Living for Disco

All this talk of celestial bodies reminded me of something, and I only realised today, when I was looking it up, how timely this all is. November 17/18/19 every year sees the return of the Leonid meteorite storm. This storm is the result of a comet – Tempel-Tuttle – that passes the Earth once every 33 years, leaving behind it a trail of dust. That trail is always up there, but once a year we pass through it, and when the dust hits our atmosphere it burns up, causing a light show that has to be seen to be believed.

The comet last passed our way in February 1988, and for a few years, each show was more spectacular than the last. It peaked in 2002, where the count reached something like 5,000 meteors an hour. I was lucky enough to see it in 2001, when it was almost at its best.

I was working in Egypt at the time, taking groups of people from the noise and dust of Cairo, through the Sinai desert to Luxor. It was brilliant – I took them diving and walking, we careered about the desert on top of jeeps, and ate fresh baked fish while looking out across the Red Sea and watching the moon rise. If we looked hard enough, we could see the lights of a village in Saudi Arabia across the way, twinkling, saying “We’re here too, just like you”.

Anyway, one of the best parts of this trip was climbing Mt. Sinai. You know the one – where Moses received the word of God and came down with the 10 commandments? And where Elijah hid from the wrath of Jezebel, the Phoenician Queen, after he defeated the prophets of Baal? Well, we used to walk up it. At 2am. And we‘d sit at the top, eating snickers bars and drinking hot chocolate, talking to the Bedouin blanket sellers while the sun came up over the horizon and flooded the summit with light and blessed warmth (the blankets were never quite enough).

The 3 hour journey up the mountain was quite something, and that November I’d never even heard of the Leonids, and so I was in for quite a surprise.

I’d rounded up my herd of ducklings in the foyer of the hotel, all wrapped in their woolly hats and gloves, torches in hand, eagerly awaiting the off. (Well, mostly they were just guzzling the coffee laid out and trying not to whinge about having to get up so bloody early, but it sounds better if I make them seem full of boundless energy, their woolly heads bobbing about like excited mice faced with a mountain of cheese).

Out traipsed to the bus – Jasmine, she was called. She was pink, and looked after us all very well. A short and chilly drive later we arrived at the entrance to the monastery. “Shhhh”, I’d say, “The Monks are asleep – try to be considerate”. Actually, I think at about 2.30 in the morning, the monks were probably up and about and raring to go, but whispering always used to add an air of mystery. Ahead of us, the light of a thousand torches wound up the mountain like a procession of earth-bound stars.

Once we’d got past the usual gamut of Bedouins selling keffiyeh (the black and white or red and white cotton headdresses worn by Arab men), we started up the mountain. Oh god, I nearly forgot about the bloody camels. Have you ever been in the presence of a large number of camels? No? Well, they stink. They are the most flatulent animals I have ever come across. Worse even than the BF’s cat, and that’s an achievement.

They’re noisy too. They burp, and grumble, and groan, and complain, and they lumber about like surly teenagers, occasionally turning to fix you with a baleful glare that says “If I felt like it, I could sit on your head, and fart, but I won’t because I can’t be bothered”. Mainly it’s not because they can’t be bothered, it’s because they will be poked with a sharp stick by the camel handler, but it’s best to let them believe you believe them. Otherwise they might dribble on you. Camel saliva is like slime from hell. And it stinks too. Forget all this nonsense about camels being enigmatic because they know the secret name of God. They’re just mean ‘n’ urgly. Urgh. I hate camels.

So the road to the summit is paved with camels. And a million other pilgrims. Many of them are exactly this – every morning, a colossal number of Russians, Poles and Greeks come here to be closer to god. It’s moving to see people overcome with emotion on reaching the top, and even though I don’t believe in organised religion, I sometimes wish I had that kind of faith.

Most of them climb this enormous hunk of rock in wildly inappropriate clothing. The Italians are the funniest. I saw one woman in heels – heels! – a fur coat and leather trousers, gamely tottering over a small pile of rocks. Further up near the summit the going can get a bit tricky, so I took my woolly hat off to her, as I stomped by in my hefty walking boots, taking care not to knock her giant sunglasses off her head.

And you have to do all this in the pitch dark. It’s quite peaceful actually. People tend to whisper – perhaps because it’s dark, I don’t know. Occasionally, dotted up the path, are huts selling hot chocolate and chocolate bars, and they’re oh so welcome. They sell other oddities, like fossils and blankets too. The atmosphere around the heaters can be quite convivial – you are, after all, sharing this experience with many other people. It’s nice.

This time, I’d just finished depositing a large member of my group onto the back of a camel when I saw the first shooting star. “Oooh”, went a thousand voices. A thousand fingers pointed. Suddenly the sky was full of them – hundreds of them. Everywhere you looked they were blazing trails into the night sky, a natural firework display of enormous proportions. The darkness was filled with hushed voices saying, in various languages “Look! Shooting stars!” I spent most of the journey up to the top with my head craned back, like the cartoon guy in the toothbrush ad who has a flip-top head, open mouthed in awe at the beauty and unimaginable hugeness of it. Not even repeatedly stepping in camel poo could put a spoiler on things.
It was still going on when the sun peeped it’s head over the horizon and upstaged everything by turning the clouds pink. Attention seeking if you ask me.

So, next year remember, remember, the 18th of November, if you want some real fireworks. They may not be as good as 2001/2, but it’ll still be quite a show.

God. Don’t know what got into me yesterday. Perhaps some horrible misery demon. I feel slightly ashamed of my inner judge, but also relieved that I have somewhere that I can put my thoughts, and spill out how I feel.

Anyway, I am now in Cambridge: a town that I love. I’m in a warm internet cafe, surrounded by people speaking what sounds like Russian. It reminds me vaguely of when I worked in the Czech Republic. And oh, how the memories come flooding back…

I used to have a job ferrying groups of people around exciting parts of the world. I started off in Egypt, which has burrowed into my heart and found a home there. I then went to take tours around Syria, Lebanon and Jordan, which was more lonely and more difficult. I began by hating Damascus, because it was so alien to me – the first time in my life I ever had culture shock. I ended up loving it. I look forward to a day, sometime soon I hope, when I can go back, and wander through the dizzying noise and colour of the Soukh, and pad quietly on bare feet around the peaceful, green gold square of the Ummayad Mosque, which is filled with birds, eating green almonds and thanking God, or Allah, or whoever, that I am alive.

After that, I took walking tours up in the mountains of Slovakia, and worked in Prague and parts of Hungary for a few months. I just happened to be in Prague during the floods a couple of years ago. The problem was, I didn’t know it at the time.

I had a group of people (bear in mind please, that this is a tour that takes people up mountains that are mostly more challenging than Ben Nevis), most of whom were over 70. This in itself posed a problem, but I would have been fine had it not been for Barb and Reg, the two ancient Kiwis, who I swear should never have left New Zealand. All they did was complain about how awful everything was compared to home. Their tip for me was some Kiwi fruit liqueur chocolates, which they had been carrying around a sweltering, heat-enveloped Europe for the better part of 3 months. Nice.

Anyway, I had arrived from Slovakia, where it was raining, to more rain in Prague. This wasn’t anything particularly unusual. Our first day was a city tour, and I have to admit, the river looked a wee bit swollen. No matter, I thought. It’s just a bit of rain. Ha.

I then took my group off to take a little walk around some stunning countryside outside Prague – Karlstejn Castle. Lovely place. We got on the train, all jolly and looking forward to our jaunt. The river looked a bit rough. There appeared to be cars floating down it. Hmm, I thought. Things are a bit out of the ordinary today. We stayed on the train. A garden shed careered past us, crashing into trees and scattering planks into the torrent. We arrived in Karlstejn to find the bridge washed away, and the road waist deep in water. The locals appeared to be having lots of fun daring each other to wade across it.

When we got back to the station, we discovered that the train we were on was the last one to be going back into Prague, and it wasn’t going to make it. Barb and Reg nearly had a heart attack. Reg only had two packets of hob nobs with him, and there was some debate as to whether this would last him the morning (he was not diabetic, by the way, and therefore deserved no sympathy. I was in the market for finding a way home, and my first priority was not finding a biscuit shop).

Anyway, much fruitless searching for taxis later, we decided to stay on the train, which eventually got us back to Prague. I dispatched my group to go sightseeing, and I went to pick up the train tickets. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was trying to get out of Prague. I had to queue for 3 hours to get those tickets. When I finally got back into the centre, most of it was empty, save for a few Czechs putting sandbags around the centre of town, and some tourists in Wenceslas Square, waiting for the clock to chime. Unfortunately the electrics had been turned off, so they’d been there for a while. They were still there when we left. I found my OAPs in the Square, comparing flood stories (I saw a refrigeration lorry the size of my house floating under Charles Bridge!!). Oh, the horror. Barb and Reg thought they might catch the plague.

It wasn’t until a few days later, thanks to the fact that I couldn’t get English language news, that I realised the enormity of what had happened. Perhaps I’m not very bright. Whatever the reason, I paid for it. Barb and Reg tormented me to two solid weeks before I was free of them. And on the same trip, I lost two of my passengers at the early morning border exchange between Slovkia and the Czech Republic because they had the wrong visa. The last I saw of them was their backs retreating in to the creeping dawn, escorted by a rather good looking border guard from Bratislava, who was not open to bribes (cash! I’m not that sort of girl).

Anyway, I’d better pop off and meet BF before he gives me up for lost and goes shopping. It’s been nice having a trip down memory lane.

I’m taking a few minutes from my teetering in-tray and bulging task list to write something, because I need to calm my head, and this always helps. I see it as a way to comb my brain free of tangles. I get a sense of well-being from just typing away that I find difficult to recreate anywhere else.

Anyway, I have been in the midst of a holiday desert since July. I decided to celebrate (run away from) my 30th birthday in January by taking a 3 and a half week holiday to Cambodia. It was fabulous. But it left me with a total of 6 days holiday, 5 of which I took in July. So, no holiday for me since then. All work and no play makes Rachie a very tired girl.

So, I have been spending some time musing over what I’m going to do with the abundance of free days that will land in my holiday allocation like a giant gift of relaxation come the new year. I’m thinking of going away for my birthday again, but not for 3 weeks this time. No. That was foolish.

I want to go to Seville. Now Seville in January isn’t going to be as nice as Seville in May or October, but it’s my birthday in January, and that’s where I want to go. I went to Madrid last year and loved it. Mainly I loved the laid back atmosphere, the fact that you could stay out drinking until 3am, the fact that you could get vermouth on tap, and the fact that in my favourite pub you can throw olive stones on the floor. It appealed to my inner slob. (And my inner alcoholic, obviously). Goya got a look in too though. I was gobsmacked by the power of his paintings. You must see. They paint a disturbing portrait of a man descending into madness and despair.

I would put it off until February, but I’m going to Ethiopia in February with work, and I’m hoping to take a few days off after that to potter around and go and see some stuff.

Then there’s the proposed trip to New York in May with the BF, which will be great. If I can afford it. If I go on as I am now, I might just have sorted out my overdraft by then, but it does involve not going out at all for 5 months and eating roast vegetables for dinner every single night. New York though! I’ve never been to America. I feel a bit put off by the whole Monkey-President thing, but New York is safely Democratic, not so full of mid-western red-neck bible bashers and has a thriving bar and jazz scene, which I like the sound of. I would like to go ice-skating in Central park, something I’ve wanted to do since watching When Harry met Sally for the first time (that and drag a christmas tree up the road in the snow – sad but true), but I think May might be a bit late for that.

And then there’s the other trip to Bali to see my sister that my mum keeps talking about, even though it’s in October. She always does this. Last time we organised a holiday together she booked it a whole year in advance. By the time it came around I’d forgotten about it.

That sounds like enough holidays to last anyone a lifetime. I can’t wait.

I’m a bit worried. My trip to India is coming up, and this means I will have to get on a plane. Last time I was on a plane, I had hysterics on take-off and had to have a nice member of the cabin crew come and mop me up once all the flashy lights had pinged off. It’s a bit of a problem, because I love to travel.

I never used to be afraid of flying. When I was about 18 I bought a book called Fear of Flying, which is less about the protagonist’s specific concerns over the improbability of a large piece of machinery defying gravity, and more about her desire for freedom, and her search for the Zipless Fuck. When I was 18, I was incredibly sexually naive, and wouldn’t have recognised a zipless fuck if it had come up and hit me over the head with a giant rubber penis. I was left with the vague impression that it was about sex on aeroplanes, and that this is liberating for women in general. (I’ve been told I should read it again.)

Anyway, I bought it because I couldn’t really fathom why anyone would be afraid of flying. You get on a plane, you take off, which is JUST like being on a fairground ride, but better. Then you get to watch movies, read books and drink unlimited amounts of alcohol (on BA anyway), and when you land, and the door opens, you’re somewhere that smells new and exciting. After reading the book, I thought things could only get better.

This fear, which in my opinion is completely rational, started about five years ago, and has progressively worsened. I’m not going to let it stop me going anywhere, but I hate it. Hate it, hate it, hate it. My Dad hated it too. I’m wondering whether this has started to become an issue since he died, out of a subconscious need to be close to him. Like when I was very small, and steadfastly maintained that I did not like tomatoes (I love tomatoes), because I didn’t want him to be the only person in the family who disliked them.

My Mum and Dad came out to see me when I lived in Malaysia for a while, and being a mostly dutiful daughter, I went to meet them at the airport. A large number of grey-faced, drained looking people staggered through from baggage collection, followed closely by my haggard looking Mum and sister, and my Dad. He was the only person who appeared unscathed. I later found out that this is because the rest of the passengers had had to deal with 13 hours of my father, who never had a quiet voice, going “Jesus Christ. What was that? Did something hit us? Excuse me miss, I’m sure I just saw something hit the wing. Are we alright? Jesus. Christ. Jesus.”

Anyway, he would never resort to valium to calm himself down. He just used to drive everywhere instead. I’m not so stubborn. Mother’s Little Helper is my friend. Oh Doctor please, some more of these….

There are some delightful ways to wake up, and some distressing ones.

Our neighbours upstairs, before we had the urban yoof posse (even I’m getting bored with them now), were quite nice. They said hello in the corridor and didn’t run around with concrete boots on. They did, however, occasionally like to indulge in very noisy sex, in the middle of the night, for hours. The first time it happened, I didn’t know what to think. All I could hear were screams and wails, and the legs of the bed scraping against my ceiling. I thought someone had been kidnapped, tied to a piece of furniture and was being repeatedly beaten, but then I woke up properly and realised what was going on. So I bought some earplugs and all was well.

Now I am woken only by my alarm clock, but in December, I’m off to India (yay) for work (boo!) for a couple of weeks. I’ve been to India once, and my boyfriend at the time and I travelled down to Kerala, after he had recovered from the dysentry enough to take the train. We hired a converted rice boat for a couple of days, and cruised the backwaters in a state of romantic bliss. As the sun went down, we ate pineapple curry and Indian rice pudding, and listened to drum beats drifting through the twilight. When we drifted into consciousness, it was dawn, and in the night, while we slept, the boat had been turned around so that we could sit out on the deck and watch the sunrise. As it did so, fishermen poled their boats through the mist, and we could hear singing from the shrouded riverbanks. It was ethereally beautiful. I wish I could wake up like that every day.

I also used to like hearing the early call to prayer when I worked in the Middle East. Almost without exception it made me feel at peace, and excited about the day ahead. Almost. There was this one old bastard at the mosque behind my hotel in Damascus, who sounded as if he was sitting on my window-sill with a loudspeaker. He used to commence his adhan with loud spitting and hawking through the mike, and then start off with an unholy caterwauling that made me leap out of bed in terror, and hide in the shower. God only knows how he became a muezzin. I did get quite fond of him after a few months, but I never managed to doze through it. Maybe that was the point.