Sunday 15 November 2015

A Diamond in the Rough

Once an important mining hub, now a relic of Portuguese colonialism, the city of Ouro Preto is nestled proudly between mountains in what was once known as the ‘Vila Rica’. This gorgeous town, famed for it’s quaint cobbled streets and Baroque architecture, went from being the centre of Brazil’s gold rush in the 18th century to a small town that relies mainly on tourism. Meaning ‘Black Gold’, Ouro Preto was the state capital of Minas Gerais until 1897, before industrialisation and development saw Belo Horizonte take over.

A cat stares me down
Ouro Preto undoubtedly reached its apogee in the mid-18th century. By 1760, Brazil was responsible for almost half of the world’s gold and wealthy European aristocrats flocked to the city. It seems remarkable to think that as little as 250 years ago, the Vila Rica was Brazil’s largest city, especially considering it is now outside the top 300! The Baroque architecture, influenced by European immigration, is evident throughout the town, most notably at São Francisco church and in the main square, Praça Tiradentes.

A snapshot of Tiradentes Square
Tiradentes led a revolutionary movement that sought to win Brazil’s independence from Portugal, in 1789. Living and working in the wealthy city of Vila Rica, Tiradentes was a witness to the lavish lifestyles of European aristocrats, but unable to break into their fold due to his lower class. The ‘revolution’ was poorly organised and lacked coherent leadership. Tiradentes claimed full responsibility for the attempted upheaval and was hanged in Rio de Janeiro, before his remains were scattered throughout the city of Ouro Preto. A century later, Brazil did gain independence and the anniversary of his death, April 21st, has been an annual holiday ever since.

Old-fashioned cars and late afternoon sun are ingredients for lazy days
The history and architecture of Ouro Preto might suggest that this is a city clinging onto former glories. While the city is not quite living in the past, it fair to say that the pace of live is slow. Elderly couples shuffle along the cobbles; rustic, old cars trundle and sputter up the streets’ treacherously steep inclines; and the vibrant samba beats, so recognisable throughout Brazil, are replaced by the irresistible charm of bossa nova. This is certainly a place for meandering. 


However, though Ouro Preto may not be the hub of golden exuberance that it once was, there are still plenty of reasons to be positive. A few mining projects and a healthy flow of tourists support the local economy.  Good roads and relatively short distances to São Paulo, Belo Horizonte and Rio de Janeiro ensure that the city remains far more accessible than most rural, Brazilian towns. And the wealth of history weighing down on the city’s now modest shoulders, means Ouro Preto certainly won’t be forgotten.

A typically steep, Ouro Preto street 


Friday 6 November 2015

A Tale of Two Tournaments

Dickens; A Tale of Two Cities; social justice championed; aristocracy exposed. Using this heavily-simplified analysis of one of the greatest novels of all time, I can make a tenuous, but perhaps feasible, sporting comparison: A Tale of Two Tournaments – the Rugby World Cup 2015 and the Football World Cup 2014. All fans want from these tournaments is to enjoy watching the sport they love in a global setting, but all to often the governing bodies responsible for the organisation seem incapable of making this happen. While World Rugby seem to have coped well with their mandate, with FIFA it’s a very different story. I am one of many who would advocate the revolutionary overthrow of football’s ruling elite, though perhaps not with such murderous vigour as the French efforts of the 18th century.


As the Rugby World Cup drew to an emphatic close on Saturday evening with New Zealand deservedly retaining their trophy, I was unable to stop myself drawing comparisons with football’s equivalent in Brazil last year. There are sporting similarities to be drawn: phenomenal group stage matches, humiliated hosts and brilliant winners. However, an analysis of off-pitch matters interests me more. Unlike Brazil 2014, England 2015 was not embroiled in a scandal, stemming from the heart of the sport’s governing body; vast sums of taxpayers’ money were not so blatantly wasted; and the human rights of workers were not treated with such appalling disregard. England 2015 was simply a fantastic celebration of sport.

Argentina vs. Australia - Rugby Semi Final - Sporting Theatre
These international sporting tournaments should be just that: a celebration of sport and not riddled with bureaucratic squabble. We have become so used to organisations such as FIFA and the IOC leaving their mark on such events that the lack of interference from rugby’s organisers was both noticeable and welcome. England 2015 was a triumph for rugby the sport, as opposed to rugby the institution. The tournament will be remembered for Japan’s audacious, free-flowing flair, the remarkable achievement of All Black legends and perhaps England’s decision to kick for corner instead of goal.

However, while the sporting legacy of Brazil 2014 will undoubtedly be Germany’s 7-1 annihilation of the host nation, FIFA’s irritable and corrupt interference will also linger in the memory. At every game the fans booed FIFA’s flag and anthem, they loudly chastised the price of drinks and tickets and lamented the iron grasp that FIFA held over everything. At England 2015, the fans, by and large, discussed the game. They discussed the sport.

It was FIFA's tournament, not football's - the logo was plastered everywhere
Of course, the Rugby World Cup is far less global than football’s equivalent. The small group of rugby-playing nations may be growing, but it will be difficult to break the established dominance. As the next edition of the tournament heads into Asia for the first time, organisers would do well to look at the mistakes that football has made in attempting to over commercialise the tournament and allowing financial greed to dominate.

Although the reality for these sports may not be as bleak as it was for the cities of Dickens’ novel, as World Rugby looks to a promising future and FIFA endures its darkest hour, it is perhaps fair to say that England 2015 and Brazil 2014 were ‘the best of times’ and ‘the worst of times’ for their respective governing bodies.

One of my best World Cup moments: meeting Cafu, a legend.




Sunday 18 October 2015

Demystifying Siberia

There is no denying that Russia is a country riddled with controversy. Political corruption, powerful displays of military muscle and some questionable human rights laws are just a handful of the polemic issues that surround the country. I cannot condone many of Russia’s recent actions, be it the nation’s haphazard military intervention in Syria or the stance on LGBT equality. However, I would argue that the international response to these issues has been shambolic, demonstrating a total unawareness of Russian culture and customs. In short, the issues have been exacerbated by serious diplomatic misjudgements.

A brooding Tomsk skyline
In my opinion, relations with Russia are characterised by misunderstandings and a lack of communication. But rather than debate the many political controversies, I would prefer to focus on a cultural one. The notion that Moscow and St Petersburg provide the bulk of Russian culture and the most authentic ‘Russian experience’ is one that troubles me. In the same way that there is far more to France than just Paris, Russia comprises a wealth of cultural and natural beauty beyond its western metropolises. However, while visitors to France have ventured from the rugged seclusion of Normandy to the ostentatious exuberance of the Mediterranean south, some of Russia’s finest gems remain relatively undiscovered.

Russia offers remarkable variety. Given its size, this is hardly surprising, but it is perhaps not widely acknowledged. Sochi, best known for hosting the Winter Olympics in 2014, doubles up as a holiday destination on the Black Sea. Siberia is famous for harsh temperatures and vast, snowy plains, but the biggest threats in summer are the scorching sun and mosquitoes. The Altai Mountains line the border to China, Mongolia and Kazakhstan with majestic serenity, while the jagged, ominous landscape of the Caucasus reflects the region’s political climate.

Lake Teletskoye backing onto the Altai Mountains 
Exploring Russia’s vast wilderness is challenging. Ludicrously long distances mean that, realistically, a weekend break in the Caucasus is not a viable option. Furthermore, rural Russia can be a peculiar place and some knowledge of Russian is essential. In cities, there is a far greater likelihood of finding English speakers to offer some assistance. However, there is no definitively ‘Russian’ city. Some are products of attractive 17th century architecture, while others are victims of rapid Soviet industrialisation. Tomsk thrived, whereas Novosibirsk suffered. Yekaterinburg sits proudly as the gateway to Siberia, whose reach extends to the Orthodox architecture of Krasnoyarsk, the domed churches of Irkutsk and the far-flung Golden Horn Bay of Vladivostok.


The River Yenisei slices through Krasnoyarsk
Russia undoubtedly has many flaws. Political and social issues are rightly scrutinised by the media, but culturally and geographically, the country is diverse, varied and an enthralling place to visit. Embrace the tradition, embrace the culture and disparage the myths. Visit Russia. 

One of Irkutsk's many domes


Saturday 5 September 2015

Lake Baikal: Summer Break or Winter Wonderland

For a sample of Siberia’s stunning scenery, culinary diversity and haunting beauty, look no further than Lake Baikal. As breathtaking as it is deep and as enchanting as it is old, the world’s deepest and oldest lake, at 1,600m and 25 million years respectively, is a breathtakingly enchanting body of water. Sweltering in summer and freezing in winter, the time of year will drastically change your impression of the place.

A sunset to (almost) die for
Lake Baikal slices into the Siberian plains just north of Mongolia. From Irkutsk, a city on the Trans-Siberian railway line, one can access the small fishing village of Listvyanka, the most popular tourist destination. However, the village rarely feels crowded with foreigners and retains its secluded authenticity, even during the high-season summer months. In fact, it is usually Russians who populate the shores of the lake, plunging themselves into the icy waters.

Of course, the mass of water is so vast that even the scorching Siberian summer sun does little to alter the temperature. In winter, the cold can extend well below -40°C and the surface of the lake regularly freezes, to such an extent that armies throughout history managed to cross the lake on foot. Summer activities, such as recreational boating and mountain biking in the forests are put on hold for the freezing winter, but one activity that is not beholden to the temperature is fishing. The market in Listvyanka is the bustling hub of the village and has an ample selection of fish on offer, many of which are exclusive to the icy waters of Lake Baikal. Arguably the most popular delicacy is ‘omul’, best served smoked, alongside some onion.

Crystal clear, but freezing cold
In summer, Lake Baikal is an outdoor holiday resort, where mosquitoes and sunburn pose the greatest threat. Meanwhile, a winter tourist’s toughest adversary is undoubtedly the cold. While a foolhardy Briton may insist on braving the cold weather, the Russian sensibly chooses to remain indoors, rather than incur the wrath of these punishing conditions. Unfortunately, it is these very conditions that create some of the most spectacular sights. For that majestic sunset snap, sharp-shooting skills are required to avoid frostbite; for the reward of untouched snow, you may have to wander slightly off the beaten track; and for a photograph that screams “cold”, then you may want to consider taking the short boat trip across the Angara River to see this frozen train.

Frozen in time
Waiting in the gloom for that boat to arrive was one of the few times I have ever panicked. The cold was almost unbearable and the relief of seeing headlights emerging through the fog was sensational. Never underestimate the elements and ensure that your winter gear can cope with the most ludicrous of sub-zero temperatures. While the summer months allow visitors to delight in the rich biodiversity on offer and explore the sights on Baikal’s Olkhon Island without fear of frostbite, the captivating wonder of the lake and the lifestyle of the locals come alive in winter. Lake Baikal: a dish best served cold.

Tuesday 25 August 2015

My Edinburgh Fringe Debut

The Edinburgh Fringe, the world’s largest arts festival, is a celebration of all things kooky, quirky and arty, in one of Britain’s most charming cities. The Fringe needs no promotion; the streets are heaving constantly with punters and performers, and all the while there is an excited buzz about the place. And so, rather than attempt to ‘sell’ the fringe, I thought it better to recount a couple of my experiences, performing alongside professional comedians in the role of the conspicuous, crutching oaf.

First things first, I should preface everything with a warning: Edinburgh is a hilly city, full of winding cobbled streets and stone passageways, all of which can be slippery when wet. This being Scotland, rain is never far away and when you add a dash of ‘cumbersome man on crutches’ to this steep, wet and bumpy concoction, the results can be amusing for a fortunate onlooker. Luckily for me, I kept falling over to a minimum, despite taking the odd rather embarrassing tumble.

Spooky Edinburgh by night
However, undoubtedly my most embarrassing moment spent on the floor in Edinburgh came during a show. ‘Goose’ was a fast-paced, quite bizarre, one-man comedy show, full of terrible jokes and, alas, audience participation. In a dramatic plot twist, it was revealed that members of the public would be roped in to act the final scene. The chosen two were a young man wearing an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place in a B*Witched music video, and me. I was pulled on stage, the large boot on my left leg apparently nothing more than a fashion statement and invited to dance with a fellow audience member on stage. I desperately protested that I was unable to walk, but this didn’t deter my, for want of a better word, colleague. Following the odd instructions blaring out of the speakers, he threw me to the floor, straddled me and leaned in to kiss me. Helpless and confused, but not wanting to ruin the show, I avoided squirming too much as the lips of this effervescent and frankly audacious man met mine. It was an unexpected surprise, but one that caused great amusement. It is a mark of the quality of the show that I left feeling satisfied, despite being forced to go through such an ordeal.

Far, far, FAR too close...
Other shows passed without incident. Comedian Jimeoin and multivocal, loop-pedalling musician, Beardyman, were both excellent. But during Ivo Graham’s stand-up gig, the curse of my leg would strike again. A sitting target for conversation, it was perhaps unwise to sit in the front row, but it is the kind of poor judgement that has arguably defined the last few months of my life. I panicked unforgivably when put under the spotlight and gave rather silly answers to his questions about Tinder, the dating app, in that they invited laughs and further questioning. The ins and outs of what I said are trivial details, and if anything, the upshot of all of this is that I received a reply to my tweet from Ivo himself, and we are therefore now best of friends.

The first step to impending stardom
The festival is sensational. It is no wonder that thousands of performers and punters return year after year to indulge in its delights. “My Fringe” was eventful and very enjoyable. I would highly recommend making the trip if you haven’t been as the abundance and standard of shows is astonishing. Although, if you’re a broken man on crutches, perhaps it’s best to steer clear, to save your health and your dignity.



Wednesday 12 August 2015

Paradise Found

Paradise is an overused term. The slightest hint of a white, sandy beach and clear, blue water has become synonymous with the word. We picture an idyllic, tranquil spot, hidden from prying eyes and bathed in the warm rays of a setting sun. But with a plethora of these so-called ‘paradise’ beaches to choose from all over the world, it is surely reasonable to demand more from our idea of utopia?

An alternative paradise?
Tayrona National Park in Colombia offers a lot more than just the backdrop of pristine Caribbean beaches. It is rich in wildlife, historical relics, mountainous terrain and rainforest, all of which make this park a paradise for all types of traveller. I would strongly recommend Hotel Jasayma as a place to stay. An intentional lack of electricity meant that we would sleep and rise with the sun, often greeted by the call of monkeys in the trees just metres from the luxurious four-poster beds. Delicious meals were included in the price and the location was central enough for us to explore all areas of the park, but without the irritation of too many other foreigners.

Hotel Jasayma
If it is beaches you seek, then Tayrona has plenty: Cabo San Juan, La Piscina, Los Naranjos and Arrecifes are some of the most popular, but the further away from the crowds, the more secluded and ‘paradisiacal’ they become. One could easily spend days lounging around on Tayrona’s beaches, reading, sunbathing, swimming and perhaps playing a spot of beach golf.

A secluded morning at Los Naranjos
Although Tayrona is abundant in beautiful beaches, its real beauty lies in the interior. Hiking through forests among a staggering variety of wildlife is exciting and as the rocky passes climb higher and higher, the views of the water and beaches become ever more impressive. The park is reportedly home to over 300 species of bird, as well as hundreds of mammals and sea-dwelling creatures, so it’s the perfect spot for animal enthusiasts.

Cutting a path through the jungle
I would highly recommend hiking up to the ancient relics of El Pueblito, formerly home to a local tribe, but now resembling something similar to a tiny version of Machu Pichu, but devoid of tourists and hidden away in the trees. The walk is demanding, especially in the sweltering heat that often engulfs the forest, but the track cuts a beautiful path through the trees from the edge of the park on one side and then down through rocky traverses on its way to the beach on the other. There are few things more refreshing than a dip in the turquoise sea after several hours of tough, sweaty hiking.

Everyone has different expectations of the perfect place to relax or while away the hours on holiday, but Tayrona has all the attributes to meet and possibly exceed most of those expectations. Parque Nacional de Tayrona: paradise found.


Paradise Found

Friday 17 July 2015

A Tale of Legs, Love and Mobility Scooters

On the longest day of the year, where better to be than on one of Europe’s finest beaches? Tarifa beach is a vast expanse of sand at Spain’s southernmost tip, audaciously close to Africa and the blustery conditions make it a haven for kite surfing. One sport that I wouldn’t recommend on Tarifa is the long jump. The sand is deceptively compact and an overly vigorous jump can leave you scuppered, or in my case, with a spiral fracture and break of the fibula, torn ankle ligaments and a dislodged talus bone. The pain was quite intense, but perhaps not as bad as you might imagine. In fact, my overriding feeling was one of disbelief. It seemed inconceivable to me that such an innocuous thing as running and jumping could result in a period of three months without walking. But it has and I now have almost a month’s worth of one-legged experiences to share.

Since the moment I sustained the injury, which, incidentally, I have christened Carlos, in homage to my Spanish alter ego, I have used nine modes of transport, previously unnecessary in my life. The task of getting me off the beach was no mean feat and it took six (that’s right, six) strapping men to haul me off the sand on a stretcher, before loading me onto a trolley and eventually into an ambulance.

Just about loaded onto a stretcher

Crutches would be soon to follow; my inseparable companions for the foreseeable future. Sleek, black and really rather trendy, they have taken me as far as Bristol, Brighton and Belgium, and accompany me wherever I go. While crutches are excellent for skipping queues at theme parks and closing doors that are a little out of reach, they are a real problem for carrying things. Settling down to a nice cup of tea in front of the Ashes is a challenging prospect these days. It has also been exceptionally difficult not being able to help out with household chores such as unloading the dishwasher.

In a Spanish hospital with my saviours

I became acquainted with more unfamiliar modes of transport on the journey home from Spain. I enjoyed being escorted through Gibraltar airport in a wheelchair and was delighted to be invited to board before anyone else. However, it soon became clear that this was less an act of Easy Jet customer service and more a necessary requirement to set an industrial process in motion. An unnecessarily large truck, not dissimilar to a removal van, whose services are usually reserved for heavy goods such as sofas and wardrobes, was required to slowly haul me onto the plane. Upon touch down in England, an airport buggy was summoned to safely navigate my path through the crowds and passport control.

A lonely cripple in Gibraltar airport

Perhaps the most amusing things to come out of this whole situation are Peggy and Maureen. Peggy can only be described as a ‘peg-leg’ device, which gives me the use of my hands while walking, but leaves me hobbling awkwardly and bearing a strong resemblance to a pirate. Maureen, however, was a real find. My granddad’s old mobility scooter had been resting in the garage for some time. Upon discovering that she could reach a staggering 4.1mph downhill, I thought it best to christen her with a name befitting her usual clientele. And so, Maureen was born. She beeps when she reverses, doesn’t deal well with steep pavement camber and struggles to cross roads without very low curbs, but these are just a few of the little things that have allowed our relationship to blossom so much in such a short space of time. Carlos, Peggy, Maureen and me; we’re a happy family.

Maz and Maureen




Tuesday 30 June 2015

A Siberian Epiphany

Taking the plunge.

It is minus 30°C. Siberia. Mid-January. After weeks of ice cold showers and the odd naked leap into piles of fresh snow, I find myself standing in a long line of Russian men, wearing nothing but a pair of rather tight Speedos.

Despite my preparation, the cold is almost unbearable, especially in my toes, which are red and numb after barely a minute’s exposure to the snow and ice underfoot. My body implores me to return to my clothes and run inside, yet for some reason, my head tells me to stay.

It is Russia’s ‘Kreshenie’ festival, the annual Epiphany celebration, during which men and women submerge themselves in freezing water to cleanse the body and spirit. Unlike most participants, my motivation is not religion, but curiosity. I chat through my chattering teeth to men in the queue, all of whom are interested to meet an Englishman prepared to indulge in their ice-cold customs. Their warmth and curiosity have epitomised my stay in Russia.

A chilly queue.

Ever so slowly, the pool comes into view. I have lost all feeling in my toes now but they burn red against the snow and I know that frostbite is not yet on the way. After an excruciatingly long six minutes, I reach the front of the queue and dip my feet into the water. It is laughably cold, a cold that demands a reaction, which in my case takes the form of a hoarse cry of incredulity. How can anything be that cold?

The man behind gives me a nudge; it is time. As I lower myself into the water the sensation is more akin to burning or the intense stabbing of pins on my skin. My lungs seem to contract and I resurface, spluttering and gasping.

A spluttering cold. 
But this desperate inhalation of air is strangely satisfying and I begin to enjoy myself. Though the water is devilishly cold, the pleasure I derive from this divine awakening eclipses any discomfort. The water stimulates me, physically and spiritually, leaving me shivering, but content.


The sanctity and warmth of a rewarding cup of tea indoors make the few minutes of pain worthwhile. My recovery is swift, my spirits are high and my soul is cleansed. My Siberian epiphany is complete.