It’s been a strange few days. This morning, was the storm to end all storms. At 5am, in my unconscious state, I dreamed that I hid under the bed from the bombs. It truly was a storm.

I caught my first Octopus yesterday, and traded it at the beach restaurant for a rice dish. I was truly happy. It was back-to-basic honest, hard work and trade.

Tonight I caught a 3-4kg cuttlefish. And, boy do they fight on the rod. Spraying ink at every surface moment, thrashing tentacles. In the dark, I did not know what it was, and started to panic a little bit. It was far too big and wild for a squid surely? But no. So, I cut away the jig, and placed it in my bucket of sea water, excited and driven, tripping and slipping back to the beach restaurant to do one big trade. It received Oooohs! & Aaahhhhs! and Holy Shits!, and none of the workers wanted to pick it up, until the chef struts over and cleanly grabs it in one hand and raises it up in the air like a beating heart.

Smiles, and giggles, and back slaps all round, and then, “Now you will eat!!”.

And I ate.

and I have never eaten so much squid in my life. Sweet & Sour cuttlefish, with rice and Iced tea for free.

Tomorrow, I will probably fish again. however, I explained that the next one is for their keeping.

It is a strange strange experience, catching, killing, gutting, and cooking what you then eat, in the space of 30 minutes. It’s the thought processes involved, and the inability to separate the wriggly creature, from the tasty dish. but I did it, and it was delicious.
I even worry about the possibility of poisoning, even though it is without a doubt the freshest meat I have ever consumed. It is a strange strange experience never to be forgotten. a 50 ringgit lump of seafood in my belly. I become a man. Roaaaar!

Happy Valentine’s day. x

Today I was robbed. Without going into the details, every single coin and note I had was taken. The people who took it knew I was severely struggling too, which makes me feel worse. I cried on the beach, I wandered around, and my feet took me to places that would take an hour if I cared to look up and pay attention. I drank water from the stream, and ate my last orange. I feel miserable. Truly down and out. I can honestly say, in a lifetime of travel and adventure, have I never felt so low and empty. I feel like a tired soul. I have no backup. I feel too much of a burden to ask for another round of help. I never wanted to eat fish, I wanted to catch them. But was never ever taught. I have had to guess that I’m doing it right.

Everything I have left is useless right now. And probably has been useless for a long long time. I just failed to say so. Sun creams are useless, cups and pans are useless, books, spoons and toilet paper is useless. Because, I have truly nowhere to live, and no food to eat. I am in a place that doesn’t care too well for an individual without these two essential necessities. It’s 34 degrees out, I have tree shade, but it feels useless. It’s Saturday, and waiting for next Thursday feels useless. 5 useless days. 5 useless days of sweat, humidity, sweat.

Without seeking pity, what else is there to my life? I finally see myself asking all the fundamental questions that have been walking past the dusty window, not quite being able to see them clearly. What does society give a man, but that which he does not take for himself? Jesus and his 28 days in the desert, is just tale and folly, and it tastes quite bitter and insulting to you when life is a perfect image. Just keep letting go, letting go, letting go. Don’t hold on and life will be clear. I can’t chuckle really. There’s just nothing, but plain, still, inanimate, wall staring. It’s not even an attempt at waiting. It’s mind detachment. A defeated body, that just sits on the ground after a while of being beaten up, finally giving up to it, and having no mind. Giving up. Giving up. I don’t even have the bottle of whiskey for the last beach sunset goodbye.

I’m tired of chasing possibilities pointed in the direction by others, tired of twisting a dollar to become a meal, tired of trying. The last beach of my life.

From now, I am a thief by no choice of my own, and I care not.

So………

Exactly like it is now, but in black and white.

Im playing around with Blogger templates while Hannah gets a foot tattoo done. That is all.

Nepal.... is strange. She’s feeding me scrambled egg burrito-chapattis. “Eggs!” she raises a finger to exclaim. “I make you eggs!” She blinks softly at me, and I almost see a whimpering tear. I can’t refuse; it’s the way of ....Nepal..... “Ahh, I have only one egg.” She tilts her head to and fro telling me her sad misfortune. “I buy eggs. One moment.” I dash out to the hut in the street waving 20 rupees, and saying “Unde dinos!” I get smiles and eggs, no problem.

“Ah! You buy eggs.” I can’t tell if she’s asking a question. I sit and wait, telling her that for four or so days now, I’ve had bad guts. She doesn’t hear. She only says “Don’t eat street stalls!” I nod. I’ve only been eating her food, and she’s clearly oblivious. And it’s this cycle that’s going to be my downfall. There’s a proud old Nepalese lady, living in dirt, and filth; rotting pieces of food in the sink, under the cupboard, on the table. Flies and bugs crawling, brown splash stains on walls and surfaces. She rinses the frying pan in the dishwater and says “I clean using iodine water!” I try to smile, but I can’t anymore. I can only look forlorn. She’s proud, and she wants to make her guest comfortable. Unfortunately, without knowing a clean standard of living, you can never know how to serve a clean standard of living. However, in ....Nepal...., that doesn’t stop them. They will try to imagine how you will like it, and then give it to you with a smile. And the trick is, you can’t tell them that they are wrong, or they get a complex.

So she serves me scrambled eggs, which are actually delicious. Wrapped in a chapatti, and, I mean this, smothered. Literally smothered in parmesan cheese. “I like cheese! You will like cheese!” she says. I have to like cheese. It tastes salty and toe-like. I read the cheese container. “Parmesan Cheese. Use by: 20/12/2006”. I sigh a little. “How did you get cheese?”

“American lady give to me. She is very nice” Clearly, I will like this also. I actually like breakfast burritos. I like the egg, the roll, the melted cheese. But I have never really been too enthusiastic about parmesan cheese. And there is an equal egg to cheese ratio going on here. Time to take measures. I’m smart, you see. I figure, if I am being given no control over my dietary intake, I must use sleight of hand. When she’s turned to the stove I pick the egg, and roll up the burrito, and stuff it into my pocket. She turns soon after and smiles in satisfaction, thinking that I enjoy her cooking. “One more!” I have no choice. It’s on my plate before I can speak. I take two bites; chew each one for a minute, taking regular swigs of water to make it go. Then I stuff it in my pocket. “Ahh! One more. You like egg.” I can’t tell if it’s a question, because she says it and then serves it, before I have chance to respond. “Okay, last one. This is enough for me thank you.”

“I think you no like my egg.” She does the teary blink. But I don’t connect. I don’t make eye contact with the medusa, I resist. As she’s spitting into the sink, with the pan, I bite another end off, and stuff the burrito into my full burrito pocket. “Thank you. That was lovely. I think less cheese next time, but very good. Thank you. Thank you.” I slip off while she is still speaking, and find a bag to bin the burrito.

I have to find some control here. I must find a way to prepare my own food; I need to find good clean food. I’m getting sick, and it’s not funny anymore. I’m going to have to upset an old Nepali lady. To make an omelette, you have to break a few eggs.

So here we are, another bike adventure begins. I slept well last night. However, I woke up before my alarm this morning, and I set up and got ready early. Riding along Cambridge Road towards Battersea park, I feel a warm warm happiness knowing that I'm having another bike adventure. Except. Halfway through the park, I pull over to take a picture of my bike next to Barbara Hepworth’s sculpture. And, right there, I get a police caution. Apparently, I’m cycling on the wrong path. However, as I was unaware, or, that I told him I lived close by, and pay his taxes, he waives the on-the-spot £500 fine and settles for a caution. I tell him with a straight face “I’m heading to Belgium, and I've barely done four hundred metres.” And he smiles and kinda says sorry. I could see he respected the adventure idea, and my well loaded bicycle. It seems that it’s the Chelsea flower show on this weekend, and as such, a greater police presence is required. We all know those flower show pensioners are bastard hooligans, don’t we? I’m cycling towards Victoria station and thinking about Hannah. The buses and taxis cease to exist, and my road becomes ghostly quiet and peaceful. The rush hour traffic is not there.

The tickets at the train station are bought simply and quickly. No need for online booking, just an advance return to dover for £29.80, allowing return within one month. Simple, quick, good. I’m pumped now, my bike feels light, not too heavy. I know in figures, it’s well over 30 kilos, but it feels good, it rolls well. The only obstacle I face, is the deluge of commuters arriving from my train, into London. They all look miserable, they all look sad. None of them look like they want to be there, and they all look at me as unlike anyone else in the street. I’m like a white dove.

We have all heard of Eurostar, right? Well, I give you ElectroStar!! This is the ferry train alternative. Just as ghetto as it sounds, and full of people from Europe. Who, I don’t doubt have missed their Eurostar. I’m sitting, waiting, watching Iggy pop insurance billboard adverts. Why Iggy? Why? There’s no traffic no queues. We pass Rochester and I spy a defunct old submarine, and wonder just how many continents it could have destroyed in it’s day. I’m sleepy, and drifting for a nap, It’s early still. Maybe 10am, and I'm wishing it was my bed still.

At dover station, for some reason, I already know my way to the ferry. It really is so easy. I coast a little down the hill, and continue along the promenade avoiding the trucks from hell...I mean Romania. Someone build wider lanes here please. I follow the bike-only red lines showing me the way to the boat. I collect my ticket, and watch a Romanian driver drop his passport. I circle the trucks in the bay looking for a Romanian registration plate, and tap on his window. He’s happy and relieved. I’m hoping it’s positive karma, and I don’t get knocked down by a truck.

I’m early. I eat a couple of sausage rolls. Then, I am waved through. I cycle up the steepest hill of the day, up the gangway, onto the ferry. I truly feel that everyone should have the opportunity to cycle onto a ferry just once. It’s liberating. A very very warm sensation. That’s all I can say.

The ferry is pretty much empty, the ride is calm and chop-free. I spy the refineries of , Dunkerque in the distance and were there. Big industrial, non-friendly, coal heaped, blackened and rusted, Oil silos, Alcan piping, the Borg ship. Full of pipes, pylons and cranes. Algae and tyres everywhere. Like many people’s failed one-night stands, I’m wondering if I've chosen the right place to dock.

I’ve no euros by the way. But i don’t care. I’m happy to be on an adventure. I know I have a loaf of soreen and a packet of noodles. I’m good to go. I steal… I mean liberate, a map of Belgium from Carrefour. It would have cost me ten euros, which I don’t have. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention one thing. I have a total trip fund of £70. My train to Dover was £29.80, my return ferry was £20. I have £20.20 to keep me rolling. There’s going to be no museums, no church tours, just adventure, free water, cheap food. And a little shoplifting. Have you ever tried it? You don’t know what you’re missing.

I ride 45km through the headwind from my nightmares, towards Belgium. I know why they have windmills now. I slap my head. It’s 8pm, getting dark, I'm beat. I’m lucky being in the middle of nowhere when I do feel the need to stop. Setting up camp is carefree, I have no need to watch my back. Tonight, I’m camping next to what looks like a dog training obstacle course. I don’t worry about the first night sleep anxieties that I used to do. I drift asleep peacefully, the forest monsters are not there.