Drunken Tiger

Haven't been on the road for a while, but here's a trip down memory lane, back to South Africa and 1973.... Birdhaven It all started with the sacks - the sacks in the back of the Land Rover. Watching quietly from behind a half-drawn curtain, we saw our stepfather - in Barbour jacket and shooting boots – emerge from the cabin. Dark glasses hiding owlish features, he dropped to the ground, clamped an unlit cigar to his lower jaw and, an open shotgun hanging over his forearm, strode up the slate garden path and through the half-mast door. “Bring ‘em in boys!”, he said, lurching heavily into an armchair and lighting the half-smoked cigar. Throwing his legs onto a footstool, he swatted two flies, blew his nose violently, and waited for my younger brother to scamper ... read more

Time follows me around in Shanghai like a cloying beggar tugging at my sleeve. Down on the Bund the Rolex salesmen - dreambusters of the promenade - fall into step beside me, peddling their fake visions of corrupted time. As I gaze at the Huangpu, they seem to be screaming: "Stop staring at the river, looking for memories of Sampans, Japanese warships, paper flowers and paupers' coffins! That's the past - come on, time is money, buy this watch!"Then I slowly raise my eyes to Pudong's Oriental Pearl Tower and see a totem to China's economic destiny - a phallic reminder of the days of power and glory to come. That's the future. On the Nanking Road, time is traded, as always. Boys offer girls, girls offer boys, and everyone is up for sale - price ... read more

"You're in China, sir, where time and life have no meaning". Thus speaks the Eurasian warlord in the impossibly glamorous "Shanghai Express" (1932), as a cow halts the locomotive on its winding journey out of a Peking of hissing pistons, darting shadows, shouts and whistles. The film is shrouded in smoke: smoke from the train and, of course, smoke-as-sex from Marlene Dietrich as she announces "It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lily". This is smoking at its most glamorous and dangerous: everything imbued with meaning: the ceremony of lighting up, (whilst holding her ex-lover's gaze, locked in deadly irony), the slow pensive drawing in of smoke, and finally a long exhalation followed by an accusatory silence. Then, Dietrich, all stylish furs and fluttering black feathers, performs a half turn and, ... read more

After the mystical experience of Lake Baikal, time speeded up again as we headed for the Mongolian border. Carriage 10 became a micro-world, the passengers all setting their own boundaries and establishing the roles, rituals and routines that were mutually noticed, yet never acknowledged. The smallest sound became audible - whether the drone of Jean-Paul humming a demented tune at the far end of the carriage or the snap of playing cards as my Swedish neighbours completed yet another hand of gin rummy. The two Chinese attendants were tolerant, though not indulgent. This trip may have been the journey of a lifetime for Western tourists or adventurers, but these railwaymen rode this train every week. But they too seemed to fall into a torpor as the journey advanced - slowly chopping bok choi in their little ... read more

In Graham Greene’s “Travels with My Aunt”, Henry, a retired bank manager, sets off with his favourite ‘spinster’ aunt on a series of exotic travel adventures. Henry, rescued from suburbia, is challenged by Aunt Augusta’s eccentric ways, which include cannabis growing, ex-lovers in all corners of the world, and an undimmed spirit of adventure. This was the 1960s, so the book turns the world on its head, twisting traditional social roles. But the essence still applies today: romance is there if you look, things are not what they seem, age isn't necessarily a barrier. My mother’s seventieth birthday was coming up. What about a romantic gesture, just like Graham Greene and his Aunt Augusta? My mother doesn’t grow cannabis in pots, plot military coups or plan the downfall of otherwise sane retired men, and yes she ... read more