Good morning world. It’s a surprisingly nice day in North Yorkshire, I’m having a very enjoyable weekend, and in two weeks (if all goes to plan) I will be qualified to teach English to foreigners, thus ensuring myself a steady income while I continue to Peter Pan about form place to place.

Therefore today, this blog will return to classic form, and I’d like to talk to you about the fine Art of Seduction.

Now, I don’t mean by that this will be a sort of “Slick’s guide to picking up women”- god knows, if I could write such a guide successfully, I would probably be out applying it. I’d also probably be a less likeable person. Rather, I’d like to talk a little about seduction in the abstract- seduction, if you will, as an art form.

Now, the most important thing to realise about seduction, done properly, is that it is a dialogue; a negotiation. It is a two-way process, a process in which both parties have a stake- each has something the other wants- generally one another’s bodies. On it’s most basic level, seduction is simply the act of coming to a mutually acceptable compromise, in which each participant tries to get as close to exactly what they want as they can, whilst allowing room for the other parties desires, inhibitions, and expectations.

It is not a hostile take-over, a one way process in which a seducer overcomes the mental/emotional physical defences of a victim in order to get exactly what they want. That would be more accurately described as harassment. The important thing about seduction, done properly, is that each party can walk away at any time. That is why one of the most uncomfortable things in the world is watching someone (let’s be honest, its nearly always a guy) relentlessly hitting on a girl until she is forced to literally push him away, or, even worse, she actually succumbs to his constant badgering and responds. I’ve seen this happen, and it always leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

This is not to say, of course, that there is no such thing as an active “seducer” and a passive “seduced”- it is simply to say the the distinction is not total, and that the seducer, in the process of seduction, finds him (or her) self being seduced. Indeed, the main difference is simply that it is normally the seducer who initiates the seduction. Once that has happened- and assuming the intended seduced isn’t simply disinterested to the point of just walking away- which does happen- er, so I’m told, it becomes an organic process. A dialogue, if you will.

In this paradigm of seduction as a negotiation, we can see that the most important ability one can posses is empathy- or, in some cases, the ability to feign empathy with great success. You need to understand what it is the other person needs and offer it to them, without compromising your own needs. This is why, anecdotally, good salesmen tend to be good with the opposite sex (or the same sex I suppose- i’m forced to assume that seduction in the homosexual community is sufficiently similar for the analogy to hold true). You need to assess what they want, and offer it to them, and, most importantly, convince them of your sincerity- the easiest way to do this is, of course, to be sincere, but I’ve heard from reliable sources who are totally not me, that it is sufficient to simply convey an air of sincerity. Finally, having understood your partners needs and desires, the goal is to introduce your own desires in such a way that it seems they were the other persons all along. As I’ve said however, this is not a one-way process, and while you are acting upon the other person, they are acting upon you- the end result, ideally, being that everyone gets what they really want- or, at least, what they are now convinced they really want. It probably wouldn’t do for us all to get exactly what we want all the time anyway.

The most important moment in this model of seduction is the first moment, the first obvious eye contact, the first smile or intense, smouldering glare. Generally, it is possible to see in that first moment whether or not your intended partner is interested in buying what you are selling. Now, that’s not to say that good eye contact is necessarily any guarantee that something will happen- there a hundred and one things which can go wrong with any negotiation, after all- but I consider any attempt at seduction unlikely to succeed if there is not sufficient spark in that first contact. Indeed, my source who is totally not me tells me that he has never been with a woman with whom he did not feel that thrill, that surge of electricity on first locking eyes with them. I once heard that a man will assess whether or not he would have sex with a woman in the first 5 minutes of knowing her. I respectfully submit that you can make such a decision in the first minute.This is also why I find it distasteful to see a man simply dance up to a woman, grind on her from behind and, in the worst cases, succeed. To me, it seems cheap and empty.

Now, it is possible, I admit, that I am being some sort of seduction snob when I say that a good or valid seduction consists of x but not y. You might respond by saying “Slick surely any course of action embarked upon by one person with the aim of having sexual relations with another is a valid act of seduction, especially if it is a successful one”- and it is here that the art analogy comes into play. Seduction, for me, should be like a great work of art- a communication between artist and canvas. These other tactics occasionally deployed to hook up with the opposite sex are more like shallow modern art, designed solely to achieve a specific reaction. If Romeo’s courtship of Juliet is the Mona Lisa, then grinding on a woman in a dark nightclub until she drunkenly agrees to go home with you is Tracy Emin’s “My Bed”- and you can make of that analogy what you will.

Yours seductively,
Slick

Happy New Year everyone! I hope that 2011 was everything you wanted, and that 2012 will be just as good. I certainly feel like it went off to a good start…

As a belated Christmas present to you all, here and now I intend to complete the tale of my wacky misadventures of this past year so that I can resume normal blogging service.

When last we met, I was in Chang Mai in Thailand. Chang Mai is a lovely old walled city, a nice contrast to the madness of Bangkok, but still suitably replete with hostels, bars, restaurants and street markets for the discerning tourist. The Sunday market particularly was very cool, taking up pretty much the whole centre of town. By the time we reached Chang Mai we were all very tired of bustling about from place to place, so we took it slowly- except for a two day jaunt into the jungle. It was a very tough climb, but more than worth it for the views, and we spent the night in a hut in a mountainside village, out where the air was clear. The next day, we went on an elephant trek- which was exciting, if only because the elephants seem determined to topple off any cliffs which presented themselves- and white water rafting, which was crazy fun! We even got out and swam in the current for a while- making sure to stick close to the boat, of course.

Sadly, the time had come for Rebel and Schlafmaus to return to England. In a state of nervous excitement about the prospect of travelling alone, I waved them good bye as they got an a bus and sighed wistfully to myself. Then I turned around, sat down next to the nearest group of english speaking tourists and said “Hi, I’m Slick”. “Hello Slick” they said “would you like to play ring of fire with us?”

Cut to me waking up the next day, fully clothed in my room with mysterious cuts and bruises on my arms, no memory beyond leaving the hostel to go to a bar, and no shoes. My companions of the night before informed me that they’d sent me home in a tuk tuk after I started… shall we say “feeling under the weather”, and that one of them had rescued my passport for me when I nearly dropped it! Whew, lucky escape there (hint; foreshadowing). And it turned out my shoes were in the bar from the night before, so all’s well that ends well I suppose.

I spent a few days with my new friends, still taking it easy, before deciding that it was time to move on. I was done with Thailand- it was time to go to Laos.

The trip to Laos would take 3 days and two nights, the first day of which was on a bus and the second two on a slow boat. On the way I befriended a fellow traveller- let’s call her Sunflower. She was a genuine California hippy, an atheist feminist who lived in what she described as a “cooperative” in LA and studied film. The boat down the Mekong was very pleasant, and we stopped overnight in a nice, albeit quiet, town in the middle of nowhere in Laos. The next day we arrived in the World Heritage City of Luangprabang.

Luangprabang. is a very scenic place (which was kind of the theme for my first few days in Laos) surrounded by all manner of temples and waterfalls. We went to one in particular with an attached bear sanctuary, and I climbed into the waterfall itself over some of the least slippy wet rock i’ve ever encountered. it was eerie how much grip there was one those things…

After a pleasant couple of days strolling around, visiting markets etc, Sunflower and I decided to make a move to Vangvieng, the infamous backpacker city of Laos. After a vigorous argument with the hostelier about whether he had quoted us “fifty” or “fifteen” thousand kip per night (an argument which we won by simply handing over the correct money and leaving despite his protests) we got on a bus which would take us there in 4 or 5 hours.

And then, disaster struck. The worst disaster a traveller can face: I lost my passport! To this day i have no idea what happened to it. I’m sure it was in my pocket when we left the hostel, but somewhere along the way, perhaps because we were in a hurry, it must have slipped out- or it fell out on the bus and got lost under a seat. Regardless, we arrived- after changing buses when the first one broke down- in Vangvieng short one UK passport. I am kicking myself to this day.

Still, I tried not to let it get me down, and jumped right into the swing of things by going tubing- which, for those of you who don’t know, is the practice of floating down a slow moving river and getting extremely drunk. In the event, I actually decided to skip the ring and just swim. I took it very easy though, and only visited the first three or so bars, where I met a barmaid from, of all places, Melbourne. She was pleasantly surprised by the passion and intensity of my… regard for Melbourne. Like a sensible chap, I gave up on the river when I started feeling tipsy and went back to the town for a night on the tiles instead.

Vangvieng is really insane. it is essentially just two streets full of bars and drunken European tourists, near a river with more bars. All of the restaurants play family guy or friends on loop- a practice, I must say, I would like to see adopted more widely- and you can walk into a bar and order a pizza made with an opium base, or a joint with your pint. Sadly, my stay in this hedonists paradise was curtailed, as i had to go the very next day to the capital, Vientiane, in order to beg to be allowed out of the country. Fun fact: there is no British Embassy in Laos.

The bus to the capital got in a few hours later than advertised, thus ruining any chance of my getting to the Australian Embassy (who I’d been assured would help me out) before it closed. I found a room, and then a I wandered the streets feeling, it shames me to admit, pretty sorry for myself. Sunflower and I had parted ways in Vangvieng and I was alone, without a passport, in a city which apparently had a midnight curfew. So I sat down in a street-side restaurant for some noodles, and idly started chatting to some nearby fellow travellers- a couple of very cool guys, as it turned out, who took me out drinking and cheered me up no end. I ended the evening in a very local nightclub drinking overpriced beer Lao and chatting to the local people. There was a river boat festival and fair in town which would keep me occupied over the weekend.

When I finally did reach the Australian embassy on Monday (which, i should point out, was way out of the city centre), they gave me a list of tasks which would make Hercules wince. I had to go to the Immigration department, then to the Ministry of Foreign affairs, then to the Thai Consulate, and I’d better get cracking because the consulate shuts at midday. In the end, it took me the best part of three days to get it all figured out, but finally, clutching an elaborate pile of documents in my hand and hoping, I made it to the border with Thailand.

“Oh, I see that you have the same problem as I do” came a voice from behind me. I turned around and introduced myself to a girl who was indeed also clutching a bundle of documents like my own. “I’m Irma, from Finland. I also lost my passport.” I grinned in a manner which those who know me well might describe as wolfish “Irma, it seems to me as if fate has brought us together”

And after that, it was fairly easy. The bus into Bangkok was delayed by a good 6 hours by floods, naturally, so it would be another day before I could get to the Embassy, but in the end I just sat in a waiting room for a few hours, handed over £100 and they gave me an emergency temporary passport, good for one journey home via Australia. I was a little irked to find that the Finnish embassy gave Irma a passport with no such restrictions, but I suppose we Brits do love our bureaucracy. two days later, I flew home (ish) to Melbourne.

Well, it’s been a crazy ride down memory lane- thank you all for sticking with me. I hope it was anything like as entertaining to read about as it was to experience. it was a wonderful trip, and I fully intend to return to Asia in the near-ish future. Just as soon as I get my hands on a new passport….

Slick

Jolly Decemberween everyone! I hope you are all starting to feel the holiday magic. I know I am, if only due to my brother’s perennial Christmas playlist.

Now, where was I… ah yes, Hoi An.

Our plan was to leave Hoi An early in the morning, so as to reach Hue, the ancient capital, in the afternoon and then take a much longer overnight bus to Hanoi. We’d pre-booked a greatly anticipated trip on Heylong Bay (more on that later), so we were working to a deadline- but we had about 4 or 5 hours in hand and the bus company assured us  repeatedly that we’d be there on time.

Yeah. Sure.

The first bad omen appeared when a man came to meet everyone for the Hue bus at our hostel, explaining that the bus couldn’t stop directly outside- because the police wouldn’t let them- so we’d have to walk for a few minutes to the bus. With weary groans we hoisted our packs and set off into the light drizzle…

Ten minutes later, as we trudge along after our guide, who is making urgent sounding phone calls to the bus driver, a scooter pulls up. “Get on the scooter” suggests the guide, much to our consternation and bafflement.

“get on the scooter, it will take you to the bus” insists our guide.  So, begrudgingly, one brave soul hops on the back of a random Vietnamese scooter, heavy backpack and all. Before long a veritable fleet of scooters arrive to ferry us safely- though not a little perturbed- to our bus. To our surprise, the bus is actually perfectly nice- much more generously proportioned than our last one. We are relieved to hear that, not only will this bus take us to Hue, the same bus will take us on through the night to Hanoi.

Of course, this was a lie. Hue was… dull. We wondered disconsolately around in the steadily increasing rain bemoaning the lack of tourist-directed food outlets and bizarre overabundance of karaoke bars. Hopeful of better things in future, we returned to the hostel which the bus had dropped us at in time to board our bus to Hanoi.

There were several others waiting as well, including a guide. Some taxi’s came to pick up our fellow travellers- not you, says our guide. You wait just 5 more minutes, next taxi will take you to the bus”. This was also a lie. eventually we were taken to the bus depot, just in time to see everyone else form what we thought of as our group filing onto the bus from earlier. The doors closed and a company representative told us that, regrettable, this bus was full, but they had generously arranged for us to get on a different bus. This, at least, was a partial truth.

We did eventually get on a bus. It too however, was full- with only one free seat between the three of us. The travel company guy offered us a compromise- for a partial refund (something like 30 % by my reckoning) we could sleep on the floor, and he would provide us with extra mats, blankets and pillows to make it a tolerable experience. This was also a lie. Eventually we got a straw mat each and were told to suck it up.

I won’t harrow you with further details of our bus experience, such as random Vietnamese people getting on the already full bus in the middle of the night and setting up camp in my designated, hard-won floor space- but ultimately we made it to Hanoi,  with about 5 minutes to spare before our bus was set to leave for Heylong bay. In a mad, last-minute dash across the city, frantically consulting a wholly inadequate tourist map we made it, just in time. In a state of blessed relief we were ferried to the coastal city of Heylong, where a boat awaited us to take us on a genuinely breath-taking adventure.

I genuinely cannot convey in words precisely how beautiful an experience it all was. Drifting on the clear, war water, floating between rocky islands looming hugely out of the sea, watching the villagers in their floating towns go about lives utterly different from our own. Truly, it is a place deserving of it;s current bid to be declared a natural wonder of the world. lying on the deck at night, looking up at the stars as the islands rolled past in the pitch darkness is a memory I hope I will always retain. The solo tiny fly in the otherwise glorious ointment was that the tour company clearly felt as though we needed activities to keep us entertained, and were forever stopping at islands or caves and expecting us to shuffle along with all the other tourists, rather than simply enjoying the place for what it was. Some of these diversions were admittedly fun- like sea kayaking- but overall the whole thing could have benefited from much less organisation. It was with a heavy heart that, after a night on the boat, we headed back in to shore- from Heylong city back to Hanoi and, after a customary exploration of the city (not particularly gripping- although this is probably explained by the fact that it was night and we didn’t see a lot), a night’s sleep and the worst taxi driver ever (he stopped the car twice, once for a smoke and once to charge up his mobile, and had the gall to demand a tip at the end. Here’s a tip- people going to the airport do not appreciate you stopping the car.) we flew from Hanoi back to our Asian base of operations, Bangkok. We did not rest on our laurels for long, however, but rather took an overnight bus that very night, through the floods which were starting to cause everyone in Thailand no small degree of concern, to Chang Mai, in the northern jungle.

Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion. Hopefully.

Slick.

Cheerio chaps! Slick here, safely ensconced back within the damp, grey embrace of beloved England. It’s been a hell of a ride, and my bag has yet to make it back with me- thanks British midlands!- but I’m here now and it is ludicrous how easily I have slipped back into the old rhythms of life at home. For now I’m living with my brother here in God’s own county- and next, who knows? Anything could happen.

Now however, I am once again going to cast my mind back into the increasingly bluury past of mid-september. My companions and I had finally arrived in Ho Chi Minh city, former capital of South Vietnam.

Vietnam is mad. First of all, even by asian standards it is ludicrously cheap- maybe half the price of Bangkok for food, drink and accomodation. Secondly, you would not believe the sheer number of scooters rocketing around the dangerously haphazard and overcrowded streets. Seriously, even Top Gear did not do justice to the importance and prevalence of these two wheeled menaces.

Saigon is particularly strange. The weight of the war is felt pretty heavily here in old South Vietnam. We visited the art museum- much of the art was devoted to the theme of war and resistance to imperialism. We went on a day long tour of the nearby Mekong delta; and our guide for the first part of the day was a former Colonel in the South Vietnamese army who assured us that he loved everybody, even the Americans. I subsequently learnt that he was lucky to be alive at all- most South Vietnamese P.O.W’s had been forced to march across minefields to win their freedom- which is why, incidentally, there isn’t anywhere near as much unexploded ordnance in Vietnam as there is in neighbouring countries like Cambodia and Laos which the Americans bombed heavily. Most harrowing of all, we went to the War Remnants museum (formerly known as the War Crimes museum) which illustrated, in truly excruciating detail, the suffering inflicted on Vietnam throughout the war, in particular the mutations caused by Agent Orange- mutations which are even now passed down through each generation. It will be a very long time before the scars of war are healed in Vietnam.

In stark contrast to the city, the countryside around the Mekong Delta is a vision of pastoral idyll. The drive there was replete with countryside vistas, featuring straw hatted peasants standing in rice-fields and holding buffalo on strings. We spent a very pleasant day puttering about the delta on boats, visiting various islands. Highlights were a visit to a “coconut candy” factory (coconut candy is surprisingly nice), a bee farm (which featured some adorable puppies) and some truly awful “local music”. As evening fell, we set off back to the city- only to have the bus break down for an hour or so by the side of the road. Still, slight delay aside, we all made it back in one piece. We’d assessed a variety of transport options during our stay, and we’d settled on a sleeper bus; a hop on, hop off bus which would take us all the way to Hanoi, in as many legs as we wanted/time allowed. So, on our last day, we leisurely took in a film- Conan, maybe? I struggle to remember which- and in the evening we got in a bus, which would take us overnight to the beach side resort of Nha Trang. Now, a word of advice about Vietnamese sleeper buses- they are designed for Vietnamese women. Every is assigned a bed/couch thing, crammed in like sardines. My friend Schlafmaus, who is extremely short, was totally fine. I was a little uncomfortable. Rebel, who is a few inches taller than me and a lot broader besides, spent the night in perfect agony. Next time I think we’ll take the train…

As the day dawned extremely hot, we arrived in Nha Trang, which is a charming little seaside town, only recently starting to lean towards tourism/commercialism. We spent a delightful afternoon just lazing around on the beach and swimming in the bath-water warm sea. In the evening we chatted with a Geordie whose wordly welath had been stolen by a Vietnamese girl, twice- the same girl. She must have been doing something right, I guess- and was therefore forced to become a diving instructor in order to sustain himself.

The next day we also spent mostly on the beach. After an abortive attempt to trade Schlafmaus to a seedy Vietnamese man in exchange for some beer, we begrudgingly resumed our sleeper-bus ride (on a marginally better bus this time, it has to be said) and took an overnight journey to the ancient city of Hoi An.

Hoi An was, and is, one of the best places I have been to on my travels. The old town is beautiful- full of windy little alleys and traditional architecture- and the riverside at night is truly spectacular, lined with lamps of a thousand different colours. Once every month there is a light festival, when all the locals light candles in boats and float them down the river. Sadly, it was not on while we were there, but it is a wonderful town nonetheless.

Hoi An is also known as the city of tailors- an appellation it well deserves. Having trawled the town in an agony of indecision of whether I should buy yet more custom tailoring (I had a suit and a coat awaiting me in Bangkok) I finally sucked it up, followed my heart, and ordered the most wonderful purple silk suit (with green lining) you have ever seen in your life. Seriously; this thing is glorious.

We also spent another day on the beach in Hoi An- although to reach the beach, I once again had to master the hell-beast which is the common bicycle. Still, it was well worth it- the beach in Hoi An is a little ways out of the town (hence the bikes) and it really does make a difference in the level of peaceful idyll you experience. We walked along the beach as the sun went down, and, having narrowly avoided getting lost in the utter darkness no the way home, we returned to our hotel with heavy hearts, knowing that the next day we would have to leave this magical place. Still, the road rolls ever on; in this case, it was rolling is on into North Vietnam and the capital, Hanoi. But first we had to survive yet another journey in a sleeper bus…

The adventure continues anon.

Slick

P.S sorry I’m dragging this out so long- frankly I think the account is starting to suffer from the increasing haziness of my power of recollection- but I don’t want to make any one post too long and, as ever, my Muse is an ephemeral thing. That, plus I’m lazy

Howdy y’all! Well, it will come a s a relief to many of you that I have successfully made it back to good old Australia without cuasing some sort of international incident. Every border guard from here to Thailand looked at my emergency passport funny, but ultimately H.R.H The Queen’s heartfelt imprecation to allow the bearer to pass wihtout let or hindrance held good and I was allowed back into my temporary home. Apologies for the delay in posting also; I have spent pretty much the whole time I’ve been back in a kind of vegetative fugue state of relaxation.

Now, however, I’m going to cast my mind back across the mists of time to early September, where our intrepid travellers had made the decision to leavce their passports in the hands of the Vietnamese Embassy in Bangkok while they went to soak up some sun on the island of Koh Chang….

There is nothing quite so wearing on the human spirit as constant, unrelenting rain- except perhaps for cold, unrelenting rain. I know this because my companions and I spent an entire day on an open-topped boat, with absolutely no shelter whatseover, in a tropical monsoon rain, laughably attempting to snorkel in extremely choppy seas. Before long you get to the point where you’d gladly sell your soul in exchange for just a place to sit and be dry. I’m not kidding. I swear, if it hadn’t been for the fact that the rain- and indeed the ambient air temperature- was quite warm, we wuld doubtless have succumbed to hypothermia.

But I’m getting a little ahead of myself. First we had to get to Koh Chang, which we did in a tiresome but uneventufl bus/ferry combo. I won’t bore you with the details. Having arrived on the ferry on the island- a journey of 5 or 6 hours from Bangkok- we got a “taxi” (rather a misleading name because there was a flat price per passenger and it travelled on a set route. So, a bus, really, but “taxi” was definitely written on it) to our accomodation on the well named Lonely Beach. Koh Chang is very beautful- winding jungle paths alternate with gloriously uninterrupted ocean vistas. We found our hostel (which was actually just a collection of huts. Very nice huts, but huts nonetheless) and had a very pleasant dinner in a traditional reclining type restaurant, the kind where you are not allowed to wear shoes. Then we made our way along dark dirt tracks to the seafront, where we sat on a balcony in a completely deserted hotel bar (I mean totally deserted- no lights or staff) and watched a warm tropical storm play out over the gulf of Thailand. It was genuinely awe-inspiring- and it should have given us a little hint of what was to come. Having spent the following day chilling out, maxing and relaxing on the beach, we made the ill-fated decision to take a day long boat/snorkel trip.

And it was about 3 hours into this trip that the revelation about rain occured to me. For a short while between getting on the boat and, say, 10 am, it was a glorious sunny day, but when the rains came, they never stopped. They just never stopped. At the end of the day, completely sodden, we comforted ourselves with some nice if highly overpriced Irish style pub grub ($9 a meal! Extortion) before retiring to our hut for the last time. Goodbye Koh Chang.

The return journey to Bangkok was similarly uneventful. We had a few days in hand before our flight to Saigon so, after we collected our passports (Keep it safe, past Slick. It is more precious than you can know) we took a day trip to the ancient capital of Ayuthaya (sp?). Well, first we wasted most of a morning navigating the Bangkok subway system with the “help” of it’s ostly non-english speaking staff. But we got there. And the 2 hour or so journey cost about the same as a can of coke (15 baht, to be precise). Rail companies of England, take note. I appreciate that there is a great deal fo difference in standard of living- I don’t expect you to sell me a rail ticket for less than a pound- but surely we can get some sort of middle gorund here? Surely I could get a rail ticket for a two hour journey for say, the price of a pint of beer in London? Just a thought…

Ayuthaya is a very scenic, historical old city full of atmospherically crumbling ruins. For a few hundred baht you can buy a day trip around the river in your own personal little boat (which is powered by a car engine mounted to a really long stick/propeller). It was certainly an interesting and diverting way to spend a day- although it rained quite a lot, we merely scoffed at it’s ineffectuality form behind umbrellas. We had already seen the worst rain could do.

The next morning we were once again up at 4am (which is rapidly becoming a hallmark of my travels and I’m not a big fan) to get a short flight into the People’s Republic of Vietnam, Ho Chi Minh city (Saigon). We arrived, were completely baffled by the currency (how much should I withdraw from this machine? Do I need 1,000,000 dong, or would 5 million be more appropriate? How much can one buy with a dong? Heh, dong) and found a taxi who, for the extortionate price of about 10 us dollars, took us to the main backpacker/tourist area- District 1. We stomped around for a little while, torn between our desire to trust strangers to lead us there and our suspicion of everyone (sad but true), and we saw a local brutally execuate a cool looking yellow insect (they claimed it was poisnous) until we found our hostel (or, more accurately, hotel. There was a mini-fridge and everything, alll for about 3 quid), tucked away in a back alley. We had arrived. We had 11 days to make it from Saigon to Hanoi, with no idea of the crazy journey which lay ahead of us.

Stay tuned,

Slick

Greetings, Constant Reader. Due to a series of unfortunate events worthy of a Lemony Snickett novel, I am temporarily trapped here in Lao without a passport. There is no British embassy here (yet another thing to blame the French for) and everything’s closed till Monday. Don’t worry about me though; I’m bound to muddle through somehow.

So, when we last left out intrepid heroes, Slick and Rebel, they were leaving the shores of their temporarily adopted homeland in Australia far the mysteries of the Far East, specifically, Kuala Lumpur.

Kuala Lumpur- or KL for those in the know- is a very interesting blend of different cultures which quite neatly typifies this part of the world. The dominant force is Islam; calls to prayer echo across the city 5 times a day, alcohol is unnaturally expensive and a lot of the women wear veils. However, there is also a very large Hindu/Indian community (who we accidentally mortally offended by walking into a sort of outdoor temple with our shoes still on. Not entirely our fault guys- if there’s no walls or door, it’s a part of the street and I will keep my shoes on!) and an equally large Chinese community. Walking through the night market, eating a sweet barbecue pork bun and haggling over some knock off levi’s, one could be forgiven for believing oneself in Shanghai. Not that I’ve been to China… yet.

On top of this, there is a very obvious Western influence here. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the KL central mall, a giant monument to consumerism which takes up a large part of the city centre- with, it has to be said, some very attractive gardens. It ‘s air-conditioned halls are an excellent place to escape from the oppressive Malaysian humidity. This was the site of by far one of the strangest experiences of my life to date. Rebel and I were sitting on some steps, drinking some Big Gulps (thank the Gods for 7-11), when we noticed that everyone was watching us, and then some of them started taking pictures. Shortly, a guy came up and asked if he could have his picture taken with us, which we accepted, with much bemusement. After that, the floodgates opened and a veritable host of Malaysian people appeared, queuing in an orderly fashion to have their picture taken with us. Somewhere, possibly on the internet, are well over 100 photos of myself, Rebel, and randomly assorted Malaysians. After a little while we got too weirded out  and went to get some lunch. After lunch we decided to take a quick stroll through the gardens and- perhaps predictably- the exact same situation repeated itself. To this day I have no idea what was going on- we asked around at the hostel and it didn’t happen to anyone else- although it was Malaysian independence day (independence from Britain) so perhaps it was something to do with that? Or maybe we just looked exactly like some Malaysian celebrities. A boy band perhaps.

We spent too long in KL- in our time they we; went to the park, went up KL tower, watched a film, went to a “Book Festival”, walked endlessly around the mall- and still found time enough to be bored. I hear tell that some parts of Malaysia- the Cameron Highlands or Penang- are very nice, but we didn’t get a chance to explore them; we were on a deadline. By the 5th of October we had to be in Bangkok, so we flew from LCCT airline, central hub of Air Asia- which, by the way, is the shoddiest budget Airline I have ever encountered (the departure hall was literally a massive shed, the planes all clustered around 3 or 4 gates so that we literally had to guess which one was our plane) and arrived in the capital of the Kingdom of Thailand.

Bangkok is far and away the maddest city I have ever encountered. It’s massive, loud, smelly, alternatively hideous and very beautiful, and I loved it. On Khaosan road you can buy anything you could ever possible want- and a whole range of things you don’t, from a comedy t-shirt, to a tailored suit,to a woman, to a man that looks like a women, to a fucking degree certificate from Oxford university or a diving qualification- all for the change in your back pocket. The city never sleeps; it is always awake and always insane. My one complaint is that you can’t walk anywhere, there are no real provisions for pedestrians, placing you at the mercy of the taxi drivers (which are very cheap) and, if you are brave, the Tuk-tuks, who are, predictably, insane. Having collected Schlafmouse , our new traveling companion, from the airport, we hit the town for a few drinks- which, as result of a series of events which I am bound by my honour as a gentlemen not to reveal (giggity) involved me taking a crazy journey back across the city via water and motor bike taxi to the hostel, where my companions were contemplating the possibility that Bangkok had me now.

In a way, it still has.

In the hostel we made plans for the rest of our trip: we would go to the Island of Koh Chang while we waited for our visas to Vietnam to be processed, and then fly to Saigon. All of that, and more, in the next installment of Slick’s blog….

Peace,

Slick

Goooooood morning Vietnam. Man, that reference never gets old. As you may have gathered, I am in Saigon, former capital of South Vietnam. I do not exaggerate when I say that this country is insane; everything from the low, low prices (but really high numbers) to the baffling number of scooter’s on the roads is just totally alien to my fragile Western sensibilities. However, I am now getting ahead of myself- I plan to take this travelogue one step at a time, which means beginning from the beginning in Sydney.

Sydney is a cool place- we (myself and my perennial travelling companion Rebel) flew their super-early from Melbourne to meet our friend February who was there before us. We stayed, as always, in the local red light district (I really must research hostels more closely) which was fun, but very loud and lively. We took in the sights- the bridge is cool (but prohibitively expensive to climb), the opera house mildly anticlimactic, and generally dossed around on the first day. We also took in the idyllic suburb of Manly, across the water, home to the world’s highest ratio of dog owners to non-dog owners (pretty much just us) and on one day went into the New South Welsh countryside to spend a day climbing around Blue Mountaion, which was great, if rather draining. We took in a stray American and convinced her that Melbourne was better than New Zealand, a far from difficult task…

After Sydney, we went to Brisbane. Brisbane is…. dull. There is a very nice park with a fake beach, and an extraordinarily cheap cinema, and that’s about all. I hear ther Australia Zoo is good, but it’s a little rich for our blood. That being said, I had perhaps the best “night out” of my trip in Oz in a backpacker/student bar in Brisbane, where I met the Queensland Institute of Technology’s Pastafarian society, in full pirate regalia, whose commitment to alcohol and spreading the word of the FSM I heartily salute.

After Brisbane came Cairns. Cairns is…. well, you should just drop what you’re doing and go there now. Warm tropical weather, happy people, low (for Australia) prices. The jungle and the reef are so convenient from the town, which, with it’s exceptional “lagoon” (basically public swimming pool) has a lot of charm in itself. We spend a day on a boat doing some practice dives, which were pretty awesome- I should really get my PADI on at some point, and we spent a two days in the jungle- one day walking around and pointing at trees, which was entertaining (especially when Rebel harangued the wildlife guide on his faulty biology), and the second day cycling and canoeing. Now, for those of you who don’t know, I have long been of the opinion that the bicycle is a steed of the Devil himself, and secretly plotting man’s downfall. That said, I successfully completed a super long, hard cycle, surrounded by fast moving cars and dragons, entirely downhill, and did not break any limbs. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

The canoeing was uneventful. In between the two days we spend a bizarre evening playing ping pong with some adolescents. I couldn’t say why…

After regretfully leaving Cairns and parting ways from our companion, who had to return to life in the real world, Rebel and I flew to Perth as our jumping off point to Asia.

Oh, Perth. You’re also here.

Slick

(for those of you too lazy to watch that link, Perth is super-lame)

Good afternoon everyone,

So, its the end of an era here in Melbourne. I have lived here now for the best part of 8 months, and once more the call of the Road is strong within me and, as much as I love this place, I must be moving on. As ever, I take with me only memories, and I leave behind only footprints, and the odd broken heart. In 5 days I will hitting the old dusty trail, on a tour of Australia and then South-East Asia which will last for the next two months- and after that, who knows? I find life is more enjoyable when everything comes as a suprise…

So, what have I learnt in my time here? Now that I have reached the grand old age of 22, am I ready to become a “proper adult?” (ha)? Well, I think its fair to say that I have sharpened my already impressive charm and general amiablilty to a razor edge; every day I find it a little easier to talk to new people and make new friends, without being held back by nerves or fear of rejection (although I suppose it could also be the fact that I am leaving so soon encouraging me to seize opportunity while I can). In my time here I’ve learnt that following relative strangers to secret house parties (almost) invariably leads to a good time. I’ve made the acquaintance of a young lady in a semi-aquatic environment- but thats a story for another day. I have, much to my dismay, acquiared a new wealth of Accounting experience, which increasingly leads me to worry that the universe wants me to become an Accountant (no way universe. Not gonna happen). And I’ve learnt that I am in no way ready to become a proper adult yet. The call of the road still draws me ever onwards- I think there are few places in the world I like better than Melbourne, yet the 8 months I have spent here is definitely pushing my tolerance for staying in one place.

Most of all I’d like to pay tribute to the city of Melbourne itself; it really is a wonderful place. On the face of it, it seems a lot like a warmier, happier, less grey version of England- and this is pretty much the heart of it. On top of that though, Melbourne is an incredibly diverse place- from the trendy, hipster area of Fitzroy (picture Camden town and you’re most of the way there), to the sleepy western suburbs with their hidden gems like the Sun theatre, to the cool beach suburbs of St Kilda and Brighton, where a man can sit in the 30 degree sun drinking a bottle of LA ice cola and just watching the world, in all of it’s tanned and curvaceous glory, go by.

Melbourne has more crazy people than anywhere else I’ve been, many of whom with their own eccentric back storys and loveable quirks- like cross-dressing marrionette busker man, or secret millionaire crazy bus lady, or baby-snatching, crack-smoking drag act man. Despite this, I actually feel very safe here- even the local versions of chavs (they call them bogans) are much more likely to wish you  g’day than threaten to stab you, as their English counterparts no doubt would. I think its the benevolent climate.

Much though I grumble about every train being 5 minutes late, the transport system here is very good, and very cheap, and I can get anywhere in the city any time of day- even the taxis are reasonable (especially compared to England), and there are handy night time buses taking all of the drunk people, yours truly included, to all of the outer suburbs. Just don’t make the mistake I did and fall asleep on a morning train after a heavy night, necessitating a 7am trip back from the end of the line back home…

Melbourne has won a special place in my heart; I once boasted that I could make a home for myself anywhere where the girls were pretty and friendly, and the alcohol was cheap and free flowing. Well, for you, Melbourne, I am even willing to relax that second condition. Now however, our time together is at an end, and, like an early morning lover, I must be away before the dawn to find that elsuive greener grass somewhere along the road…

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

Adieu,

Slick.

This blog brought to you by Tourism for Victoria: The Place to be

Evening all. I just watched Solomon Kane (good film) and it has put me in a theological mood this evening, so I humbly present this latest burnt offering of bloggy goodness for your edutainment.

During my degree course- I believe, looking back, it was second year- I was asked to write a critique of a book- the bibliographical details escape me at this point, so you’ll just have to accept any kind of wild accusations I make about the source material from now on. The author was a Christian Apologist- let us call him, for the sake of convenience and me not digging through old essays, Smith- and he was writing against people like Dawkins and other atheist polemicists who argue for atheism as the most logical worldview. Now you can imagine where my sympathies lay- with the author’s opponents- so I set about writing what was, to my mind, a devastating critique of his entire work.  Smith’s central argument was that there are two types of atheism: firstly, there is what he termed “tragic” atheism, as exhibited by authors like Camus and Voltaire who, accepting the reality of a godless universe, were led by this conclusion to a kind of existential despair at the uncaring nature of reality, the only response to which was to soldier bravely on into the teeth of oblivion, acknowledging all of our lives to be essentially devoid of value and purpose but persevering nonetheless.

The second type of atheism, exhibited by people like Dawkins  he termed “happy” atheism, the kind of worldview which accepts that there is no God, but does not see this state of affairs as any kind of impediment to their being value in the universe- the kind of atheism which says that, since this life is all we have, it is in fact of immeasurable value, and we should make the most of it while we can rather than sulking about how nothing really matters viewed from the perspective of the universe- I’m looking at you, Camus. Stop sulking. Smith goes on to deliver his opinion that, were atheism correct, only “tragic” atheism is really honest with itself- he accuses “happy atheists” of basically deluding themselves into a sense of false cheer, and not facing up to the depressing reality of a godless universe. It all boils down to a form of the “but if there is no God, how can you be happy?” argument occasionally deployed by theists, the catch of course being that the question only makes sense if you are already locked into a theistic worldview- i.e., one in which all value and happiness stem from God. If, like me and many others, you are not locked into such a system, the question is easy to answer- “I am happy. Why should I be otherwise?”.

For Smith, the alternatives are a depressing, godless universe, facile self-delusion or, of course, embracing Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Saviour. I think it’s fair to describe me as being, in Smith’s terminology, a “happy” atheist- indeed, I’ve written before about what a liberating feeling it is to exist in a godless universe (this one). And indeed, when I wrote the essay in question, I responded by basically flat-out refuting Smith’s assertion that happy atheism is a form of self-delusion- like I say, that is really only an accurate conclusion if you are already blinkered by theism.

However, recently I’ve been considering that I might have been a little hasty in dismissing Smith’s claims, and so I have embraced Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour.

Lol, just kidding, can you imagine? Still, something about the whole thing has been bothering me lately, and I think I now have a better handle on what it is. I’ve come around to the view that, in fact, Smith was mistaken in making such a harsh dichotomy between “tragic” and “happy” atheism in the first place. I actually think that the two can coexist, to a degree, in the same worldview- it is possible to both find meaning and value in a life lived without God and, at the same time, acknowledge the concerns of authors like Camus who found their own atheism existentially depressing. You see, it’s all a matter of perspective.

From my perspective as a subjective being, Slick, the non-existence of God has absolutely no impact on the value of my life- I still laugh, love, eat, sleep, cry (well, not that, you know, because I’m a bloke, but you get the idea) and live, and the fact that once I’m dead nothing of myself will remain doesn’t negatively affect me at all- in fact, I feel it makes everything I do all the more worthwhile because right here and right now only comes once, and I like to think I am making the most of it, in my own small way. However, if we zoom our mental eye out and view me, Slick, from the perspective of the universe, then everything I do is totally insignificant because it affects, comparatively speaking, nothing, and I might as well crawl into a hole and die. This is the kind of perspective Camus took, and this is the kind of view a lot of theists take- only they throw in God as a magical safety net who cares about you personally and therefore makes the whole thing worthwhile. Viewed from this long-distance perspective, Theism and Atheism are much the same, give or take a single big friendly wizard waving a magical wand of “Cure existential despair”

But of course you seem insignificant compared to the universe! Haven’t you read Douglas Adams? The problem is in judging something as small as ourselves against something as big as… well, everything- in the first place. If you ever find yourself wondering- “hey, in the grand scheme of things, do I really matter?’ just ask yourself which is more important- the “grand scheme of things” or the world we actually inhabit, where love, a laugh between friends or a tasty meal aren’t insignificant, but are the very things that bring meaning to the universe. In fact, if you assume for a moment that humans alone are sentient beings, then our perspective is the only perspective that matters- there is no such thing, as Nagel says, as the “view from nowhere”.

All of that being said however, I actually think it is a good thing that we are at least capable of entertaining this notion of “ourselves as viewed by the wider universe”. I find the yawing chasm of purposelessness and futility actually makes the meaning we do carve out of the senseless universe all the more valuable- in fact I would say that to find purpose and meaning without regard to hokey religions and ancient superstitions is both more challenging and, ultimately, more rewarding than simply packing it in at “it’s in God’s hands now”

And in fact, even here there are strong parallels between the atheist and the theist: while the atheist experiences a tension between fear of his ultimate inadequacy and futility in the face of the universe, and joy that he can forge his own value and purpose because he is ultimately free, the theist experiences a tension between fear of inadequacy and unworthiness in the eyes of God- for, if God is greater than the universe, then he is unimaginably greater than any individual (which I guess is where Jesus comes in, but that’s a whole different circus and I am already rambling) and contentment in the knowledge that there is a meaning and a purpose assigned to them by their cosmic father figure.

Slick

P.S I know I steal a lot of Frank Turner lyrics for my blog titles, but if you haven’t heard the one i’ve stolen today’s from (Glory Hallelujah) listen to it now. If your life philosphy is identical to mine you will love it!

Good evening everyone. Tonight’s blog will be a return to my dialectic roots. I am going to talk about how women are silly and should all like me more.

So a survey was published recently. The aim of the survey was to test how women react to three different groups of men- men who, they are told, are interested in them, men who they are told are definitely not interested in them, and men about whom they where given no information either way. They were then asked how interested they were in the different groups of men (all other variables being equal) I believe the format of the survey was a kind of pseudo-speed dating thing in which the researchers manipulated the results to test for the desired variables.

Now who can guess what they found? If the women thought that a man was not interested in her, then she lost interest in him. Hear hear I say- very sensible reaction. But can you guess which group rated most highly with the female test subjects? If you answered “the ones who they knew nothing about one way or another” congratulations, you win the prize. It turns out that the second biggest turn off for a woman is confessing that you like them (the first biggest being to tell them that you actively dislike them)…

Now, frankly, I am not surprised by these results- in fact, I think it’s wonderful that the universe occasionally reaches out and confirms my chauvinistic preconceptions like this. This presumption of mystery, and therefore an inclination to hide one’s true feelings at all times, is one of the core principles of playing the game (http://slick111.wordpress.com/2010/02/01/the-winner-takes-it-all/) , but I think it bears a little discussion, if only because it is, if you think about it, completely insane.

If, like Paris of Troy, I was asked to choose between three beautiful women, one of whom told me icily to piss off, one of whom shook my hand and said “nice to meet you” and the third of whom said “wow, you’re gorgeous! Let’s go somewhere more private so I can admire you from a better angle”, you can bet your life savings on the fact that I wouldn’t waste any time chatting up the first two. And this, to me, is the glaringly obvious choice- to even consider another path boggles my mind. And perhaps some of you are saying “no Slick, you are assuming women are shallow like you and only care about looks and sex blah blah blah” then you are incorrect- the whole point of the survey was that it was testing women’s reactions based purely on the men’s attitudes, not on other factors like intelligence, personality, chemistry etc. it’s not like they were asked to choose between a friendly stranger, an unfriendly stranger, and a man they have loved from afar but never been sure if the feeling was reciprocal- the whole point is that is the uncertainty that is attractive! Does anyone else see how crazy that is?

Ok, perhaps I am over-reacting. I am, after all, a fairly cautious, non-committal person, who has learnt to his own great cost that you can never really tell if another person cares about you as much as you care about them, or even as much as they claim to care about you. But even given that, the choice on offer seems like a no brainer- it is analogous to someone offering you a choice between nothing, 20 pounds, and a box with “20 pounds?” Written on it. Only Peter Griffin could fail to solve this dilemma correctly!

In essence, this result is a manifestation of the “thrill of the hunt” principle- the very challenge of the situation is what makes it compelling- and I suppose I can see how that works, at least to an extent (as I heard a guy on youtube put it when talking about women and their disdain for men who openly admit to liking them “which is more satisfying completing Halo on easy. Or completing it on Legendary?” However, if the thrill of the hunt is so compelling, why does all of our food come from farms? Agriculture has surely been seen as an improvement on the hunter-gatherer system, rather than a less enjoyable alternative.

Hmm, on reflection I actually think I am starting to understand why the whole mystery/thrill of the hunt thing is a bigger deal for women than it is for me/men (I assume I’m not alone on this one?). Women in general have an easier time getting dates/boyfriends/male attention than vice versa- fact of life. So, while a woman might not know that a particular man finds her attractive, she generally knows that there are men around who do find her attractive. This means she can pursue the more challenging target without the background fear of rejection. Men, on the other hand, in this increasingly strained metaphor, are more like subsistence hunters- man cannot live on bread alone, and so on- so they are much more likely to approach/pursue someone who they already know is definitely interested, like lions picking off a wounded gazelle… Ok, this analogy has totally run away with me now, but hopefully you see what I’m getting at. I suppose I’d also add at this point that “players”- men who are used to attracting women easily- might be more inclined to adopt the sport-hunting approach and seek out women are less obviously interested, or even a little aloof.

As you might have read between the lines from this and other blogs, the reason I have difficulty accepting the whole “women don’t like guys who obviously like them”  principle is simple: I like women. I don’t, as a rule, hide it very well. In the aforementioned survey, I would doubtless be in the group who said “I am interested in you”. Now, I like to hope I can flirt wittily with the best of them, but, when it comes down to it, hard-to-get is just not in my make up, and it saddens me that the universe seems intent on holding that against me.  Especially as I believe it makes it simpler for everyone when I simply whip my intentions out for everyone to see.

There is  some hope for me yet- the last woman I (was? Am? Let’s go with “have been”- the past particple is nicely ambiguous, which is apparently what women are after) involved with actually sent me a text saying, to paraphrase slightly “it’s on”, which is how I knew that it was on and that I should make a further move. I find this kind of boldness refreshing, though sadly rare.  So, until there is a dramatic sea-change in male-female interaction, I suppose I shall simply have to suck it up and start learning to prevaricate and pretend disinterest. In the words of Oscar Wilde, that infamous skirt-chaser, “whenever I meet a beautiful woman I have to start pretending I have no desire to make love to her” (it was probably Oscar Wilde)

Love (or maybe not? Who knows? I am mysterious now)

Slick

P.S I’m pretty sure the survey which sparked this entire tirade was in the Melbourne Metro, or possibly the Age, but with a little half-hearted research I cannot relocate it. Still, let’s assume it exists and I’m not just whistling into the wind eh?