Bavarian Break – Surfing in the city

As it’s a rather toasty 35 degrees in Munich today, this is a perfect time (and temperature) to relive my surfing in Munich story….

It’s not every day you see someone walking around the heart of the city with a surfboard under their arm – then actually getting on it. Especially when that city is hundreds of k’s from the nearest beach.

Welcome to surfing Munich style – wetsuits mixing it up with business suits.

The historic German city is probably better known for its annual Oktoberfest when lovers of the amber fluid invade in there millions. This year they downed 6.6 million litres of beer in 15 thirsty days and devoured 112 oxen. Nice work. Also, 900 passports were recovered by lost and found.

Running through Munich’s Englisher Garten – not hard to work out what that translates to – is a tributary of the Isar River called the Eisbach. It’s basically a man-made stream and the famous 1 metre high, 12 metre wide break is formed when the water hammers through tunnels, spews out under a very cool looking 19th century stone bridge and belts into submerged concrete blocks at over 30 k’s an hour.

We’re talking the middle of the city here. The break is next to an art museum called the Haus Der Kunst – be careful how you pronounce that last word. It’s pretty surreal seeing guys and girls in wetsuits wandering down a city footpath. A few gutsy Aussies were just in their boardies, maybe they’d knocked off a few litres of beer, the water temperature is brass monkey threateningly cold – the name “Eisbach” means “ice stream”.

It’s a permanent standing wave, the surfers climb down the river bank, face the bridge, and get straight onto the wave – easier said than done, the water is only about forty centimetres deep and really pumping out of that tunnel. Don’t forget those nice concrete blocks are lurking below, just waiting for you. The sound is quite intense too – like roaring rapids.

While I was perched on the river bank there was a real mix of talent that afternoon – some experienced old stagers were carving up 360’s, radical re-entries, slides and cut backs, to a few rookies some just barely getting up, then losing it bigtime.

Due to its small size, there’s only room on the curl for one surfer at a time, it could be ridden forever, but there’s an unwritten code that you stay up for a few minutes, then let the force of the water sweep you down the canal and you climb out and walk back. Which isn’t a bad thing, in summer the English Garden is packed with people sunbaking, so the eye-candy can be quite good.

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The surfers patiently wait their turn on the bank, it does get pretty crowded. I didn’t see any drama, and it’s a pretty tight community. Apparently though there’s the occasional bit of agro with kayakers.

The Eisbach has been surfed since the 1970’s; those early pioneers used ropes tied to the bridge or trees to keep their balance. Back then river surfing was illegal, I think it still is, there are signs prohibiting it – look for the word “verboten”, but these rules aren’t enforced. It’s become quite a tourist attraction, hordes of tourists gazing down from the bridge and lining the riverbanks with camera phones clicking away, there was even a guy selling food.

There’s a bit of talk that the authorities are looking to shut the wave down due to insurance liability. So far, no one’s been killed surfing the Eisbach wave – though there have been quite a few fractures and dislocations over the years. A couple of swimmers have drowned in the river, but that was further down, a long way from the break, and they weren’t surfers.

There are a couple of other river surfing sites in the city, the Munich Surf Open has been regularly held at one of these other spots, but the Eisbach break is far more challenging. Which could be the problem, the old hands of the break really wish the rookies would stay away, because if there is a death, the wave could be closed down. So if you’re a rookie, join the crowds and just watch. It’s not something you see every day.

Words and images ©Steve Williams 2015

My story and images originally published in Surfing Life magazine Australia.

Shopping in the express aisle

The next time you’re down at your local mall, imagine this scenario.
Eight times a day, the shopkeepers have to interrupt their business, quickly pull down the roofs of their shops, drag their goods inside, then stand against their shop fronts breathing in – to let a train go through.
That’s right, a train. A big, steel, commuter train travelling quite fast, straight through the middle of the mall. Sound bizarre? Welcome to the Mae Klong railway market in small town Thailand.

I’d seen the various YouTube videos of the market that had pinged around millions of inboxes, so when I was in Bangkok, I wanted to see it for myself.

The town of Mae Klong is about 72 kilometres south west of Bangkok. Mae Klong is the local name for Samut Songkhram, the capital of the Samut Songkhram province and district.

I had expected the market to be in the middle of nowhere but it’s right in the centre of town, the last 100 metres before the station. It’s quite surreal in a temporary sort of way, like a movie set. The only place to walk is in the centre of the rather narrow railway tracks. Small stalls line both sides, every available bit of real estate is used, low plastic trays of vegetables and vibrant Thai fruit including rambutans and mangosteens, are stacked right up to the steel rails. What happens when the train comes through? I had flashbacks about that wonder kitchen gadget, the Chop-o-matic, which “slices, dices and juliennes!”

The market is your veritable one-stop-shop. Spectacular fresh-cut flowers, every fruit and vegetable you can imagine, fragrant spices, cuts of meat, poultry and seafood so fresh, it was being persuaded to stop flapping about by an earnest man wielding a lump of wood. There are kids’ toys, clothes, lingerie, thongs of both varieties, dodgey DVDs – you name it. Makeshift awnings – tarpaulins, even a bedspread – cover the stalls. They combine to give the market a temporary roof that is quite low, so I had to stoop to walk through. It was fairly dark under the awnings, with a pungent buffet of unrefrigerated fish, meat and cut fruit, garnished with spices.

Some of the stalls are basic; others well set up. Some aren’t even stalls, just people sitting beside the tracks with fruit laid out at their feet. My guide, Mr Ooh, said many of the stallholders live outside town on outlying farms, coming in to sell their produce. I wanted to photograph an old lady running a fruit stall. Mr Ooh asked her for me; she smiled, fixed her wispy grey hair and posed in the middle of the track.

Then it happened. The shopkeepers calmly but quickly started folding down the awnings. Most were held up by poles, a simple but effective design. Trays of produce were dragged in; some more high-tech versions were on wheels. It happened in a chain reaction, odd because I hadn’t heard a train whistle or horn, but the timetable is adhered to fairly well. I was engrossed in photographing the stall owners when I felt a touch on my arm: a lady gently but firmly motioned to me that I should move back. I wasn’t sure exactly where to, but I ducked into a small alcove. Lucky I did.

The train rounded the corner and rumbled through the market. I was surprised at its speed. There were only inches to spare between the train, the produce on the ground and me. The two carriages were past in a flash of grey and yellow and milliseconds later, the stallholders were on the tracks putting up the awnings, even before the train had disappeared from view. It was as though nothing had happened.

I wandered down to the other end of the market. I knew the train would depart the station soon but I lost track of time, engrossed. I was only vaguely aware of the awnings being lowered again, then turned around to see a great mass of locomotive bearing down on me. Deceptively quiet, trains. This time there was no guiding arm to safety, no trusty alcove to be found, so I jammed myself up against a wooden board, breathing in as the train almost gave me a Brazilian as it not-quite hurtled by.

I’m not sure what “stupid tourist” is in Thai, but I’m sure it was being thought by a few people, smiling of course. I read somewhere that only two people have been killed at the market and I suggest they weren’t Thais. Then it was over, back to the rambutans being sold, fish being whacked, racy lingerie being purchased, until the next train on the timetable.

The Mae Klong railway market raises plenty of questions. I wanted to know how long it’s been operating and why it’s there. I tried to get answers from tour guides, government departments and even the stallholders. No one seems to know. The seventh person I was put through to at a tourism office told me the market had been there for more than 50 years. Now I was getting somewhere.
“So what was there first, the market or the railway line?”
“Both at the same time.”
“OK, can you tell me why the market is there on the railway tracks?”
“This is Thailand, there doesn’t need to be a reason.”

And really, it doesn’t matter – it’s just a snapshot of life in a small town in Thailand, people going about their daily business, doing their shopping, just being interrupted eight times a day by a bloody big hunk of steel.

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Words and images ©Steve Williams 2012

My story and images originally published by the Sun Herald, Australia.

The Poms are a weird mob

If they were handing out gold medals for the most bizarre Olympic mascots, the characters for the London 2012 games would wins hands down.

Sadly, this isn’t one of the mascots

That is, if they had hands. Wenlock and Mandeville (catchy names) were apparently “created from “the last two drops of British steel used for the London 2012 Olympic Stadium.” More like an alcohol and substance fuelled creativeworkshopthinktank.

To me they look like the result of a frenzied sexual encounter between a secondhand Logie (a fugly Australian TV award) and a Teletubbie. And the blue one looks like it has an incontinence problem.

I’m no mascot designer, a job where you’re on a hiding to nothing (apart from the pay cheque), but at least previous Olympic mascots had some connection, however random, to their country and didn’t need a website to explain just what the hell they’re supposed to be.

These explanations usually contain the words “magical” and / or “mystical”.

Wenlock and Mandeville arrived to howls of protest in the UK, so it’s probably a good thing they only have one eye.

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Then you’ve had some other mascots that were very left of stadium – Izzy the something from the 1996 Atlanta games, and the rather phallic looking Phevos and Athena from Athens in 2004. Design is obviously in the (one) eye of the beholder.

Then again, maybe my design sense is flawed from being slightly traumatised by a mascot years ago. Actually it was a rather famous, rotund animal character from a popular TV kids show. I was in far north Queensland in Australia and they happened to be shooting a scene for the show as I wandered past. They had a break and the character took his head off, and the bloke inside exclaimed “How f*****n’ hot is it?!” and lit up a cigarette. Well it was rather warm.

Wenlock and Mandeville are getting plenty of media coverage, which is probably the idea, but will they become as loved as Sydney’s very own Fatso the wombat?

Wonder what he’s up to? Maybe we could lend him to them…

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2012

*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au

We all turn into cliched stereotypes on holiday

You meet a lot of interesting people on holidays. Well when I say “meet”, I mean observing people from a safe distance and mercilessly taking the piss if warranted.

I would have smirked if he fell

I stayed at a rather nice beach resort in Malaysia over Christmas and it was simultaneously a pleasurable and fascinating experience. I think the five stars were awarded for the characters that were staying there.

It really was a microcosm of humanity, mixed with sand and the odd Pina Colada. In no particular order we had the delightful Poms from Bogan-On-Trent who thought the dress code in the restaurant where breakfast was served was footwear optional. I love the look of tinea in the morning.

As well as not being able to afford shoes, their pantry must be a bit light on, because each morning they would they would knock off the teabags and sugar sachets from the table.

They must prescribe to the hotel buffet school of thought that “I’ve paid for it, so I can have it”. Similar to the family I saw at a hotel seafood buffet in Singapore stuffing prawns and oysters into Tupperware containers they coincidentally had on them. As you do.

I was wondering how to get the dining chairs into my suitcase.

I also have a bit to learn from the people (stereotypically Germans, though I’ve never actually seen a Teutonic type do this) who bags a sun lounge by the pool at about 3.24am, and then turn up to use them at 3.25pm.

Speaking of sun lounges, the Natasha twins with their “uncle” Boris (I suggest the ladies were on an hourly rate, and yes, I admit my range of Russian names is garnered from watching “Rocky and Bullwinkle”), weren’t content with their three sun lounges, they thought they’d take over the adjoining ones as well.

Their $4,000 Louis Vuitton handbags and over-sized sunglasses obviously needed a tan.

Also providing a bit of cheek, literally at the resort was “Arse Boy”. We encountered this middle-aged bandanna and budgie smuggler wearing “dude” by the pool, who pulled said budgies halfway up his date to get some sun on his bum and proceeded to strike poses like a cross between a Bondi lifesaver and the centerfold for Playgirl magazine’s special Wedgie edition.

Thanks for that mate, talk about New Moon. Another highlight was the bloke who pranked his son with the hilarious game called “Let’s Pretend Daddy’s Dead”. He would float, face down, legs and arms akimbo in the classic drowned position in the kids pool. His seven-ish year old son, obviously concerned, started anxiously poking him, saying the word “Daddy” in ever increasing degrees of concern.

Only when he thought his son had reached the right level of hysteria, the guy stood up, pissing himself laughing. What a strange man. He must have great fun at home lying in a bath filled with red food dye clutching a razor blade.

There were plenty of other characters, “Blue Leg Boy”, “Buns of Steel”, and the wannabe bikini supermodel with her wannabe bikini supermodel photographer, as well as the usual pasty white bodies basting themselves in baby oil, so they can return to their -14 degrees European snow-bound homes boasting the trophy tan (and third degree burns).

My pick are the people who feel it necessary to take those Hindenburg size inflatable pool toys on holiday with them. I saw someone being crushed in the pool by a life-size blowup killer whale, but then again it could have been another round of “Let’s Pretend Daddy’s Dead”.

Words and image ©Steve Williams 2012

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*This piece was published in the sadly now defunct The Punch by news.com.au