Chernobyl

At precisely 01:23am on 26 April 1986, Reactor #4 at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the former Soviet Union exploded, causing the worst nuclear disaster in the history of the world. Large areas of current-day Ukraine, Russia and Belarus were severely contaminated by the intense radiation and nuclear fallout, leading to the evacuation and resettlement of over 300,000 people. Twenty-two years on, the world has largely forgotten the largest man-made environmental disaster of the 20th century, but in the Ukraine neither the mental nor physical scars have fully healed.

Yesterday I stood not 50 metres from Reactor #4, the needle of my Geiger counter shrieking and leaping like a maniacal leprechaun with an angry rattlesnake down his green velours dungarees. The burning question: what was I doing there?

The self-styled 'Weirdest Tour in the World' had started off with the usual backpacker recipe,

*** Open Culinary Interlude ***

Eastern European Tour Group
Preparation: 8 - 10 hours
Serves 9 people, not including driver and tour guide

Ingredients:

4 x Brits - three Lahndahners & one Mancunian with chip on shoulder about life Up Norf, the older gentleman bearing a strong resemblance to Hannibal from The A-Team.
3 x Canadians - preferably Québecois, each with symmetrically positioned maple leaf patch on backpack.
1 x Australian - effing and blinding for first hour while describing Great Barrier Reef and home town, then snoring rhythmically in haze of vodka fumes.
1 x Irishman - quiet and mysterious, attracting immediate interest from Canadian girls, probably gay.

Pour into one minivan, shake and bounce about on potholed Ukrainian road for two hours, creating heavenly aroma of hangover halitosis and Bacon & Egg McMuffin breakfast odours oozing through sweaty pores.

Serve irritably as group discovers road time is double that stated in brochure at hostel.

*** Close Culinary Interlude ***

and as we sped (for literary effect only, plodded would be more accurate) through the lush Ukrainian forest, blue skies and blazing sunshine above our heads, the mood was more Paddington's Grand Day Out than Thyroid Cancer Exclusion Zone. To answer my own burning question, I was curious to test my usual moral ambivalence by going on a tour described by guidebooks and fellow travellers alike as moving, distressing, disturbing and a further Thesaurus-truckload of similar adjectives. Would I, the heartless one, feel any of the above emotions?

Truth be told, it was impossible to feel anything more than voyeuristic curiosity in the now miltary-populated town of Chernobyl and at the plant iteself. Our interpreter's liberal use of the word 'stuff' (eg. "The fallout was 30 to 40 times more serious than Horoshima and stuff..." or "They added stuff to the Uranium-235 and that made it melt..." - what did they add, a slice of Kraft processed cheddar?), the aforementioned good weather and the fact that the Red Forest (so -called because of the ginger-brown colour of the 10km radius of pine trees that died from absorbing high levels of radiation) had been replaced by lush green vegetation all detracted from the tragic events that had occurred here. That each and every single one of us was more obssessed with obtaining the highest reading on the Geiger counter lent an even more jokey element to what ought to have been a sombre and serious affair (and yes, of course it was only-child-me-me-me with a whopping 729 micro-roentgens).

It was only when a book released to commemorate the 10 year anniversary in 1996 was passed around that we began to appreciate the enormity of the catastrophe and its repercussions. As I flicked through photos showing firefighters equipped with fire aprons only (aprons!!!) to fight the chemical fires in the immediate aftermath of the explosion or of radiation burns victims with their skins flayed and torn to shreds, I felt a tightening in my chest. Incidentally of the 56 deaths attributed directly to the accident, 47 were firefighters and accident workers and 9 children with thyroid cancer, although, in a textbook display of the ills of the soviet propaganda machine, doctors were forbidden from recording "Death by Radiation" as a death verdict in order to keep the number of 'real' casualties down. Truly sickening. I bought the book to serve as a reminder of the bravery of the emergency services and the true horrors now disguised by new trees and abundant flora and fauna.

If the book showed us a side of the events that few people know of, then the next part of our tour conveyed a message blunter than the billboards of Times Square. The city of Pripyat, not Chernobyl, was the closest to the reactor and therefore the worst affected. The whole city was evacuated in 72 hours, with a 40km long caravan of buses carrying all 50,000 inhabitants to pastures and lives new. Schoolbooks and a teddy bear at the school, a broken projector with filmreel in the cultural centre, all artifacts showing the panic and urgency of this forced migration. In the centre of the ghost city stands the rusting hulk of a large ferris wheel, visible from miles around, all the more poignant since it did not manage to complete one single rotation, its public opening due three days after the accident.


This was not moving, this was not distressing, this was not even destruction, this was sheer postapocalyptic desolation. I felt unsettled and even obscene standing on the roof of the abandoned hotel looking down at what had once been a thriving community living in the shadow of its employer and executioner. I held my breath irrationally, radiation was minimal but I did not even want to breathe the air in this place truly forsaken by God, Buddha, Allah and all their furry friends. I felt like an extra in 28 Days Later (the zombie movie set in London, not 28 Days, the crap Sandra Bullock rehab romance schmaltzfest I hired by mistake the first time around).

There was a lot more to the tour, but this just about covers its mental impact on me. The physical aspect is another matter altogether. The level of radiation we were exposed to was high enough to cause concern, but only over an extended period of time. Many Ukrainians we met assured us that we would sprout a third leg within the week and that we were madder than an army of March Hares on crystal meth for going into the exclusion zone. It certainly plays on your mind though, and we duly followed the base commander's advice in drinking alcohol in order to accelerate our metabolism and flush the radiation out of our bodies. I am not sure that he had 2 litres of vodka over 3 hours of playing Shithead in mind, but hey ho, better safe than sorry...

For further information on the Chernobyl Disaster, Wikipedia has a thorough account of the event and how it has affected the Ukrainian psyche and identity. I have come away from what I had initially seen as a form of extreme tourism with a greater understanding of one of the most important events to happen in my lifetime. I now also have an easy answer to the "What is the strangest place you have ever had a beer?" question. It gave me a warm glow ;-)

Dish of the Day...

One immensely rewarding aspect of roaming this wonderful planet is the sheer unbridled joy derived from discovering a randomly surreal translation on an English food menu abroad. If travelling is food for the soul, then English menu translations must surely be its dessert. My previous championship contenders, 'Gordon Blue' in Krakow and the rustic-sounding 'Village Style Shop' in Moscow, had remained unchallenged for over one year but they have been consigned to history books as also-rans by the sheer creativity and subtle syntax of Ukrainian cuisine. There must surely be an undergraduate course in Menu Mistranslation at Kiev University for the talent and excellence of these plainly ridiculous entries are unlike any I have ever seen on my travels.

The following are genuine culinary selections taken from several English translation menus across the Ukraine, followed by my very own linguistic interpretation:

Squids in rings Orly style: a performing troupe of circus cephalopods swinging gleefully from ring to ring mid-air high above the check-in desks at Paris' second airport.

Frying Pan Happy Pork: a low-IQ pig unaware of the severity of the situation, grinning inanely as the butcher comes to bludgeon it to its bloody death with a Tefal non-stick griddle pan.

Mother's in law tongue: a cheap thrill, but I liked the positioning of the apostrophe. Enjoyment is presumably derived more from silencing an unliked non-blood relative than actual taste.

Fried grey mullet: I have had to shackle my fertile and vivid imagination on this one, the potential is too immense. From the high price (125 Ukrainian Grivnas versus 95 for the lacklustre and clearly inferior Black Mullet), I am assuming that the greyness signifies a more mature and stylishly reared beast. It comes with the bold assertion that it is "... as good as grilled and fried...". Popular in Australia, particularly in Outback Queensland.

Salted hunchback salmon: swims with a stoop, but very tender underbelly. Served with Notre-Dame sauce.

Butterfly chop: for the light hunger.

And finally, my all-time favourite, a new entry straight to the top of the charts, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...

Caesar with a Hen.

Picture the Emperor himself in an ancient Roman chair, one eunuch playing the lute and another fanning him with arabian palm fronds. One plump fluffy chicken lies (or possibly lays) despondently across his toga, miniature laurel wreath resting on its head. He strokes its rich plumage absent-mindedly à la Blofeld as he plots the downfall of Carthage. It sits content, aware of its privileged status across all of poultrykind. It is... Caesar with a Hen.

Little things do indeed please little minds...

A modern-day Greek Tragedy in one very long Act...

Had Sophocles and Euripides still been plying their trade today, I have no doubt that their concept of tragedy would have been dramatically altered after sitting in on one of my company's world famous mailout meetings.

The fact that my venerable employer has been sending catalogues of its new collection twice a year for the past 36 years would lead the rational mind to deduce that a mailout meeting (feel my shivering spine as I write these mere words) would be a smooth and rapid decision-making process. Not so. Truly not so.

Today's biannual festival of dullness saw me achieve a lifetime PB, or Personal Best for those of you not acquainted with strenuous fitness regimes. I managed to record three R.D. and one D.O., or in layman's terms three Rumbled Daydreams (the eyes are open and staring in approximately the right area, but you miss a simple question aimed in your direction, a situation salvageable only by BAFTA-winning amateur dramatics recovery skills) and one actual Doze-Off, the pinnacle of office meeting embarrassments that all wannabe Dilberts strive to attain.

The conditions were perfect. Eight people in one small windowless meeting room immediately after lunch; fragrant body odour mingling intimately with prawn cocktail crisp and ham & cheese breath; the cash and carry checkout promotion clock on the wall taunting the room on a Friday afternoon by ticking back one second for every seven forward. I knew I was doomed the moment I walked into the room. Most non-hibernating mammals would have succumbed within half an hour but I lasted forty-five minutes of herculean proportions before making the fatal mistake of allowing my eyelids a short rest. The four centuries of sleep that I so richly deserved were brutally taken away by a poke between my third and fourth ribs by my UK Sales counterpart, fortunately sparing me from total humiliation in front of three of the company's six directors.

For the record, the meeting lasted one hour and twenty-seven minutes and concluded with the revolutionary concept of repeating the previous year's procedure. Such is the fulfilling and stimulating life that I lead. Had Archimedes been taking a bath in the meeting room, he would have drowned long before the seeds of Eureka had even germinated in his head.

Slaying the Beast...

[Author's Note: all names have been changed in order to protect the identity of those concerned.]

Tying in nicely with the 12 Labours I have set myself in 2008 is this little mythological anecdote recounting the unexpected fall from grace of a fearsome warrior. This is...

The slaying of the mythical beast known as........... Mimon Saguire.

To put the man's propensity for mayhem and destruction into context, I will boldly declare that Mimon is to the artistic field of wanton debauchery what the Wright brothers were to aeronautics or Alexander Fleming to medicine: innovative, groundbreaking and light-years ahead of anyone else.

Plenty are the people privileged enough to have watched - in blind fascination - Simon, er Mimon brutally bulldoze many a weekend into more carnage and devastation than the trench warfare of World War I, razing entire cities to the ground on his renowned three day rampages. He could go many months without sleep and eat nothing but the foil from bottlecaps to fuel his burning engine of destruction. Nothing could stop this last man standing amongst hedonists.

Or so we thought...

As Achilles was brought down by his humble heel, so too did Mimon buckle and fall, slain by a much fiercer adversary than the sword: the mighty absinthe.

Any form of liquid alcohol banned across 19 European countries for over ninety years for having "psychoactive and hallucinogenic properties - © Wikipedia" is probably not recommended for a Sunday afternoon picnic in the Hammersmith sunshine. And certainly not four large shots in twenty minutes. Yet that is what our hero did, and the price that was paid was neither headache nor hangover, but his aura of invincibility.

Within a mere half-hour of the final herbal drop descending into his gullet, our hero was babbling incoherent groups of random words with his head lolling about like Churchill on crack (the insurance advertisement dog, not Winston) and eyes looping in opposite directions like inversely magnetized ball bearings. Battered into instant submission, he slowly dragged his failing body into the lounge and onto the sofa, where into a deep coma he fell.

The glory of any such psychoactive and hallucinogenic properties is that their grip on the mind continues even beyond the portal of sleep. Within ten minutes of having lost consciousness (for sleep it was not), Mimon began to recite a string of telephone numbers to the great delight of his bemused audience. Thus "0-2-0-8-7-1-4-9-6-3-3" followed swiftly after "0-2-0-7-4-1-1-8-5-2-5" before giving way to several short yet profound philosophical ramblings along the lines of "I must have more self-respect...".

The whole borough was then subjected to a snoring sonata of such violently epic proportions that all lumberjacks in Canada and Russia united in putting down their chainsaws as a mark of respect.

So there you have it folks. Let this be a marker in time of this memorable moment. More efficient than any silver bullet or wreath of garlic, I officially proclaim the distilled form of a common mountain herb to be the most effective slayer of this fine beast we have the pleasure of knowing.

The beast is dead. Long live the beast.

Sunset in Hammersmith

There are relatively few moments in my hectic life that can be described as having been utterly peaceful. Tonight, I was fortunate to experience one.

As my back rested against the brick wall overlooking the River Thames, holding a glass of Sauvignon Blanc in one hand and an ever-so-pretentious collection of Chekhov plays in the other, I attempted to cajole my body and soul into some semblance of normality after yet another mind-numbingly destructive day at the office.

Instead, I looked up and felt myself and my self-important universe melt into insignificance as I witnessed as delicate and touching a sunset as one could possibly hope to see in one lifetime.

The sun, eerily pale for the fifth month of the year, began its downward course as a faded and jaded lemon casting a hazy aura over the Thames before transcending the most intense rainbow of peachy hues, eventually skewering itself on a yacht mast and vanishing gracefully behind some distant Chiswick vegetation. So simple, yet so breathtaking.

A privileged and inspirational moment...

Test

Test, only for Silkylein...

Flip-Flop Butchery...

I had never considered myself the type of human being that wears flip-flops. For a multitude of reasons - each and every one of which so depressingly dull that it would lose me my one blog subscriber if I aired them here (you know who you are...) - I have never strayed from the safe haven provided by sandals. There is something immensely comforting and reassuring in having your foot strapped snugly within a sandal. Not for me this crazy foot-half-off-edge-of-flip-flop flying by the seat of your pants attitude to life. I used to positively shiver at the boldness of these sartorial buccaneers whenever I encountered them (ie any Australian on the Fulham Palace Road in mid-December). Brrr.

Until now.

My previous sandals having self-destructed in Tijuana (RIP dear friends, may your soles rest in heaven) and the sands of time having trickled too fast between holidays (it's a hard life I lead), I found myself on a sandy beach in Monterosso on the Italian Riviera sporting Converse trainers and socks in 26c heat. A social faux pas in any self-respecting country, I was committing this heinous crime in the very home of fashion! With conditions within my shoes rapidly approaching heating levels of vegetable-steaming proportions, this was a moment for boldness, for grasping the bull by the horns. Influenced by the plastic staccato sound of my three travel buddies' footfall and faced with no justifiable alternatives (anyone for Crocs?), I finally gave in. For the princely sum of 8,00€, I became the proud owner of a pair of black dragon red Diadora flip-flops, rapidly becoming the proud owner of a pair of black dragon-less faded pink Diadora flip-flops (lawsuit in progress, stay tuned for details).

Beaming with unbridled happiness, I opened with much enthusiasm and very little panache this new chapter in my life. To say I had a certain swagger about me would be misleading, it was more of an awkward stagger as I struggled to replicate the near-perfect sound of my friends' echoing footwear. But I was happy.

The word 'shortlived' regrettably follows 'my happiness was' on a relatively frequent basis and this was to be no exception. It rapidly became clear to me that my glorious zenith would mirror that of the sun in its daily brevity. The blazing sunshine, crystal-clear waters and stunning scenery could not distract me from the fact that my new footwear was achieving an all-too-swift transition from the world of looking-tsss-hot-in-new-funky-beach-accessory to the world of incessant-agonizing-pain. Inevitably, the stubborn streak that has possessed me since I entered this world would not accept that my feet were being butchered to bloody stumps and within six hours I felt as though I was locked up in a medieval torture chamber, having one-inch thick wooden wedges hammered gleefully between my first and big toes by the Marquis de Sade himself. AND having the sides of my feet being shredded by a hedgehog being viciously and violently rubbed against my poor soft untreated skin.

I am hoping to lose the freshly-sodomized-by-a-rhinoceros look that the brutal wounds between my toes have given my walk, regain some dignity and will use the flip-flops as a door wedge from now on...

Next week, on "Life on the edge", we see what happens when Tesco runs out of Strawberry yoghurt. The drama, the tension, the raw emotion. All on this blog... Wow...

PS: I apologize for the 'sole' joke in paragraph 2, I truly do. That was abysmal, even by my usually low standards.

The 12 Labours...

Blink and you may have missed it. No, not the only ray of sunshine in an English summer or the forward advance of a French army but the flash of inspiration that led me to challenge myself into *** shock! horror! *** doing something new every single month of this glorious year 2008, my very own 12 Labours. With neither the Cretan Bull nor the Erymanthian Boar being available for re-capture, my tasks have had to be rather more mundane.

April 2008: discover and conquer a new borough of London, this month and every month until the end of the year...

Me new mucker Sazzo - whose fantastic description of her home borough "a place-name crossed between a cliched expression and the charming sound of pleghm" so accurately describes it - suggested going to a politically supercharged free carnival, Love Music Hate Racism. In Hackney. Not Hackney-upon-Thames, a name that might suggest lollipops and balloons, but Hackney, the name presumably coming from ancient pirate dialect, "Arrrrrr, you be 'anding over 'at doubloon Cap'n, or we be playin' a game of Hack-Knee", as the swinging cutlass swooshing through the air turned a two-player game into a one-winner game.

And so I set off for the Wild East, iPod in pocket and supersized dose of apprehension in my mind. Five years of West London snobbery have instilled a deep-seated belief that the rails of the District Line bend downwards at Aldgate East into the deepest pits of Hell itself, or worse still, Essex. Apparently this is not the case.

Getting on the Tube at Hammersmith, I found myself sitting opposite two girls - clearly sisters - with acutely emotive expressions on their faces as they talked to each other. Poignant looks such as I had never seen before, they fascinated me. I was so moved yet curious at the same time at what seemed like such raw emotion, what terrible news could they possibly be discussing? I felt like an intruder even looking at them and so decided to take things one step further. As I took out my earphones to eavesdrop more effectively, I was truly surprised as the first words I was able to make out were "Shall we get off here or at the next one?" in the most beautiful London accent one could possibly hope to hear. Aaahh, the joys of a fertile imagination. No prizes who would be at the other end of the line if you dialled 1-800-DULLANECDOTE...

To be totally fair to Hackney, there was more chance of being killed by a paper cut from the neverending stream of anti-BNP flyers being handed out than anything else (during the hours of daylight anyway). It was a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon. The fascinating political undercurrent mixed with the palpable appreciation of a free event of this magnitude being organised made it a trip well worth making. Predictably, the loudest cheer of the afternoon went to the sun, as he peaked a hesitant, then confident look from behind his cloud and warmed our souls for the last hour...

Ash's Farewell...

No fancy titles, no smartarse puns, this is going to be as raw and gritty as the 3:10 to Yuma, and I mean the original...

Imagine the long conversation to the girlfriend you have not seen or spoken to in 6 days. Remember the nailbiting final minutes as your team clings on to a vital 2-1 lead. Picture the time it takes to get from Hammersmith to Cockfosters.

That is how long the barmaid took when pouring the spirit measures in our drinks last night. Whilst St. Louis and Dallas may have started in 4th gear, San Francisco inched into the lead in 5th, Las Vegas most certainly generated a free-drink motivated 6th and San Diego (a whale's vagina in German allegedly) hit the nudity heights of a colossal 7th, the poor old Townhouse Cocktail Bar (did they name the bar knowing what Ash was going to do?) in Venice Beach L.A. hit the Flux Capacitor and Turbo Boost at the same time during our 3 nights there.

Given that our hostel was 17,4 yards across the street and that Ash has already urinated on two telephones on our previous visits, the portents were looking strongly in favour of an almighty battering when he ordered octuples rather than just sextuples. The best compliment I can pay the Townhouse Bar is that I cannot remember the last 2 hours of the last 3 nights spent there. Last night was no exception.

You want the details? Read on...

Ash got naked. That should come as no surprise to those of you fortunate to know the now moustache-like-a-slug-on-fire sporting legend from Melbourne. But this was good. He got naked in the bar. He posed on stools, yes, still naked. He ran into the street and tried to wrestle his friends on the beach. Naked. And then, the climax (thankfully figurative)... He played naked basketball (1 on none) using his miraculously still accessible boxers. That they did not bounce at his feet and did not glide through the air like a LeBron James 3-pointer did not deter him in the slightest. He was possessed. He was driven. He was naked. Butt naked. The sole salvation for our freckled friend was that my camera battery had sold its soul to the devil and decided to spare him from the ignominy of facebook humiliation.

And I miss him already. The time I have known him has been a special time, a time before cable. When the local anchorman reigned supreme.

I digress. Ash is a phenomenal human being, a melting pot of all things good, funny and downright amazing. It is stupendous to see such intelligence, logic, thoughtfulness and maturity counterbalanced by the sheer retardation that this man is capable of. I love him. I love him to bits and the last two weeks were as fitting a send-off as our friendship required.

The fantastic nature of such a good relationship (ggghhhhaaaaaayyyy) is that the sadness of parting ways (ggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy) was instantly wiped away by the knowledge that it WILL NOT be long until we are reunited discussing bowel movements and outconsuming the Russian national GDP (Gross Drinking Philosophy).

See ya soon mate...

Panda Watch!!!

If last night were to be described in military terms, it would almost certainly be called the Shock and Awe evening.

Shock at the sheer stupidity of 4 travel enthusiasts consuming enough alcohol to strip naked in a hostel kitchen and Awe as in "Awe my God, what a bunch of tools".

Equipped with only a large-brimmed straw sombrero each and enough idiocy to be elected village idiot of the millennium, our evening descended into unadulterated anarchy from the moment drinking rules were added to what had previously been an 'innocent' game of Shithead on a night preassigned as 'quiet'. How many nights can be described as having Mexican stripping, medieval jousting with empty cases of lager, beer pong and more group photos that you could wave a big stick at? For those of you with a graphic imagination, try to picture 5 guys and one girl in the communal lounge/kitchen of a youth hostel at 3am stark naked creatively using a sombrero as a lone item of clothing. Or perhaps do not try to picture it. My conscience often has to slap me around the chops with an imaginary wet haddock, saying "Hold on, me old mucker, you are 33 years of age". Fortunately last night, my conscience was incinerated by an obscene streak of immaturity that retorted "Wot'evaaaahhh".

*** THIS IS A PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING: do not look at the photos if you are a) of a nervous disposition; b) liable to projectile vomiting at a second's notice or c) allergic to the sight of Swiss/British love handles. ***

The sign of a good holiday is when you do not want to share the tales and memories with others because a) they will not understand them and b) they will not appreciate them. This baby is staying 100% in my own little head. It is a cracker and if you see me grinning inanely as I walk down Fulham Palace Road, there is a good chance I will be recreating the Naked Sombrero Soirée in my head...

How now brown cow.