Things I do need
1. Exactly what I requested on the e-mail.
Things I don’t need
2. Anything else.
Tags: marketing, PR, Travel Writing
As we inch down the muddy path towards the base of the waterfall, I ask Kent how long he has been doing these tours.
“About two years now,” he replies. “This was my first job.”
This comes as something of a surprise. We’ve only just met, and it seems wrong to ask him his age. But a fresh face is betrayed by the greying tufts of hair. He’s probably in his mid-40s. At least.
He clocks the look on my face and continues. “There is a lot of unemployment in Palau, but people don’t need to work. You grow your own food, you catch fish, and if you need a little cash, you catch a few extra fish.”
Kent is originally from the island of Peleliu, which was the setting for one of the bloodiest battles of the Second World War. Over 18,000 died over the course of 73 days as the Americans and Japanese fought over a small airstrip. But during that time, the US marines managed to throw an awful lot of Coca-Cola bottles into the jungle.
“I used to go into the jungle and collect them,” says Kent. “They had the date on them – 1944 – and I’d fill them with sand from the beaches that the battles took place on.” He’d sell them to the few American tourists that make it as far as Peleliu. It’s inventive, and in many ways, a rather poignant souvenir.
But what about shelter? Subsistence farming and fishing doesn’t provide a roof over the head.
“When a man gets married,” explains Kent. “He has duty to look after and provide for his wife and children. So he builds a house on credit.”
But the credit is with the builders, not a bank. Palau has a very different system. The customary house-buying is done by the clan; it’s essentially a giant whip-round. When a member of the clan gets married, everyone else is expected to chip in with what they can. It’ll average out at around US$50 per person, with clans of around 1,000 people, although “some family members with good jobs like to show off”.
What goes around comes around; the cycle continues. Johnny has his house paid for, but he’ll have to put what he can towards everyone else’s house.
But what if someone takes advantage and decides to build a lavish mansion? “The clan is there for your needs, not your wants,” says Kent. “If you want your wants, you go and get a job. If someone decides they need a $100,000 house, then people might put in $20 instead of $50.”
Palau is a country of around 21,000 people, and there’s just one prison to deal with all of them. That prison has its own gift shop. But things are changing.
“The only net I know is a fishing net,” says Kent. “People say they want to contact me by email, but that is their problem. Unfortunately, technology is being forced on our children.”
Kent says he’s happy with his bicycle, but many Palauans don’t know how to ride one. They fear looking silly, he says, and driving has long taken over from traditional canoes. “I have to be able to afford gasoline for my wife’s car,” Kent says ruefully.
“She wants to be American.”
Tags: Palau
Blame tax rises
No-one likes paying tax. Let’s face it, we live in an economy that splutters along based on massive, widespread corporate tax avoidance. And when a tax goes up, it’s an easy whipping boy. The general line, it seems, is that if you make a business pay taxes, it can’t possibly be profitable.
Nowhere is this more true than the travel industry, which does a remarkable job of managing to blame taxes for just about everything.
When Ryanair puts up its prices, it’s because of an “eco-looney” tax. When Air Asia X stops it’s London to Kuala Lumpur route, it’s because Air Passenger Duty. If British Airways recruits fewer staff than it was planning to, it’s about APD too. That’s the bogeyman in people searching for Caribbean flights too.
I could pull up hundreds of other articles where some sort of aviation tax is blamed for something negative happening. The airline or the travel company states the tax as a reason for pulling out/ poor financial performance, and this is accepted as gospel. From the trade press to national newspapers, the assertion that tax is to blame is never questioned.
Where is the evidence?
Yet there is absolutely no reliable evidence to suggest that the levels of aviation tax are affecting holidaymakers.
There are plenty of attempts to fabricate such evidence, of course. The World Travel Market Industry Report, for example, found: “In the wake of the UK government increasing Air Passenger Duty, 8% of holidaymakers said they would stop flying while a further 37% would reduce the number of flights they take.”
Pretty damning, huh? Well, let’s look at this in a bit more detail… The question actually asked in the World Travel Market survey was “Has the increased cost of holidaying due to taxes been a deterrent to travelling abroad?”
The available answers were: “Yes – I will be travelling less often now”, “Yes – it is a major issue but I will still travel, albeit on a lower budget”, “Yes – this is the first year that I have not travelled abroad due to the cost”, “No – bargains can always be found” and “No – I love travelling and will always prioritise it and make sacrifices elsewhere.”
Nowhere is there an opportunity to state that the cost of holidaying hasn’t actually gone up. Nowhere is there a chance to say that a tighter personal financial situation means that there’s less available to spend.
You can Occam’s Razor this down to the actual question that respondents are answering. It is: “Are you less likely to travel abroad this year?” There could be any number of reasons for people not travelling abroad as much, but the question has been loaded with two faits accomplis that you can’t challenge in the answer – firstly that the cost of holidaying has risen, and secondly that it’s due to increased taxation.
To claim from the responses to this question that 37% will reduce the number of flights they take as a result of tax is both absurd and sinisterly exploitative. That numerous publications reported this as if it was gospel is highly disturbing.
Looking at the other claims
Other claims are equally bizarre. In the Ryanair story, there is a quote from industry body ABTA. The spokesperson says: ““The average family of four flying to Florida will pay £292 in flight taxes in 2012, compared with £260 in 2011.”
So paying £8 extra for flight will make someone stay at home rather than go to Florida, will it? Utter bullshit.
Then there’s Air Asia X pulling out of the UK, citing “exorbitant Government taxes”. Well, France and India don’t have the high APD that the UK has, and Air Asia X is pulling out of Paris, Mumbai and Delhi as well. I’d suggest that the real reason Air Asia X is stopping flights from London is that its long haul low cost model simply hasn’t worked. And it hasn’t worked because – barring the odd sale ticket that about three people got hold of – its fares were never much cheaper (if any cheaper) than those of a full service carrier flying the same connecting route. If you were going through to Indonesia, Singapore, Australia etc, there was almost always a better deal with someone else.
I’d also suggest that British Airways is recruiting fewer staff not because passengers don’t want to fly its routes due to cost, but because passengers don’t think British Airways is a particularly good airline. Strikes, lack of service from regional airports, a slightly shabby in-flight experience and the economy as a whole are far more likely factors.
And a decrease in searches to the Caribbean? That may be because similar beach-style holidays are available cheaper elsewhere – be it Egypt, Thailand, Vietnam or Dubai. That’s not really about flight cost – it’s about cost on the ground (accommodation etc), and other regions offer far better value for money.
A fair tax on flying?
The industry, however, has decided that “unfair” taxation can be blamed for all its ills. And it keeps pounding away, citing non-existent evidence in a bid to make generating massive profits and putting nothing back easier.
As I’ve said before, the travel industry doesn’t want its professed “Fair Tax on Flying”. It wants as little tax as it can get away with. A fair tax on flying would be to tax aviation fuel – which is not taxed at all – at the same rate as other fuel. As Donald Strachan suggests, the domestic travel industry is essentially subsidising the foreign travel industry. And surely that should be the other way round?
I don’t necessarily agree with the level of taxation, or how it’s meted out, but I do think it’s time to challenge what is being said about it. The continual parroting of the convenient, dripping with self-interest industry line is lazy journalism that does a huge disservice to readers. When tax is blamed, other more realistic causes need to be assessed and analysed. And when surveys are laced with questions that are so leading and manipulated that they surely have no credibility, they should be reported with utter contempt and derision. If at all.
Tags: airlines, APD, tax, Travel Industry, travel journalism
Usually, I am somewhat scorful of press releases. But next week, I am going to Palau, the hottest destination of 2012 as decided by me. Largely because I’ve paid to go there, and I’m damned if I’m not going to make something of it.
So get excited. This is the year of going to Palau for no apparent reason. I did, of course, ask whether there were any particular reasons for going to Palau. This is what I received. I suspect you may find it highly enjoyable. Quote on…
THE ABC’S OFPALAU…FROM ALLIGATORS TO “ZERO FIGHTERS”
Visit us at www.visit-palau.blogspot.com
Alligators, aboard the River Jungle Boat Cruise
Betel nut, the nut of the betel palm that in small doses generally leads to euphoria and increased flow of energy
CoralReefCenter, an educational environment designed to inform guests ofPalau about the destination’s rich marine biodiversity
Diving, of course, it’s the number one scuba diving destination in the world
Elilai, perhaps Palau’s freshest restaurant, featuring a bounty of locally caught fish and seafood along with organic vegetables
Fruit Bat Soup, other than the fish and seafood, this is Palau’s most bizarre dish
Giant clams, Palau is home of 7 out of 9 species of clams in the world
History, a matriarchal society,Palau is full of rich cultural heritage, architecture and folklore
Intriguing, everything about this destination has an intriguing tale, from the history and people to the adventures and eco-culture
JellyfishLake, the only place in the world where one can safely swim with jellyfish
Kiss of a dolphin at Dolphin’s Pacific
Live-a-boards, one of the most popular forms of accommodations for divers
Milky Way, this locale is nature’s spa and the source of a white “beauty cream” for which millionaires around the globe pay hundreds of dollars
Ngardmau Waterfall, the hike in may be a bit treacherous, but well worth the effort
Olechotel Belau Fair, annual cultural and arts & crafts fair in July
Palau, simply the best place on Earth!
Quiet lagoons, only accessible via kayak
Rock Islands, renowned iconic image of Palau
Storyboards, the native art form that illustrates cultural legends
Tons of underwater wildlife with over 1,300 species of fish and more than 700 species of coral
Underwater wonder of the world, according to CEDAM International, an American-based non-profit group for divers, dedicated to ocean preservation and research
Views…no matter where you are or where you go, above or below the water, the views are truly all over the place and the more stunning than any other place on earth
World War II history, visit Peleliu known as the home of one of the war’s bloodiest battle
X-clusive tours for families, divers, adventure seekers from the destination’s many tour operators
Yap Stone Money, neighboring island of Yap quarried their huge stone money from Palau’s limestone — “Quarry in Palau and Bank in Yap”
Zero Fighter or “Zeke” wasJapan’s most popular and lethal airplane during WWII and one is now anchored on a shallow reef inPalau, available for snorkel viewing at the Ngaremediu Reef
Tags: marketing, Palau, press release
2012 should be a big year in travel – so I thought I’d join everyone else by making predictions for the forthcoming twelve months in the travel industry. These are based, naturally, on extensive research.
1. QR codes to catch on in a big way. Office watercoolers are likely to buzz with talk of impressive QR codes people have seen in the last few hours, whilst bookings made without scanning a QR code first will dwindle down into single figures.
2. Flash sales to become an even bigger selling tool, as members of the public decide that they prefer to make complex decisions about holidays and put in for leave from work within a 30 minute window of a broadly unavailable offer appearing and disappearing.
3. The world’s first completely unusable luxury design hotel to be launched. Taking current trends to a logical conclusion, the super-stylish £300 a night rooms will have rabid hedgehogs for taps, lights that are remotely controlled by a chimp in a North Korean nuclear bunker, chairs that dissolve when you sit on them and curtains that can only be opened by reciting pi to 247 decimal places in Urdu.
4. Lower profile low cost airlines to introduce real practices such as enforced maiming of infants, waterboarding and dripping battery acid from the overhead compartments. With impunity, as the media will be too busy concentrating on Michael O’Leary’s latest pie in the sky publicity stunt.
5. The British Travel Awards to undergo necessary expansion so that it can cover the categories that are currently unrepresented. Such as ‘Best sandwich served on a flight from Doncaster-Sheffield Robin Hood airport on a flight to Poland between 1pm and 1.30pm on a Sunday afternoon’, ‘Best endorsement from a member of the Lovejoy cast’ and ‘Best use of Comic Sans font in travel agency shop window’.
6. The end of the air fare. Major airlines to conclude that staff wages, maintenance costs and marketing are all technically ‘fuel’, and should be subsumed in the fuel surcharge.
7. The pernicious nature of the Air Passenger Duty to be proved by hundreds of surveys that ask “Air Passenger Duty exists. Are you watching what you spend at the moment?” and “APD APD APD APD. Do you think about how you’re going to spend your holiday budget?”
8. Outsourcing of Travmedia responses: PR companies to employ children in Bangladesh to send ill-considered and irrelevant responses to every single request made on Travmedia. Ability to write coherently in English and understand the subject matter secondary to ability to type really fast and copy/paste bland quotes from CEOs.
9. Tourist boards to give up actually trying to get people to visit their country in favour of the more important goal – showing other tourist boards that they’ve got the most inventive social media campaign.
10. APD riots. As public anger over Air Passenger Duty swells, the masses take to the streets over six weeks in summer, bringing widespread looting, the fall of the government and borderline anarchy.
Tags: Air Passenger duty, airlines, design hotel, flash sales, fuel surcharge, marketing, QR Codes, social media, tax, Travel Industry
It wasn’t the most savoury of areas. The post office appeared to be situated next to some sort of junkie zoo – or at least a massively prolific drug rehabilitation drop-in centre. More importantly, however, the post office appeared to be closed. At least for another hour.
Yet again, California had thwarted my attempts to send a postcard.
I promised I’d send two. One to my parents in England, one to my aunt and uncle in Pennsylvania. And the actual buying the postcards bit was fairly easy. So was the writing on them part. But actually sending them? A different matter altogether.
Since their purchase earlier in the week, the postcards had been treated to a wonderful scenic tour of California. They’d sat in a plastic bag, and had been driven across the state, taking in fabulous car parks outside many popular tourist attractions.
Unfortunately, when you’re on holiday, tedious practicalities like finding a stamp and a post box tend to come a distant second. Hence the little orange bag and its cargo tended to spring to mind twice a day – once in the morning before everything’s open, and once in the evening after everything’s closed and I’d be over the drink-driving limit anyway.
I returned to the motel in ignominious failure. With the post office we’d stalked down via the web not actually open, we’d have to opt for plan 245,738: drive around Santa Barbara and hope for the best before legging it down to LAX for the evening flight.
There’s the small issue of where to get said stamps from. The US does many things well, but the concept of a newsagent’s shop seems an alien one. And, of all the interchangeable stores that sell absolutely everything, stamps seem to be the one thing missing. Who needs stamps any more? We all just email and upload photos on Facebook rather than sending postcards now, don’t we?
Eventually, we stumbled across a shop selling extremely expensive stationary and wrapping paper. A likely candidate if ever there was one. We walked in, and asked if there was any remote possibility that they may sell stamps.
“We do,” replied the kindly woman behind the counter. “But they’re a lot cheaper if you buy them at the post office.”
“I don’t really mind paying 50 cents extra for a stamp,” I replied, wanting this over and done with.
“You’re really better off going to the post office…” I was being thwarted by a misplaced sense of kindness, but given that I’d have to go to the Post Office anyway to send the one to mum and dad by Air Mail, arguing seemed futile.
We trudged back over to the Post Office, only to be met by the sort of intimidatingly large queue that makes grown men want to openly weep. The queue for the automated machine was shorter, albeit only slightly. So I waited. And waited. And started making up swear words under my breath to add a speckle of entertainment to proceedings.
At the front, I had a world of options, each more confusing than the last. I looked for the option of buying just one stamp. It wasn’t there. I could buy a book of them that I’d never use, but not just one stamp.
Slamming my fists against the accursed machine, I opted for the sort of “Hnnnnnnnnggggn” noise usually associated with an elephant being shot with a tranquiliser dart. One look at the queue for the sole human employee on duty, and it was a clear non-starter. I’d be there for months.
Finally, I cracked. Those newly-invented swear words got their first public airing.
I took the little orange bag, took the postcards out and posted them where I should have done days ago: in the bin.
Sorry, family.
Tags: California, postcards, Santa Barbara
I remember leaving the airport, a disparate group in the minivan, slowly being dropped off at hotels around the island.
I remember, at the penultimate stop, deciding to jump out of the back seat to join the driver in the front. I had that second wind you get after touching down from a long flight, and I wanted to know more about St Kitts. We made our way round the edge of the island on the north-west road, night creeping in. We turned right up the little track towards the hotel
I remember the two muffled gunshots. Thud. Thud.
I remember the disorientation. What was happening? Why was there glass in my hair. “Aargh! There’s glass in my hair!” I burbled in a panic. And little fragments all over my arms and legs. I ran my hands through my hair, desperately trying to shake it all out and acquiring dozens of small cuts in the process.
It then goes blank. I don’t know for how long.
I remember gingerly opening the door, finally registering its shattered window. I wobbled out, a stunned creature gradually coming round. I gingerly stepped on to the verge and saw the motorbike upturned in its newly forged hollow amongst the long grass. It was a mess; clearly never to be ridden again.
I remember seeing the body several metres further down. The distance between it and the bike was an indication of the speed of travel. I ran over. There was blood all over his face; bones were visibly piercing through the flesh in his leg. But there was life behind the eyes, flickering in anguish.
I remember holding up fingers, asking him to tell me how many he could see. He made a noise; more a weak attempt at aspirating than a coherent answer. I reached for my phone, and realised I didn’t know the emergency services number. “What’s the number for an ambulance?” I screamed and no-one and nothing in particular. It was the unmeasured, flapping screaming of a lost boy who has only the faintest grip remaining on the situation. Villagers who had begun to realise what was happening were closing in. The wailing and tears became an amorphous noise, rubbernecking curiosity mixing in with the genuine grief of those who realised family and friendship ties were involved.
I remember finding my driver. Maynard, his name was. He was stood at the front of the van, near where the crowds were gathering, talking to a newly-arrived policeman. People were gathering around a second body. By the time I had worked out the second biker was there, the audience in the way was too large to see if he was alive or dead.
I remember the huge impact dent in the side of the minivan, where the second biker had hit. It corresponded exactly to where I was sitting before I moved into the front seat.
I remember another driver arriving to take me up the track to the hotel. I remember the hotel owner pouring out a large, neat rum for me. I remember eating dinner as a soul singer performed by the pool. I remember being slightly sickened that I was doing this.
I remember going to the police station the next day to give my account of what happened. The policewoman could tell me more than I could tell her. Maynard was OK, but off work for the foreseeable future. One of the bikers had died shortly after impact, and the other was critically injured in hospital. It seems as though they had been racing at high speed along the quiet north-west road, and were overtaking the minivan as it took a right turn up the hidden track. The two gunshot noises were the bikes hitting the van.
I remember, a few months later, meeting another journalist. He had, by chance, been out to St Kitts a couple of days after I left. He was singing the praises of his driver, a chap called Maynard.
I never did find out whether the first biker died. I wish I could remember more. I’m ashamed that I can’t.
New Grumpy Traveller guides
I’m still working on getting the redesign for the new look Grumpy Traveller done (see this post for explanation), but one major thing I plan to concentrate on is offering genuinely useful city guides. By this, I don’t mean generic blather about the main attractions that seems to pass muster on most blogs – I mean properly researched, informative stuff that steers travellers to the best bits in town and away from the worst. I also want to keep them concise so that they can be easily digested rather than bogged down with too much detail on everything.
What should be in a guide?
But what should be in such a guide? I’ve got a few uploaded already, but these are republished versions of those I researched for the Sun-Herald in Sydney. There are some things I like about the format, and others I don’t. I want to start doing guides in a format specifically designed for this site and its readers.
Presuming that they’re aimed at people spending a day or a weekend in town, what should I include and what is best left out? I’ve got my own theories, but I’d appreciate feedback.
Guide contents: Provisional theories
As far as I can see, such a guide should look a little like this:
Pre-amble: Concise overview of the main districts – which is good for what – and general explanation of what the city’s vibe is, perhaps with a little history thrown in where helpful.
Sights and attractions: A round-up of the big name attractions and whether they’re worth going to, plus a couple of lesser-known options that may suit those with special interests. Not every bloody church in the city… This section should also include outdoorsy things (parks, pools, beaches etc) that are worth going to, and at least one good option for children.
Accommodation: The best budget option (under £50 in most cities); three good choices for mid-range stays (£50 to £100 bracket in most cities); one luxury choice with style and character for a special treat (£100 to between £150 and £200, depending on the city); one absolute lash-out, top-of-the-town affair.
Eating: A couple of good places for lunch on the go or snacky treats (sandwich shops, delis, patisseries); three or four sit-down cafés/ restaurants that serve good food at reasonable prices – preferably the best choices in the areas that visitors are likely to go to; one slap up, special treat meal option.
Nightlife: Around six options that cover a range of moods – ie. one good venue for specialist beers, one good for cocktails, one with a party vibe, one for a relaxing quiet drink, one that’s a bit of a local favourite, one that has regular live music. Plus an overview of the best area or two for a bar hop.
Tours and activities: Round-up of the tour options available, both the generic bus/ walking tours available in the city, plus more specialist themed tours. This section should also include good day and half day excursion options out of the city, plus things like river cruises, kayak hire and bike hire.
Shopping: The best high street/ label shopping zone, the best area(s) to find indie shops, plus one or two good example shops where required. And a market or two if they’re any good.
Transport: How to get to and from the airport (with costs for taxis and public transport), how the public transport system works and the attractions you’ll need public transport to get to.
But I want your thoughts too. What should I be looking at including that many guides fail on?
Tags: guidebooks, Travel Writing
A night in a lonely Florida motel turns into something magical once the cast of Cocoon walks in…
At the end of almost every line in Five For Fighting’s Superman, there is a high note. I know this because I can’t reach it.
It would, perhaps, have been better to discover this before now. Alas, the Eureka moment comes stood on a stage in a foreign country, before an audience that gave up on this newfangled pop music thing when Dame Vera Lynn was something of a Lady Gaga.
“It may sound absu-[croak of air trapped in throat]/ But don’t be nai-[hacking noise usually associated with choking on a chicken bone].” It’s an inglorious lumber to the finishing line, pants long around ankles.
The end is greeting with the sort of rippling polite applause that only those above a certain age can be bothered to muster any more. One day, maybe Simon Cowell will greet poor song choices in this way.
Fate has brought us to this dark, slightly other-worldly room. We picked Stuart because it was about halfway between Key Largo and Cape Canaveral and, as there was nothing on it in the guide book, we reasoned that motel rooms would be ridiculously cheap.
“I don’t half fancy a pizza tonight,” I said as we pulled into the car park of a Best Western with precisely zero distinguishing features. It sat on one of those roads that Florida loves so much – four lanes tumbling into six, small blocks of strangled pseudo-life spaced out too far to walk between. A drive miles for dinner kind of place, past subdued chain mega-outlets and sprawling parking lots in their after-dark slumber.
“We’re not going to get to do karaoke here, are we?” sighed my wife, who’d been hankering after a sing-song since we arrived in the US.
We checked in and raced out, car keys in hand, to find somewhere other than a Denny’s or Wendy’s. “Hang on,” I whispered. “What does that sign say?”
The only other thing in view was the motel across the road. It had a banner outside. It was serving pizzas. And it was karaoke night.
The motel bar had a maudlin, bleak quality. Two middle-aged women serving drinks, one soak slumped on his stool, a couple of feeble fairy lights brought in to pierce the melancholy but only managing to add to it.
And then it slowly started to fill, walking sticks clattering into replacement hips, purple rinses peacock-strutting amongst the wigs. We had landed in Cocoon. This sad little motel on a road no-one could love was clearly the epicentre of Florida’s world-leading retirement industry. The septuagenarian puppies would have to spice things up for the rest.
But sometimes magic arrives from unexpected sources. Singing songs from before any era I recognise, rattly crone after fragile old dear came to the microphone and crooned. Not in a creaky, amateurish way, but with rich, honeyed timbres that wore 80 years of stories. Occasionally, they ventured into songs I know. Have you ever heard Unchained Melody sung with the measured beauty of a lifetime’s hurt, hope, love and loss? It’s spellbinding.
Then up stepped one woman, reduced to a patchy comb-over and elephantine wrinkles in what had to be at least her 90th year. She grasped the microphone softly, and her heart seeped into it. Taking a different audience member in the eye with each bar, she stepped down from the stage to work each table – a long-extinguished career of singing in clubs blazing through, youth flooding back by the note.
We were seeing slow-burning happiness emerge in the strangest of places; past lives and exploits being brought back with an explosive sepia-tinted flush. The sort of warm glow that can’t be ruined by an idiot squeaking to death on a Five For Fighting song.
A couple of croons later, and Linda – a scruffy-looking lady in her sixties – steps up. The anticipatory applause is rather louder than normal. The crowd knows Linda. They know something special’s coming. My wife and I look at each other? How on earth can she top the pitch-perfect Frank Sinatra impersonator, complete with rat pack hat and gear? What is she going to do to upstage the woman on the next table’s ferocious country power-howl?
Linda steps up to the mic, big and possibly slightly disturbed grin on her face. She raises a fist to the heavens and the doof-doofs kick in.
“PUMP UP THE JAM! PUMP IT UP! WHILE YOU’RE FEET ARE STOMPING…”
We turn the corner, wondering what awaits us. Actually, wondering is probably the wrong word. We’re silently hoping that what awaits us has something more to offer than what we’ve seen already.
It’s a glass display board. With a comic strip in. Just like the other glass display boards with comic strips in that we’ve already seen. It’s a different comic strip, though. An exciting, different comic strip, yeah? Come on, let’s throw ourselves into this.
That’s what I want to say, but I can’t bring myself to. It’d come across so obviously fake; I’d just sound pathetic. So I stay silent, and pretend to be absorbed in the exhibit. That bloody glass display board with that bloody comic strip in it. I can’t even read it – it’s in Flemish. But I can’t just walk away without so much as a passing glance.
The Belgian Comic Strip Center in Brussels should be brilliant. Belgium has a unique relationship with comic book art; there are murals based on famous strips all over the capital and scores of specialist comic shops. There’s a genuine sense that it’s an art form of equal merit to painting, literature, sculpture or architecture. And the Musée Hergé in Louvain-la-Neuve – about an hour out of Brussels by train and dedicated to Tintin’s creator – is absolutely tremendous.
The Belgian Comic Strip Center is not tremendous though. It’s a soul-sapping, glum exercise in missed opportunity. Lovely building, mind; get your fix of that art nouveau splendour – go on, soak it in, lap it up. The present inside the wrapping is a crusher though; one you have to feign enthusiasm for then hide at the back of the wardrobe for years until you move house and have a big clear-out session.
I trudge to the next comic strip in a display case. It’s a character that’s probably never been seen outside Belgium. An explanatory plaque tells me all I need to know; that this is a comic strip character that a man once drew. I don’t need the back story, the reasoning or the cultural impact. Character, drawn by man. Woo.
If only I were alone. I could cope with a dreadful museum alone. I could just wander through very quickly, slightly angry about the eight euro I’d spent to get in. I’d just rush it, realise I’d made a mistake, write the €8 off and get the hell out.
I can’t do that though. This was my idea. I thought it looked good. It’s not about my €8 – it’s my friend’s €8 that counts. And by heavens we’re going to go through slowly, taking all of this in. One comic strip artist liked the sea; that’s worth knowing, isn’t it? He liked boats. And drew lots of boats. In strips that have never had any significance outside of Belgium. Look at the things drawn by the man who liked boats, David. It’s only fair.
And so we trudge through, giving every section its due. Silence is punctuated by trumped-up hmmms and forlornly-squeaked ohs. We both know a dreadful mistake has been made, but neither of us can bear to draw attention to it. Decorum before honesty.
Finally, we emerge from the exit doors. We both break the heavy, awkward silence in sync. “That was shit, wasn’t it?”
