One for the road

Review: China Shakes the World

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 18 Jul 2009 07:23:00 +0000

China Shakes The World by James Kynge

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Since living in Beijing (2003-05), I've become obsessed with China. I read everything I can get my hands on. The strange thing about James Kynge's book, is that it neatly chimes with many of my observations and feeling about about China's rise. His style is anecdotal yet informative. It's easy to read, carefully researched, gently opinionated, and illuminating. A highly recommended introduction to anyone who wants to understand the impact of China's rise more fully.

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Spokane, WA

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 24 May 2009 13:44:00 +0000

Spokane is an odd place. Washington's second biggest city sits about 300 miles east of Seattle on the I-90 right on the river of the same name. It's featureless. A grid of big streets and relatively charmless buildings, modest houses, and little soul. We parked Randy at the Travelodge (cheap and cheerless, but did the job) and went out to find some life, a few people, some bars, etc. We found none. What is in this city? Finally, after a run, we settled for Azteca Taco (great Mexican food - weird) and Terminator Salvation (gotta love Christian Bale). Laters Spokane.

Yachats, OR

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 23 May 2009 13:41:00 +0000

It was a long day. Wolfman dragged me out of bed at 5.45am. We were crossing the Bay Bridge just after 6am. Ten hours later and 600+ miles, Randy was cruising the Oregon coast. The road sliced through the edge of think boreal forests and snaked alongside massive sand dunes.

I'd heard loads about how beautiful California is, but no one had told me about the Oregon coast. Out running along the beach in Yachats the next morning revealed a little gem. The white sand stretched for miles towards the horizon, cool air blew in from the ocean bringing whiffs of the salty sea. People walked their dogs. Kids played in between the rocks.

Of course, the weather was gorgeous which helped. But as the sun warmed my back, I could happily forget what it would be like in deepest, darkest February.

Yosemite, CA

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 21 May 2009 13:18:00 +0000

You get your first glimpse of Half Dome through the tall pine trees coming in from the west. The giant granite wall catches the evening sun, lighting up in a brilliance of yellows, pinks, and reds. Perhaps more than anywhere else, Yosemite personifies America's natural beauty. The sweeping vistas of El Capitan, the Bridalveil Fall, Half Dome, and the Merced River, stun and awe.

The gang spent three days in the park, soaking up the magical views and pushing our bodies to the limit.

Day 1: the upper Yosemite Falls, a 3-hour climb of interminable switchbacks leading up through the wooded walls of the valley. We climb 1,500m vertical meters to the top and peer out over a ledge towards the valley floor. A huge torrent of water thunders passes us, explodes into a spray of white, and plunges hundreds of meters to the canyon floor below.

Day 2: A 5.30am start. Half Dome our objective. It's a long gradual climb alongside the rampaging Vernal Falls, swollen with snow-melt and then off into the forests than flank Half Dome's rump. Five hours of trail trudging lead up to a rocky outcrop below the snow-capped rock outcrop. From afar I see a small ant-like trail of people slowly crawling their way to the top - we've arrived at the "cables". People gather in front of the two steel ribbons that guide hikers up over the final rock bulge to the mountain's bald head above. It's near vertical and the granite is worn slick by thousands of rubber soles. Climbing the cables requires an odd arm-leg hauling technique and a strong stomach (the steep drop offs to the valley floor are not for those scared of heights). It's a virtual cauldron of human emotions: bullish husbands castigate fearful (and tearful) wives; teenagers debate the risks of slipping with the rewards of summiting. For some it's hard to accept that they cannot conquer their fears and struggle up the final 500 feet, but for others the views of the snow capped Sierras and the gurgling rivers are enough.

Day 3: I crawl out of bed after the deepest of deep sleeps and mow in a hearty breakfast - have to fill the calorie deficit after conquering Half Dome. We drive down to the Mariposa Grove to walk amongst the ancient sequoia trees. These red-barked giants are impossibly huge. The oldest - more than 2700 years - have gnarled stubby trunks, their soft, fibreous bark insulating them from regular fires and disease. Time moves slowly in these forests. Nature will be around long after we are gone.

Napa, CA

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Tue, 19 May 2009 17:54:00 +0000

We stopped Randy briefly in SF to pick up a few more amigos, witness the debauchery of Bay to Breakers, and soak up SF's fantastic vibe (it's fast becoming one of my favourite cities). But quickly I wanted to be back on the road, especially as we were heading up to wine country.

When we stopped in Santa Barbara I thought it was Arcadia personified, but I was wrong. Napa steals that title easily. The valley has a unique microclimate perfect for growing grapes. Early in the morning, cool, moist sea air sweeps in off the ocean just 40 miles west, and dumps its languid humidity on the valley. Then through the morning, as the heat builds, it burns off fog to reveal brilliant blue skies. Temperatures hover around 80 degrees, not to hot, not to cold. This grape-growing mecca has produced a bounty of vineyards and master viticulturists, attracting swarms of thirsty day trippers as well as seasoned wine snobs.

The crew spent a day in Sonoma tasting the zinfandels of Martinelli (fruit forward and powerful) and the bubbly of Korbel (average - stick to the real stuff), and then cruised up to Napa to sample the single-terroir cabernets of Nichel & Nichel (strangely earthy, each distinctive) and the delightful pinots and blends of Pine Ridge. If in town, I highly recommend the buzzy Mustards Grill (we drank a delightful bottle of Prisoners) and Taylors Automatic Refresher where you can eat burgers to die for under big oak trees.

Big Sur, CA

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 15 May 2009 04:41:00 +0000

Randy trundled up along Highway 1, hugging the cliffs to my right and shying away from the steep drop to my left. The road twists and turns, following the vagaries of the hauntingly beautiful Big Sur coastline. Like most of the northern California coast, fog sat in a dense blanket a few miles offshore threatening to envelop us in its dense, dewy paws.

Big Sur has inspired generations of artists, writers, and other nature lovers, and leaving aside the freaky new-agers selling twaddle dressed up as art, it's not hard to see why. It reminded me of the harsh northwest Scottish coast. Its rugged isolation is awesome. Nature battles nature as the steely black swells smash into jagged rock crags. Sea birds surf the stiff breeze and hunt amidst the kelp blooms. Man - like elsewhere in America's great outdoors - feels insignificant, a mere speck of dust in the earth's geological history.

Santa Barbara, CA

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 14 May 2009 04:38:00 +0000

This gem sits on the shores of the Pacific, about an hour north of LA. Fog swirls in and out from the ocean. Palm trees stand in long solitary lines, guarding the beach front. The buildings are single story and stucco, tastefully painted and fringed with red brick. Behind the town, the hills climb and dip off to the horizon.

Residents and tourists wander the cobbled pavements, window shopping with a latte in hand. Santa Barbara feels like Arcadia personified. It's warm and balmy; the weather is always good. The food is fresh and tasty, as if plucked straight from the field or ocean. The people are bronzed, relaxed, happy, and generally retired. Sitting back sipping a cold Modela Negro as the sun sets, it's hard not to be seduced by California's gentle embrace.

Los Angeles, CA

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Wed, 13 May 2009 06:22:00 +0000

LA is hard to put into words. There are too many contrasts hitting you all at once. How do I describe the fabulous feel of West Hollywood where hotel pool lounge areas are covered in blue Astroturf whilst a trolley-wielding hobo sits outside shouting obscenities at a lamp post? Or the azure blue sky and tumbling surf that frames the hippie's RV installed as a beach front castle down on Venice Beach?

Ebba meets Paris: I like your shoes
Ebba and and I are eating at Koi, a sushi place on La Cienega. Serge joins us for some sake and edamame. Ebba disappears to powder her nose and comes back brow furrowed, a little surprised, perhaps confused - I can't tell.

"I was washing my hands," she explains, "and this blond girl comes out of the stalls next to me. I was thinking 'That's Paris Hilton!' but I couldn't tell. Then she turns and yes! It is Paris! She starts striking a pose front of the mirror and adjusting her hair, checking her teeth, straightening her top....

"She turns to me: "Are you having a good time?" I'm a little suprised Paris is chatting to me, but I say: "Thanks. The food is so good. I ate too much!" "Oh, I like your shoes!" she blabs. I wanted to tell her my shoes were from Aldo, but I couldn't. "My shoes are killing me," she continues. "They rub my legs". I look down and see that she's wearing knee-high F-me boots. No shit, I think. And then she sails out, high as a kite"

Culver City: Fruit for everyone
But LA isn't just the glitz of Hollywood and the perfectly manicured lawns of Beverly Hills. I travelled down to Culver City one afternoon with Ariana (a local) and Ebba. We stopped off at the farmers market and ambled through the stalls for an hour or so. There was the pretzel man serving up deliciously salty breads. The fruit sellers had mountains of sweet, juicy strawberries. The orange growers chopped up 12 different varieties for us to try: navel oranges, pink grapefruits, tangerines, and more. California's incredible farms were on full display - the heaving tables of cilantro, carrots, and cucumbers testimony to bountiful soil, water, and plentiful sun. A Rasta played regae version of nusery rhymes (imagine Bob Marley singing "itsy bitsy spider"!) as kids bobed back and forth. And down the end was an ingenious popcorn stand: a huge cauldron into which the chef poured enormous amounts of corn, salt, and sugar. It all swirled together in a delicious pop, pop, pop!

This was laid-back LA. A place where the community vibe still mattered. A place where people could connect to their food, and through vegetables and fresh juice to eachother. The sprit of the swinging 60s lingered all around the market. This was, I realised, the perfect antidote to LA's scene; Culver City's superficial alterego was just down the road on Sunset Boulevard.

City of Angels
LA feels like the city of dreams. It is anything to anybody at anytime. It's a place where all can aspire, vagrants can hide, and everyone can remake themselves. Every waiter could be the next Tom Cruise. And although thousands have been crushed, it's irresitable to imagine that you just might make it big. And that's a good thing. It's what America is founded on. But with so many potential falling stars, I was also happy that this was the City of Angels.

Grand Canyon, AZ

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 10 May 2009 05:15:00 +0000

If I were a condor high above the Grand Canyon, I'd imagine it looks like a huge fissure running through the barren desert. As I swooped lower, I'd see that the yellow rock and green pines on the rim give way to cliffs of deep red hued sandstone, shrubs, and fine dust. As I fell deeper into the crack, I'd feel the temperatures building and that thousands of cacti dots were replacing bigger bushes, the reds giving way to white sands. Then as I approached the bottom of the slit, I discover an emerald green sliver snaking its way along the canyon floor. The Colorado River! That tiny trickle created this mess?! Extraordinary!

The Grand Canyon is one of those hard-to-believe natural phenomena which is difficult to comprehend even once seen. The views from the rim across the 10 mile gap and down into the 4000 ft chasm are stupendous. Its rock walls glow softly blue during sunrise, melt into a stark white after midday, and give off a golden glow at dusk. Condors circle on thermals whilst desert squirrels burrow into the juniper trees.

Hiking down into the canyon is a serious feat. Descending the popular Bright Angel Trail to the Indian Garden oasis takes roughly 2.5 hours. It's another hour to the river and about 30 minutes out onto Plateau Point. As you descend it gets gradually hotter; it's not unknown for it to be 15-18 degrees at the rim and 35+ degrees in the canyon's bowels. But going down is the easy part. In a cute inversion of Newton, the Park Ranger's quip: "what goes down, must go up". From the bottom, the canyon walls look like an impenetrable fortress. It's impossible to see where to exit. The heat is debilitating; I could feel the moisture evaporating from every pore in my body. Plodding up the dusty mule trail is sadistic - a sandy version of Stair Master. It seems never-ending.

But of course back on top some 3+ hours later as the ice cold brew slips down my throat, it doesn't seem so bad. I can brag about the standing on the edge of the 600 ft cliff staring at the gorgeous Colorado just a stone's throw below - a place few of the ice-cream-gobbling day trippers in the Rim Zoo can imagine visiting. Of course, I'm pathetic compared to the "desert hikers" who hump giant backpacks of gear into the canyon to camp out beneath the stars. But I'm happy to have been to the bottom and back. Being so small and so insignificant in something so monumental and so large, is magnificent enough for me.

Bryce and Zion Canyons, UT

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 10 May 2009 02:40:00 +0000

Bryce Canyon isn't really a canyon because there is no river and no opposing canyon wall. All you can see is a sweeping amphitheater of mutlicoloured hoodoos. These incredible stalagmite-like structures are formed over millions of years. Water and wind gradually wear away the soft sandstone into fine fins, which crumble into arches, which then erode into long skinny pillars. These rock cigarettes can be 50+ metres tall. Their vivid colours - reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, whites - are testimony to their age. Each colour represents tens of millions of years. Hoodoos are seriously old.

Hiking down into the canyon is surreal. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of hoodoos all around you. You wind your way along ridges, then down around them. They sprout up everywhere and populate the cliffs, a batallion of sleeping sentries. But guarding whom? Walking amongst the coloured statues is earie and beautiful. A strange place, enchanting yet out of place.

If Bryce is intimate, quiet and intricate, Zion National Park is its antithesis. This canyon is a beast. Red Navajo sandstone cliffs soar thousands of feet from the valley floor. The gigantic rock faces - each with a suitably grand biblical name bestowed by the first Mormon settlers - tower down over you. Presumably the Virgin River, now a wimpy trickle, once had a bit more oomph. Or maybe it takes 100 million years to create such a canyon.

One morning, after a few Lavazza espressos and some Jif peanut butter sandwiches (the best of Europe and America), we scrambled to the top of Angel's Landing. This giant sandstone tower does not look climbable, and, well, it almost isn't. I had to focus on planting one foot after the other so as to avoid looking to the 800ft drop to my right, and the 1,100 foot fall to my left. Heart pounding (more out of fear than physical exertion), I hauled myself up the rock wall not worrying about how I was going to get down. The view from the top was just as impressive as the panaroma from the bottom of the canyon. I'm not sure that I was any closer to God, but if he did make the world in 7 days, he must have spent a good deal of time here in Zion.

On the way to Bryce Canyon UT

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 08 May 2009 04:35:00 +0000

It was a long haul from Moab to Bryce: 234 miles. Yet the scenery alone justified the long hours behind the wheel. We left Moab and headed out across the dusty shoulder of the Colorado plateau. For two hours: nothing. Big wide open expanses of brown sand, beating sun, cowering shrubs, and gently rolling flats. The road was dead straight to the horizon. I followed the twin yellow lines and tried to whistle to some random country & western tunes on 97.3 fm.

Lunch time eventually came and went. And still I couldn't quite see the end of the road. And then as quickly as it began, it came to an abrupt stop. In front of me the earth's crust began to buckle and crack. Randy climbed gently, following the road's curvaceous bends, up through shale and sand stone. Desert shrubs mutated into stunted trees which morphed into emerald weeping willows. The shock of colour hurt my eyes. Water must be nearby.

Randy followed the river bed to the left, continuing his climb on into Capitol Reef National Park. This park, I soon discovered, is a geologist's wet dream. The "layer cake" of rock is astounding. Millions of years of tetonic activity, erosion and deposits, natural cataclysms and events just stultifyingly boring are all recorded right there in front of you. It's especially vivid at Capitol Reef: each layer of rock is a different density, alternative colour, and has eroded a different paces. The result is a strange crunching of the earth's crust that has created a dizzying patchwork of spires, fins, arches, and rubble.

The drive onwards to Bryce Canyon is no less impressive. Dixie National Forest is a stark wilderness of silver birches and pines. It seems dramatically out of place after the parched deserts in spitting distance over the horizon. Grand Staircase Escalante State Park is a cocophony of rocky out crops - completely improbable but there it is! There were so many jaw-dropping ahhh! moments, I lost count.

These long drives reinforce just how vast America's interior is. Miles of beautiful, yet somehow terrifying, nothingness. Who would want to live out here? What would you do? And why? It reminds me that this is where America's pioneer spirit was born. If you can conquer such vast wilderness, they why can't you send a man to the moon? or democracy to Iraq?

Moab, UT

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 07 May 2009 05:20:00 +0000

The Cobalt (provisionally name: Randy) cruised along, unperturbed by the sheer monotony of the straight tarmac, a black ribbon unfolding to the horizon. We're about three hours south of Salt Lake City, on the way to Moab. It's a barren landscape, but beautiful nonetheless. I sit silently and wonder what it must have been like as a pioneer, trekking across such nothingness. Would you feel elated at the sheer intensity of nature? Or ultimately unhinged - when will it ever end?

Helper
Americana redux. Helper is an old coal town in the middle of nowhere. Tumble weed tumbled along the road as we entered this ghost town. All the windows are shuttered. For Sale signs litter every shop along the main strip. The only place doing regular business is the Balancing Rock Eatery. We pop in for a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with fries (coffee refills are free and plentiful). The atmosphere is somewhat nostalagic; back in the day this place would have been humming with gritty mining folk. Today it's a skeleton if its former self. The Union Pacific Railway is just over the road, but there its rolling stock sit idle. I ask about the coal mines and the waitress tells me that there is one coking station a few miles into the valley. But most of the business seems to have evaporated, like the water in this parched and barren place.

Moab
If Helper is of yesteryear, then Moab is of humming today. Sitting right in between two extraordinary national parks - Arches and Canyonland - and along the Colorado and Green rivers, Moab is an adventure-seekers mecca. Here you can whitewater raft, canyon, mountain bike, sky dive and jet boat all day, any day. The town has a sort of modern cowboy feel - just a few saloon bars and bike shops line the main strip; motels plentiful and cheap.

We hiked up to the Delicate Arch this afternoon and discovered that it truly deserves its place on the Utah license plate. It's is massive, an enormous logic-defying span of rock that simply sits on its own ontop of a small peak. Rationally, it makes no sense - how did it get there? Why is it standing? What are all those Norwegian tourists in bikinis doing taking pictures in front of it? (I kid you not. I tried to convince Ebba that it was just the Norwegian Bikini Team on tour. To her horror and shame, she is rediscovering that her fellow Scandinavians go a little crackers when they see the sunshine).

Great Western Road Trip begins

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 07 May 2009 05:11:00 +0000

At last. A painful few weeks of tedious exams, paper-madness, and packing shenanigans give way to freedom rediscovered. I'm on a month long road trip through the western US. I'll cover about 3000 miles in a gold Chevy Cobalt (name to be decided - suggestions welcome!) with 4 different amigos (all joining at different stages). I'm hoping to discover the West: the desert national parks of Utah, the chintz and razzmatazz of LA, the rolling Pacific Coast, the wineries of Napa, coffee in Seattle, and finally great Yellowstone itself. The route as it unfolds is here.

Some have called it my legacy tour. I'm not so sure it's that grand. More of a chance to see the US outside of the HBS bubble and get in touch with a bit of Americana before I head back to the other side of the pond.

Carbon market in meltdown, but still a long-term goldmine

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 07 Mar 2009 17:37:00 +0000

Carbon markets are in a tailspin. Point Carbon recently predicted a 32% plunge in total market value and EUAs have slumped to €10 from 3x that a year ago. The credit crunch has refocused purchasers on counter-party risks, whilst the economic contraction means lower production, lower emissions, and lower overall demand. But the long-term drivers in this market - global regulations, impending climate disaster, higher energy prices, and near universal public support for action - continue to make the market a good long-term bet for investors and entrepreneurs.

The question is whether carbon asset developers and other credit initiators can ride out the inevitable fillips in prices until the post-2012 regulations become clear. That in turn depends on outcome of many months of tough ongoing negotiations and horse trading. It is unclear whether climate diplomats can deliver the much needed alignment of international actors to avoid "leakage" (where emissions migrate to the least regulated markets). Crystal ball gazing on the final shape of a treaty is next to impossible, so the key is for firms to remaining nimble enough to change their business models to continue mining credit gold in a post-Kyoto world.

Beijing: 3 Years On

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 00:07:00 +0000

I was back in China after a three year hiatus. For eight days I hung out with Clare - who is neck-deep in an uber-intensive Mandarin course - caught up with old friends, and met a few contacts to talk about my latest business idea.

Here are a few impressions of what has changed, and what hasn't, since my departure in August 2005.

A 21st century skyline
Undoubtedly China has experienced massive change as it's economy thunders forward at 10-12% a year. The most obvious difference is Beijing's new wardrobe. Nearly every part of the city has shed the old Mao suit for new Gucci jackets. Everywhere you go you find evidence of the shopping spree: gleaming glass blocks (my favourite is curvaceous CNOOC HQ), high-tech metro stations, sparkling black bitumen, perfectly straight pavements, and immaculately manicured (if slightly kitsch) gardens.

But the transformation is more than mere window dressing for the Olympics - this is no facade to be torn down. This is serious investment in expensive infrastructure that is built to last. And it's not over. More metro lines, airports, and railways are to come.

To some the construction boom smacks of hubris, and admittedly its hard not to be gob-smacked by its scale and ambition. But as I wandered past the CCTV as it twisted pre-ponderously over the 3rd ring road or when I toppled over backwards to see the pinnacle of the World Trade Centre spike the clouds over 250m (750ft) above, I realised that Beijing is building a 21st century skyline for a 21st century power.

China's World, China's Dream
A more subtle change is China's newfound confidence. Everywhere I went, people beamed with pride about the Beijing Olympics. Gone is the latent fear of a disrespectful and hostile world that has dogged the Chinese psyche for the best part of two decades. China is much less worried about its place in the world. What Beijing 2008 proves is that China can now command attention and respect on the world stage.

Perhaps more importantly, the Olympics have given the Chinese people a sense of purpose and responsibility to the rest of the world. The Party tried to present a new China that is peaceful, trustworthy and dynamic, rich in history and full of purpose. Undoubtedly many in the international community remain to be convinced, but it is clear that the people buy and support this new vision. It is with this sense of purpose that they greet foreigners and embrace the world.

Beijing Express: Where next?
But despite these rosy changes, the Government remains internally focussed. It must generate 12 million new jobs each year to keep unemployment steady. It faces an escalating environmental crisis and is struggling to close the rural-urban wealth gap. Stability and growth remain the top priority.

Yet surprisingly, the Party is accelerating reform. A long-time China watcher told me he was surprised by the speed at which the Party is experimenting with political liberalisation. Policy changes are widely debated, experts consulted, and recommendations included in new legislation. Village level elections are flourishing. Crackdowns on corruption are more widespread, even if unreported.

It seems as if the new generation of leaders has secured its political base and is now pushing through deeper reforms aimed at closing the urban-rural gap. The most vivid symbol of such efforts is the recent land reform bill - a dramatic rewriting of the rural paradigm established 40 years ago under Mao.

Whether this feverish reform will create the much-sought rural boom remains to be seen. But its boldness and speed of conception cannot be disputed. And where will it end? Surely, the Party will never imperil its grip on power? Not so, counter some who think that the political changes in the next five years will be more dramatic than anything seen since 1949.

Expats sent packing from Peking
Beijing's wild west days and its frontier-town feel are long gone. The jet-set crowd and their swanky dim-sum dens have supplanted baijiu and red bull swilling cowboys. Today you are more likely to meet a sophisticated Chinese banker with a Stanford MBA and a 3G iPhone than you are a dodgy Russian dealer peddling bootleg vodka, fake fur coats and Siberian prostitutes.

Whilst this is not necessarily a bad thing, I can't help feel a bit nostalgic for that vibrant chaotic edge. And I'm left wondering: has Beijing really change or have I just grown older and more boring?

Why I travel

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 08:40:00 +0000

For the past week I have wandered through a small corner of Central Europe. Armed with little more than my Interrail pass, a Nikon D40, my green Gregory pack, and the requisite Lonely Planet, I swung through Budapest, Krakow, and Prague. A few days into my trip, I asked myself: why do I travel?

Travel junkies often suffer from guilt, because ultimately traveling is a self-indulgent pursuit. You visit a place purely for your own pleasure, to satisfy that natural human inclination to explore, and to saturate your senses with a new and exotic locale. So of course, a large part of why I travel is simply for the joy and excitement of experiencing something new.

But I'm also naturally curious about the world, its people, geography, cultures, conflicts and ideas. I read reams of facts, figures, and statistics on everything from Hungarian inflation to Brazilian bossa-nova. It's an odd, almost insatiable hunger to better understand the world around me.

Traveling is a natural corollary to my paper-based pursuit. Seeing a country or a place or meeting people in the flesh, provides some subjective grit to layer on top of this more objective base. It helps me form an opinion and lends my views credibility and weight; you listen more carefully to a witness than an observing pundit.

Am I just saying that seeing is truth? Well, not exactly. Seeing fuels the imagination and brings understanding. For example, it's hard to comprehend the phenomenal speed of change in China without seeing the sky scrapers sprouting up around Beijing's second ring road. And yet this is not universally true: at Birkenau I saw evidence of the Nazi death camps, yet it was still devilishly difficult to comprehend and truly appreciate the scale of such barbarity.

It is often said that the world is shrinking. Indeed, earthquakes and invasions, celebrity weddings and 100m sprints, are simultaneously available on your TV, Macbook, or Blackberry. But this is really just a trick, because it's reality which is here one moment and suddenly gone the next at the touch of a button. If you find the image to offensive or banal, you can instantly exchange it for another more agreeable picture.

Travel is the antidote to this world of filtered information. It helps me remember that the world is a big place. As I roll across the grain basins of the southern Czech republic on Euronight 402, I see a farmer sitting on his tractor tilling the land and a woman on her bicycle off to the shops, or church perhaps. In each of these villages are hundreds of lives with their own aspirations, fears, successes and tragedies. Although I am virtually closer to these people than ever before, they know little about me, and I little about them. Travel reminds me that I should not confuse virtual closeness for a shared world view or a common opinion.

So ultimately, I travel because I want to push back my boundaries of understanding, bridge physical divides and enjoy drinking beer with locals in far off lands.

A view from Auschwitz

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 08:49:00 +0000

It's hard to find the words to write about this place. Every syllable seems unworthy; too light, too insignificant.

It's a beautiful day. The giant green chestnut trees are bathed in sunlight, and a few buttery clouds float in a startling blue sky. The idyllic backdrop gives the squat red-brick buildings an almost quaint feel. They look like old warehouses or bakeries. But the electric barbed wire and the infamous "Arbeit Macht Frei" arch points to the horrors within.

I thought that seeing Auschwitz would help me comprehend one of the 20th centuries greatest tragedies. But its hard to fathom the scale of the Nazi's brutality: more than 1.5m people perished at Auschwitz-Birkenau. At its worst, the gas chambers could murder upwards of 10,000 men, women, and children a day. Life expectancy for inmates was 3 months for women, 6 months for men.

Almost more shocking to me was the Nazi's systematic, almost factory-like approach to killing. Death factory is really more accurate than death camp. In this factory people were the inputs and absolutely nothing was wasted: people were shorn of all hair to produce "hair cloth", shoes were sorted and shipped to civilians in Germany, and gold fillings were even pulled out of their mouthes after they'd been gassed and used to fund the Nazi war machine.

The total and utter perversion of norms and morals is astounding. How could the Nazis create a culture in which such terrible savagry was not considered abnormal? Where people lived in such fear that they simply complied and condoned it? Many philosophers and historians have asked this question. I'm not sure there is a good answer.

At one of the prisoner's sheds in Birkenau there was a wreath laid at the foot of the internal fireplace. "For all those who have suffered at the hands of of evil" it read. But I thought this was perhaps wide of the mark. If anything, Auschwitz stands to remind us what we are all capable of such evil. Perhaps "for those who have suffered at the hands of others" would have been more fitting, for it is up to each and everyone of us to protection us from ourselves.

Mr Weasel & Mr Innocent Motorbike Man

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:25:00 +0000

I’m in the back of a rickshaw. It’s late Tuesday evening and my belly is full of South Indies delights. It’s been raining and cool air is blasting down my neck. I pull up the collar on my jumper.

My driver is a shadow, sitting squat in front of me. This shadow is small, skinny, and a bit of a weasel. Mr Weasel thinks I’m a dumb tourist. He’s trying to rip me off by making a huge detour into random backwaters whilst assuring me we’re taking a “short-cut”. I’m not falling for the bait. I’m calm, relaxed, the epitome of serenity.

Yes, Mr Weasel you can play your games, but I will have the last laugh. My plan is to just ride along with Mr Weasel for as long as he likes. Then upon arrival at the guest house, I will make a wild dash inside, chuck Rs100 at him, and seeing whether he has the balls to follow me inside to demand the rest of his fare. So I pull out my book – Slaughter House Five – and get stuck in, ignoring Mr Weasel’s sight-seeing tactics.

But weasels are cunning creatures, and this one is onto my tricks. He corners an innocent motorbike and starts jabbering away at him. The man translates: “Where do you want to go? He wants to know if you want to take the short cut?”. Me: “He knows where I want to go. And he’s driving me all around town. Tell him direct or no money.” We carry on like this for 10 minutes, sitting on the side of the road, honking traffic speeding past us, splashing arcs of gray water from the puddles.

Mr Weasel gets the better of me. My blood boils, I froth at the mouth, and I prepare to grab Mr Weasel by the throat and throttle this treacherous wretch. I catch myself just in time, jump out of the damned rickshaw and set off up the road.

But now Mr Weasel wants his money. He scampers after me and grabs my arm. “Gimme 50, gimme 50!” he shouts. Mr Weasel is not worth 2 cents let alone 100. He’s half my height but still he stretches out his palm, ready to administer a flying slap. Bloody weasels! I pause and wonder whether I can really knock his head off his shoulders.

And then Mr Innocent Motorbike Man arrives. But he’s no longer Mr Innocent Motorbike Man. He’s now Mr Mounted Conflict de Conflicter, Bringer of Understanding and Peace Amongst Men. He quietly negotiates Mr Weasel’s surrender and extracts Rs 50 Rs 50 from me as a peace settlement.

Mr de Conflicter transforms himself into Mr Benevolent Transporter of Cheated Foreigners. We zoom along Bangalore backstreets and tree-lined boulevards. He instructs me in local ways of beating wily weasels. A full 35 minutes later we arrive at Cunnigham Road. Again, he morphs into Mr Humble refusing my offers to contribute some money towards petrol. “Pray for my family. That is all”. We shake hands, I thank him profusely again, and he slips off into the night.

Agra

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 16:00:00 +0000

I could easily get lost self-gratifying hyperbole to describe my visit to the Taj Mahal (Day 2 of the parental tour). But, I'll save you the agony. Suffice to say that it firmly deserves to be on the list of "50 things to do before you die". If you thought you didn't need to visit. Change your mind. Plan your trip. Buy your ticket. Go.

But I do want to pause to reflect on something else that happened to us in Agra. We arrived off the 6.15am express train from New Delhi Station. The sky was dark, heavy, and sodden. Rain drenched everything, everyone, and me. We pushed through the surrounding crowd to the jovial hotel-man who led us, darting round puddles, to his jeep.

I was safely inside drying my face and wiping the mist from my glasses when I was startled by a dark face just beyond the window. He was so close I could see the red veins in the whites of his eyes. He wore a giant grin and stood happily under a tatty, leaking his umbrella. He motioned downwards towards his feet and then stretched his hand up towards me.

I looked down and drew breath, sharply. He feet were gigantic, gnarled and swollen. Six or seven times bigger than they should have been, they were truly elephant's feet. His toes stuck out at preposterous angles, each one the size of a thick frankfurter. The swelling extended up his leg and disappeared into his trousers. I tore my eyes away. I couldn't look. He tapped at the window. I stared ahead and we drove off.

Why? Why didn't I show more compassion? What would have it been to me to wind down my window and pass him a damp Rs 100 (~$2)? Was I too shocked? Or did I block it out and tell myself it wasn't my problem?

The odd thing about India is that you become anesthetized to so many shocking, disturbing things. It's partly about self-preservation - I need to mentally insulate myself to keep some peace of mind; if every such scene upset you, you'd be an emotional wreck in no time. But I think it's also because so often such interactions fill me with a pervading sense of helplessness. I feel (perhaps incorrectly) that by giving them money I strip them of their dignity and I admit that charity is their only hope. Surely there must be another way. But perhaps I should also recognise that in the meantime, no other assistance is coming their way.

Delhi

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 05 Jul 2008 15:47:00 +0000

I dashed up to Delhi for the weekend to meet up with the in-coming rentals. They were making a whistle stop tour through India to check up on me, make sure the runs were at an end, feed me up, pamper me - all the usual things that parents do exceptionally well and that I'm especially adept at denying I'm in need of until my head hits that comfy pillow...

In my mind, Delhi is the bustling capital of India; an organised chaos of auto rickshaws, Ministers, and history. That turned out to be rather far of the mark. Admittedly, I stuck mainly to the downtown area around Janpath, but I really wasn't prepared for the sweeping boulevards, grand government offices, and imposing monuments.

The British moved the capital of India to Delhi from Culcutta in 1911. They commissioned Edward Lutyens to design a capital fit to be the "jewel in the crown". Imperial ambitions know no reason and over the next 22 years, Luytens and an estimated 20,000 workers constructed New Delhi. He was an ambitious planner with an imposing vision, and when you stand at the Presidential Palace and squint into the distance at the Red Fort jutting out from behind the India Gate some 3km away, it's obvious that the result was iconic.

And then suddenly it clicked. Here was a vivid reminder of why British nostalgia for the "glory days" of the Empire runs so deep. This was the time when the British felt they were at their best. We were world class at something, standing tall, head and shoulders above the rest. We could plan grand cities, rule over thousands, bring "civilisation" to the world through trains, education, and the rule of law. Nevermind the fact that trade was often more akin to theft, and British rule subjugated millions to our concept of what was right.

So why all the nostalgia for what was, arguably, one of the darkest moments of our history? Perhaps it's because once you've fallen into the trap of believing that you're view of the world is inalienably right, then you lament your decine. Or maybe if you believe that once you've reached the pinnacle of your power, it's inevitably all downhill from there. America beware; nostalgia can quickly smother a nation's aspirations.

Mysore

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 12:47:00 +0000

I went to visit the seat of the Wodeyar maharajas, once one of southern India's most powerful kings. The maharaja obviously didn't want for much and his Palace is suitably grand: marble and granite on a huge scale, intricate wood carvings adorn most rooms, and I counted many silver engraved doors.

I especially liked his receiving room with it's ornate peacock stained glass ceiling and his gilded throne. I could see myself sitting there whilst my vassals bowed down to kiss my toes. And just in case they'd forgotten why they had come to pay tribute, the entrance to the grand hall was flanked by two vicious, snarling tigers carved out of heavy black-green marble.

The city itself is vibrant and colourful. The market is a warren of stalls selling piles of long green beans, stacks of plump crimson tomatoes, and pyramids of small pale lemons. Pungent fumes from the stocks of fresh jasmine hang mist-like around the flower stalls. Wholesalers sit on a bed of petals to the left from where they sold sackfuls of roses, frangipanis and other flora. On the right are an army of cross-legged workers who shape the flowers into chains violet, pink, and white offerings to sell to worshipers.

The pace of life in Mysore is relatively laid back. Cows wander the streets, happily hoovering up banana peels and anything else they discover. The star of the trip was undoubtedly the big black and white cow which had discovered a black Suzuki Swift. She stood there, eying the front bumper, nodding her head up and down, and then moved round the side to nuzzle up to the wing mirror. Maybe she was angry, or else she wanted to mate. Either way the result wasn't going to be pretty so I didn't stick around to find out.

2007 Shatabdi Express

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 11:20:00 +0000

Most Brits are conditioned to feel nostalgic about the railways - mainly because we can remember their glory days, but also because we are incessantly complaining about their current dilapidated state.

The railways are an institution in India. Not only does it have the most extensive network in the world, carrying millions of people every day. It is also the world's biggest employer with close to 3m workers. Of course, the impressive statistics hide the fact that much of the rolling stock is old and crumbling, there are few high-speed routes, and delays are frequent.

But for me, riding an Indian train is full of nostalgia. On most European trains food carts are merely designed for glorified snacking. In India, you've barely been seated five minutes when the tea-wallah comes racing down the aisle to offer you a cup of piping hot chai. What's more, he's soon followed by a samosa-wallah, a myriad of others serving rice, raitas, chutneys, curd, mango juice and more!

Outside rice paddies and water buffalo drift past my window. A man is bent double, plucking coriander from his plot. A boy rides an oversized bike down a dirt track. Palm trees and a cloudy grey sky. Humid, sticky. Hot.

On board a plane you miss the subtle, slow transformation of a landscape. Frames of reference are distort and time is shortened. Going by train is the way travel should be: functional yet timeless, languid and enjoyable. I can't help but think we've lost something by flying about in aluminum birds.

Ganges starts in Sholapur

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 11:21:00 +0000

Only a few lucky foreigners escape from a trip to India without a Delhi Belly story. I'd heard many gut-wrenching incarnations of it: a friend who spent half the day in wild, anguished dashes for the nearest loo, another who lived through a 10-hour train trip in fear of a liquid explosions from both ends, and other stories too gruesome to retell.

I - in my own conceited-world-traveller-way - was not going to allow any nasty bacteria to colonise my lower my intestine. My plan was simple: bottled water and a "veg" diet whilst my gut adjusted, and then I would ease my way into more adventurous options. The first week passed with no major incidents. So far, so good. Time to push the boat out.

I'd arrived late into Sholapur. The 200km+ train trip had worn me out, but I hadn't eaten since midday. Rather than turning in, I decided to fill my belly. The hotel restaurant was humming with locals, and a delicious smell of charring meat kebabs and rising naans met me at the door. I plopped myself into a wicker chair and ordered a cold Kingfisher, a chicken kebab from the tandoor, and a Peshwari naan. Life was good.

The food arrived swiftly. The chicken pieces lay in a neat row, struggling to free themselves from some sort of a yoghurt-herb concoction, whilst the naan stared up at me through a lurid red jam. I peered at them suspiciously, a wave of tiredness swept over me. But I resolved to struggle doggedly on. I stabbed the chicken with my fork and lifted it to my lips. It was soft and slightly rubbery, the consistency of Edam cheese. The naan was slightly damp and squishy. I forced myself to eat a few mouthfuls, and then called it a night before I retched.

If I'm honest, the meat was pinker than it should have been. And I knew from the start that it probably contained a small army of germs ready to attack my feeble Western stomach. They say that fortune favours the brave - what b*ll%cks! All I know is that, for me, the Ganges starts in Sholapur.

Rural India: Can it shine too?

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 11:20:00 +0000

Most visitors to India don't have the chance to venture out into rural areas. They zoom through India's cities in air conditioned cars, gawp at the IT palaces, cough on the blue rickshaw fumes, and come away with the impression that India is indeed booming. But the cities tell you only part of the story.

The countryside is home to more than 700m people (~70% of India's population) scattered across roughly 600,000 villages. And whilst agriculture now only accounts for about 20% of GDP in the new India, it still generates the majority of employment. So to really understand what's happening in India, you need to see the rural picture. (Or to quote an Indian proverb: "What does a monkey know of the taste of ginger?")

I was up in western Maharastra on a trip into "the field". Together with Sauhrab, I was visiting customers and the jhotis (female village entrepreneurs) to assess the impact of our latest marketing promotion. The landscape flat, bare, and dusty. A few trees grow forlornly in the rugged hills. Fields have been recently plowed and sown, ready for the coming monsoon rains. A man, wrapped in a bursting orange lungis, urges his bullock on, leaving churned, charcoal earth behind him.

Much of Indian agriculture is rain fed, and thus harvest come just once a year after the monsoon passes. Farmers live lives of plenty for a few months, and then spend the following 9 months living off their savings. Wealthier farmers with connections can drill bore holes and pump out water to irrigate their field and grow cash crops like sugar cane and fruits.

But the real promise is large scale irrigation. In one village we visited, the government had diverted a nearby river to feed their crops. The concrete canal was swollen with rich brown, silt-laden waters which farmers were sluicing into their fields. Here they harvest cash crops year round and you can see the impact in the village. Houses are bigger, 2-wheelers abound, and kids march off hand-in-hand to school.

Much has been made of how rural India felt marginalised and left out of "shining India". It was said that the poor punished BJP at the polls in 2005 by handing power to Sonia Ghandi's Congress. Progress does indeed feel less palpable in rural areas, but things are on the move. And where there is the right mix of government investment in infrastructure, good access to markets, and savvy farmers, you can see definite hope.

Lifting people out of poverty, will require shifting some of the 700m rural residents into more productive activities - i.e. service and manufacturing jobs. India is fertile and well suited to industrial farming. Agriculture should be booming and with low labour costs Indian exports should be very competitive on world markets. But this requires sufficient economies of scale, which India will only through organisation. (There are many models: social cooperatives ala Amul for dairy products, as well as private sector efforts). To provide the incentives for consolidation the government needs to invest billions in better irrigation, better roads, more consistent power. But as ever, prescribing solutions and making promises is easy. Delivering them is much harder.

No Gold in Bangalore

noreply@blogger.com (Matthew) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 15:44:00 +0000

One of my priorities this weekend was to find myself a gym. Not really because I'm a work-out-aholic, but because my knee demands it. Without rigorous and continuous physical therapy I won't be doing much running come the autumn.

I did extensive internet searches, made an aborted attempt to convince the Oberoi to let me be a member of their plush spa/fitness centre for 2 months, and hunted in back alleys for local players with dodgy sounding names like Futura Fitness and Right Shape Gym.

I about to give up when I finally stumbled upon Gold's Gym's website. Memories of RC Strategy flooded back to me. Jan - hunched enthusiastically in front of his blackboards armed with over-sized coloured chalks - stared meaningfully at me and said: "Test the strategy's internal consistency: does expanding the geographical scope help to enhance Gold's Gym's competitive advantage." I wasn't really sure, but what I did know that I had a huge willingness to pay.

Ecstatic at having found a modern gym which appeared relatively close to the guest house, I jumped in a rickshaw and set him off in the general direction. But although the detailed address appeared wonderfully precise, it turned out to be superficially so. I couldn't find it and I certainly couldn't explain to the rickshaw driver how to find it.

I fell back on Plan B: ring the handy number posted on the website. Ring ring. A man answers.

Him: Hello?
Me: Hello. Is this Gold's Gym?
Him: Yes
Me: Great, can you tell me how to find you, I'm near Cubbon Park but I can't find you.
Him: You want international?
Me: Huh? I want Gold's Gym near Cubbon Park.
Him: How did you get this number?
Me: I found it on the internet. On your website.
Him: This is international. Don't ring me.

Click. Mysterious. Confusing.

I joined a gym a few minutes walk from the office, just off Cunnigham Road. It's called Power Fitness. It's not too dodgy.