Dr Valdez Leel's Whimsical Express

 Preamble:
The Following is a piece of Travel Writing I did earlier this year as part of my creative writing degree. It's about a family vacation to Mozambique.

A Luxury Resort Beira is Not

My trip to Mozambique recalls a piece of Waterson wisdom. Something that Calvin’s dad once said. I forget the exact wording but he basically stated that the reason the family went on such rubbish holidays was so that the rest of their lives would, by comparison, seem a whole lot better. Clearly Calvin’s dad and my parents went to the same school.

On the surface the holiday to Beira (the city in Mozambique which was our destination) seemed like an excellent idea. I mean sure it involved a seven hour journey in the back of a pickup but there would be greeted by a welcoming ocean, peace, calm and serenity. 

Let’s take a moment however to dwell upon our mode of conveyance. It had two seats in the front and a cargo area at the back which was open to the elements. Logically my father and I got chucked in the back while my mother and sister sat in the front. This was due, so I was told, to the fact that Vicki had developed a rather nasty flu and that travelling in the back would only aggravate it. However, I suspected that it was more to do with the matriarchal leanings of my family than my sister’s sudden bout of influenza. 

I haven’t quite established my own character yet, have I? Well when I was taking this journey when I was about eight so I was most probably a bastard. It’s a fact. Most eight year olds are bastards. They’re unpleasant, ugly, loud and annoying. If you’re sitting there reading this thinking, “was I an eight year old bastard?” then you probably were an eight year old bastard. If your sitting there thinking, “I wasn’t an eight year old bastard!” Then you most definitely were an eight year old bastard. What other defining features did I have? Not many really. I liked dinosaurs, computer games, kung fu, action figures and bugger all else really. Oh and I liked Calvin and Hobbes. A lot. To be honest an eight year old me would of probably bludgeoned your ass to death for not getting the Bill Waterson reference earlier on.

Our journey was of course horrible. The back of the pickup was absolutely crammed full of cooler boxes, bags, satchels, beers, fishing rods, blankets, sleeping bags and all the crap you could ever imagine. Amongst all this shit there was just about enough room for me and my dad although most of it had to be piled in around us, on top of us and behind us: pining us down. It was something like being in an oven only one built of crap. The combination of a rather nippy wind, the speed at which we hurtling down the road and the fact their wasn’t a cloud in sight led to some interesting sensations. Firstly the wind and the speed had a cooling effect. I say cooling it was more like freezing. It also had a habit of kicking up a lot of dust which helpfully leapt into our eyes at every given opportunity. Secondly the clear sky left us undefended to the rays of the sun which, during the course of the journey, lead to massive irreparable sunburn and sticky sickening sweat. So by the time we got to our destination I felt as if I had been vandalised by the four elements. 

A luxury resort Beira is not. Don’t get me wrong it has its own earthy charm but to be honest I don’t really understand why my parents thought the coastal city: ravaged by war and poverty would be an ideal place for a holiday. It was probably something to do with the sea. Ah the sea. Every year landlocked Zimbabwean’s journey to foreign lands so that they can bask in the sea’s mystical glory. Only to be disappointed when they discover that the sea is essentially a big blue grey puddle filled with things that want to either eat you or violate you with tentacles. My eight year old self was more interested in the uniformed men armed with machine guns and the derelict cannon which stood proudly over the beach.

In Beira I did however experience many wondrous things. For instance I was amazed to discover that upon entering the country my father had miraculously turned into a millionaire. My father explained a lot of stuff about exchange rates and such none of which truly sunk in until I realised that ten thousand of this new exciting money could only buy me one warm flat coke.  Ironically due to the economic collapse of my country and the long period of relative stability that Mozambique has enjoyed, the once beleaguered and pitiful Mozambican Metical is now in comparison with the Zimbabwean dollar enviable. Economic marvels aside I also had the privilege to eat the worst spare ribs the fates have ever deemed possible. Never before or since have I endured so harrowing a meal. I still wake up in a cold sweat every now and again. I often speculate that the ribs had in fact been intended as an insidious weapon of assassination and, due to administrative bungling, had been accidentally sent to my table instead of that of the political deviant or menacing diplomat that it had obviously been concocted for. 

Oh yes. And we got attacked by crabs on our way back to our tents. Millions of the wee bastards. Being an eight year old I naturally chased after them intent on engaging in light hearted combat. It only took one nip to the toe to put me off of that. We eventually got into our cramped stuffy tents. At least sleeping was easy. Right? Wrong! The baggy flimsiness of my tent combined with the strong winds coming down from the sea meant that being inside my tent was akin to being in a washing machine or the inside of bass drum. Naturally I woke up with a pounding headache. Somewhere along the line I picked up my sisters rather nasty flu and over night it had come to full fruition turning me into a moany soggy vegetable. I would go on but to be honest the rest of my time in Mozambique was spent in bed recovering. Hooray for holidays!

Preamble:
The following is a travel writing piece I did earlier this year as part of my Writing Media module at uni. Enjoy!

Bridgend: A Helpful Guide

I live in a town called Bridgend. Actually that’s not entirely accurate. I coexist with a town called Bridgend, in the same way you may coexist with an ugly roommate yet not necessarily like him. And what a truly ugly roommate Bridgend is.

            The most important place of course in Bridgend is the train station because inevitably, if not immediately, you’ll probably want to leave. There are three platforms so you have variety of avenues for escape. It is the bleakest train station I have ever had the unfortunate experience to encounter. It has the ability to paralyse one with absolute and complete hopelessness. For the full effect I advise going early on a grim overcast morning. If you are one of the many citizens of the empire fortunate to have an MP3 player I suggest listening to ‘The End’ by The Doors- a song which I feel truly captivates the heart of the region. If by some horrific act of fate you are forced to commute to and from Bridgend it is important to remember that when the driver announces that the train is approaching Bridgend you must, in accordance with local custom, let out a terrified scream.

            If you, against all better judgement decide to move to Bridgend I advise you strongly to take up a drug habit. Alcohol, cannabis and cocaine are among the local favourites. If however you are three weeks into your residence and feel no desire to take drugs then there is no need to worry as you are most likely barking mad and thereby require no such medicines to alleviate the pain.

            It is imperative that should you ever be travelling in Bridgend to know the layout of the town. Upon leaving the train station you will notice rows and rows of pubs. These places are important hives of social activity and it is of the utmost importance you know which is appropriate for you. Firstly you have the ‘old men’ pubs. The Railway is a fine example of such an establishment. It’s also very near the train station, just at the bottom of the hill in fact, so you won’t have to go far when you attempt your inevitable escape. ‘Old men’ pubs as I affectionately call them are primarily designed, would you guess it, with elderly gents in mind. For this reason The Railway and other such establishments are cluttered up with junk, such as not particularly well taken black & white photos of seemingly arbitrary things. Oh and everything is made of dark shit-brown over-varnished wood and every three pints of beer comes with a free pint of water (in the beer).

            If however the ‘old men’ pubs are not your sort of thing then you have the ‘chavy middle aged persons’ night clubs such as The Roof. Here you can experience the wonders of being packed into a building the size of a small living room with five hundred sweat drenched twats who either want to fuck you or knick your wallet. If you wish to recreate the experience of going to The Roof you can do so in the comfort of your own home. Firstly put on all your smartest clothes and lie at the bottom of an empty bath. Then pour yourself half a glass of flat Carling and fill the other half with luke warm bath water. Be sure to spill at least a quarter of this on your garments. Then have a friend dump all the dirty, sweaty, piss stained laundry from the last two weeks on top of you along with the contents of at least three ash trays and four vodka bottles. If it can be arranged I would advise that your friend throw up on you at this point. Now add a little water, stir for a while and leave to stew. After about an hour remove yourself from the bath and have your friend strike you squarely in the gut and while you’re on the floor really lay into you. Now throw your wallet along with all its contents into the toilet and flush it to oblivion and you’re done. Congratulations you now know what it’s like to go to the Roof.

            Now if a dirty stinking night club sounds too sophisticated and bourgeoisie for your tastes you can always go down to Newbridge Fields where children and young adults from around the county gather to drink beer, smoke pot, engage in light hearted conversation and beat the living crap out of each other. However keep in mind when frolicking in New Bridge Fields that the Police (or the Pigs as their affectionately known) may come down and move you and your friends along. This is why it’s always important to keep a sharp eye out and be ready to pick up your six pack and run like the wind.  However should by any misfortune you actually get caught by the police remember to be polite. Be polite and at worst you might just have pick up your beer and go someplace else. At best they might just keep on walking. Whatever you do at any rate do not do as my good friend did and call them a pack of fascist wankers or your ass will get clobbered and chucked in a cell for the night.

            It has occurred to me that if you should decide to move to Bridgend you may desire employment and while no conventional jobs are available there are many growth industries you may wish to become involved in. One such growth industry is stabbing. Want to make some quick money? Well stabbing people is an excellent way to go about it. However keep in mind that stabbing is an increasingly competitive industry. If you want to become a stabber in Bridgend you have to be at the top of your game. Even more so these days given the recent rise in so called recreational stabbers who are flooding the market with non-profit, purely casual stabbings, where guys knife you but don’t loot your corpse. To be a stabber in Bridgend you’ve got to be willing to diversify into other industries such as drug dealing, prostitution and even, god help us, working at KFC. 

I think it’s about time I brought this little guide to a close. I hope that this document has equipped you with the knowledge required to coexist with Bridgend in peace, harmony and solidarity. Or at least get as far away from it as humanly possible.

In an attempt to fill this Journal with "content" I will be uploading a couple of pieces of writing I did earlier this year over the next fortnight. So yeah look out for that.