Existential Vacation has moved

... I'm blogging again, but the address is different. Please go to

http://existentialvacation.blogspot.com/

Last Prata Supper

Ephemeral; impermanent; temporary; over all too soon...

No, I am not talking about my bedroom exploits. The time has come, my friends, to lay down the mantle of existential vacation-dom. The Big Doss is over. Yes, it had to happen sooner or later. Ultimately the search for enlightenment must end, and end it has.

I am back where I began. I have taken my belongings out of the storage facility and put them on a boat bound for England. I am revisiting the places here that I love, and the people, and bidding farewell to Asia, at least for now. I'm cancelling the roaming cellphone account and getting on a plane with a one-way ticket to Manchester. I have taken a job. I will find an apartment. I will rejoin reality.

So, the question: was it all just a big waste of time? Who knows? Instead of trying to answer this futile question, I will take this last opportunity to write about one of my favourite subjects: food.
And what better location for it? October has been spent in the makan-tastic locations of Singapore and Taiwan. To augment this final blog experience, I have recruited the help of the Thought-provoking Chicken from Taiwan's Rueihong Night Market in Kaohsiung.

The Thought-provoking Chicken is a kind of gastronomic guru, an ovulating oracle, a squawking shaman, a feathered philosopher ... the alliterative monikers could go on forever. But as our subject is the ephemerality of life, they won't.

As many deeply spiritual beings know, most problems of the soul can be fixed by eating stuff, whether it's chicken soup, dover sole or ice kachang to counter the heatiness of a surfeit of durian. So in this last ever Existential Vacation, I and the TPC offer you a comprehensive guide to Eating Your Way to Nirvana. In this first and final installment, we list the philosophical properties of various excellent foods.

1) Snails
If you were born in the year of the dog, and mars is ascendent in uranus, try these Taiwanese snails in chilli sauce. If you suck hard enough, or winkle them out of their shells with a toothpick, you will be rewarded with a blend of gastronomic yin and yang.
TPC says: "Snails are much tastier than chicken!"

2) Korean Tinned Meat
I am always on the lookout for authentic ethnic cuisine in the countries I travel to. Sometimes I find a genuinely new, delicious and exotic taste experience. While in Korea earlier this year I came across this delicious potted meat - a genuinely novel culinary encounter for me. Some travellers might stick with what they know, but I bravely tucked in! It made me feel... somehow filled with energy and light. I still wonder what it was.
TPC says: "A delicious alternative to poultry!"

3) Stinky Tofu
If your feet measure more than a six on the Stinchter Scale, try eating this amazing Taiwanese delicacy! It might taste like drains, but at least you won't be able to smell your feet any more.
TPC says: "Mmmm... tofu..."

4) Beermats
We all know beer is the best medicine. But if you're too young to drink (like Oli), simply suck on a beermat! Nutritious and delicious.
Oli says: "Gurgle pthththt barp!"

I trust this last, final, ultimate and terminal installment of Existential Vacation has provided the food for thought that you have become accustomed to.

Thank you and goodnight.

Follow that camel!

These are not the camels you are looking for... move along...

I have travelled to mountains, beaches, jungles and plush cocktail bars in search of enlightenment. I have searched high and low and in places of medium elevation for meaning and truth. I have attempted to spread my message of Inner Interiority through the medium of electrons whizzing through the cybersphere. However, there comes a time when one moves on from being the lone pilgrim, when one heeds ones calling to spread the word more directly...

Merlin had his Knights of the Round Table; Yoda had his Jedi; Merve had the Magic Tones. As I wandered through the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco among the juniper trees, I wondered: was I, the Existential Vacationer, missing out something? A following, perhaps? Could I be more effective as the facilitator of a spritually-enabled, task-focused existential enterprise, boldly moving forward in an integrated manner?
The answer, clearly, was yes.
In a flash of insight, I knew I had fulfilled my destiny as a solitary ambassador of fluff, trudging the world with only the humble accessories of backpack, Nikon and iPod. In order to fully realise my potentiality, I decided, I needed to gain followers.
I would become a Cult.
Of course, this being Existential Vacation, a normal cult wouldn't do. I hunted for inspiration, for transferable concepts which would leverage my brand into a truly apocaplyptic force. Finally I hit on something. Inspired by the Engand Rubgy Team's performance in last year's world cup, and their concept of 'total rugby,' I have launched a brand new paradigm in cult formation. I have decided to become a Total Cult.

All the best science fiction movies, and many of the best spiritual movements, start in deserts. Think of Sting riding Sandworms, or Obi Wan Kenobi chopping off the hands of Tattoo artists while muppets play jazz. Fortunately - and surely this can be no coincidence - the Sahara Desert was close at hand. Using my previously demonstrated powers of blending in with locals, I disguised myself as a Tuareg and (quite literally) hot-footed it to the sandy wastes, where I was sure my plan would come to fruition.

Once there, acting with lightning speed, I jotted down a list of stuff that a total cult needs. First of all, any cult needs followers. In another of those strange 'coincidences' that fill our lives, whose ultimate mysterious significance we must tune ourselves into, a follower duly appeared. I was joined by an existential acolyte, hoping to learn from the master of finding ones inner self through backpacking. She will henceforth be referred to by her Existential Vacation Cult name: 'Oh Teeny Miracle'. I have encouraged her to start up her own blog as a path to enlightenment. Look for the link soon. Here we see the Teeny Miracle learning one of the early lessons of Existential Vacationism: if in doubt, have a cup of tea. Note the wide staring eyes and manic grin of the Cult Follower. She is learning her lessons well.

Of course, the desert demands respect. And any credible spiritual movement needs a stylish outfit. As The Way of the Purist (desert edition) clearly states in its 'sartorial desert rules' section:
1) socks should not be washed - ever;
2) turbans should be worn loosely wrapped and used periodically for the cleaning out of earwax

Sporting our turbans, we marched for days through the arid wastes, gazing at the stars, meditating, avoiding camel dung and picking sand out of odd places. It was a time of exile, forty days and forty nights in the wilderness. (More or less. Actually less.) Along the way, I accumulated other followers, both human and the dromedary variety. The loneliness of the desert took its toll on some, leading me to formulate the third rule: free love optional.


If you would like to join the Existential Vacation Cult, and learn the remaining rules, please send a cheque for your entire net worth plus government certified bailout bonds for any stocks or shares you may own, to the usual address.

A brief intermission

[ ... girl from ipanema plays tinnily in an elevator style...]

The web connection is terrible here. Stay tuned for more navel-gazing soon!

Obscurity: is it the New Fame? Discuss.

You know who you are. There I was, watching all those athletes going for gold on the TV. Like Barack Obama, I said to myself: yes I can. I can do it. I was inspired.

But there's always one person who spoils things for everyone else.

Trying to blend the ying of obscurity with the yang of worldwide fame isn't easy. Especially when fame, as I have said before, means nothing to me. I was going for the clean sheet. The zero-tolerance approach to subscribers. If I could make a blog which nobody subscribed to, that would really be an achievement.
In fact, until a few days ago, I didn't even know what a blog subscriber was.
But now those dreams are shattered.

Well, In for a penny, in for a pound. That's what my old Grandad never used to say. So, I'm giving up the mad chase for obscurity and resigning myself to international acclaim and worldwide recognition. And the first step: get as many new blog subscribers as possible. So, all you existential vacationers out ther: please subscribe to my blog. No, I don't know how to do it. Click on something. Add something to ... er... some list or other. Whatever.

I'll check again in a month or two. I expect great things. Do not disappoint me.

The Most Confusing Country in the World.... Ever!

Before he became Roman Emperor, the young Marcus Aurelius famously stopped off at Esztergom (left) on the bend of the Danube, set up camp with his army and scribbled down what was to become the immortal Meditations, his great work of Stoical philosophy. He was the great Existential Vacationer of his time. Although he had a retinue of slaves instead of a backpack and a kind of leather kilt instead of Quiksilver beach shorts and spoke Latin, the principle was effectively the same.
The Meditations can be summed up thus: "Life is tough. So stop whingeing and just get on with it." Of course Marcus Aurelius didn't have my gift for snappily encapsulating entire philosophies in a brilliantly-turned sound bite. If he had, who knows what kind of success he might have gone on to? Perhaps his stint as Caesar might have merely served as a platform for greater things. And imagine if the internet had existed then. His blog might have been almost as deep as mine!

In the mystical traditions of the great religions, contradiction is crucial. By meditating on the inherent paradoxes which underlie our existence, we become closer to the essential unity which lies beneath, just beyond the grasp of mere minds, that ineffable essence which rationality and logic forever fail to grasp. A bit like that annoying itchy bit in the small of your back which you just can't scratch, no matter how you twist your arms*.
As my old Zen teacher at the Kwan Um school in Singapore once said, "When you breathe in, think Wo shi se ma? (What am I)? When You breath out, think Wo bu zhi dao (I don't know). Eventually you will be filled with a great doubt. And with great doubt comes great enlightenment."**
Wittgenstein said in his immortal Tractatus that "About which we cannot speak, we must remain silent." However, if we seek out the contradictory, the paradoxical, the stuff that simply does not make sense, perhaps - just perhaps - out of the corner of our mind's third eye, we may catch a fleeting glimpse of The Truth.

That is why I am in Hungary.

Hungary is riddled with contradictions. It is a veritable epistemological swiss-cheese of paradox, wrapped in the Vine Leaves of Enigma, lightly sprinkled with the Salt of Doubt and baked in the Oven of Mystery at gas mark four for an hour and a half, turning halfway through to ensure even cooking. Even writing that sentence made me feel "Hungary" - which just goes to show how accurate a description it must be***.

Consider the language, for example. It is, famously, the weirdest in Europe. English has more in common with Urdu than it does with Hungarian.
And what about the "Mosque Church" in the town of Pécs?**** Is it a mosque or a church? (Actually is used to be a church then it was destroyed by Turks and a mosque was built from the pieces and then after 150 years it was captured by Christians and used as a church again.)

Then there is the nightlife. Why would anyone form a Billy Idol Tribute band? Only in Hungary (in a bar called The Old Man's Music Pub). The most famous club in Budapest is called Zöld Pardon. But is it a disco or a swimming pool? The mystery deepens. All I know is that I had very wet legs by the end of the evening.

And then there was the mystery of the Chicken that Looks Like a Yeti. While visiting the bird park on Margit Island, my charming tour guide, Eszter from Esztergom, promised to show me an "animal that looks like a Yeti." And there it was. Scarily similar, despite its superficial poultry-esque appearance. It really did look almost exactly like a Yeti. And yet we are nowhere near the Himalayas. Something is deeply strange here.

And don't even get me started on the shopping malls. I almost got into serious trouble in one shop...

So this, it seems, is the latest place to find some form of insight into our true underlying natures. By embracing confusion, we may find clarity. By diving headfirst into chaos, we may see a new kind of sense. By drinking enough beer, we may finally lose our pernicious sense of "identity" and become one with the Cosmos. I definitely lost mine for a while. Was I me? Perhaps I was Elton John? Who knows...?

* This, as any school child knows, is why the Yogis of India first practiced their contortions. They had no idea that their innovation would ultimately lead to an entire industry catering to spoiled yuppies wired on latté and brain dead from watching too many episodes of Sex and the City. Ironic, no?

** I prefer to combine this technique with multiple glasses of beer - I find the doubt, and therefore the subsequent insight, much greater.

*** It's amazing how much mileage I get out of various versions of this joke.

**** Small city in southern Hungary. Not a gym.

Hungary (like the Wolf)

Now I know how Saint Francis of Assisi felt*. Something is beginning to happen.
Of course, if you've backpacked as much as I have, something good is bound to come of it. All those late-night drunken hostel conversations about which is the best type of MP3 player; all those hard treks around foreign cities looking for a Burger King; all those haggling sessions, knocking a precious few rupees off the price of a bootleg Lord of the Rings DVD from poverty-stricken street-hawkers - all of these things must eventually lead to a greater spiritual connection with the world. I knew this in theory. But now the benefits are becoming truly clear.

Greetings from Hungary, part of the next European leg of my navel-gazing odyssey into the unknown regions of philosophical backpacker belly-button fluff. The historic city of Budapest (and I think adherents of the "word-DNA"** theory would agree that the words "Buda" and "Pest" are no coincidence) is witness to my latest revelation. A kind of gift from the Universe. "But what could it be?" I hear you cry. Read on...
It first began to happen in England, when ducklings appeared from nowhere and called out to me. "Give us bread!" their annoying squeaks seemed to be saying. Sure enough, when I fetched some Sainsbury's wholemeal multigrain sliced loaf from the pantry, they wolfed it down, eating from my hand.
This tameness from wild animals would be surprising enough, but I thought little of it. Perhaps they had simply become tame because my mother had been feeding them every day since they were born. Or perhaps there was something deeper going on.
The next inkling I had was in the beautiful Southern Austrian province of Carinthia, where as if by magic, yet more animals were strangely drawn to me.
There was the dog, which kept asking to have a stick thrown into the Austrian mountain stream, and wouldn't stop, going back again and again. Then there were the baby hedgehogs who miraculously appeared and frolicked (well, okay, crawled around - allow me some poetic license here) on the lawn.
And then there were the kittens, who decided to communicate with me by tapping out Morse code with their claws on my neck.
Finally, in Hungary, where I was greeted by a charming tour guide (thank you for the clubbing/wading combo, Eszther), a deer approached me to beg for a leafy twig. My suspicions were finally confirmed.

Yes, there is no doubting it. I have gained the magical ability to communicate with animals. Just like Dr Doolittle (ironically enough, as I am currently an unemployed scientist).

What's the moral of the story? Never give up. Never stop. Keep travelling until it hurts, until your brain cannot stand it any more, until your mind is crying out "please get a f**king job and a normal life, for Christ's sake", until the rootlessness and disorientation and meaninglessness of just going from place to place pointing your camera at stuff is becoming so intense that you no longer know who you are and have lost your sense of time, place and physical scale and have clearly become unemployable in the real world. Only then will you receive the gifts due to you. What are they? Only time will tell...

* ...as the flames rose to his Roman nose and his iPod started to melt...
**Word DNA is the technique pioneered by fellow traveller Wayne Chen - see previous Philippine posting and http://www.circusoflife.com