Stories from an Ordinary Man

There is something quite unnerving about being in a car cutting across 8 lanes of oncoming traffic. It is especially unnerving when this is happening at peak hour, in Delhi where everyone seems to drive like there is nobody on the road except for the car they are in. But this is the situation I have found myself in every day this week.

It seems to be accepted practice that Indian drivers tend to not have driving lessons or tests, with the ability to drive determined by how often one can use the horn. That said, I swear they must all study to be Jedi Knights at some stage. The reaction times needed to survive in what I can only call organised chaos, needs to be super human. People change lanes without looking or indicating, completely ignoring the fact there are lanes and drive with their wheels in two, undertake or overtake if someone is in their way even if that person has stopped because they can’t go anywhere, and generally push and shove their way to “get there.” Despite the possibility of an accident, you just accept that nothing will actually happen, trust in your driver and look upon the whole experience as a form of entertainment. It can actually be hilarious. Somehow the whole thing just works.

I’d forgotten to do my research on tipping before coming out, so asked the woman at reception in my hotel what the culture and expectation was around it. Without batting an eyelid she said, “Nothing is for free in india Sir.” The first few people who helped me when I arrived must have been disappointed as I only had 1000 rupee notes and I wasn’t feeling that generous. I got that sorted very quickly and always had lots of 10 rupee notes in my pocket.

Probably the most difficult thing I had to work through regarding Indian culture is the shaking of the head when someone is agreeing with you. Every time this happened I couldn’t help but think in my head, “What do you mean no!!” A few seconds later the realisation that this meant “Yes, I agree” clicks in. I was tempted to emulate my Indian buddies but then didn’t want it to come across that I was mocking them so only engaged in the traditional Westerner nodding.

Unfortunately my time in India was short and there wasn’t opportunity to go see some sights. It didn’t help that the American’s decided to shot Osama Bin Laden the day before I arrived, thus putting Delhi and Gurgaon on high alert. Security was beefed up at hotels, places of travel and tourist destinations, with a general advisement to avoid those places if possible. So my cultural experience consisted of visiting the Ambience Mall close to the hotel. It was a mall. There were shops.

I did have a bit of a laugh when I went into a (lower end) department store called Big Bazaar. I had promised to provide chocolates to my team in India as a thank you and this was the only place near where that was possible. What amused me about the place was that the check-out staff worked in their own world, irrelevant of time, haste or urgency. I was in a line, 4 people long, waiting to be served for about 25 minutes. The cashier would wander off quite regularly, slowly sauntering away to either get a credit card checked or because he’d run out of cash. This was starting to frustrate the chap in front of me who’d huff and puff, throw his arms up in the air, but say nothing.

And now I’m on my flight back to London, Business Class all the way. I could get used to being picked up from my house or hotel by a driver, make my way through customs in a matter of 5 minutes, and have people bring me drinks and food on demand. Even just the ability to lay flat while in the air seems to make it all worth it. Ah the luxury.

Before I came to the UK in 2007, I spent 2 to 3 years achieving nothing. Or at least it felt like I was achieving nothing.

Over that time I had help set up a successful Computer Graphic Design course at the University of Waikato, and was also approached to work for a software development house. Both noteworthy things, yet I grew depressed. To me it felt like was always doing things for other people and not really developing myself. I was proud of nothing I had created, because I felt like I hadn’t really created much. There was no personal development and I felt like I was stuck in a repetitive rut.

So I started turning to other people to make me feel happy, but that just got me into a deeper mess. All my own fault.

The situation I got myself into was because I had not set myself any achievable goals.

I’m not talking big goals here, like buying a house or getting a high paying job. Those types of goals rely a lot upon other people or a far too long term to satisfy an every day. I needed goals that I could achieve in a short period of time that only relied up me and my efforts. I need to do things which got me out of the every day life of waking up, going to work, going out for a drink, dinner and then bed.

These past few days I’ve been blessed by the company of a long term friend, Vicky Campbell. She is based in Bahrain, but is with me in London at the moment while there is some civil unrest amongst the Bahrainis. Her attitude is one I have come to respect and find encouragement from. This time I’ve spent with her has reminded me of some things I learnt from her, hence the desire to write this post.

In the past I’ve come to her with some of my trials and woes, and in classic Vicky style she would say, “Are you dying? No? Well, get the fuck over it.” While not necessarily easy to do when emotions are involved, it is certainly sound advice. I’ve also been impressed by her attitude towards learning – if she wants to know something she will go out and ensure she learns it. Recently she decided she wanted to know a bit more about jewellery design and making, so she has put herself on a course. She is a graphic design manager/teacher, so a skill not imperative to her job, so she’s doing it out of personal interest.

It is an attitude like this that keeps us occupied, learning and growing. It prevents us from getting stuck into a monotonous cycle where nothing much happens. The feeling of achieving something should be acknowledge as one of the ways we can find happiness and a means to avoid that feeling of going nowhere. The only person stopping you from doing something is you.

“Hey Tris”

“Yeah mate”

“This reminds me of Scotland”

I’ve never been to Scotland, which is a bit shameful as half the time I claim to be Scottish. I don’t even have a passable Scottish accent. But I digress.

My mate Tristan and I are good biker buddies. In 2009 we took off and did a circular tour of Europe on our bikes (here is our route). We aren’t in anyway like Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman, (organised or  famous) but I have to admit they were inspirational. They did supply us with a running joke too. If you ever watch The Long Way Round, you can note Ewan saying quite frequently “This reminds me of Scotland.” So we stole it for our own purpose. We now have the domain name www.thisremindsmeofscotland.com which we are using to keep a record of our plans and progress for our 2011 trip. So far the site is practically empty (I did say we weren’t organised… but we are getting there).

This year we plan to go further afield and hit some of the Eastern European countries; riding down through Slovakia into Croatia, through Greece and onto Turkey, before heading up through Romania, Ukraine, Belarus, and coming back through Lithuania and Poland. Just a wee way really. This time we plan on using video to document our trip and the people we meet along the way. We will be using Couchsurfing as often as we can in order to meet the locals and find accommodation if we are lucky. This is our current proposed route (anti-clockwise):

View Summer 2011 Bike Trip in a larger map

All looks pretty good. If you know of someone along the way who wouldn’t mind visitors then please introduce us.

All I need to do now is find out where in the world my motorbike is…

Queenstown would have to be New Zealand’s adrenaline capital. In the two weeks I spent there all I did was learn to relax.

What I needed was a little time. I had spent the previous few weeks charging around the world and New Zealand, catching up with lots of people, seeing some great sights. I was travelling, always travelling. Sometimes it felt like I was wandering aimlessly. One person I really needed to catch up with though was myself.

So that is what I did.

I stayed with my mate Pavlos, and although he probably didn’t realise, the time I spent hanging out with him was healing. There were evenings when I would sit and just listen to him playing guitar and singing, and it seemed to bring a lot into focus. And when I had time to myself, I would listen to the rain and take the time to play the guitar myself. To those who have suffered my renditions… I have improved.

Every morning I would rise, walk out on the balcony and take in the amazing view of the mountains. Every evening I would gaze across Lake Wakatipu and watch the sun go down, in awe as it sometimes coloured the sky with dramatic reds and intense shades of orange. These moment were invaluable as it was almost impossible to not be stunned by the beauty and serenity of it all. Life got put into perspective.

And what I have come to realise is that not much has changed. I am just a little bit older and that isn’t a bad thing. I do now have a goal and a somewhat of a plan to achieve it though. This time has been invaluable.

A man must experience all that it means to be a man. Apparently.

On a boys trip to Amsterdam this has to involve spending time in a sex club and receiving a boob massage. Or so I was told.

After spending an afternoon watering ourselves up in a great little bar called Gollem, we (Pavlos, Tristan, James and I – obviously not our real names of course), felt it was time to experience more of what Amsterdam had to offer. This was my first trip to Amsterdam so I was the man of honour during the evening. We found the classiest (not) naughty bar, and proceeded to order more drinks from the starkers ladies who were serving and engage them with our drunken banter.

Part of my witty repartee involved suggesting that they pay me for being there (it really wasn’t a classy joint), which didn’t go down well with one of the ladies, who happened to be French. Being French had nothing to do with her response I’m sure, but man did she let rip into me. Apparently it was insulting… and it probably was. Seemed funny to me but then I was pretty trashed (Golum sells 8% and 9% beers). We managed to calm her down and proceeded to watch the “show” (if you could call it that).

Because I was the newbie, my mate’s shouted me a boob massage. With the choice receiving it from any girl in the bar, I again thought it’d be funny to have the French woman do it. What can I say, I’m a sucker for punishment. I had to lie flat on the bar, arms by my side and not touch her. This was easy, especially the not touching part because I really didn’t find her attractive. Perhaps if I had spent a year on my own, living on a remote island, with no human contact then I might have had the briefest thoughts of interest. But I hadn’t been through that situation. For the next 5 minutes I had boobs in my face, boobs on my chest, boobs rubbed up against my crotch, and so on. Now I like boobs (hooray for boobies) but this was perhaps the most un-erotic experience ever.

Suddenly my belt was removed and my trousers pulled down to my knees… along with my underwear. Out flops Mr Big (Huge). And when I say “flops” I mean “flops” – I was not aroused in the slightest.

“Why have you no erection?” asked the Frenchie (in a French accent).

“Perhaps it is because I don’t find you arousing” was my reply (in a Kiwi accent).

That didn’t go down well. I was abruptly forced to turn over, exposing my buttocks to the watching crowd (which wasn’t so bad I guess considering they had just seen my floppy todger). My expensive, thick, brown leather belt was then used to thrash every ounce of flesh from my quivering white bum. Well, she hit me as hard as she could four times, two for each mound of flesh. I have to admit to screaming a couple of times. There might even have been a tear (it was REALLY hard).

Bruised I was… for the next 2 weeks. Four shiny, dark purple and blue strips of pain glared at me every time I checked my arse in the mirror after a shower. It took me a while to get used to sitting.

So my advice to any men going through their manhood ritual, just pretend to be excited.