blow travel-blog.

LOVE IN THE AGE OF AVIAN INFLUENZA�

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-11-13T17:00:54+01:00

O.K. Let�s give it one more go.
I�ve tried these travelblogs before and they always seem to get screwed up somehow. Gambia and Senegal never got edited and the partial blog of Trinidad, Tobago and the Southern Caribbean just evaporated on the server. I�m assured by those wiser and more optimistic than me that these posts will all surface in the fullness of time and that, by the time I�m too old to drag my tired carcass further than between the P.C. and the television in the bedroom, all the old posts will be ordered and dated. Giving me all the time left to me to pore morosely over my past, the far off places I have visited, and the idiocies I engaged myself with while there. I�m just going to leave the two entries below as bookmarks and get on with preparing for the new trip. There are four days left until I leave. Richard Hawley is coming over from Brighton tomorrow give me a good send off, heh heh. We�ll see if we can get a few pointers there on how to conduct oneself when faced with such an undertaking. I�m sure a bon vivant/ casual hero/ man o' the world like himself will be sure to have a few scraps for me. In the meantime I invite all my friends and loved ones to follow my progress on this small adventure and to add, unreservedly, what advice and criticism they may deem useful.

AWAY! AWAY!

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2005-11-14T15:15:41+01:00

This Morning�s sun broke over the tram terminus and the Olympic stadium like a fire. A cold morning though. Autumn on a dying world. The lavender bushes outside under the window already seem frosted, most of the trees are bare and the smell of wood smoke and burning leaves blanket the memories of barbeques and mown grass. The city ruffles up its feathers like a wet crow. No hibernating for me this year, too restless. I scraped myself up off the bed early; feeling the Dedalus factor. (Stephen that is, not the soaring Greek.) I must have been having a few uneasy dreams about those strange, phosphorescent creatures at the other end of the world. I think that all the stress of the past few months is working its way through my dreams on its way out of me. God what magic there is in leaving! I can�t get �A Portrait of the artist�� off my mind. Those arms of ships and roads, beckoning, just like I feel except with me it�s those silver fingers, beckoning & quivering in the heat of runways. The roaring throats of jet engines; sounding over clouds and mountains. Yeah. Give me some of that alright. I�ll be in �killa� in three days, feeling the heat of that smithy on my face, forging away with the best of them. Roll On.

NEW YEAR

bigfish_NOSPAM_@big-pond.com — 2006-01-06T01:14:46+01:00

Well 2006 is upon us and the last Christmas lights are blinking tiredly and the street decorations wind-whipped and sun-bleached from their passage through a scorching December. There have been many, many parties over the holiday season starting with "The Festival of the Immaculate Virgin". This proved something of a misnomer, the ladies were dancing and prancing around in a manner that would make a blind man blush. Christmas was a more subdued affair than I had expected in a predominantly catholic country. That's true of Sundays too which seem to have become the same secular affairs as their European counterparts. All the shops were open and many people were working as normal on Christmas day. It was explained to me that this was due to the level of poverty here, people need to work and as such it is expected of them. It certainly is true that if you are lucky enough to have a job here then you work all the days and hours that your employer expects of you. Refusal would cost you your job. A job is hard to come by here, even for the skilled workforce and, with no social security, the slope between economic survival and abject poverty is a slippery one indeed.
January brings the same hangover here as is does anywhere else. The Colombians probably don't have the same jaw-dropping credit card repayments to face as the gorged consumers of the first world, but Christmas makes everyone overreach themselves somewhat. It was very encouraring however to see that the supermarkets make up special priced food hampers for the poor which you can buy and deliver to the Cathedral for distribution or, as we did, take directly to the poorer barrios and give directly.
Christmas being over the people can find some solace in the fact that Easter is on the way. With the Easter period comes the legendary carnaval of Barranquilla, second only to the carnaval in Rio and allegedly gaining ground. The various associations are already practicing. This is something I don't want to miss. Whether I make it this year or not remains to be seen.