Blood and Monsters

The contrast between the North and South banks of Loch Ness is quite startling. The North all tarmac, tourists, Hikers and Nessie Souvenirs, and the South, tranquil one track lanes, blue water and ferns. We arrived on the South bank early, after quickly losing the A9, diverting Southwest through Corriworrie and coming up Glen Kyttachy. This little gem lies between the 2000-ft peaks of Beinn Bhreac and Cairn na Saobhaidgh. Not Munroes, but stunning enough. The single track lane winds upwards north west through gorse and heather moorland before plunging downwards through the green of Strathnairn Forest.
South again to the Lochside at Foyers, we paused to look across to Castle Urquhart, hoping to catch a glimpse of a long neck or those famous serpent loops. No monsters, just the breeze ruffling the surface of the loch making a thousand shadows on this enigmatic stretch of water.

On to Inverness, a sold-out provincial town. Same bored-looking youths, poor men in expensive soccer shirts, streets mauled by Clarks, Marks and Macdonalds. The same items in the same sales at the same prices. Just the Caledonian Canal tells you that you are not in Guildford or Huddersfield. We got lunch and left. I was screaming for the green and purple.

Drumnadrochit - well what can I say, considering it had such an evocative name, it had a Nessie "multimedia experience" and no view of the Loch, so we headed into the traffic again, dodging the bikers and hikers, then, round full circle, back to the tranquillity of the South Bank.

If you fork right and leave the Loch bank to the North West, then follow the road North East towards Croy, cross the A9 and you eventually get to Culloden Moor. The site in 1746 of the very last battle fought in the British Isles. The second Jacobite rising of 1745 was a direct result of the Act of Union of 1707, which removed the Scottish Parliament.

“What force or guile could not subdue
Through many warlike ages
Is wrought now by a coward few
For hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain
Secure in valour's station
But English gold has been our bane
Such a parcel o' rogues in a nation.”

(Robert Burns)

The "rogues" concerned were the members of the Scottish parliament who signed the Act of Union with England in 1707.
At Culloden, the Duke of Cumberland, and his lowland allies defeated the Jacobite rebels and their few French allies under Bonnie Prince Charlie.
This was not an England Scotland conflict as many like to believe, on this elevated bog, Scot fought Scot. The graves of the clans, marked by name, attest to this. Over 1200 Jacobites and 350 of the Dukes men were killed in a skirmish that lasted less than an hour. The traditional Highland charge that normally struck terror in the hearts of the foes, was slowed down by the exhaustion of the Highlanders after their long march back from Derby, and the peat bog, They were cut down by the grape shot of the Duke's Artillery. A flank counter attack and the day was won. The Duke ordered “No quarter” and they slaughtered the wounded and the dying, and continued their pursuit of Jacobite sympathisers throughout Scotland.

Many's the lad fought on that day
Well the claymore could wield
When the night came, silently lay
Dead on Culloden's field.

(Skye Boat Song)

As we stood overlooking “Cumberland’s killing field”, reading the details of the battle, and walking round looking at the signs showing the battle lines, the sky was grey and the wind was blowing. Not really cold or raining hard as on the 16th of April 1746, but you could imagine the cold chill that the Highlanders must have felt as they faced the Duke’s Artillery. I listened and thought, “No birdsong”. Was it a coincidence that I experienced the same at the death camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau, in Poland, at Alderley Edge in Cheshire (“the most evil site in England”) and here?
After Culloden, The highlands were never the same again, the teaching and speaking of Gaelic was banned, and the wearing of the Tartan was banned. Each of these “crimes” was punishable by death.

Reflections in the South China Sea.

(Another Blog from "way back", this time 1999)

Situated off the North East Coast of Singapore Pulau Ubin (Ubin Island) is a welcome escape from the tower blocks and air conditioning roar of down town Singapore. You get to it by "bum boat" from Changi Jetty, just a few miles from the notorious prison that the Japanese used with such brutality during the occupation. Bum boats, - "floating shacks" is the best way I can describe them, ply the short crossing to the Island for a dollar fifty Singapore (about 50p).
Landing at Pulau Ubin jetty is like stepping back 50 years. Except for the bicycle hirers, nothing seems to have changed since the Japanese surrendered in 1945. Bicycles have come to Singapore before of course, during that period of colonial arrogance, when the British surrounded Singapore harbour with naval guns and troops, ready for a sea-borne landing by the Imperial Army. The Japanese just got on their bikes, and cycled down the Malay Peninsular, over the causeway and in to Singapore. The British forces, I'm not sure whether through surprise or embarrassment, promptly surrendered and marched in to Changi Prison (presumably led by Alec Guinness and whistling "Colonel Bogey"). Watching the newsreels from that period, especially the one of the signing of the British surrender, you can see the look of disbelief in the Japanese officers' eyes that it was so easy. History probably tells us now that this extreme act of pragmatism by the British Officers was correct, but the few remaining men who suffered the deprivations and brutality of Changi and that terrible railroad may have a different perspective on the decision.
But back to 1999 and Pulau Ubin. You hire a bike now; the choice is from dodgy ones at $3 up to top range ones with suspension at $13. I went for a mid range one at $6.
Ubin is a patch of rain forest, a granite quarry, tropical beaches and a few villages. It is sanitised rain forest with tarmac tracks and road signs, really a "jungle theme park" but the jungle is real, and the villages and shacks you pass are real and inhabited by real people. The village of Pulau is a Vintage Japanese bike fan's dream. There are loads of rusting small bikes from the 70's 80s and 90s leaning against shacks, or driven by wizened little old men. The cafe owner told me that they've no licences, no insurance and are maintained to the lowest standards. Honda Monkeys, a Suzuki GP100 and the tattiest collection of C50s 70s and 90s I’ve seen in a long time. The bikes over here are like the girls. It’s hard to tell the age of most of them, and they would surely benefit from bringing home and caring for!
The cafe in Pulau Ubin exudes the constant wail of Chinese pop music. Sitting in the cafe is a balding Yorkhireman in shorts (writing this), a Malaysian girl in mountain bike gear emblazoned with adverts for Volvo, another Englishman of my age who's probably doing the same as me, escaping for a day, a couple of young Singaporeans on a day trip from the city, and waitress of indeterminate age with tired eyes. The owner is friendly enough, happy to chat with the customers, about nothing in particular.
Looking out between the buildings over the strait, you can see the tower blocks of Changi in the distance. Do the inhabitants of Pulau Ubin look out from their windows over at Singapore like the prisoners of Alcatraz looked out over to San Francisco? It was said that on quiet nights with the wind in the right direction they could hear the people at the beach parties, laughing. It was said to be the worst punishment of all. I don't think that this is the case here.
The big question with Singapore for me is “who are the prisoners". No one is rushing to leave, no one go hungry, no one begs in the street. The majority of Singaporeans are prosperous and happy, as a result of the "benign dictatorship" of Mr Lee Kwan Yu. The "miracle" from 1965 to today is something unique; the people are hard working and have a strict sense of hierarchy. I'm "Dr John" here "lesser mortals” respect the academic title in a way that makes me feel a little uncomfortable. With someone of “equal status", I'm just that guy from the UK, and with the senior men I am expected to be respectful and subordinate. I was told by our local manager that my former managing director made a serious misjudgement of the culture here, by "rolling his sleeves up" and doing work that was below someone of such high standing.
This attitude is probably one of the keys to the success in material terms of Singapore. A compliant workforce, no unemployment, strict almost draconian laws on littering, drugs and crime, and a ban on public speaking without a licence. One can't help thinking though, that maybe the whole thing is built on sand. They grow nothing, import everything, from water to consumer goods, have little land left to speak of so only build upwards. You think "they can't afford to fall out with their neighbours" and "a serious blockade and they'd be starving in 6 weeks". The fact is that they have a symbiotic relationship with their neighbours. They depend on each other; each is better of for the other, being there. One for money and the other for resources. The best example of this is with water. It is piped, untreated, over the causeway from Malaysia, after which it is treated and sold back to them as potable water.
It's this symbiosis that lets them live in this artificial paradise, this "Disneyland with death penalties" as the father of Cyberpunk fiction, William Gibson famously quoted a few years back.
I managed to grab 15 minutes at the Changi Prison museum on the way back to the hotel. There they have built a replica of the famous prison chapel built by the British soldiers held captive there for three years from 1942 to 1945. On the wall is a moving "pin board" where people can leave dedications, one (from an Australian family) just said "thank you for the freedom". Some leave names and addresses of the former inmates who may have lost contact. The lucky ones are all in their 70s and 80s now. The others died of cholera, starvation, or the shock of amputations due to jungle sores.
In the museum I found a little more detail about the fall of Singapore, and the lives of the poor souls that worked and died in that hellish place. It seems the British were totally unprepared for the Japanese attack by land. A much smaller force of crack Japanese jungle troops defeated the large British force, which had no air cover, and no civil defence force. Hardly a shot was fired, the naval guns pointed impotently in the wrong direction. This may explain the modern day Singaporeans insistence upon national service, and having a large army, navy and air force.
The contrast between Pulau Ubin and Singapore itself is stark indeed. Singapore is all glass skyscrapers, office blocks and old white stone colonial buildings. Air-conditioned malls contain the best of Western consumer goods and, designer clothes. The people are smart, streetwise, and prosperous, but seem to rush around like ants. On Ubin, the bike hirers, the rusting Hondas and wooden shacks tell of a more relaxed lifestyle.
You tell me, at the beginning of this 3rd Millennium, who are the lucky ones?

New York... pre 9/11

Written in January 2001, Before the twin towers came crashing down. (with quotes from Joni Mitchell)

"Woke up, it was a Chelsea Morning, and the first thing that I heard, was a song outside my window, and the traffic wrote the words........"

I landed in New York on Saturday night, the night of the second snowstorm of the winter. On Sunday I woke up to a Manhattan morning, looked out of my hotel window to a scene of New York yellow cabs in the snow.

".......yellow schools of taxi fishes........"

When I arrive in a town I like to walk some of it to get the layout. Then I feel comfortable. I arrived in New York looking over my shoulder every two minutes, looking for muggers in every doorway. Despite this, and 5 inches if snow, I still had to do it, so I set off up 8th Avenue to the South end of Central Park, past the Park-Lane affluent hotels with their liveried doormen. Then down 5th Avenue to Broadway and back over to 8th and the Olympic Diner for breakfast. By this time I was confident I wouldn't get mugged, so settled in to the diner for breakfast. I ordered scrambled eggs, toast, the inevitable hash browns, and coffee. All for $7. This place had the feel of the diners run by Greeks in Finsbury Park, London, the only thing that told you you were in New York were the 30s black and white photos of the city on the walls. Somehow New York looks good in black and white. Maybe this is because it was in its heyday in the twenties and thirties when black and white was the only choice. The proprietor was interested in my Psion, I told him a little about it and what I was writing. Like you might expect in the "Capital of Mammon", he seemed more interested in what it was worth that what it could do or what it contained. I lied about what it was worth; probably that New York paranoia again. Was someone listening on the next table and planning to mug me for it when I left? Would they assume that if I had a $500 pocket computer that I was worth turning over?

Fortified by the Olympic Diner Breakfast, I decided to have a real look round. No one mugged me as I left.

I walked much of mid town Manhattan that day, from the Flat iron Building in the south, I headed North. The morning was cold but the sun was shining out of an azure sky, not what I expected at all. I crossed Central Park from East to West, pausing to look at Wolman Rink.

".....There are 29 skaters on Wolman Rink circling in singles and in pairs"

Well there might have been when Joni walked by, but not today, just a few joggers and dog-walkers. On the West side I walked up as far as 96th Street.

While black and white gives it character, New York still looks as good in 3D colour. The snow lay deep in the ground, and armies of municipal workers were out in force clearing the sidewalks with large snow scrapers.

New York is the place if you're in to Art Deco. Some of the buildings are just stunning. Like the cathedral builders of old who built high to be closer to God, the Art Deco Architects built high not to be closer to God but because of the rocketing price of real estate. Art deco conjures up visions of evening parties by a moonlit ocean, attended by waif-like flappers in diamanté skull caps and frilly mini dresses. They dance the night away with bright young things in black tie and tail-coats. While the Empire State is the tallest and most famous of the Art Deco cathedrals, for me it is dwarfed for sheer style and beauty by the Chrysler Building. I'd seen it on countless opening sequences to American cop shows and films. Its chevroned top section illuminated with neon against the Manhattan skyline, as the camera helicopter sweeps past, you know the one. But to see it in daylight from the street, reflecting the morning sun took my breath away. The building is a typical Art Deco tower with the classic stepped construction. The lower section, unremarkable apart from the lions that guard the four corners and look down on passers by. The second rectangular section takes you soaring above the street, but the top section is he crowning glory. Gently curving and sensually tapered it’s covered with reflective chevrons that make it shine like a multi-faceted diamond in the morning sun, sweeping upwards to a single stiletto-spike. This top section seemed to be on fire, on that bright January morning, reflecting the full glory of the sun. To me its a "must see" in New York. Unfortunately the interior is closed to the public, but a quiet word with the security man, and he'll let you photograph the foyer from the entrance. Here's where the Cathedral analogy continues, the architects have given the interior the decor to match the outside. It has a foyer the size of a tennis court. The whole of the interior has an opulent golden-brown glow, a contrast to the clinical black and silver of the Empire State. The roof of the entrance hall has a remarkable frieze of the building painted on it. Looking overhead you get the impression of looking at a hazy sepia photograph.

It’s a short walk from Grand Central Station, another deco monument, where you can nibble on a myriad of different fast foods and sip Cappuccino under gigantic chandeliers.

During my walk round Manhattan, I revelled in the street and place names. Straight out of a New York mythology: Macy's, Broadway, Bloomingdales, 42nd St, Times Square. They were all there, but just below the gloss, just a few blocks West from Times Square were places you wouldn't walk around on your own at night. Where the crack dealers swagger, and the sad flotsam of life drift around. New York stays together because of its neighbourhood system. Each has its on distinct and individual community. Chinese, Italian, Hispanic. I found myself wondering what had happened to the great "melting pot" that was supposed to be the USA. Later in my trip I found out that the neighbourhoods do not mix or integrate too much. Ethnic groups stay together and guard their neighbourhoods jealously. Moving in and out of these neighbourhoods are dangerous men in fast cars and heavy gold jewellery. Men who'd

".......eat their young alive, for a Jaguar in the drive"

Always accompanied by mean men in Foster Grants, they suck this place dry; they leave a slime trail of dead souls behind them as they ply their deadly trade. Good people keep away. They keep away because of the hopelessness of it all. It’s better than it was, New York, better than before "Zero Tolerance", and you can walk around at night but you'd better pick your neighbourhood carefully. New York is still a city of the hopeful and the hopeless in equal proportions. Immigrants still flood here to make a living, driving Yellow cabs, while

"....business men in button downs press in to conference rooms"