Kota Kinabalu

Kota Kinabalu in Malaysian Borneo is a fascinating place, after a long journey and two flights I arrived, sleep deprived and bewildered at our fujitsu volunteer hotel. For those not in the know I will briefly summarise what I'm doing here -

Fujitsu sponsor and work closely with a local charity which regenerates the Borneo rainforest. 60 staff volunteers from around the world have self funded themselves to get here, representation of staff comes from Japan, Singapore, China, Malaysia, Australia, New Zealand and from further afield the UK and Germany.

So on that basis and with an early start the next day, I took a stroll in the early evening to find something to eat and then, by a strange quirk of global coincidence meet an old friend Tom, who happened to be staying in the block next door to my hotel. He'd seen my update on Facebook and announced that he too was in KK, but just for one night.

I took a walk along the wooden boarded promenade to the night market.

The smell is the first thing that hits you, fish and meat juices drain into the walkways between the tightly packed stalls. The chatter of sales and bargaining is incessant. I was fortunate to have trainers on, some people walked in flip flops and the slap slap slap in the entrails and liquids was rather unpleasant and residue kicked up onto clothes and legs.

However, the fish looked fresh, clear eyed not cloudy and bright in appearance.

Alongside the meat and fish were the other foods, uniformly shaped spuds were stacked in rows, indeterminable exotic fruit and vegetables and various packed herbs and spices.

Beyond that again, the food hawkers, stall upon stall, frying, steaming, grilling. Smells and smoke heavy in the air, cooked fish and meat ready to plate up, as well as the raw options for those who insist on choosing their option cooked from fresh.

polite young kids milled around, asking what you would like to eat. Unlike some other places in south East Asia a smile and a "maybe later" is met with a "no problem" and they enquire as to whether the next person would like a meal.

And beyond that again, stalls of various bric and brac and souvenirs or more prosaic things like lighters. In the midst of the market was a mosque, the doors flung wide open to send a sea breeze through the building and give relief to the worshippers from the humidity and heat.

The imam sang his prayers to god beautifully, it could easily have been part of Eastern Orthodox liturgy, the lilts and key changes so similar. 

I then walked back through the market, back along the promenade looking out to the dark sea where not long previously I had witnessed a beautiful red sunset behind the islands in the bay. 

The promenade ended abruptly, at a bar. I was tired, not just from the flight but from the sensory overload of the market. I didn't want to eat so I ordered a narkileh and smoked awhile. The water cooled fruit tobacco smoke soothing rather than harsh, even for a non smoker like me.

I then started to think, to think clearly. I started to relax. It's been a long year, long hours, this was my first proper break from the office. I smiled.

I thought of Lawrence Durrell and his book about Cyprus "bitter lemons", I wouldn't say it was a great book, his brother was a better writer, but something struck me, a memory from the book was plucked from a cobwebbed corner of my mind.

It's certainly not an accurate memory, more a memory of a feeling the book left me with, but he said something along the lines of how he enjoyed the company of Greek Cypriots but also the Turkish ones.

He wrote about restless industrious Greeks and serene Turks looking to the horizon, to take in the world before it passed us by.

All year I've let the world pass me by, so I stopped and watched. And listened. It made me think of who I am, what I am.

And I wrote, and the words came.

Kota Kinabalu ( mel melis (c) November 2014)

There's peace in the noise,

The construction workers drilling,

The chatter of families on their promenade,

The tinny music from waterside bars,

and the waves gently lapping,

A hawker's agitated tapping,

Of fingers against his purse,

And beyond,

The ethereal songs, 

of the faithful,

From the market mosque,

I have the blood of Greeks, 

of Sparta, of Turks, 

of frightened concubines, from the far north,

Stolen and cruelly forced,

into the pasha's servitude, 

I am a Jew, 

a Phoenician trader,

From the Ptolemies of Egypt,

To an Arab raider,

Venetian, Lusignan and Frank,

And a crusader.

I watch the world, through apple scented smoke,

And I am at peace.

Joan Fontcuberta, Science Museum. What to see.

 

This exhibition at the Science Museum looks great, can't wait to visit.

Joan Fontcuberta is a photographer artist who holds up a mirror to the news and our bombardment of information with a playful but serious series of works.

When you read a news article or look at a picture or photograph, which may or may not have a "helpful" caption... do you take it at face value? Do you question its integrity? Do you research and challenge the validity of the message it conveys? Do you make up your own mind? We've all been duped by someone, even by people in supposed authority. The world is becoming a place where news and information is readily available, however it's also readily dumbed down or perverted to suit a cause. I don't trust anything I read, especially knee jerk shares of sensationalist rubbish.

A summary of Fontcuberta’s projects and brilliantly believable hoaxes can be found in this guardian article.

But, what to believe? To me the internet is about pictures of cats. I only trust pictures of cats. I believe in cats.

The Miracle of Dolphin Surfing, 2002

Gigs of 2014.. so far

I haven’t blogged in a while, I’ve been flat out with work. I need to start writing again. A simple way to kick off that energy is to share some music and some pictures of gigs I’ve been to this year, to fire some synapses, give me some ideas, to stir some passions. Then maybe, who knows, I might blog again. Soon!

Cate Le Bon, Friday 7th February. Islington Assembly Rooms

My first gig of the year was back in February, Cate Le Bon at the Islington Assembly Rooms. It’s a venue I’ve never been to before, but I instantly liked it, nice high stage so a shortarse like me can get a decent view and a reasonably quick serving bar. It’s also part of the council buildings Arsenal start or end up in as part of their bus tour of Islington when they’ve won a trophy.

So who is Cate Le Bon? She’s released three albums to date, the first impression is one of Nico. But she’s also inspired by the likes of Syd Barrett and in some songs that really comes through with the quirky interludes or the psychedelic aural assaults, but it would be unfair to pigeon hole her. She’s a fantastic singer/songwriter. Some say her lyrics are dark, but I don’t see that, they are ambiguous, ambivalent, you take from them what you want. She’s fantastic live, would definately see her again. John from work was also impressed, as we were with the pre-gig Upper Street meze.. just don’t tell anyone we did something that louche.

Two of my pics from her gig. All photos © Mel Melis unless credited

The Stranglers Saturday 8th March, Hammersmith

And so to the Stranglers and their 40th Anniversary Ruby tour. My first ever gig was the Stranglers. Alexandra Palace, Hugh Cornwell’s last gig, the last gig of the original line up. I’d seen them a couple of times since, but then wasn’t so fussed about following them live although I always loved their music. So I felt inspired to go to this gig, sentimentality and curiosity as Jet Black, the oldest man in punk (probably undisputed at 75 years young) would play drums in a few songs. As prep’ I was catching up with their old albums, Black and White (their third album) was the one I homed in on, a lot, a brilliant, dark and claustrophobic post punk classic. JJ Burnel’s brutal basslines are especially sinister on this album and the themes of Orwellian post-apocalyptic control and dystopia hammer through the album. They didn’t disappoint, they played for a fucking age. It was truly epic and it was an emotional moment when Jet Black played in the middle of the set, then at the end. Bossman came with me, and he loved it too, we stood there gawping as classic after classic was belted out.

Live forever! (as Ray Bradbury would oft say)

JJ Burnel, the hardest man in punk.

Jet Black (the oldest man in punk) and JJ Burnel (hardest man in punk)

Jet Black (minus hat and shades)

Roman Remains Weds 23rd April, Hoxton bar and grill

Myself and the Bossman, we’ve always loved the Duke Spirit, those Hackney scoundrels playing their melodic 60s infused retro punk, so it was interesting to hear two of their members, Leila and Toby had formed a dark electronica act. This was to be their first UK gig. We’d never been to the bar and grill before, but it was great, got a burger before, walked into the venue and bang! Great acoustics, great view. Rum and cokes. We had a blast! The band were great too. Pick of the live tracks? Gazebo – it’s one beautiful tune. Shared below.

The interior of the “grill” bit of the venue.

Roman Remains!

Joshua Homme (+ secret guest Mark Lanegan) Mon 16th June, Royal Festival Hall

As part of James Lavelle’s meltdown (sadly I’ve never seen UNKLE and I bloody love them) I got the offer from John from work via his other friend John (who was a beneficiary of my two-hundred redials to get Kraftwerk tickets) to see Joshua Homme play an acoustic set. So he reciprocated with this opportunity - What a lovely decadent way to spend a Monday night. Homme was engaging, funny, chatty and played acoustic versions of QOTSA songs as well as a couple of covers.

But having always had a man crush on Mark Lanegan I had to restrain myself from seal clapping when the old bear loped onto the stage and together they played One Hundred Days and Hanging Tree. Beautiful.

Brian Jonestown Massacre, Tuesday 1st July, The Roundhouse

I was embarrassed to say I’d never heard any BJM before (actually a BJM sounds like a sexual act? Sod it, I’ll carry on using the abbreviation and by using the word “sexual” this blog post might get more hits. Although they’ll probably be disappointed.. BJM! BJM!)

Anyway, The Bossman made the recommendation. And what a psychedelic masterpiece of a band they are. Guitars everywhere, effect pedals everywhere, tamborines and jangly wonderment and noise. I only had my iphone, so no decent pictures so I’ll share a video instead. I have to say though the gig was enhanced for me, because I was utterly dehydrated from an inter-work 5 a side game where no quarter was given, it was a hot day, I was tired and bruised. My mind was drained of it’s usual spark and the music soaked into me, I was a happy zombie sucking down pints of cola as the two beers I’d tried to have earlier in the evening had just sent me into a soporific tailspin. I was glad to be sitting in the seats up in the circle. The roundhouse is a fantastic venue.

So what’s to look forward to? The big one is Kate Bush in September, I must’ve signed up to her mailing list at some point in the past and got a pre-sale email. So I bought tickets, I’m skint, but happy! I wonder whether she’ll be able to sing any of her early work? Artists’ voices change in time, so hopefully there’ll be new arrangements. But if it’s new stuff only, I don’t care, it’s Kate Bush. She’s British music royalty, her music brings a lump to my throat. It’s beautiful.

But before then, Mogwai @ Koko … their new album is astounding. It’s almost danceable, listen to Remurdered, when the synth jumps in half way through, it’s jumping. Those miserable socially conscious Scotsmen… I would hug them all, and embrace their white noise!

The Front Door

 

Can you mourn the passing of a door? It’s funny what we might consider precious. What we instil such emotional value into, memories or things. The heavy old hardwood door, older than me, a fond memory of growing up, ubiquitous through my childhood and early adulthood. Now a dark moss green, but painted so many times over it groaned and juddered reluctantly when you dragged it into its snug old frame. Painted over like the Edwardian tiles in the outside porch, black marble fractured with tiny capillaries of imperfection, depicting gold and russet autumn blooms in relief, hidden under coat and undercoat, coat and undercoat. At least that’s what I think is under the layers, a memory plucked from childhood, I’m surprised at my own sentiment, this memory pulled from a file which modern life has deemed insignificant, but the nostalgic part of me still holds dear. I’d be scared to remove the paint, in case I’m disappointed. I believe in the flowers, that is all I need to reassure, to warm my heart.

I think of the old mechanical metal bell, still working today, you twirled the little sycamore seed like handle, and it trilled cheerfully, even in its venerable age the door sung for visitors, like a bird exalting the Spring, the lengthening days and the whisper of love. And above the bell, the heavy satisfying weight of the ornate knocker, only yielding against the door itself. The dull dour thud resonating through the house, laconic, humourless, a boom of metal on wood, an old wood, a wise wood. But hardly anyone used the knocker, because the bell was a joy. Everyone loved the bell, a childlike glee would overcome even the most sour face, scowls replaced with beaming smiles. Everyone would marvel at something so old sounding so wonderful. A robust mechanical bell! In my mind, the knocker and the mechanical bell are old friends, unlikely friends. The knocker at peace with the bell getting all the attention, because when someone did choose to use him, he would boom wilfully, so everyone could hear him knock.

Over those decades, those hard winters and occasional hot summers, the old door watched the other doors in the terrace die and be replaced. The old hardwood brothers and sisters burnt or ditched, their mechanical bells singing no more. UPVC and cheap wood replacing the cumbersome assurance of the solid old originals. And the door would breathe, once a year, following the seasons, breathe in over spring and summer, out again in autumn and winter, the wood contracting, expanding. Breathing imperceptibly.

Many decades ago, when my parents moved from the condemned tenements of Pentonville, the door was already middle aged. The grew old with it. What is a door? The door provides peace, a focus and the portal to the haven of home. A home, a roof over our head, that most ancient of human needs. If you believe in your door, you feel secure in the sanctity of your space. And our door held a magic. Protected us. No one invaded our space.

But tonight, someone hurt our door, someone invaded our space, it wont recover from the forced entry of burglars, ripped from the frame I felt an unnatural emotional response, it threw me, memories of mum and dad, of running to school, kicking through leaves, playing in the garden on my trike, of happy and sad times. Tonight, the old door’s been bolstered, bolted, it’s protecting my mum and dad’s old house for just one more night. Tomorrow, the old wood will lie flat, we’ll replace it, its slow breathing will stop. We’ll remove the mechanical bell and the knocker. They’ll stay with us, we can’t part with them. But we’ll say goodbye to our friend, the old door.

Bletchley Park’s Vintage Toys

Bletchley Park is a wonderful place, the home of the code breakers and now rightly being given the funding it deserves to renovate and improve. On the same site, the National Museum of Computing, full of nostalgia and vintage functioning computers and equipment, including a magnificent rebuild of Colossus.

But, one potentially overlooked exhibit is the wonderfully nostalgic Toy museum. There are an abundance of toys and games (e.g. original meccano), clothing and ornaments, wartime propaganda and toys, austerely made - “Make and Mend”.

What really caught my eye was the dolls.

There was something haunted about them, sometimes they were sinister. Maybe the decades without the love of a child has slowly emptied them. Perhaps a hug will make them glow again.

Decide for yourself, a selection of photos I took with my iphone. (all photos © Mel Melis – all exhibits hosted at Bletchley Park – reproduced without seeking financial gain)

This poor doll sat staring from her pram, looking up into space. She never cries.

Mamma bear’s gonna mess you up.

They’re waiting, they’re watching in the cabinet.

Strange, none of them seemed to be smiling.

And when they do smile, it’s hiding some terrible tragedy. I imagined this clown was visiting the grave of his wife.

Did she chew those bear ears off? Is she still hungry? The bears have been injected with a paralysis venom. She can take her time to consume them.

Scary. Atomic Kitten 1940.

This little lad has seen terrible things. I hope that’s not a garrotte.

An angry gnome (or an Amish farmer forced to wear tartan). Something simmers behind those eyes.

Devil soup

Just faces. Peeled off faces. No biggie.

This embryo terrified me.

Needle toothed golly, hung out to dry.

She made me want to cry!

The furious death stare.

A fragile girl. Fractured.

This made me laugh, he’s a bloody lipped vampire yokel

Flaking away

 

* – In all seriousness this is a lovingly preserved collection, the slow bite of time adds to the poignancy of any visit. Go! I implore you! Go to Bletchley Park! You wont regret it.

Blackbirds and Dragonflies

All photos © Mel Melis

We moved house in May, we’ve got an old converted barn on the edge of the old moor. Beyond our hedge, a river runs behind the overgrown field. We’re very lucky. Summer took its time to arrive, but now it has we’ve had some amazingly beautiful days. We get the full glory of the setting sun from our back porch, the rays scattered by patchy cloud.

Somewhere in the river Kingfishers’ and Otters’ fish. I haven’t seen either yet, but I’m hopeful. I’m impressed with the birdlife in the garden though. Jays, finches of all sorts, swifts, tits and mammals too, most notably moles unfortunately causing mini subsidence patches where you tread and inadvertently collapse their tunnels. As well as that, in the dusk, bats, super manoeuvrable and quick, not much bigger than a bumblebee, chasing and catching moths in flight. Our most regular visitor though, is this bizarrely tailless and bold blackbird. We think she’s young. Skips right up to you.

Here she is gathering bugs from the lawn. I just happened to be lying down in the grass with my camera at the time. She posed several times.

Isn’t she pretty? Is she a blackbird?

And less than 100 yards away is a pond. On the day when it was over 30 degrees, I finished work about six and wandered down, dangled my legs over the wooden platform which overlooks the pond and watched the dragonflies duelling and mating. The pond was green with algae, partially evaporated in the heat, needing a top up in the dry spell. A pea soup.

The dragonfly behaviour was interesting. Some would position themselves on twigs or reeds and charge out to combat any intruders. Their flight seems to defy gravity, deftly forward, back and from side to side, occasional hovering, then with a speed that almost looks like a dematerialisation and teleport they appear hovering in another spot a split second later.

Needless to say I didn’t get any photos of them in flight, just when they stood sentry.

Not sure what species these are, there are several UK varieties. These were big (perhaps 3 inches long) but there were bigger blue / purple ones, who actually crackled when they accelerated, the power in their wing beat audible over the torpid silence of the murky green. Those big ones didn’t settle, they kept patrolling and harassing.

One thing I did notice is that this species mated in flight, after disengaging, the female (I assume) would then dip her abdomen into the water at various points, whilst still flying of course. Having researched it, she was actually laying her fertilised eggs. Should the larva hatch and survive, they’d turn into quite the pond predator. The larva can live for a few years under water, when they emerge, the dragonflies only live for a couple of months, their purpose seemingly to mate, lay their eggs and die.

Finally a picture of a bright little damselfly. The intensity of the blue is beautiful.

Pasty vs Japan

Here’s a bit of flash fiction (less than 100 words), based on a real event at work on Thursday, with only a teensy bit of embellishment… © Mel Melis

--

The Japanese visitors threaded into our canteen. Besuited and formal, I watched fascinated as one of them selected a pasty as his lunch choice. After paying, they found a bench table. They huddled round it, like they were conducting an alien autopsy. Hushed tones. The knife pierced the bready carbohydrate thick skin, a hiss of steam emanated, the pasty gasped in pain, dying and deflating. Surgeon-san then sliced it open, only to reveal… even more carbohydrate, this time in the form of potatoey cubes. They all looked very disappointed.