Totally Stuck for Words

Most village markets in France are orderly, traditional and predictable. Sensibly dressed women arrive with shopping baskets, older men often sport a beret or cap to ward off the morning chill. There will be stalls selling vegetables, a cheese van, a saucisson stall, a pan- Asian fast food van, to which the French flock – vive la différence – and perhaps a cake stall, featuring this season’s walnuts. And so when the knife sharpening man turned up at the weekly market in Monpazier, dressed in colourful clothes and working under the old covered hall, I was instantly drawn to his stall. I asked him if I could take his photo, although the conditional and polite part of this question, the ‘could I or may I’, suddenly escaped my memory.  He happily obliged despite these omissions and mentioned that if someone takes his photo without asking first, he would not give his permission. As my mind slowly processed this information, I noticed the roughly painted anarchist sign on his leather apron.

And then it happened. I stupidly inquired, in my primitive French, which is always stuck in the present tense, about why he wore this sign. I may have simply asked, ‘Pourqui’, while pointing.

He replied passionately, rapidly and fairly vocally, why he was proud to wear this sign. I could follow bits of his response: there was mention of the new French President Macron and then he concluded, “But you don’t understand, do you. You can’t respond, can you. Can you speak?” I’m standing there paralysed and the words won’t come. “Je… je… je... ” A crowd is gathering behind me and he continues his anarchist rave. “Je… Je.” And I wanted to say, “OuiJe comprende ” or something agreeable, like “d’accord”, just so I could run away and save face but I feel like I’ve just left the frontal lobotomy ward.” Je…Je...”. I want to agree that the handsome Macron bloke has turned out to be a huge disappointment, so much for middle ground, but what can you expect from a former investment banker, and do you mind pouring me a glass of wine even though it’s only 10.30 am, because I really need one now. But nothing comes out of my mouth, nothing, until eventually I mumble je suis désolé and I’m feeling like a total fuckwit. I haven’t even had time to get out Mt T’s favourite opening line and gap filler, “Excusez-moi, mon français est très mal” to which I usually add behind his shoulder, “you mean c’est merde”, c’est tres merde.”

Salut

The knife sharpening man is laughing now, enjoying his wine, probably not the first for the day, and so we exchange drinking salutations, salut,  santé, salute, chin chin, na zdrowie proost, sláinte, cheers ( mate) and so on. It’s an exchange of sorts.

Travellers, like me, who have a smattering of French, tend to stick to simple conversations, which hover around known contexts and commerce such as buying food or goods, and include a working grasp of salutations and courtesies, all limited to the present tense with an occasional flirtation with the simple past tense and with an excellent grasp of nouns but not so many irregular verbs. Is it possible to have a real conversation without a working knowledge of the multi- tiered tenses that we use everyday without thinking, the past perfect and imperfect tenses, the future and historic tenses, all woven together, like a language knitting pattern, with fancy stitches that include the conditional, the imperative, the reflexive and the subjunctive moods used in past tenses, stitched up with  the gerund and embroidered with the nuances of language that involve irony, idiom and cultural understandings? I think not. I stand accused, sir. I would love to sit down with you and have a chat and a wine, but I can’t. Well not in French anyway. Cheers.

 

Travelling out of Season in Brittany, France

With travel now readily available, especially within Europe, many little ports, towns and villages in Brittany have become inundated with visitors and holidaymakers during the Northern Hemisphere summer, from June to August, making travel less appealing. The British fly to Rennes or Dinan in Brittany very cheaply with Ryan Air, Fly Kiss or Easy Jet, take a car on the ferry, or drive through the tunnel via Paris. And so you would expect this area of France to be busy. Those not travelling independently are met by a 16 to 45 seater bus which then tours the area. These buses are out of place in tiny villages, clogging town squares, a reminder of those disgusting towering cruise ships dominating the Venetian canals which the Italian authorities are too cowardly to deal with.

Centre of town, Pont Aven. Late September, evening.

Considering Pont Aven as a microcosm of this phenomena, there’s only one way to avoid these invasions: travel in late September or anytime out of season. The weather won’t be so gloriously sunny, and at times it will be quite moist, but I consider this to be a fair trade-off. You will find a quiet market square and a village getting on with its business in a ‘post seasonal’ way and you will hear French spoken. On some days, a few buses might land in the square- arriving at 11am, most stay for around 30 minutes or so, as the tourists disembark to buy the local buttery biscuits, canned fish products from the conserveries, or stare through the windows of the ateliers, the 40 artist workshops flogging colourful paintings of sea themes. And then the town returns to normal.

Boats along the Aven River. The walk to the sea is around 8 kms.

Pont Aven has always been popular with travellers. Paul Gauguin spent extended periods in this town in the late 1880s and early 1890s, establishing, with others, the Synthetist style, a break from Impressionism. Their work is often characterised by the bold use of colour, the abandonment of faithful representation and perspective, with flat forms separated by dark contours, and geometrical composition free of any unnecessary detail and trimmings. The modern Pont Aven art school tends to follow this style.

Boats on the Aven River, Pont Aven

His legacy has left its mark on the town. Some walks follow in his footsteps, with little plaques dotted here and there, depicting Bretagne scenes of the local people or boating scenes. Art workshops dominate the retail scene here, but most are closed after August or only open during the weekend. The result of their presence, as well as the proximity of an Intermarche supermarket less than 1 km away, means the loss of a second boulangerie and a functional epicerie within the town. The town’s commerce is out of balance with a preponderance of outlets catering to the visiting tourist and not the locals. There are two or three good restaurants in the centre, often with reduced opening times, a creperie, one boulangerie, a bar, and a wine cave. A small market operates weekly in the town square. Many shops have closed and will be replaced, most likely, by yet another art gallery.

Pont Aven waterways through the centre of town

The district of Finisterre, in which Pont Aven is located, is heavily populated along the coastal area, in contrast to my recollections of the coastal areas in Morbihan. Beautiful farming land, away from the sea fringes, is dotted with smaller hamlets and villages, and larger medieval towns, such as Quimper. On cool days, motoring around the countryside is a pleasant way to spend the day. A visit to Locronan, one of ‘Les Plus Beaux Villages de France‘, is worth the drive, but go early before the buses arrive. Like many a designated belle village, Locronon is on the cusp of becoming too faux. Once the tourist shops move in, the rent goes up and local retail suffers. The up side of this designation means these beautiful medieval buildings are carefully restored.

Locronin, Brittany

But then, this is the story of any lovely spot in France. Travel slowly, go outside of the tourist season, and most of all, attempt to speak French, however poorly, and always use your inside voice, even when outside. Intrusiveness, I’ve found, comes down to the volume of voice used by fellow travellers.

Wet day mist over the Aven.
City scene in Quimper, Brittany. Once the capital of Cornouille.

 

A Walk in the Bois d’Amour

If you go down to the ‘bois’ today, you’re in for a big surprise!

The Bois d’Amour, an hour’s walk through a dense and ancient forest, begins right in the heart of Pont Aven’s village. It is surprising, enchanting, mysterious and gentle. You’ll emerge from these woods transformed.

The walk begins just under the one lane bridge near the centre of town. After passing a wild garden of flowers, raspberries and pumpkins, tended by a nearby Merlin, the woods turn deep, dark and mossy, with old cypress, oak, beech and chestnut trees shading the way. Fallen Autumn leaves drift across the moist muddy path.

Who tends this garden in the no man’s land under the bridge?

Unlike in the centre of town where the Avon river races by with enough speed and force to turn mighty water mills, here it runs like a liquid stream of dark molasses, with an occasional skip rover rocks and fallen logs.

Near the Moulin Neuf, the half way point in the walk, a quaint old building appears out of nowhere, probably the remains of that ninth mill. On our return, a quiet older man in a crumpled beige suit, silver hair streaming over his shoulders, magically emerges, his head bowed over a bowl, replenishing some cat food. Bonsoir, bonsoir.

The woods darken in places and become almost frightening, then all is gentle again as a love seat rises in the bend of the river.

Love Seat, Bois d’Amour

Fallen chestnuts litter the ground, opened and devoid of their nuts, like exotic birds or creatures from another time.

The things you find in the woods- ordinary things, like love, nature, beauty and peace.

Included in pedestrian, this weeks photo challenge on WordPress.

Bois d’Amour, Pont Aven

Marriage Equality Interlude

Last week I noticed a photo posted by my friend, Adam, on the day of his wedding anniversary. What a beautiful and romantic gift. Adam cross- stitched this tapestry to give to his husband of ten years: the pattern was digitally converted from a photo. The photo was taken at The Twelve Apostles on the Great Ocean Road, Victoria. I forgot to ask Adam if this was the moment of their marriage proposal.

Cross stitched by Adam as a wedding anniversary gift.

Later that day, Barnadi made a cake to celebrate their 10th wedding anniversary. They enjoyed a beautiful meal together at their home in Melbourne, along with their cat and dog.

They’ve celebrated their wedding anniversary twice. Last January, they commemorated their Wedding Reception anniversary which was held in Melbourne, Australia, while this month, they’re celebrating the 10th anniversary of their ‘civil partnership’ held in Bath, Britain. At the time, the couple lived in Bath, but visited Melbourne annually to catch up with friends in Barnadi’s home town, hence the need for two weddings, two parties, and now two anniversaries.

Language, terminology and laws have never deterred them: they fondly refer to each other as ‘my husband’ in restaurants, airport border controls and all sorts of public places. I’ve never heard them use that modern equivalent, the oh so very politically correct, ‘my partner’. Of course they would have preferred a different set of words on their certificate back then: the word ‘marriage’, a simple word signifies a great deal when it comes to equality.

The following countries have legalised equal marriage rights: Argentina, Belgium, Brazil, Britain, Canada, Colombia, Denmark (and Greenland), Finland, France, Iceland, Ireland, Luxembourg, Mexico, Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Portugal, Spain, South Africa, Sweden, United States, Uruguay. Meanwhile, Australia, once a progressive country, has not yet done so. Starting this week, Australians will vote Yes or No in a plebiscite, a voluntary postal vote. At a cost of $122 million, this expensive opinion gauging exercise will do nothing to alter the opinions of those who oppose marriage equality. Is it possible that it might aid the Australian Prime Minister, the Machiavellian Prince who stays in power by doing very little to avoid disturbing his conservative allies, to finally make a principled stand?

Vote yes for equality, vote yes for love.
The following clip, while amusing, makes some excellent points.

 

In My Scottish Kitchen, September 2017

One of the most common complaints of the traveller is the dearth of vegetables served along the way in any type of eatery, cafe, restaurant or pub. Despite veggies being in vogue, we don’t see many on the plate, other than a token salad or a potato, the latter usually in the form of the dreaded chip. After 6 weeks on the road, we were longing for our own apartment or little house, just to be able to cook a pile of vegetables, a soup or vegetable bake, as well as catch up on some washing. It’s rather ironic really, that these simple domestic tasks become so overwhelmingly desirable when you no longer have them.

View from our York Kitchen. Had to pick some wild weeds along the way- purple buddlea is the local weed, growing out of walls and concrete paths. Adding a homely touch to the plastic ikea plants and slate tiled York roof tops.

Our first pot of soup, a leek and potato soup, seemed fitting for our little kitchen in Aberystwyth, Wales. Our York apartment, a spacious Ikea fitted out place in a converted office building, provided the means to cook, but as we were also visiting friends that week, we had little chance to use it. My dear friend JA made some wonderful salads and dishes loaded with veggies from her Lottie ( affectionate English name for an allotment garden), the most memorable dish being her Summer Pudding, filled with plump, ripe blackberries picked from verges, along with raspberries and blueberries cured inside a mold of organic white bread. Ecstasy. There’s an art to making these carmine concoctions that taste like berry velvet.

View from JA’s apartment, overlooking the Minster, York. JA’s Australian roots have given her a passion for freshly grown vegetables.

Now that we’re in Skye, our little stone cottage by the sea has enabled some real cooking to take place. But first, before driving across to the island, we did a big veggie shop in Inverness. Vegetables are much cheaper in Britain than Australia, so long as you stick to seasonal ingredients that are locally grown. My big bag of vegetables, including a cute Wonky cabbage, cost very little, necessitating a few little add ons, such as box of raspberries, some odd looking flat peaches, French butter, lovely cheeses, some Scottish and others a bit too French, and of course, a bottle of single malt whisky. All in the name of keeping up with the locals, of course. Or as the late Angus Grant, fiddle player from Shooglenifty would say, in the only words I have ever heard him sing, ‘Suck that mother down,’ during his live solo on the tune ‘Whisky Kiss.’

On special for 16 Quid. Going down nicely. In memory of Ian Channing.

Wonky vegetables are NQR shaped produce, an idea that has also taking off in Australia. We don’t need perfectly shaped vegetables thankyou, and we definitely don’t need them wrapped in plastic. Most of my bargain veggies came pre -wrapped or bagged in acres of plastic. I’m wondering if the ‘War on Waste’ campaign is happening in Britain and Scotland. The other aspect I found unusual about the local supermarkets was the volume of pre-prepared foods. You name it, it’s available, pre-cooked and ready to ding. Fish cakes, fish pie ingredients, including the sauce, pre-cooked mussels, all sorts of meals, mash, even mashed swede. I’m not sure that Jamie Oliver has made much impression on the English diet.

Wonky Cabbage, 45 p

I was hoping to find a farmer’s market on Skye to supplement these goods. It turns out that farmers markets are quite rare, but then given the climate, I can understand why. We found one at Glendale in the north-west of Skye, a longish drive. We arrived early to find 7 stalls huddled together against the wind: one lady had a pile of fresh organic chicken carcasses for stock, another chap had one small bag of rainbow chard and black kale, nearby was the cucumber specialist, with two kinds on offer, on another table were a few carrots and apples and further down a lady with some sticky buns. And in the midst of all this I found the lady from Tinctoria, a specialist hand spinner and dyer from these parts. She has been hand dyeing since the 1980s and grows her own herbs to make the most extraordinary colours. Needless to say, I wanted them all.

Green ball, dyed from Brazilwood then over dyed with Indigo, the pink is Brazilwood and the blue is from Woad. Not quite kitchen goods but probably made in a kitchen. Dyewoods are woods providing  dyes for textiles. Some of the more important include: Brazilwood or Brazil from Brazil, producing a red dye. Catechu or cutch from Acacia wood, producing a dark brown dye. Old Fustic from India and Africa produces a yellow dye.

My vegetable stash is lasting well. In my Skye kitchen I’ve made lentil and vegetable soups, swede, onion and Orkney cheddar bake, pan scorched green beans with garlic and lemon, ( loving the very skinny beans here), caramelised whole shallots in olive oil, butter and beetroot glaze, Cullen Skink full of undyed smoked haddock, pasta with veggies, mushroom risotto, cauliflower cheese and loads of salads. My cooking has taken on a distinctive Scottish style- the view outside my kitchen window, the rain and the ever-changing Skye light having a profound effect on my cooking and pastimes. It’s odd, given my gypsy tendencies, how homely and settled I feel here.

Simple foods, just vegetables, some butter and cheese. The swede bake layered with onion and Orkney cheddar was a winner.
A bag of shallots become caramelised in olive oil, with some fleur de sel butter, and a reduction of balsamic and beetroot dressing.
Cullen Skink, with smoked haddock, potato, leek, and parsley. Crofter’s bread and French butter.

Fat Raspberries, sweet and seasonal, lead to the obvious choice of dessert- Cranachan- except that I was rather heavy-handed with the single malt and the toasted oats. It ended up more like an alcoholic breakfast. Mr T has promised to pick some neglected black berries along the verges, down near Maelrubha’s well; before we leave this special place, I’ll try to make a more restrained blackberry version.

A heavy-handed Cranachan. Too many oats and way too much single malt.
Crafting and Crofting. My travelling project, a bramble berry scarf, in memory of Skye.

I could go on and on about the wonders of Skye and how inspired I feel here, but I’ll save it for another time, another ramble into the mist. The media file below depicts views from our cottage. It’s hard to stay sane around such ever shifting beauty.

Thanks once again to Sherry from Sherry’s Pickings for hosting this monthly series.

Tidal cottage on Breakish. I could stay here for a few months or more. Celtic dreaming.

Speed Bonny Boat

I’ve thought long and hard about how to write about Skye, and about that young girl, Marion, who left here during the clearances 180 years ago, and the voices that I hear down by the stream of Maelrubha, the Irish red-headed bald monk who came to preach to the Picts in 671 and the healing water of his well. And about the Norwegian Viking princess who was buried, along with her servants, on top of a stark mull in the Cuillins, and of the warrior queen, Scáthach the Shadow, who lived in the Dunscaith castle on the edge of wild sea at Toravaig in Sleat. Legendary figures surround me, they seem to live and breathe.

Dunscaith Castle, Toravaig, Skye

I am struggling in my search for superlatives: none will do. My English language doesn’t fit this place: it’s too modern and limited and fails to describe what I see. Older words portray these land forms and features, some of them still in use today and if we say them aloud, we might hear our ancestors speak. This is a land of heather and bracken, of cairns, crags and tors, forges, braes, straths and burns. The colours of tartan are spread across rock cuttings and moors, colours mixed by rain and light: heather with burnt orange bracken and oat, scree with mustard seaweed drying at low tide, lichen on birch, black slate and rowan berry. Sometimes the heather is dun, sometimes purple and pink. These are the colours of hand dyed wool woven into the plaid of old.

Cuillins and colours
In need of Gaelic words. Skye
The colours of plaid, Breakish, Skye

When it rains, which is often, the Isle of Skye weeps from every cranny. In the mountains it floods with tears as waterfalls rip and carve great channels through these bald hills. The roadside verges gently seep. Black rock faces flash wet glint, the burns and creeks darkly rush. Tread lightly on the sodden machair, that deceptive verdant sponge by the sea, now solid grass, now  quagmire, now submerged. The sun appears in the late afternoon, a watery limpid glow that seeks out new colours of the evening. Rocky crags, hidden by morning mist, appear as if a new day. And then in late summer, that mystic light returns as the gloaming beckons, inviting exploration before the tide and the night come rushing in.

Dark burns rush after rain
Skye weeping
8 pm. Sky on Skye
Over the sea to Skye
A craggy mound near St Maelrubha’s well

From Breakish on Skye. Skye fills me with yearning. More words will come.

Mr Tranquillo’s post on Skye is here. His great grandmother, Marion Grant, left Breakish on Skye as a young child during the Clearances, travelling to Australia and eventually marrying Alexander McKenzie from Ullapool in the Highlands. Their children never returned to Skye, but all their grandchildren and some of their great-grandchildren have. Speed Bonny Boat.

View from Breakish on Skye. Dreaming of Marion

Lists of English words with Scottish Gaelic origin.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_English_words_of_Scottish_Gaelic_origin

The list of all lists: Gaelic words for hills:

https://cuhwc.org.uk/page/meanings-gaelic-words-commonly-seen-hill-names

York. The Minster and a Song

York is a great city to visit. Vibrant, with many ancient and modern attractions, it is easy to while away a week within the city walls, as well as walking on top of them too. The Romans spent some time here after CE 71, naming the town Eboracum. Then the Vikings, who invaded in CE 866, left a strong impression: they named the place Yorvik and left a street plan that still survives today.¹ The Christians left their beautiful small churches and a notable cathedral, the York Minster, which dominates the townscape, its ethereal steeples, like medieval skyscrapers, are markers for the lost.

The York Minster in sepia.

The interior of the Minster is vast and requires a few return visits. Fortunately, the entrance ticket lasts for one year. You may need binoculars to look at the detail in the stained glass windows, most of which have stories to tell, such as the famous Rose Window, with its combination of red and white roses alluding to the union of the Houses of Lancaster and York by the marriage of Henry VII to Elizabeth of York. ²

The Minster and stained glass

Attending Evensong at the Minster, which is held most evenings at 5.15, makes this vast space more meaningful. During August and school holidays, visiting choirs take the place of the regular choir to sing at Evensong. The ritual during Evensong is quite formal and follows the Anglo-Catholic service. During our visit, while trying to stay unaffected by the religious elements that were stark reminders of a discarded childhood indoctrination, I was, nevertheless, anticipating a musical thrill, that quintessential shiver when a piece of performed music enters the soul. During the performance of  ‘And I Saw a New Heaven’ ³, just as the conductor, a black caped Harry Potter figure with a shock of grey hair, swayed ecstatically as the choir and pipe organ consummated in heavenly sound, I briefly went to that new heaven. This piece of music is not your typical earworm for a fun holiday abroad, but nevertheless, it’s a moving one and will now always be associated with York. The piece is included below.

The chancel, York Minster
York Minster

¹ http://www.historyofyork.org.uk/timeline

²https://yorkminster.org/geisha/assets/files/fact-sheet-the-principal-windows.pdf

³ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Bainton

And I Saw a New Heaven, by Edgar Bainton

Wales. More Celtic Wandering

Wales, beautiful, wild, celtic Wales. I’ve always had a predilection for the western celtic lands: visiting coastal Wales helped fill in the celtic jigsaw that is never far from my consciousness. Scotland in the north and its Hebridean islands, Ireland, Wales, Cornwall, Brittany and Galicia, old kingdoms fringing the same sea, facing the same way, turning their backs on the rest of Britain, France and Spain, each with their own version of Gaelic and, along with it, a cultural independence and a certain defiance.

Map courtesy of National Geographic Society and included because I love a good map. Take me to the dark green bits. You can keep the rest.

Driving from Aberystwyth, we stopped at the black stone village of  Dolgellau for lunch. The town is pronounced Doll Geth Lie or Doll Geth Lee or Doll Geth Lai, depending on whose Welsh grandmother you listen to and noting that the’ ll’ sound is made by putting your tongue in the roof of your mouth as if you are going to say an L then blowing. And then on past towns with interesting cat and dog sounds, Porthmadog and Ffestiniog, past more maddening street signs designed to keep our mouths working in unaccustomed ways, on past the quarrier’s village, Rhiwddolion, a place surrounded by mountains of slabbed slate glistening in the late afternoon sun showers, with enough slate to pave and roof the world. Our final destination was Llandudno by the sea, not so far if you drive in a straight line but we have a tendency to get distracted. ETA, what’s that?

I’m including this little beginner’s guide to Welsh because the language sounds so nice and because the presenter is so charming.

Wales is a ruggedly beautiful place, with more open farming district, and mountainous forested areas, with the highest mountain in Britain outside Scotland, Snowdonia ( Yr Wyddfa) and a much lower population density than Britain. Each village and town beckoned, dark villages made of dolomite and slate, brave working villages and some more stately.

In this part of Wales, you get a sense of ‘other’, in contrast to the picturesque villages of the border where black and white houses and inns lean precariously onto the road and into each other, those Welsh towns like the book village of Hay- on- Wye, closer to the English border districts near Hereford.

The Llandudno pier. Punch and Judy show?
Bandstand on the Parade, Pier in the distance. Llandudno, Wales

Llandudno is a seaside resort dominated by a long and wide promenade with an arc of Georgian and Victorian guesthouses facing a gentle bay. It was given the title of ‘ Queen of the Welsh Resorts,’ in 1864.  For the Australian visitor 150 years later, it is an astonishing sight. Not much has changed from those earlier times. You get the feeling that older folk come here to ‘take the sea air’ or stroll out for a cup of tea. There’s a tram ride to the top of Great Orme, a prominent limestone headland, built in the 1903. I am sure people swim here sometimes too, but we saw no evidence of that, despite it being summer and late August. The guesthouses were all full and the restaurants well patronised. Nice to visit once perhaps, just for the audacity of that big parade. I hope to return to Wales, but have a preference for her wilder, wet and darker stone places.

Saving the planet. Wind farm off the bay at Llandudno.
Walking the parade, early morning, Llandudno.

Thanks to all those readers who offered information and links to Welsh scrabble last week. The links to these may be found in the comments page of my last post on Aberystwth.

Shiny Moments

I’m heading back to Hong Kong momentarily for a look at a few window displays. I’m always a sucker for cooks who enjoy their trade. The header photo shows a noodle and dumpling chef working in the window of a small cafe. He was pleased that I wanted to make him my shining star, while simultaneously the proprietor was attempting to shoo me away.

The photos below, in contrast, show the ugly side of big business, the Ooh Shiny moments that attract Hong Kong shoppers to big shopping malls.

Oh so sad, what would Van Gogh think of this? Louis Vuitton handbags, in Van Gogh fabric, embossed with bold ‘Van Gogh’ letters. You pay a lot for bad taste.
Gucci store. Why are these people queueing? But then, why do people queue for new iPhones? The world of commerce is insane.
Gucci handbag, black and shiny, embossed with the word REAL. Really?
Get yourself a good suit, boy. Hong Kong tailor shop. Oh so British.

Balinese Tourism, the Australian Media and National Identity

The Australian media revels in stereotyping Australian tourism to Bali. It’s an annual event, always bound to get a heated reaction. Fake news and generalisation usually does. The story follows the same old path: find a group of poorly behaved Australian bogans ¹, make sure they are shirtless or dressed in gaping singlets; a few tattoos help magnify the picture. Film them at a bar or nightclub in Kuta or Legian, with sound grabs of their loud, appalling behaviour. Beer swilling scenes and expletives complete the picture. This minority group is an easy target for the media. It’s an historic one too, recalling in recent times, the singlet wearing, fag in mouth, ‘ocker’ of the 1980s, and before that, the yobbo, the larrikin and the ‘wild colonial boy’. Australians have a love -hate relationship with their own working class. Often despised, they become symbols of our national cultural cringe. At other times in history, they’ve been employed to boost patriotism ( Ned Kelly, WW1 diggers, Henry Lawson characters). We either love or despise our famous bogans. A few random modern examples include Dawn Fraser, Paul Hogan, Shane Warne, Lleyton Hewitt and his wife Bec ( Australia’s answer to the Beckams), Kath and Kim, and Pauline Hanson. I have included Pauline Hanson, the Kabuki masked racist, in this list as she might be considered the bogan queen.

‘It can be argued that the larrikin tradition of disdain for authority, propriety and the often conservative norms of bourgeois Australia, are two sides of a self-reinforcing dynamic; the social conservatism of the mainstream fuels the undercurrent of larrikinism and rebellion, which, in turn, is seen as demonstrating that a firm hand is needed. This is sometimes referred to as the “larriken- wowser nexus”, ‘wowser’ being an Australian colloquial term for a person of puritanical mores.’²

A few more Australian stereotypes might be added to this time-honoured clichéd portrait of the Australian tourist in Bali. Enter the CUB family (cashed up bogans). The media portrays this group as a wealthy but poorly educated sub- class of ‘tradies’³, who have no time for Balinese culture or culture in general. The successful ABC television drama Upper Middle Bogan milks this stereotype to the hilt. Add to this the media’s obsession with the Corby family and the vacillating portrayal of Schapelle Corby as innocent victim or guilty bogan drug smuggler. The annual media focus on ‘Australian young lad caught with a stash of marijuana gets caught up in the Indonesian prison system’ amplifies this stereotype. The media’s dramatisation of these sad stories suggests a deep distrust of the Indonesian legal system, resulting in untold damage to Australian- Indonesian business and political relationships.

Older and younger lads get dressed in sarongs for a temple visit. Photo by daughter in law, Maxine Hartin.

A quick look at the annual tourist arrivals to Bali is of interest here. The figures for 2016 reveal Australian visitors leading the way at 1.137 million visitors per annum. This year, 2017, the figure has been surpassed by the Chinese.

Bali Arrivals 2008-2016, courtesy of http://www.balidiscovery.com

The Balinese will be the first to tell you about their impressions of tourists. They love Australian tourists because they spend money on local products and services and engage with the locals in an open and good-humoured way. They pump money into the local economy.  The Chinese, according to the Balinese, don’t spend any money in the markets or on transport and don’t engage with the locals. Their tours are usually packaged; as a result, very little money flows directly to poorer Balinese people. My own observations of Malaysian and Japanese visitors, if I may generalise a little here, suggests they have a preference for large internationally owned hotels which effectively insulates them from Balinese people. European visitors prefer to eat in Western restaurants, and are far more hesitant with the locals. They do, however, spend money on transport, water sports, hired sun baking chairs, and tours.

Some members of my family in Bali. Australians love to use bemos. I have never met a passenger from India, China or Europe in these beaten up old vans. Most foreigners use taxis. Australians often express a love of the underdog.  Bemos are disappearing from the suburban areas of Bali. Photo by son-in-law, K. Bradley.

The following is a summary of the makeup of Australian tourists in Bali based on my own observations over the last 39 years.

  • Younger tourists travelling overseas for the first time. Bali is an affordable destination for them. Some have studied Bahasa Indonesian at school and have a smattering of the language. This group spends money on sporting activities, transport, cheap clothing, sarongs and nicknacks. They tend to stay in budget or family run accomodation, and eat in cheaper, family run warungs.
  • The Bogan- Ocker tourist who usually base themselves around Kuta/Legian and Seminyak. They don’t take much interest in Hinduism or Balinese culture generally. They come to Bali to party. This is the group which gives Bali a bad name. They spend money on alcohol, transport and accommodation.
  • Family groups who travel to Bali during the Australian school holidays. They tend to stay in bungalows and small family run middle of the road Balinese owned hotels with swimming pools and proximity to the beach.
  • Older, retired couples or singles. This is a growing market and one that the Balinese are very happy to accommodate, by providing more flexible visa extensions, reliable health care and on site massage. The main attraction for this group is the climate and the affordability of food and services. Many in this group often stay in the same accommodation for a month or more at a time and are treated almost as family by the managers. This option is particularly appealing to older, single women, who feel much safer and more comfortable in Bali than in Queensland, for example. This group spends money on massage, pedicures, local warung food, drivers and accommodation.
  • Active travellers who enjoy watersports such as surfers, divers, snorkelers, wind surfers, bikers, cyclists, trekkers.
  • Cultural tourists interested in women’s’ textiles and ikat weaving, language, meditation and yoga, Hinduism, cooking, art, landscape design, and history.
  • Those travelling to Bali to attend the annual Jazz festival and Writers’ Festival, a growing market.
  • Business tourists who open franchises or restaurants. Whilst these operators are making big money in Bali, they do also provide hospitality training to the Balinese.

    Eating locally at family run restaurants, not International hotels. And yes, it’s chicken, not dog, as some of the idiotic media love to suggest! The chicken here is free range.

I’ve just spent two weeks with 15 members of my own family in Bali. In many ways we are a typical Australian family. We have different interests, different occupations, ages, educational levels and aspirations. I can happily say that we all have a high respect for the Balinese culture and people. I would also argue that most Australian visitors to Bali do.

Four of my family members, ( right) with two others on the tour with their deaf tour guide. They are all signing ‘Love you’. they wanted to learn about Bali from a deaf perspective. Photo courtesy of Bali Deaf Guide.
Son, Jack, goes for a jungle cross-country bike ride with his son Noah in Tabanan. Photo courtesy of tour leader.

Thanks Eha for alerting me to this latest nonsense about Australian tourism in Bali.

¹”The term bogan is a derogatory Autralian and New Zealand slang word used to describe a person whose speech, clothing, attitude and behaviour exemplify values and behaviour considered unrefined or unsophisticated. Depending on the context, the term can be pejorative or self deprecating. Since the 1980s, the bogan has become a very well-recognised subculture, often as an example of bad taste. It has antecedents in the Australian larriken and ocker.’ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bogan

² https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Larrikin

³https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/tradie

I also acknowledge David Marr’s essay, The White Queen, for that Kabuki make up image above. See, https://www.quarterlyessay.com.au/essay/2017/03/the-white-queen/extract

Monkeys and the Australian Media have a lot in common. Monkey mischief at Jalan Bisma, Ubud, Bali.
Underwater Bintang for thirsty non boganesque swimmers.