Fortunately, the trial of MRP is not that dramatic.

NO, it’s more akin to a luxury dream holiday: yanking out a wisdom tooth in Yemen … but I hope that other shit got you out of your daily syrup for a second; me: shit, haven’t had a beer in 3 damned weeks and I ready to kill for one (or several – actually, which is why I’m here in the port of Aden in southern Yemen – formerly a British Protectorate and slightly more liberal than the north of the country; here you can buy beer !!! (- if you hunt for it) but hell I haven’t touched a drop as I’m well laid out on A/Bs (anti-biotics) and serious painkillers awaiting the verdict. Will the tooth come out or not ? Can only wait .. two more days and if the ABs are still no good then a dentist – disguised as a veiled babe – will yank me off.

It’s true.

And the following is also true: I’m very close to abducting Bin Laden and topping up my depleted travel funds with that cool 25 million the Yanks are offering – for Yemen is actually the ancestral homeland of Bin; his Dad moved to Saudi, later on – but how close am I ? Well, just before I got to the internet cafe, having bought a powerhorse energy drink and a bottle of water from the qat-chewing – drug chewing – Yemeni with cheeks bulging behind the counter and sitting on the flooor wasted he tells me that my mineral water is produced by a Bin Laden company. So he’s one step ahead of the Yanks – selling water to the Arabs – and that company is called ..is called – Help, by buying the product am I assisting the enemy ??? Bet they – that Govt – will intercept this message and grab him and there goes my hard-earned dollars – but it’s called: ALBARAKA. and apparently its “pure, natural, healthy ..” promising no explosive bowel movements.

See what happens when I don’t drink alcohol – shit just runs out of my mouth.

So here I am in Yemen – I think I mentioned that ? Anyway, I am on jab-row, that is to say every 12 hours I get it in the butt. An injection. Three days of needles – 11am & 11 pm. And the worse part about it is the absence of the hell-babe dentist – who can’t do it, isn’t allowed to do it, because my bum qualifies as a male outside of her immediate family and so it’s taboo under Islamic custom for her to look at . But, but, she can be my dentist and fiddle with my mouth.

Hell, I haven’t had sex since Amsterdam – when I binged on hookers and coke – the real one – one long fulfilling day, a month ago. See what shit I shoot when I don’t fuck … ???

Anyway, so here I am in Yemen – I mentioned that, yeah, okay, well how are things here ??? Brilliant, actually. The tooth problem is Allah’s will and so be it when and if … am really loving this amazing country of history and scenery: the stunning stone tower houses of old Sanna – the entire city of 14,000 houses – a UNESCO world heritage site, and the numerous ancient mountain towns and precarious hilltop fortresses perched on impossible peaks in the north, the hellishly hot, Tihama Red Sea towns, the broken biblical ruins of the Queen of Sheba’s city in the deep desert … the frankincense routes, the kebabs and humous, the monsoonal storms, the mosques, the people; it’s all good.

Great, just now: two Muslim chicks – only eyes showing amid the black cloth swathes – are kissing and hugging here at the moment – just friends, I suppose.

Presently I am in Aden, and as I said it was formerly a British Protectorate until 1967 and important port for the Red Sea passage on the Suez Canal route.

I am here staying in the same colonial – and rundown, now – hotel that the great French poet Arthur Rimbaud stayed in 1879 after being disllusioned by France and the reception of his work there and before he took up gun smuggling in Ethiopia.

He said in a letter to his mother: “Aden is a frightful rock without a single blade of grass”. He wasn’t a happy guy, ever. But I see his point – Aden is based around an extinct volcano  (551 metres) against the sea and even today the only grass is an artifical – heavily watered – corniche park; otherwise it’s hot and dusty, and rocky – like a harsh, rocky Arabian Rio: scoria humps jutting out into the sky and sea.

I stay in the area known as “crater” – can you guess why it’s named – the old town is surrounded by volcanic walls or ocean. Broken forts and old city walls sit along the volcanic ridges. I like the place and there’s zero tourists here. Besides, I can’t leave without this tooth appeased or extracted and so I must await the verdict.

Yemen is very different in every corner of the country – but for those that don’t know it was in fact two countries – Islamic north & Communist south – until 1994; when the last war finally cemented them together.

Before that it was seized by the Ottoman Turks for a few centuries and later partially in the south by the British Empire but – like Afghanistan – it has always been a mixture of fiercely independent kingdoms, tribal wars, clad feuds and warring instability for centuries and all conquerors have failed to totally tame the tribes – including the present government and the problems of the far north near the Saudi border (with big clashes last year).

In Yemen there are 20 million people and for every man, woman, and child – there are 3 guns each. And like the traditional dancing daggers that the men wear everywhere, in many areas of Yemen automatic rifles and Kalashnikovs ( AK-47) – are also carried like local fashion accessories.

Public display of weapons – guns – has been banned in the big cities but in the tribal area of Marib the other week as I was traveling the desert 2 days to visit the Queen of Sheba’s ruined city – under Police/Army escort – weapons were visible everywhere. Army roadblocks every 10 km, with parked utes with big machine guns mounted on the rear, tanks in emplacements, compounds and forts rock along the stark desert road; and tribals everywhere wandering around markets with their weapons, here in a land of kidnappings and continuing tension between tribes and other tribes and between tribes and the central government.

Yeah, yesterday was surreal and today I am still analyzing what little I remember …  I’m here in Irkutsk, Siberia, near lake Baikal.

Yesterday I had gone to a kiosk cum beer garden a block from where I was staying to get a shish kebab – grilled meat – and had a beer while I waited and was intending to return to the hostel to watch a DVD and have a quiet night. It was around 10pm and still light. Busy streets. A group of student-looking guys (4) and three girlfriends got talking to me and offered some vodka.

That morning as I stumbled to my feet I really wondered where the fuck I was ??? Trees, fields, and a country road and thank god it wasn’t cold or raining but I had all my clothes on from the night before – gore-tex jacket, fleece and soaked boots – how had these had gotten wet and had far had I already walked I have no memory – not even of awaking into this scene. Just stumbling like a waster in an unbelievable acid trip. I thought I was in a dream.

But my hands were cut and bruised from falling and my head above my eye a little banged from falling. AND while I had all my clothes and Swiss knife and money belt with passport and credit cards and traveler cheques intact. My cash dollars and rubles were all gone. And I had no idea where I was. I was something out of a movie – starring MRP as lead idiot. All the time I felt really wasted. Not alcoholic wasted-ness – but a euphoric swirling light dizziness. Blanket headache not searing pain. No vomit; no hang-over feeling so I guessed I hadn’t drunk too much but had had my drink spiked.

The doctor later confirmed that. Back at the hostel many hours later the manager called his friend and he checked me over and stated that there’s this drug – for lowering blood pressure that mixed with vodka to knock you out within 20 minutes and wipe your memory and that I was showing these signs as he checked my pulse and suggested that I drink alot of coffee to get back on the planet.

Anyway, to continue with the story. I don’t know how long I walked for but let’s assume hours. And I don’t know how my boots were soaked but my body dry. Did I walk thru wet grass, jump a creek, dumped in a farm house or on the roadside I don’t know ???

I tried hitching but no one stopped and besides there were few cars. I stumbled and fell and walked until – somehow in the right direction – towards asphalt roads and then the odd house and then over a hill and into suburbia and what must have been the outer limits of the city. I must have looked like  madmen and felt like a crazy.

I was still feeling sedated but strong enough to break through the feeling – maybe because of numerous experiences of altered realities over the years – but anyway the few people in the streets were frightened by me and shouted and hurried in the other direction when I tried to ask which way to the city.

I kept walking. Then a decent young Russian guy asked me what had happened as I was trying to communicate to another frightened local at a bus stop. He spoke English. He paid 100 rubles ($3) to a taxi driver to take me into the city center.

But when I went to the ATM for more cash – the driver left me there.

Having walked around the city yesterday I eventually found my way back to the hostel (actually an apartment with a few beds free). The receptionist was blown by my story and I crashed out.

The owner was called along with his doctor friend who said this is the kind of thing police know and do. Two police cadets had been caught robbing a taxi driver the other day. I had some flashback of a big building, wide corridors and uniforms (but here even firemen have camouflage uniforms) and I can’t be sure if this was dream.

Maybe I was lifted from the streets, searched in a station – money found and to cover there tracks dumped way out of town as nothing was gone except my receipts for cash dollars withdraws in Mongolia. I lost $372 US dollars and about $300 in rubles. But nothing else. Thankfully they didn’t find my hidden supply of an extra $600. True thieves surely would have taken everything including passport (normally, if I plan to go drinking only $20 or so is on me for this exact possibility).

Much of this last paragraph is assumption and there are a few more details but the real story seems forever lost.

I was unlucky and lucky – the damage could have been way worse. In fact it was a bit of a laugh because it’s so fuckin’ bizarre. Interesting experience but I’m not sure if it was value for money.

Anyway, that was day one in Russia. 30 to go …

Love, flowers & watch who you drink vodka with – MRP

So there I was finishing photographing the huge Spanish-colonial San Felipe fortress from the old city walls of Caribbean Cartagena shortly as dusk collided with the rushing traffic and three teenagers smoking pot on the riverside walls, having left this scene as a dodgy dude approached me and decided to give him the berth before I lost my entire camera bag when a cop on a motorbike sees me, slows, turns and is suddenly searching me and then a flash from fuckin’ last night.

Hooker and that small but obvious stash and papers in my Marlboro box  and after my left pocket searched the gear is found. He grins or was it a growl, I dunno cos I knew I was in the shit having carried it around all day having forgotten all about it. BUSTED.

For a few minutes I tried to reason with him that I had fuck-all dope but he kept insisting I get on the back of his motorbike and go to the station and after he threatened to handcuff me on the street, traffic and bunged up buses slowing for the spectacle, I agreed to go for a ride.

I remember my unsmiling resigned expression mirrored on astonished locals watching as we whizzed down alleys avoiding the rush hour.

At the small station it was all go as he showed another officer his catch, his small haul equal to a joint or so. They searched my camera bag thoroughly, taking interest my condoms and quizzing the crystal silica bags and I knew it was getting bad cos I had two expensive Sony digital cameras for them to play with, ponder, plunder; one guy wanted-to know how it worked and away he was outside with the video camera and I was seriously wondering how insurance would respond to the claim of busted for drugs, both cameras stolen by the cops.

But seriously the searched me extensively for more gear and were pretty shitty but when they couldn’t find any more they still talked about 5 days jail and that was a relief; thought it would be longer.

They asked for my passport and they were amused when I didn’t even have a copy (it’s illegal here not to carry ID) which I wasn’t carrying but they they seemed to warm to me when I showed them some of my tourist history books of their city and when they found out I was from Nueva Zealandia I felt hope at paying my way out trouble but with such expensive cameras on me I had no way of pleading poverty.

Yet my poor Spanish really helped me faint incomprehension but the word PROHIBITO is very clear. I agreed, Si Si.

They asked, how much I paid for it and where it was bought and I had to tell them a pro had bought for us and that it was only a small packet for around 5000 pesos – less than $2.

The other cop returned from outside my camera for me and I knew things would improve as they found no more gear and the measley amount wasn’t worth their time.

He asked if I wanted libertadade for a price. I emptied my pocket of local cash expecting to be stripped of everything before official processing began and to my surprise he handed back my dope and I left the station complete with cameras but minus about $US 15 in local pesos.

I guess my friendliness, the tiny amount, maybe simply their money making activities saw my release … I thanked him and gave him the nice one / everything’s okay Brazilian thumbs up gesture and with a sense of life again and a bewildered smile I walked stunned by my escape, down the street.

I smoked that menacing, forgotten joint back in the guesthouse courtyard and now, reflect … never has a cold beer felt so freeing.

Colombia – photo galleries

There’s a guy, Fernando, English speaking, who’s been in the slammer here for 4 years for possessing 4 grams of cocaine, but he admits he’s actually been a drug dealer all his adult life; he got busted to now serve his present 8 year sentence. But he’s been organizing these tours of the goal, with the help of the corrupt prison governor – who he pays off with tourist dollars to shorten his sentence; his final 4 years have been reduced to 1.5 years and decreasing as his bizarre tours continue …

The prison was once a vast nunnery but now it houses 1300 convicts, the atmosphere resembles a market, a high-walled ghetto of courtyards and separate blocks; where living depends on cash and your insider status. This guy lived in the elite – white collar crime -ghetto of lawyers gone wrong, mafia and drug barons busted. They had cells – more like a row of hostel rooms around a series of balconies – decked out in whatever they could afford, TVs, water-beds, computers, all paid off / thru the system. The richest guy in the prison was a mafia boss busted with 4 tons of coke, he lived on the top floor.

We waited at the prison’s stone-fort entrance, passed thru a metal detector and numerous armed guards, past lines of families, women with plaited hair wearing Bolivian bowler hats, being searched for the visiting day, showed ID, then thru locked iron gates as this guy called out instructions from behind the bars on ‘how to enter’.

Inside and surrounded by half a dozen of ‘his security boys’, we paid the guards their fee and we were then ushered into another courtyard to begin our tour (strictly, no photos allowed).

For an hour we shown around, protected by an alert group of toughs, from block to block to see the circus. It wasn’t a Hollywood movie settings of concrete block rows, cells and bars but a strange maze of rickety rooms and alleys and balconies and courtyards – some, with food kiosks set up by prisoners, fruit and vege stalls, others had card games going and shoe repairs, as small business were the name of survival inside. I watched men talking with families, laughing with girlfriends, and kids wandering freely – many families were allowed to stay inside with their dads, kids went to school to return each night to prison!

Rooms were rented to prisoners and they often had to keep their families here rather than let them live on the street.

Those new arrivals who had no room or money became the servant of someone in exchange for a floor to sleep.

Food was free but the moneyed prisoners never ate it because it was drugged with sedatives to keep the calm (I watched zombies wait in line to eat; this food guaranteed their siesta). Instead most cooked or ate at one of the section kiosks.

The prisoners ran the prison inside; no guards dared enter, they only patrolled the streets and the walls outside. Everything was available, apart from food and the standard commodities, there was booze, cocaine, grass, women – wives, pros, girlfriends were able to enter and stay overnight, for a price (our tour cost $US10).

So why could this guy operate so easily: he was number 7 in the hierarchary of 8 who ran the prison, and one of his friends who accompanied us was the number one – a real mafia mean-looker who was responsible for punishment, especially overseeing the newly arrived rapists.

They outlined the torture methods … Do you want to hear about it?

… Probably not … Anyway, basically these guys got everything they needed plus time off their sentences for doing this business while the Governor of the prison got rich. Both men had long scars down the throats and face … We felt safe there and it was a family / circus atmosphere but it was obvious the heat packed on when visiting was over. Accidents and suicides, as he put it – or rather, murders happened often, and weekly, especially over gambling debts.

… when a rapist arrived into the system he was put in a concrete pool in the courtyard where for some time he would be abused, have food, shit, piss thrown over him, then beaten across the bare arse, 20 – 30 times with thick, plastic-coated lead cables torn from the prison walls – apparently, most victims screamed for mercy after 3 lashes, and following the lashings completion super-hot red chillies were then crushed and stuffed on and up his bleeding arse.

The “tour” ended with a solid demo of this, thick brutal wire smacking the concrete wall.

PHOTOS of Bolivia

School kids in Pro-Saddam street parade - Rutbah, Iraq. 1989

I, am, away with it. Still tired. And I don’t even notice the Nissan pick-up slow up beside me. But I soon accept a lift; he speaks no English but lets me out 400 meters later – in the slow center of town.

I sip sweet black tea outside a basic café and dwell – so this is Iraq, it’s okay – yeah, quiet, people seem friendly, and super-curious for sure. Across from me rows of flat-roofed, sun-bleached, bland concrete buildings border the dusty asphalt main-street. Many have a half-completed look, with bricks and rusting steel exposed, awaiting an optimistic additional storey. A few people are out and about but it’s not busy. Shops display modern clothing, Adidas bags and other goods hanging from pinned-back steel doors, where wooden crates and heaped sacks clutter their entrances.

Basically a scene not worth writing about but to bring it alive suddenly – a man balancing a tray of tiny glasses on his fingertips says “You are welcome to Iraq. Most welcome!” “Thank you. It’s good to be here.” And I ask him how much I owe him. “No. This okay, no money.” “No money? Free?” “Yes free for you. You like more?” He replaces my empty glass with another fresh glass of tea then darts between tables, serving others while still shouting out questions at me: Which country you from? Your name is? You are tourist, yes? Where you go after here? How long you stay Iraq, friend?

During this tea talk a hell-of-a-noise emerges from down the mainstreet to be loads of schoolchildren marching and chanting. Three boys lead the crowd holding Saddam portraits. Followed by two lads with a large-scripted Arabic banner. Two girls in camouflage frocks carrying colorful bouquets. Two boys troop flags. The Iraqi national flag flutters limply in the light breeze as columns of school boys – flanked by unsmiling teachers – follow on mass. I see two lads giggle and jostle – to get scolded by a serious man.

I ask the guy standing beside me “What’s this for?” Another man replies “Holy-day” Well, it wasn’t Ramadan (the Muslim holy month), that I did know. I asked him again “A holiday for what?” “Our president, Saddam.” Really? Weird way to spend a holiday.

But I’m intrigued so I follow the parade – since I’m heading out of town to hitch, anyway. On traffic island a huge mural of Saddam’s head and shoulders – in military uniform and shades – dominates the passing kids. Several children call to me and I take their photo.

Soon the parade merges with adults gathered in a parched park shaded by Eucalyptus trees. There on a stage are wreaths of color, more presidential portraits, more Iraqi flags. In fact the entire stage is a parcel of Iraqi tri-colors – of red, white with green stars and black ribbons wrapping everything and everybody, adding an authoritative splash of official color to the drab-suited dignitaries seated by the speaker’s podium.

Raspy, amplified Arabic shrieks over the crowd to reach across the street to where I stand watching; not wanting to be intrusive I purposely keep a distance because already I’ve been the reason for too many bewildered stares.

I’m crouched down rewinding my film, about to put a new one in the camera when I gaze up to see many faces staring and pointing over at me? At me !!!

A wildfire ignites before my eyes as Arabs whisper to one another as the murmuring spreads to crackling as more faces turn to stare at me.

The speaker is losing his audience – his words no longer of interest as 100s of Arabs now stare at me. Fuck. Shit. Feeling uncomfortable I leave but before a half-meter a guy in suit-and-tie is beside me, identifying himself as “Security.”

I forget about the million stares on me as he glares down and barks “You have no right to be here! No photos allowed! Why are you here?” “I’m a tourist.” “You have visa?” “Yeah.” “You have permission for camera?” “Whose permission?” “You must have a letter from from the Foreign Ministry in Baghdad” “But I haven’t reached Baghdad yet!”

He thrust his hand forward – “Give your film to me!” “No! I’m not losing my photos of Jordan.” And shoving my camera into my bag I walk away raving madly. “I’m a tourist! I’m a tourist! Tourists carry cameras!” To my surprise he leaves me alone.

The incident makes me uneasy. Time to leave town – quick.

I decide against hitching further and instead backtrack to the bus station where I join three Iraqis in a shared taxi to Ramadi …

Iraq 1989 – photo gallery