I am honoured to be able to use this sentence and mean it:
The bride rocked an American apparel lace catsuit. Her g-string and breasts clearly and gorgeously visible. A wrestling belt bisected her torso. Her Mohawk quivered gently as she shivered, teeth chattering in the brisk morning air of Bow.
Her groom stood tall in gold hi-tops, silver spandex legs topped with a white tux. A peach tutu swung about her as she turned to and fro, eyes sparkling at her guests. The sky - a perfect blue-bird blue - had dressed for the occasion. Even the sun had his hat on.
The wedding party made their rag-taggle way towards the registry office. A collection of gender-bending friends (their chosen families) and a confused pet - each carrying a single flower - whooped up Bromley High Street and onto Bow Road.
The staff at the Registry Office smirked.
We filed in to the serious room designed only for waiting, and decorated the stern furniture. The wedding attendant looked slightly nervous. The security guard merely laughed. It did look farcical but actually wasn’t. A universal feeling gripped the room.
Laughter bubbled up into each gullet, threatened to spill from each grinning mouth. The unanimous feeling was reflected on every face: wedding-happy grins smothered us all. Lucky – the ring-bearer and only sausage dog in the room – skipped happily from guest to guest as we awaited the call and we admired each others finery. ‘Nice wig!’ ‘Nice boa!’ ‘Nice tits!’
Periodically Lucky would grow frustrated, snapping at the pink bag attached to his back. The bag contained the ‘rings’ (or lockets, hastily purchased the day before at Spitalfields Market the bride confessed.) Each contained a lock of the others’ hair.
None of us could quite believe we were here.
The wedding attendant stepped finally into the waiting room and opened the double doors. “Will the guests please be seated.” Much guffawing and last-minute introductions, (“Hi hi, yes, I’m with the bride, nice to meet you too!”) and the party cleaved to people the chairs each side of the aisle.
Then, signalling time, the first bars of the wedding song chimed forth and everyone shut the hell up. Warren G’s ‘Regulate’ filled the room. We giggled and nodded our hip hop heads in approval.
“It was a clear black night, a clear white moon Warren G was on the streets, trying to consume…” and, on cue, the gaggle of chosen grooms-men, best men and maids of honour hotstepped smugly up the aisle.
The groom was waiting with tears in her eyes. Then in strutted the bride, bouquet in hand, Mohawk still quivering.
Vows were exchanged. Lockets were exchanged. Tears were shed. Photos snapped. The groom, laryngitis or party husky, said “I will.’ The bride acquiesced also. We cheered. Lucky howled, pleased as punch that his mistress had been made an honest woman.
A poem was read about wings carrying two souls and then we followed the bride into the garden where, grinning further still, she shivered under the perfect blue-bird sky and said, “Let’s go to the pub.”
The Bow Bells was the venue for the wedding breakfast: here platters of chips and two bottles of vintage cava were shared. Pool was played. Jokes were cracked. Arrangements were made for this party and many more. We had to bang on the door to get them to open up for us. “We’ve just got married!” the newly-weds gaily declare. “Happy new… I mean congratulations!” the barman said, wiping sleep from his eyes.
The past was a mirage we’d left far behind. And now they were married, joined together forever.
Showing posts with label epic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label epic. Show all posts
Monday, 9 January 2012
Wednesday, 13 October 2010
In Patagonia
Puerto Madryn. Those two words display a fusion of two languages, two cultures. In 1865, 160 plucky welsh men and women from all over Wales sailed a ship called Mimosa from Wales to Brazil. Finding that Brazil was not for them, they pushed on, down the coast, to the isolated Chubut Province, landing at what is now Puerto Madryn. They lived in caves all winter. (Hardcore in the ice and snow of Patagonia) Then hiked a few kilometres to create the towns now known as Gaiman, Dolavon and Trelew. They wanted to create a "little Wales beyond Wales", and in a way, that is what they have done.
I walk into the Ty Gwyn Tea Shop in Gaiman. There are pictures of welsh chapels and love spoons hung on the walls. Doilies and daffodils adorn the quaint pine tables, all set for tea. I could be in Treprior (old family farm) and I begin to shake. A woman hears the bell and emerges wearing an apron. A deep breath: "Siarad Cymraeg?" I ask hesitantly. "Ahhh ydwy! Croesawa Gaiman! Ble ach chan?" (Ahhhh yes! Welcome to Gaiman! Where are you from?) The welsh rolls off her tongue as if she´s from Abereiron. She even speaks English like a Welsh person, with a lovely, heavy accent. I´m completely overexcited, and immediately want to phone my mam, my mam-gu. She serves us a tray of bread and butter, welsh cakes, bara brith, scones and endless tea. Proper tea. I discover that this woman has been to Kidwelly Castle, has driven through Newtown and that her family are from Lampeter. She speaks welsh at home, and Spanish of course. Her kids learn Welsh in school. This is far more welsh than the part of Wales I grew up in. I keep shaking my head and grinning in disbelief.
Puerto Madryn is also the breeding ground for the Southern Right Whale. On a grey, drizzly afternoon, we take a boat trip to get up close and personal. A dinghy full of expectant tourists holding impotent cameras, we head for the nearest fin. It is a mother and a rare white calf. Like an albino, mottled and ivory white. The whales are not intimidated by the boat at all, and we spend the 2 hours absoltely surrounded by these massive creatures. Hearing, feeling their breath, watching them dive away from the gulls trying to peck at them, seeing the babies lolling over their mothers, tired with milk. Being so near the whales is incredible. Much much bigger than our boat, we are staring them in the eyes. So close I could reach out and stroke them.
We also go to a penguin colony (a million penguins, so many they become passe) and get pretty close to the obese elephant seals slobbing along the shore. At one point two alpha males nearly have a scrap, and one has to peg it (i use that term loosely) for fear of attack from his fatter opponent.
Nestled in the highest valley in Argentina, just before the many rivers reach their Pacific destination, finishing their nutritious journey through the Andes, is a town called El Bolson. A ´non-Nuclear zone´, it is full of hippies. Everyone we meet has moved here from other parts to build their own homes, raise kids, work on their crafts to sell at the beautiful market.
Completely by chance we end up staying with a man called Augustine Porro at Le Casa Del Viajero. He has built this beautiful place himself and he shows us round a couple of log cabins. "My children were born here" he points upstairs to one of the bedrooms. "My wife built that house" he points to the stone farmhouse which is now their main abode. We live, for a few blissful days, in a log cabin at the base of Mount Piltrequitron, by the crystal clear River Azul. We hike up the valley, through the forest, following the river to reach the canyon. The Cajon De Azul, where water thunders hundreds of feet below us and snow-capped mountains stretch high ahead. Further down, we dive into the deep river, and scramble out breathless. Ice cold glacial water. So pure you can drink it. The Welsh chose their Latin American home wisely. This is paradise.
I walk into the Ty Gwyn Tea Shop in Gaiman. There are pictures of welsh chapels and love spoons hung on the walls. Doilies and daffodils adorn the quaint pine tables, all set for tea. I could be in Treprior (old family farm) and I begin to shake. A woman hears the bell and emerges wearing an apron. A deep breath: "Siarad Cymraeg?" I ask hesitantly. "Ahhh ydwy! Croesawa Gaiman! Ble ach chan?" (Ahhhh yes! Welcome to Gaiman! Where are you from?) The welsh rolls off her tongue as if she´s from Abereiron. She even speaks English like a Welsh person, with a lovely, heavy accent. I´m completely overexcited, and immediately want to phone my mam, my mam-gu. She serves us a tray of bread and butter, welsh cakes, bara brith, scones and endless tea. Proper tea. I discover that this woman has been to Kidwelly Castle, has driven through Newtown and that her family are from Lampeter. She speaks welsh at home, and Spanish of course. Her kids learn Welsh in school. This is far more welsh than the part of Wales I grew up in. I keep shaking my head and grinning in disbelief.
Puerto Madryn is also the breeding ground for the Southern Right Whale. On a grey, drizzly afternoon, we take a boat trip to get up close and personal. A dinghy full of expectant tourists holding impotent cameras, we head for the nearest fin. It is a mother and a rare white calf. Like an albino, mottled and ivory white. The whales are not intimidated by the boat at all, and we spend the 2 hours absoltely surrounded by these massive creatures. Hearing, feeling their breath, watching them dive away from the gulls trying to peck at them, seeing the babies lolling over their mothers, tired with milk. Being so near the whales is incredible. Much much bigger than our boat, we are staring them in the eyes. So close I could reach out and stroke them.
We also go to a penguin colony (a million penguins, so many they become passe) and get pretty close to the obese elephant seals slobbing along the shore. At one point two alpha males nearly have a scrap, and one has to peg it (i use that term loosely) for fear of attack from his fatter opponent.
Nestled in the highest valley in Argentina, just before the many rivers reach their Pacific destination, finishing their nutritious journey through the Andes, is a town called El Bolson. A ´non-Nuclear zone´, it is full of hippies. Everyone we meet has moved here from other parts to build their own homes, raise kids, work on their crafts to sell at the beautiful market.
Completely by chance we end up staying with a man called Augustine Porro at Le Casa Del Viajero. He has built this beautiful place himself and he shows us round a couple of log cabins. "My children were born here" he points upstairs to one of the bedrooms. "My wife built that house" he points to the stone farmhouse which is now their main abode. We live, for a few blissful days, in a log cabin at the base of Mount Piltrequitron, by the crystal clear River Azul. We hike up the valley, through the forest, following the river to reach the canyon. The Cajon De Azul, where water thunders hundreds of feet below us and snow-capped mountains stretch high ahead. Further down, we dive into the deep river, and scramble out breathless. Ice cold glacial water. So pure you can drink it. The Welsh chose their Latin American home wisely. This is paradise.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
Foz Do Iguazu
Straddling Brazil and Argentina is a stretch of river. A massive one. Its waters pour over several giant steps of magma before tumbling thousands of feet into the ever deepening valley below. Like any natural wonder of the modern world, The Igauzu Falls have of course become a major tourist attraction - with all the trappings that entails. To view the whole lot takes two days - such is the velocity of the water.
The two countries are somewhat competitive about their ´ownership´ of the falls. ´Look what we have!´ shout the Brazilians on their side, while the Argentinians - boasting, as they do, the lions share of the banks, display their ownership via the efficacy of their viewing platforms - which dangle you over the edge of the falls so you feel the spray on your face.
Watch the water until you see a circular rainbow appear, the sun catching the endless fall of fine mist. Birds plunge in and out, to and from the rock face behind the colossal sheet of water. They drop away from the rock, falling towards the cauldron below before soaring upwards, in pairs, diving and swooping through the rainbow. It´s like watching a Disney film. Butterflies swirl idiotically close to the spray, some of them clipped unluckily by a droplet and being torn down by the force, others circle lazily, their wings getting wetter and wetter, their flight lower until they are taken by the water - or else perform some incredible feat and power out of the cavern.
The trees and vegetation are so absolutely green they almost hurt your eyes. Getting bathed in a constant fine mist must be the most luxury life for a plant.
Admiring another country from the top of a waterfall, you can see the tiny figures doing the same from across the river. We stand there feeling the spray, hearing the thunder for a very long time. I faze out the American tourists around me, ignore the shouts of the photographers desperate to sell you back your image. Dizzy with vertigo, watching the incessant tumble of the water, feeling the vital force.
The two countries are somewhat competitive about their ´ownership´ of the falls. ´Look what we have!´ shout the Brazilians on their side, while the Argentinians - boasting, as they do, the lions share of the banks, display their ownership via the efficacy of their viewing platforms - which dangle you over the edge of the falls so you feel the spray on your face.
Watch the water until you see a circular rainbow appear, the sun catching the endless fall of fine mist. Birds plunge in and out, to and from the rock face behind the colossal sheet of water. They drop away from the rock, falling towards the cauldron below before soaring upwards, in pairs, diving and swooping through the rainbow. It´s like watching a Disney film. Butterflies swirl idiotically close to the spray, some of them clipped unluckily by a droplet and being torn down by the force, others circle lazily, their wings getting wetter and wetter, their flight lower until they are taken by the water - or else perform some incredible feat and power out of the cavern.
The trees and vegetation are so absolutely green they almost hurt your eyes. Getting bathed in a constant fine mist must be the most luxury life for a plant.
Admiring another country from the top of a waterfall, you can see the tiny figures doing the same from across the river. We stand there feeling the spray, hearing the thunder for a very long time. I faze out the American tourists around me, ignore the shouts of the photographers desperate to sell you back your image. Dizzy with vertigo, watching the incessant tumble of the water, feeling the vital force.
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