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Los Artistas en el Ficticio Tiempo de Piñera

arteadiario — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 07:08:30 +0000

Es madrugada, ya, otro día que corre bajo las ruedas desgastadas de los Nissan V-16 que hacen las veces de colectivos en el gran Santiago de Chile. Es época de elecciones en mi país, y la gente habla de todo un poco cada día que corre antes del 13 de Diciembre. Época de promesas. Me voy a dormir y a soñar con un arte nuevo planetario.

Cada candidato tiene sus recelos con el campo del arte, los presupuestos deben manejarse cómo corresponde, no es cosa de llegar y prometer para despues no cumplir y provocar. Ya tu sabes.

Cómo se puede guardar distancia de un fenómeno artístico tan brutalmente. En Hamlet, de Shakespeare, el brutal Claudio dobla sus rodillas ante el enfrentamiento con el arte que le develaba aquello que el mismo había puesto tras el velo. Pero aquí, entre mar y cordillera, entre el cobre del norte y el cemento del centro, entre el cabón de lota y las centollas y el frío del fin de los suelos, ¿Qué se nos dobla aquí ante el arte?

El tiempo corre cómo un animal desvocado, y los ruegos para conseguir financiamiento no han de encontrar siempre a un chascón ruliento, de apellido rezonante que venga y te ponga un fajo de billetes por delante, tú no eres Tomás González. ¿Cómo puedo dormir y soñar? Estamos en pañales.

Las donaciones culturales no son tales. El patrimonio no es asunto tratable. Qué cultivo de qué cosa. Que importante es educarse, constituirse, construirse y observarse. Conocer el entorno para poder desarrollarse. Analizar agudamente la tierra y a quienes la gobiernan, exigir y cultivar el espacio del arte en la comunidad que nos contempla. Hay que arar la tierra para arriesgar nuestras semillas, y pasan, y pasan los días.

Será la solución realizar y realizar pruebas? Es tan dura la condena de la filiación a la causa o el ataque contra ella? Podemos ser tan independientes y conseguir tribuna?

Qué paso damos con la libertad de expresión, la amplia convocatoria de los concursos de asignación, si nadie se entera de que formas emanan de tal o cual creación.

Los medios han de ser aliados. Cadenas de expansión de las arremetidas artísticas, de las prácticas culturales. Cadenas de cualquier tipo que mantengan al tipo a tiempo en los nuevos arquetipos.

Acontece, todo acontece. No acabamos de sacar la teta de la boca y ya estamos matando la vaca.

Me voy a dormir, sin creer en las tramposas causas que esgrimen los candidatos en sus propagandas. Tal vez los empleados públicos no pierdan su trabajo en el eventual gobierno de Piñera. La pregunta es si los artistas lo van a encontrar.

Por qué no soy artista

cafenpolvo — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 06:27:17 +0000

por Raúl Bravo Aduna

No sólo es arte menor, también, como

se sabe, es arte lleno de peligro y emoción.

Hugo Hiriart

Tomar un taxi es todo un arte. Sin embargo, precisa Hiriart, “no siempre fue así: tiempos hubo en México en que los taxis eran tan escasos en la ciudad que, si algún peatón localizaba por raro azar un taxi desocupado circulando, se abalanzaba a abordarlo aunque no tuviera que ir a ninguna parte, sólo por la vanidad y orgullo de haber logrado en la vida hallar un taxi vacío.” Pero ya no es así. Lo cierto es que, hoy en día, subirse a un taxi ya no tiene nada ni de vanidad ni de orgullo; sino, por el contrario, es una señal de estupidez. Más allá de que andar en taxi sea inseguro—por aquello de los asaltos, que casi no se dan en nuestro país— treparse a ellos (casi) siempre implica un riesgo, por diversos motivos.

Recuerdo, en específico, dos episodios que me hacen no sólo creer, sino saber a ciencia cierta (en mi mundo, por supuesto) que lo que digo es real. Veamos el primero: cuando iba en segundo de secundaria jugaba basquetbol y, como mis padres trabajaban, me tenía que regresar solo de los partidos. Usualmente, lo hacía en pecero pero, de vez en vez, la mamá de uno de mis compañeros me daba un aventón a algún punto cercano a mí casa, en el cual el taxi ya sólo me costaba algo así como diez o quince pesos. La técnica era la clásica: levantas el brazo, esperas a que se acerque y, conforme lo hace, avanzas un par de pasos para abordarlo. A veces, se frenan un poco antes y hay que caminar hasta ellos, la mayoría de las ocasiones ya sobre la calle. Entonces, un día, apliqué la misma de siempre. El taxi se frenó unos metros antes. Comencé a caminar. ¿Y cuál es la sorpresa de Raulito? ¡Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaas! Que lo atropellan. ¡El cabrón me centró!, estoy casi seguro. Los siguientes tres días me los pasé vomitando. Desde entonces, empecé a desconfiar de los taxis.

El segundo ejemplo es internacional, pa’ que luego no digan que soy malinchista y no sé cuánta madre más. Estábamos en Roma, hace como dos años y medio, Conín (sí, el emperador queretano que escribe los lunes en cierto café en polvo), Guga (un exitoso empresario regiomontano) y yo (ahí un cualquiera que nomás dice pura idiotez). Habíamos paseado por toda la ciudad y estábamos cansados. Íbamos de regreso al hostal y pasamos al “Pam” (nuestro súper de confianza) para comprar alcohol. Cuando llegó la hora de pagar, Guga de pronto se dio cuenta que lo habían cartereado en el autobús. Acto seguido, nos regresamos a la estación de policía para levantar la denuncia. Dos horas más tarde, cuando terminó el trámite ese, estábamos de regreso en el “Pam”, listos para comprar alcohol. Guga habló con sus padres para que le depositaran dinero en mi cuenta. Listo. “¡A beber, ahora sí!”, dijimos. La borrachera estuvo divertidísima. Nos embriagamos con unas canadienses, una griega, unos belgas y unas italianas. Incluso, acabamos bebiendo una porquería llamada “Aguardiente de Orujo”. A las 4 AM, así estaba el escenario: Conín hablaba un italiano que destrozaba al de Claudio Magris (y eso que lo había aprendido esa misma noche); Guga bailaba cumbias, al ritmo de música electrónica, con la griega; yo, para esa hora, ya llevaba como 40 minutos tirado en la regadera con el agua corriendo. Al día siguiente, se me había olvidado mencionar, Conín y yo teníamos un vuelo a Basilea, Suiza, a la 1 PM. Amanecimos, quién sabe cómo o por qué, vivos, a las 10:30 AM. Listísimos para irnos. Guga debía checar su correo para ver si ya me habían depositado su dinero. A las 11 AM lo empezó a hacer. Mientras, Conín y yo fuimos al “Pam” por nuestro desayuno. 11:30 AM: Guga no salía. 11:45 AM: Nada. Fui a buscarlo y le pregunté que qué pasaba. “Nada, pero es que tuve que pagar la hora completa y ni modo que la desperdiciara”, me respondió. Después de sapearlo, salimos corriendo por su dinero, nos despedimos y esperamos el camión. No pasaba. Nuestro shuttle al aeropuerto salía a las 12:15 PM y ya eran las 12. A las 12:10 pasó el mentado bus y a las 12:25 llegábamos a Termini para ver cómo perdíamos el shuttle. “¿Qué hacemos?”, preguntó Conín. “Taxi, ni pedo, yo pago; luego te pichas algo”, le respondí. Salimos de Termini corriendo. Había una fila de 20 personas esperando subir a un taxi y ya eran las 12:35. Nuestra cara de preocupación ha de haber sido tan grande, que un taxi que iba en el tercer carril se frenó en seco, se estacionó en doble fila y nos gritó. Nos subimos, aventando las maletas. “¡Ciampino!”, le gritamos al taxista, casi al unísono; y luego, el infierno se desató en Roma. Cuando lo cuento dicen que exagero —tal como lo harán en un segundo— pero íbamos como a unos 150 kmxh, en Roma, con tráfico. El taxista, digno de pertenecer al equipo de McLaren, esquivaba, se metía por callecitas, se echaba de reversa, con tal de que llegáramos rápido a Ciampino. De pronto, el cabrón se frenó en seco; pasaba una señorita guapísima a nuestro lado; “¡Ciao, bella!”, le gritó y se arrancó de nuevo. Llegamos a las 12:50 a Ciampino, quién sabe cómo o por qué, vivos. Alcanzamos a aventar nuestras maletas en el mostrador, mientras lo cerraban. Tomamos el vuelo. Llegamos a Suiza. Y, desde entonces, dejé de confiar en los taxis por completo.

Tomar un taxi es un arte que, en definitiva, no me interesa perfeccionar.

Taxis en Nueva York

ExperienciaSinDientes — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 22:37:48 +0000

Cuando vas a la parada de taxis de un aeropuerto de Nueva York, hay una persona que te pregunta a donde vas y lo apunta en una libreta. Entonces arranca la mitad de la hoja para darsela al taxista y a ti te dice lo que te va a costar el trayecto. Supongo que el objetivo es que no te timen los taxistas. Me parecio una idea genial porque estoy harto de que me tomen el pelo, hasta el punto de que nada mas montarme lo primero que le digo es:

1. vamos a esta direccion

2. vamos por este trayecto

3. yo voy por alli porque tengo coche.

La gente no sabe lo importante que es el tratar bien al turista ya que el mochilero o turista de hoy sera el inversor o ejecutivo de una multinacional mañana. Si el unico contacto que tiene con el pais es el aeropuerto, el taxi, el avion, el restaurante, etc. por favor señores cuidemoslo. Que nuestro futuro depende de ello. Tristemente lo que pensamos siempre es, bueno si son turistas… no van a poder protestar.

Eviten taxista que embauca con historia de hijo accidentado

jfowks — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 17:40:30 +0000

Pone la radio 'La Inolvidable' si uno no le sigue conversación.

En octubre 2008 un taxista que abordé en Miraflores me contó una historia triste y convincente: su hijo se había accidentado montando bici y estaba a punto de perder la vista. Lo iban a operar ese día sólo si podía retirar de la aduana unos lentes intraoculares que llegaban de Colombia. Hoy, lo encontré de nuevo -station wagon blanca, TGQ630- y contó el mismo cuento, sólo que esta vez era un embaucador sin salud mental.

Hoy fueron 40 minutos de miedo, no como el año pasado que lloré con lo contaba: le di unos kleenex porque él también lloraba. Aquella vez le pagué quince veces más de lo que debía ser la carrera porque si no llegaba con equis cantidad a mediodía a la aduana, su hijo perdería la vista.

“Acá en Lima la gente es muy mala. Yo vine de Casagrande con mi esposa, vivimos en Puente Piedra, cerca de unas chacras. Un día que hice un servicio del aeropuerto a Ventanilla me robaron el carro unos tipos vestidos con terno, por eso ahora tengo que alquilar carro”, relató el año pasado.

El año pasado, la operación iba a ser en el Hospital Mogrovejo de Barrios Altos, un día de semana al inicio de la tarde. Por un tiempo estuve tentada de ir a averiguar si efectivamente habían operado a ese niño que se había accidentado cuando se tropezó en medio de las chacras, ‘haciendo carrera con un amiguito’. No fui.

Esta vez su auto se quedó sin poder avanzar en el Circuito de Playas, donde seguía repitiendo la historia. Agradecía que el servicio fuera en dirección al Callao para luego ir a la aduana. Se quejaba de otra mujer que más temprano no le ayudó a cortar camino en República de Panamá donde el tráfico era tan malo -decía- como en ese momento. “Acá es donde uno gasta más combustible. Esto no es obra de Dios. ¿Por qué tanto sufrimiento?”, preguntaba mientras miraba maniáticamente la hora cada dos minutos y arreglaba el protector de tela sobre el tablero del auto.

Como la hora avanzaba y los camiones cargados de desmonte no dejaban avanzar, renegó. “Ya me fregué. ¿Me va a reconocer un sol más por la demora?”, preguntó. Estuve a punto de bajarme luego de decirle que me debía dinero por la mentira del año pasado, que era un estafador, pero simplemente le dije que no. Respondió de mala manera. Luego le gritó a un conductor que pasaba por su lado: “¡Imbécil, cuida tu línea!”.

Quería tomarle una foto, quería bajarme, quería salir de ese atolladero. Le pedí que me dejara en la Avenida del Ejército, pero no aceptó. “Yo la voy a dejar donde usted me ha dicho”, contestó.

Así que cuando estaba como a 15 cuadras de mi destino, tomé la foto desde donde él no pudiera ver, en un semáforo le di el dinero y me bajé. Debe tener unos 55 años, usa lentes. Lo reconocerán porque de la nada le sale el tono de lamento-llanto y por la historia inconfundible.

Si tuviéramos algo parecido a un sistema de transporte, este tipo de taxistas y de historias no ocurrirían. Y quizá yo iría en bicicleta a mi trabajo como en 1991.

The Making of (Mexico city)...

cafenpolvo — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 06:00:16 +0000

Arianna Bañuelos Z.

A priori 29/10/09

Y así, como en súbito nos hemos despertado de la muerte
Así, en súbito hemos combatido otra muerte.

Desde el capullo de una germina molécula

- vuelan mariposas O escafandras –

al verso de un rosal en llamas

(Ave de cien vuelos)

hasta el ladrillo de una ciudad obscura

y el alarido de una señora violentada,

semilla sin rociar, niña con voz de anciana.

…

Mis ojos traspasan seductores de otras voces

para actuar, vivir, soñar.

Mis ojos son el gemido

de un lenguaje que respira estériles alcantarillas.

Mis ojos son el faro público para incendiar las voces callas

hambrientas pupilas de un hogar

u otras moscas que merodean sin cesar.

…

Tu voz en carne fría quemó mis ojos con un color amarillo pálido.

Tu voz es trastornada por un cielo

cumbre de un sueño con el peso del tiempo.

Por tantas calorías compuestas por los ingredientes del alma,

no logro sentir mi carne,

la breve pesadumbre que ha de caer de un pozo,

hasta chocar contra un muro

cayendo, de abajo arriba, por los lados.

…

Como el día ha terminado de verse

y tu voz existe ¡Por mi madre existe!

en la mentira interior que ha devuelto la mentira exterior

al tiempo que yo vivía del refinamiento y el recato.

He querido ser yo quien fundiera una segunda piel

después de un secuestro en la calle 12.

He querido una y otra vez escuchar el deleite de mis ojos,

los harapos de la nada tocados por la luz,

empañados en blanco entre las huelgas sin sentido.

…

He tenido que actuar, vivir soñar.

Mis ojos acidados por un mimo en la calle,

comportan la gentilidad, la lágrima humilde, –sin rencor-,

siguiendo una y otra vez el concreto. Así muchas veces.

He repetido las voces de los otros, por el flujo y reflujo

de un mar vasto. Después de la gente está mi voz,

y ni siquiera esto me sorprende.

…

Y así, en la escala del 1 al 10 he pensado,

he olvidado de mí las partidas del mundo

y el cero es la indiferencia de mis emociones.

He tenido que actuar, vivir, soñar;

y en la estatua de cualquier monumento,

en la calle de todo héroe,

en la banqueta de un grafitero que tiene más por soñar,

me aproximo a la sentencia de mi muerte:

he tenido que quitarme los ojos,

así de tajo , con aguardiente.

No quiero participar de la seducción de una mujer

que mete en sus bolsillos la prostitución de un hogar,

para que después, lo espere un hijo que crecerá siendo hombre .

…

Me he quedado pasmado con el recuerdo de la tarde

en azul acuático; para difuminar lo que es real.

Y en los rincones de sueño recogidos,

consigo escribir por fin combatiendo otra muerte.

…

Tristemente, en la ceniza invisible freno mis pies.

(A obscuras, inerte).

…

Caigo levemente junto al sonido que aproxima la noche.

Caigo levemente junto a la inútil niebla que respira

sus sabores de azúcar detrás de una iglesia inaudita.

Caigo levemente como si planeara mi muerte.

En la aspiración blanda e infernal de mi alma,

apenas ha volado la mariposa

y mis ojos son como escafandras.

Se abren sigilosamente una última vez a esta ciudad perdida.

…

Regreso chicharrando a golpe sordo

mientras los dones de un pasajero me conmueven,

no sin después descubrir que todo es teatro,

la vida es teatro.

Miro hacia ti, miro hacia mí.

El intervalo de la hora onerosa.

…

(…) El taxímetro agotado. He vivido la vida entera.

La ruta de K

cafenpolvo — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 06:37:58 +0000

Por K

1.

K sale del aeropuerto. Camina a la avenida y toma el primer taxi verde que se encuentra. Pide que lo lleven al centro de la ciudad. A dónde, eso se lo dirá después. Chofer y pasajero no cruzan palabras. Acaso alguna indicación. Toman Eje 1 y luego Fray Servando. K pide que tome Eje Central. Le pregunta al chofer si le molesta que fume. No hay molestia. K ofrece un cigarro. El chofer lo acepta. Viajan por Francisco I. Madero, llegan a la esquina de Palmas. K da las gracias y paga el importe casi exacto. Rechaza las monedas del cambio.

2.

K sale de la casa de G. Camina a Bellas Artes, después de arreglar un asunto con Warhol camina a Hidalgo donde toma el segundo taxi. K pide que lo lleven a Reforma esquina con Génova. Lleva prisa y se lo hace saber al chofer. Pus no puedo volar joven, le dice. Por un momento K pierde la cabeza y le responde: entonces déjeme aquí y no me haga perder el tiempo. Se hace un silencio. K le hace saber la broma. El chofer se rie a regañadientes. Parten por Paseo de la Reforma. Llegan a Génova. Aquí está bien, aventura. Saca un billete de cien. Uy pus no tengo cambio. K logra juntar unas monedas. Pus así está bien.

3.

K sale y estira la mano. Al sur por favor, periférico y al sur. Lleva prisa joven. Algo, sí, algo, mucha. Ahorita tendidos, va ver a la novia. No, hoy no. Pus uno sólo tiene prisa pa ver a la novia, ¿no?, jaja qué joven. No, hoy no la veo, ¿puedo fumar? Pus cómo no, lo acompaño con uno y… el vw se tambalea: puta madre este pendejo hijo de la chingada: ¡Pendejo! ¡Fijate pendejo! ¡Fijate! El claxón a todo lo que da. Está bien joven. K responde que sí. Este pendejo. Marchan por Periférico. Esta salida por favor. ¿Esta? Sí. En el puente. Gracias.

4.

K sale. Buenas noches señor. Buenas noches, a Polanco por favor. Cómo no, con mucho gusto Señor, le molesta la música. No, ¿Stravinsky? Sí, el periodo ruso, Petrushka. Me gusta más El pájaro de fuego. A mí también, aunque el periodo dedocafónico es mi favorito, ¿a qué parte de Polanco va? Siga por Masaryk, yo le digo. Con mucho gusto. Por aquí está bien, gracias, ¿cuánto le debo? K paga y se despide. Estamos para servirle señor, que le vaya muy bien. Gracias, hasta luego.

5.

Buenos dias, necesito un taxi. Masaryk 1482. Traje negro. Gracias, si puede estar antes mejor. Buenos días, ¿joven K? Así es. Pásele por favor, a dónde lo llevamos. Insurgentes Sur, Guadalupe Chimalistac. ¿A descansar patrón? Aún no, tengo ganas de ver la luna.

Cutting Taxi Costs and CO2

Scott Gillespie — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 15:28:39 +0000

You’re in a long line outside an airport, waiting for a taxi and wondering how many people in front of you are going to the same place. Wouldn’t it be great if you could pair up? Save time, money and reduce carbon emissions – what’s not to like about that idea?

Well, there are a handful of websites that will help you do just that. The one that first caught my eye is Taxi2 (www.taxi.to). Your travelers can use it to find share-ride partners before a flight, or on the spot in the baggage area or taxi line. It’s in beta mode,and does not yet have a mobile app, so expect it to get better with time. It’s a co-venture with Virgin Atlantic Airways, and is currently free.

Other websites that help find shared taxi or limo riders are:

Cab Easy – Less airport-specific, more urban areas. Global in concept.

Hitchsters – Limos, not taxis. Serves the NYC and San Francisco airports

Ride Amigos – Ride-sharing in many forms. Offers corporate programs.

Taxis are nearly impossible to source, so if you’re looking for ground-based savings, shared-ride services can make sense. Yes, security is a question. Each of these firms addresses the issue to some extent. If you’re concerned about security, perhaps you could try a service like Ride Amigos where your employees agree to share rides only with fellow employees.

Or if you’re looking at a bigger picture, maybe you can use a service like Goose Networks to set up a car-pooling program for your entire employee base. One way or the other, there’s help out there for controlling ground transport costs.

Posibilidades de un taxi

cafenpolvo — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 06:00:19 +0000

El rango va desde el vocho cafetero hasta la suburban aeroportuaria (si acepta usted incluirla dentro de la categoría de taxi). Según la ciudad varía el colorido. En Querétaro como Nueva York, son amarillos con dos hileras de cuadros negros a los costados; en Cuernavaca, blancos; Buenos Aires, negros; los hay rosas sólo para mujeres o con la nefasta combinación dorado-vino en el D.F., entre otras opciones más folclóricas. Para tener acceso usted puede alzar el brazo (chiflar es opcional), llamar al sitio de radiotaxis o prepagar en la terminal correspondiente y formarse atrás de la señora de las petacas. Una vez que tenga el vehículo frente a su persona puede abrir la puerta o esperar a que la abran. Decisión importante será sentarse adelante o detrás.

El taxista es un componente fundamental del taxi. De dicho factor se desprenden otros, como la música ambiental, el número de estampas, rosarios, zapatitos, vírgenes, santos y demás adornos de la unidad. Los hay muy serios, que gustan de la música clásica y tienen un muy sobrio estilo decorativo. Aunque son más bien atípicos. Es más probable encontrar fanáticos del reggaetón, la salsa, la cumbia, el rock y las rancheras. Hay fieles de la santa muerte, del santo niño de Atocha y hasta de britny spirs.

Es recomendable entablar algún tipo de conversación. Los resultados pueden ser sorprendentes. Puede ahorrarse la consulta del psicólogo (o ahorrársela al taxista), hacer bilis, emprender una amistad o enterarse de cosas de la más diversa índole. Nunca falta el politólogo: gusta de criticar al partido que aborrece y defender a capa y espada al de su preferencia. Los hay azules, amarillos y tricolores. En fútbol es lo mismo (es recomendable echar un vistazo en busca de indicios de afición antes de meter la pata). En caso de toparse con uno muy terco la mejor solución es darle el avión diligentemente o cambiar de tema, así, como no queriendo la cosa.

Hay algunos que gozan enterándose de detalles de la vida del pasajero. Otros, no salen del tema del clima o del tráfico. Unos más se regodean develando secretos escandalosos (cierta ocasión uno me contó que su primo que vivían en el campo era zoofílico, detalles y gallinas incluidos). El silencio (incómodo, en ocasiones) es el último recurso.

Ejercicio interesante es inquirir sobre sus vidas. Uno nunca sabe cuándo puede estar en el mismo automóvil con un ex AFI, un licenciado en Derecho, Economía y Biología (es cierto), un ex convicto, un deportado que vivió en Las Vegas y jura haber sido amigo del ya extinto Michael Jackson, o un ex futbolista de la primera A al que le apodaban “el pirata”.

La hora de pagar es importante (cuando es el caso). Tener la cantidad exacta es aconsejable, pues si no hay morralla procederá a una serie de curiosas negociaciones que la mayoría de las veces acaban zanjándose con un “quédese con el cambio”.

taxis

cafenpolvo — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 02:11:42 +0000

una mujer que, en pleno rompimiento amoroso, se sube a un taxi y le lanza a su abandonado dos besos: uno por mejilla. travis bickle enloqueciendo a más de 100 kilómetros por hora por las calles de nueva york. un hombre cuya prisa lo haría ponerse de rodillas si apareciera un taxi (aunque sabe que la ciencia ha demostrado que no existen). kate miller cogiendo con un desconocido en el asiento trasero de un taxi. un taxista seduciendo a una rubia preciosa (según dice la canción) mientras la mira por el espejo retrovisor de su vocho y le dice: usted sufre en su mansión y yo sufro en los arrabales.

millones de taxis que -amarillos en manhattan, negros en londres, dorados o verdes en el defe- recorren heróicamente las calles del mundo. hablemos pues de ellos.

656 Outfits for Saturday, November 21

Emily — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 07:00:01 +0000

Erin: black dress (Urban Outfitters, $10, a gift from Emily), red v-neck (Unique Thrift Store), brown floral-stamped belt, grey rights (Target), red cowboy boots (borrowed from Kelli).

Emily: black dress (Old Nacy), salmon cowl neck shirt (Anthropologie), black patterned tights (Target, borrowed from Kelli, who is off in New Orleans), black boots (random store, SC), striped stretchy belt (Unique Thrift Store).

Probably my favorite bag, bought actually for full price at Urban Outfitters in San Francisco.

One of my favorite rings, made by my friend Rosa-Belen.

Taxi Tights!

Goofy face with the goofy mannequins at Forever 21.

As a study break Erin and I took the late morning and early afternoon to wander around downtown and do some shopping before stores get holiday crazy. While there will be a post about the goodies we acquired and the fun things we saw, here you have the things we wore to buy the things we’ll wear.

Taxi Driver

newalfer — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 22:33:49 +0000
Deberias sentirte muy avergonzado si a estas alturas del partido no has visto esta pelicula, solo pu

Aquí solo suben y bajan ellas

Juliane Angeles — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 01:16:21 +0000

Tú, que revientas todos lo días por las mañanas con el tráfico, y te consideras un conductor / taxista, digamos que “inteligente” y astuto sobre las cuatro ruedas, y que hasta ahora no entiendes en que momento se escaparon los animales del zoológico para jugar a los carritos chocones o hacer que “manejan”.

Tú, que más de una vez te has cruzado con una mujer al volante, y fuiste muy sincero y le gritaste sus cuatro verdades (con la intención de que lo tome por el lado amable, claro) : “!mejor anda lava y plancha mamita!” “!Dédicate a cocinar oye¡”, etc, solo para ser sutiles.

Tú, que pudiste ser Guillermo Gino Dávila Mendoza, el “taxista del desarmador’ que asaltó a 50 mujeres en Mayo de este año en un lapso de 8 meses.

Sí, para evitar incomodidades, perjuicios, abusos físicos y más etceteras, para eso y otros peligros más se crearon los “taxis rosas”, ojo: solo para mujeres. Y aunque aparantemente no asoman sus narices por nuestra ciudad, es una idea genial que muchos han aplaudido en México.

Pistas rosas y seguras

El pasado mes de octubre, unos 35 taxis rosas empezaron a circular por las calles de la ciudad de Puebla. Su uso y manejo es exclusivo solo para conductoras y pasajeras, y se han invertido en ellos unos 430.000 dólares, explica el Gobiero Mexicano. Además, desde el año pasado existen en este país buses y vagones del Metro reservados sólo para ellas.

Pink taxis a toda marcha

- Equipados con un sistema de localización GPS.

- Cuentan con un botón de pánico (conectado a un centro de emergencia) además, con un espejo frente al asiento trasero para que se puedan maquillar.

- Tienen terminales bancarias para evitar el uso de dinero en efectivo y dar más seguridad.

- Su funcionamiento y tarifas son como las de los taxis comunes, aunque en un futuro se calcula que podrían costar un 10% más que los taxis que todos conocemos.

En otros paises

Se sabe que en Colombia ya se viene usando este tipo de transporte por temas de seguridad, y hasta en Dubai, donde por cuestiones culturales las mujeres no pueden subir a un auto con un hombre que no sea su esposo.

En México, esta inciativa ha tenido tanto èxito que los empresarios de la empresa “Pink Taxis” no dudan en repetir la hazña en otras ciudades céntricas de su país.

En el Perú, el tema no está muy lejos ya que existe una compañía llamada “Bushimovil” que como bien lo dice su perfil es conducida por mujeres, pensada por mujeres y dirigida a las mujeres. Apunten chicas.

¿Qué te parece la idea? ¿Manejarías un “Taxi rosa”?

¿Crees que los “Pink Taxis” acabarían con ciertas incomodidades, perjuicios y abusos físicos por los que puede pasar una mujer a la hora de ir al volante o tomar un taxi?

Foto: EFE

En el Virrey

peatonbogotano — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 18:04:12 +0000

El parqueo de taxis en horas pico en todos los puentes peatonales.

La cebra !!!

peatonbogotano — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 17:36:44 +0000

Artículo 76. Lugares prohibidos para estacionar. Está prohibido estacionar vehículos en los siguientes lugares: Sobre andenes, zonas verdes o sobre espacio público destinado para peatones

Less Than a Week and In Love: The Beginning

writingwhileblack — Thu, 19 Nov 2009 03:54:55 +0000

For five days Jamaica Queens has been where I lay my head and wake up in the morning. Quickly I realized that many of the preconceived notions that lots of non-New Yorkers have about NY is just not true. As I breathed in the air, the foul smell of garbage on the streets consumed my nostrils. Taxi’s honking their horns, hundreds of people on one street walking by at every second, the sounds of the subway underground, the meat carts on every block that sold everything from gyro’s to cigarettes; it was all so New York. And I was taking in every bit of it.

Being in a new state as large as New York I felt like a foreigner in an unfamiliar country. Knowing I had to learn the complex subway and bus system along with locations of certain places was overwhelming to say the least. My biggest fear was not getting robbed, pulled into a dark ally or even seeing a rat, but instead it was the subway.

On my first day in Queens I set the alarm for 10 in the morning but procrastinated getting out of the
bed until 12:15, all because I did not want to get on the subway. That day was dreary and rainy in the city, which were all the signs of a could be horrible first day in the city. I emailed folks, wrote a new status on Facebook, called people, googled and the whole nine to find out as much information about the subway as I could. I opened the door to my room to go downstairs and searched the refrigerator while the white cat stared at me as if she was asking, ‘Who are you?’ After a failed attempt of finding 10-minute ready food, I headed back upstairs to prepare to get ready for the day. Motivation was what I desperately needed so I had to put on some music that would get me pumped, so I inserted Camron’s Crime Pays into my laptop and got to it!

As I headed out the door, locked the two bottom locks I told God, “You have to be with me and look over me.” After those ten words, for some reason I knew I was good. On Linden Ave I saw the various bus stops and I looked for the Q4, which I knew I needed to get to the Jamaica Center train station. Because I over prepared for my venture into the city, I knew the bus only took coins or the metro card, no dollar bills were allowed. I quickly ran into to CVS for change and asked for a subway map. The clerk told me that didn’t have any and asked, “Where you going?” “Wall Street,” I replied. “Oh just go out here catch the Q4 bus and then take the J train all the way into town and get off on Broad street, “ she said. “Thank you.” I thought to myself that this is one of the preconceived notions that was wrong. So many people say New Yorkers are rude, don’t ask for directions, don’t do this, don’t do that. But here this lady was willingly giving me directions when I hadn’t even asked. Are some New Yorkers rude? Hell yeah. But aren’t some Nashvilleans, Texans and people from every other place in the world?

Of course the bus was packed so I stood in my flip flops holding on to my wet umbrella with one hand and the rail with the other. While riding the bus I carefully looked at all the stores, people, streets and how the buildings were made. If at any point someone thought I was a tourist, it would have to be at this moment. New Yorkers do not look around out the window because they see the same things I was in awe of, every day. After maybe 7 minutes the bus pulled up to Parsons and Archer Ave which is where I exited to get on the train. Once inside the station and underground I went to the machine and purchased my all day unlimited metro pass. I figured if it stopped raining maybe I’d even venture to Brooklyn. Even though I knew that wasn’t happening.

I must admit that swiping the metro card has a silly technique to it that took me 10 attempts before it finally went through. When I stepped onto the subway I looked around and surprisingly I found a seat. Days later I did find out that you may have to stand for about 5 stops before getting a seat during rush hours. Observing the people on the train I eliminated yet another preconceived notion. No one had on those old school pouches that clip around your waste because of the myth that you shouldn’t carry a purse in New York. In fact mostly everyone carried rather large and fashionable purses and women were not clutching them for dear life. No one looked nervous, no guys were standing behind women trying to cop a feel and no one was overly rambunctious. Everyone was in their own world trying to get to their destination. Passing Marcy Ave- Jay Z’s former stumping grounds- and Brooklyn Bridge inspired me to pull out my Reporter’s pad.

Two guys were getting off at their stop and saw that I was writing. “You writing lyrics,” he said? I just smiled and shook my head no because you’re not “supposed” to talk to random New Yorkers. “Well if you writing a book and yo picture gon be on it, let me know. I’ll be looking for that,” he said. We all laughed and he said, “Have a nice day.” “You too,” I said. Yeah I broke the rule and talked to him, what the hell. Ain’t no harm in being polite.

So in one bus and subway ride venture I realized people are just people. Wherever you go there are all types of people. Some rude, some nice, some talkative, some reserved, some smart and some dumb. But just because you’re in New York doesn’t mean someone won’t ask you how you’re doing or tell you to have a nice day.

Four days later and I’m on the hustle and bustle of things just like I was born to be here. I’ve seen some of Queens: Jamaica Ave, Linden Ave, Merrick Blvd, met a Queens dude, caught the train to Brooklyn, rode around Brooklyn, went to Ihop (something I thought only us Southerners do), drove through Times Square, attended Jay Z’s whack ass 40/40 club, which I left after 45 minutes, walked around midtown Manhattan to find another club, saw the clubs Home, Mansion and Guesthouse all on the same strip, met a Brooklyn dude, went to church, applied for jobs on Broadway and started my internship at Vibe magazine. And now I’m sitting on my couch ironically watching Sex in the City and writing about it.

Everything I went through to get to this point in my life was well worth it. God knows exactly what He is doing and why He allows certain things to happen to you. I’m here and making it. I will forever say when you dream big, big things happen. And you know what…

In five day’s I’m in love. So in love with the Big Apple.

Fin del ‘apartheid’ de los taxis

noticieroalternativo — Wed, 18 Nov 2009 12:10:22 +0000

Sentados en una mesa, los representantes del gremio de los taxistas de Soacha y Bogotá tardaron más de un año de sesiones para definir el futuro de sus labores en el corredor que conecta la ciudad con el municipio. Todo lo conseguido durante este período quedará formalizado el próximo viernes, cuando se firme el convenio que permite a los taxistas de ambas poblaciones pasar libremente de una a otra, sin tener que llenar las planillas de viajes ocasionales y sin exponerse a que la Policía de Tránsito inmovilice sus vehículos.
El problema estalló en diciembre de 2007, cuando se prohibió a los taxistas de Soacha cruzar el límite de la Avenida Boyacá con Autopista Sur, en Bogotá. El motivo: desde 2000, los vehículos amarillos del municipio entraban y salían de la ciudad libremente, pagando un cupo casi cinco veces menor al que se paga en la capital y a competir directamente con sus colegas bogotanos.

Lo que en principio apareció como una solución para los taxistas de Bogotá, se convirtió en una tara incluso superior al problema original. La especie de apartheid que determinó el límite de ingreso en la ciudad llevó a los taxistas —los citadinos y los municipales— a enfrentarse a inmovilizaciones sucesivas de sus carros impuestas por la autoridad. El hecho de que se viera el trayecto entre Soacha y Bogotá como un recorrido intermunicipal obligaba a los taxistas a llenar una planilla cada vez que salían de un territorio y se internaban en el otro. El Ministerio de Transporte provee tres planillas a cada vehículo de forma quincenal, pero una vez se agotaban sus casillas y los vehículos tenían que cruzar la frontera, la Policía, en caso de descubrirlos, estaba obligada a detenerlos.

“La situación era realmente complicada, porque hay taxistas de Bogotá que viven en Soacha y gran parte de la población del municipio, un 60%, trabaja o estudia en Bogotá”, comenta Giovani Rodríguez, quien es gerente de una empresa de taxis en Soacha y participó en las conversaciones que derivaron en el acuerdo.

Del otro lado, Ernesto Sandoval, miembro de la Junta Directiva de Conaltaxis, gremio que agrupa los taxis de Bogotá, es consciente de que el problema necesitaba una solución. Sin embargo, aún considera injusto que los taxistas municipales tengan que pagar costos más bajos por su funcionamiento.

El alcalde de Soacha, José Ernesto Martínez, quien presidirá la firma del pacto el viernes al lado del gobernador de Cundinamarca, Andrés González, y del secretario de Movilidad, Fernando Álvarez, dice que parte del acuerdo obliga a los taxistas municipales a acatar integralmente todos los lineamientos del Distrito, como la norma del Pico y Placa, por ejemplo.

Fuente: El Espectador. Colombia

I admit it...I have the propensity to hate

lennymaysay — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 20:02:46 +0000

When I abandoned religion all those years ago, I believed that I had also discarded my susceptibility to emotional weakness, and thus the ability to hate. So, over the years I kept telling myself that the revulsion and anger I felt towards certain things, was just a feeling of annoyance…not hate.

However, recently I’ve had to admit that I really actually hate politicians, the law (as in the police)…………. and trucks. Yes trucks, as in vehicles that transport freight (and in South Africa, everything else imaginable).

It’s really easy to hate politicians; in fact it’s an obligation for all intelligent South Africans. But how can one hate trucks? It seems so pointless to hate an inanimate object which cannot feel your hatred, much less amend its objectionable behaviour to appease you. It would make more sense to hate the drivers and owners of trucks, than the trucks themselves. But as a motorist on South African roads, confronted with yet another truck that’s broken down and holding up traffic, it’s natural to think out loud, ”Damn truck!” or more likely scream out loud ”I fucking hate trucks!” I’m pretty sure nobody shouts out “Damn driver!” or “I hate that fucking driver of that fucking truck and maybe the fucking owner too!” Okay, this is South Africa, so there’s bound to be one or two who would, but they’re as irrelevant as those who love politicians, or the police who shoot to kill.

Taxis are pretty annoying; lots of people probably hate them too, but they don’t come to a complete halt for hours on end, across two whole lanes, backing up traffic for hours. Which happens with freakish regularity, several times a day (not the same truck, obviously), usually in peak traffic in the mornings and afternoons. And if they’re not broken down, they are either travelling too slow in the wrong lane, have lost their load on the road (for some reason beer is a very popular load to lose), or the idiot driver is trying to overtake another slow truck…on an incline of all places.

So why do trucks break down with such frequency? Are they badly designed? Are truck drivers as reckless with their trucks as politicians are with our tax money or South African cocks cops with their guns?

I suspect it has something to do with the maintenance of these vehicles. Since the state-owned rail freight company hiked its tariffs all those years ago, almost everything is being transported by road these days. And the owners and operators in a highly competitive trucking industry are literally cutting each others throats for business, resulting in hardly anything being budgeted for maintenance of the trucks. What we have then is poorly maintained trucks on our roads which naturally break down at the most inconvenient of times.

What about the other annoying truck related incidences on our roads. Trucks that lose their loads, probably do so because of overloading, poor maintenance or simply through negligence in securing the freight. Why do truck drivers think that they can overtake on an incline without hogging the road and annoying the hell out of other motorists? Who knows? They’re truck drivers, not engineers.

The solution to this problem is very simple. The enforcement of steep fines for trucks that break down. I suggest that fines be as high as R10 000 for a first incident and then climbing dramatically for subsequent infringements by the same owner or operator. If you consider the lost time and productivity that these breakdowns cause to the economy, the frustration and even personal losses sustained by other motorists when they miss flights, important appointments, even job interviews, I think the fines are an imperative. It would teach the owners to look after their shit.

The other benefit of hefty fines for truck owners, is that the traffic cocks cops don’t have to harass ordinary motorists as much as they do, to generate revenue for their Metro Council employers. So with all that extra dough coming in from the errant trucking industry, it would leave fat-arsed traffic cocks cops free to lose weight or do some real work. So instead of lazing in the shade of a tree, or behind a bush, (c)overtly manning speed cameras all day long, they could actually actively manage traffic safety.

bronx taxi project...

hatmax — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 01:40:33 +0000

Lincoln Town Car, drawing, marker on paper, 2009

Bronx Taxi Project (Mapping car services in the Bronx.)

hatmax — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 01:13:33 +0000

View Larger Map
On Exactitude in Science . . . In that Empire, the Art of Cartography attained such Perfection that the map of a single Province occupied the entirety of a City, and the map of the Empire, the entirety of a Province. In time, those Unconscionable Maps no longer satisfied, and the Cartographers Guilds struck a Map of the Empire whose size was that of the Empire, and which coincided point for point with it. The following Generations, who were not so fond of the Study of Cartography as their Forebears had been, saw that that vast Map was Useless, and not without some Pitilessness was it, that they delivered it up to the Inclemencies of Sun and Winters. In the Deserts of the West, still today, there are Tattered Ruins of that Map, inhabited by Animals and Beggars; in all the Land there is no other Relic of the Disciplines of Geography.

Suarez Miranda,Viajes de varones prudentes, Libro IV,Cap. XLV, Lerida, 1658

Una de taxis y hormigón.

concellodenoia — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 17:07:20 +0000

Dejando de lado que me parezca o no que lo que están haciendo en el campo de la feria es de principio a fin una barbaridad, vamos a centrarnos en la caseta de los taxistas…

¿Se puede saber que tenía de malo la antigua caseta? ¿A caso no estaban cómodos y resguardados de las inclemencias del tiempo en aquella casita de madera que se integraba perfectamente en el entorno del parque? Pues parece ser que no, que no era suficiente aquella cabaña, y han tenido que eliminarla y poner en su lugar lo que a primera vista y siendo aun una obra no parida, lo que ya parece un monstruo de cemento que no pinta nada entre álamos centenarios, robles, castaños de indias y acebos.

¿Pero estamos locos en Noia o que? ¿Y nos sobra el dinero?

Me parece una aberración que pongan ese monstruo ahí, igual que me parece una aberración que se malgaste el dinero en “modernizar” un parque que estaba perfecto como estaba, hay mil cosas en que gastar el dinero de los vecinos antes que en ponerle una pista a los “atletas” del pueblo, y mas si tenemos en cuenta que tienen una pista de atletismo como dios manda y se dedican a correr por la calzada complicando la circulación de vehículos.

Un cero patatero para esta obra, por inútil, por cara, por innecesaria y sobretodo por fea y aberrante. Que el arquiteco municipal y el Concejal de urbanismo hagan el favor de ponerse delante de ese mamotreto y piensen si uno ha hecho bien en diseñarlo y el otro en darle el visto bueno.

Hormigón no!! Piedra y madera si!!! A ver si se dan cuenta estos del Ayuntamiento de que esto no es Vigo, esto es Noia.

¿Que pasa en Noia?

Market Statistics : Indian Market Assorted

sohandhande — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 12:00:04 +0000

Here is some of the interesting market statistics sourced from some leading business dailies and magazines .

Market size of Indian Egg Market : Rs 10,000 crores source : Economic Times ( ET) July 26 2008

Total Mobile users in India : 270 million Source :ET 24 June 2008

Mobile Ad market size : Rs 40 crore Source : ET 24 June 2008

Courier Market Size : Rs 5000 crore. Source : ET 26 June 2008

Indian mobile handset market size : Rs 15,000 crore Source ; ET 26 July 2008

Indian Taxi business market size : Rs 9000 crore Source : ET 23 June 2008

Number of Taxis in Indian roads : Approximately 2,35,000 Source :ET 23 June 2008

Number of electric scooters in Indian roads : 1.10 lakh Source : ET 23 June 2008

Kid’s Apparel Market in India : Rs 27,000 crore.

Organized Kids apparel market : Rs 500 crore source : Business Line

Indian stationary market size : Rs 9000 crore Source : Business Line July 31 2008

Notebook ( paper) market size : Rs 3000 crore Source : Business Line July 31 2008

Home Interior market size : $ 9 billion

Magazine Advertising market size : $ 302 million Source : Business Line July 31 2008

Indian Wine Market : 1 mn cases Source :Economic Times

Pencil Market size in India : Rs 400 crore Source : Business Line 31 July 2008

Printer and Copier Market size : Rs 1800 crore Source : Business Line 31 July 2008

Wedding Management Industry Market size : Rs 400 crore Source : ET July 31 2008

Uniform Industry market size : Rs 10,000 crore Source ET 31 July 2008

(rpc.blogrolling.com/redirect.php?r=fd17903f22c864d3a796a3af76404c88&url=http%3A%2F%2Fmarketingpractice.blogspot.com%2Fsearch%2Flabel%2Fmarket%2520stat)

A WEEK IN MALAYSIA PART 2: LANGKAWI

elephantsleg — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 10:57:11 +0000

I spent last week in Malaysia wth my girlfriend, Waew. It was our first proper holiday together and my first proper trip to Malaysia (I did a brief border hop from Brunei in 2005 but that was essentially just to tick another country off the list). It was also my first proper holiday in South East Asia since moving to Thailand last year, having so far failed to live up to my promise to myself to see as much of the region as possible while living here.

We flew in and out of Penang, where we spent half of the week. The other half we spent in Langkawi. It proved a decent mix of city and countryside, culture and relaxation, with stays in three locations.

Back to Part 1: Penang

Thrills and refreshment at Langkawi's Seven Wells

CENANG

The morning ferry from Penang to Langkawi necessitated a pre-dawn wakening in order to drive from Batu Ferringhi to Georgetown, drop off the hire car and walk to the port (no taxis being available at that time) in time for check-in 45 minutes before departure. Consequently we got to drive through a pretty sunrise and negotiate a sleepy Georgetown before the city and its inhabitants fully woke.

The boat ride was smooth and I soon fell asleep and caught up a little on the hours missed with the early start. Sleeping a portion of the 2.5-hour journey meant it passed very quickly.

We got a taxi from the Langkawi port in Kuah to Pantai Kok, reportedly the best beach on the island, but on arrival found that the guesthouse we were looking for had closed in the couple of years or so since the Rough Guide I was consulting was published. Since Pantai Kok is otherwise populated by high-end resorts (above our budget), the driver recommended we go to Cenang instead. Fair enough – it was said to be the second-best beach on the island, and not as developed as Kuah, the island capital.

We checked in to the AB Motel, which at RM100 (20 pounds) per night was an absolute steal – just 20 metres from the white-sand beach, boasting a large en-suite room, two double beds, air con, fridge, TV and verandah, and in walking distance of anything of significance in Cenang. We couldn’t have asked for more.

As we had already seen a decent stretch of the coast and countryside thanks to the aborted attempt to stay in Pantai Kok – further from Kuah than Cenang, at the western end of the island – we decided to simply spend our first day hanging around Cenang and relaxing. An excellent Chinese lunch was followed by a stroll along the beach and a swim.

As is my habit, when I saw a broken beer bottle on the sea floor, I picked it up and intended to return it to shore. It was only when a white tentacle started to wriggle out of it that I realised an octopus had made its home inside the green glass! Ingenious, I thought, as the sides of the glass offered both armour and a smooth, firm anchoring point for its suckers. Not knowing – or wishing to find out – what would happen if one of the tentacles was to attach to my skin, I dropped the bottle back where I’d found it.

Cenang was light on nightlife options, although there was a decent beach bar with a live reggae band which looked the part but vocally would never be confused with the icons they covered. Still, I find reggae music of any kind always suits an evening on a tropical island beach.

We returned to Pantai Kok the next day – not in search of luxury resorts or defunct guesthouses, but to visit the Seven Wells – a river leading to a dramatic waterfall and featuring seven pools connected by slippery rocks which are safe and fun to slide down.

It’s a hot and humid hike up the mountain – and any rustling of bags will attract the attentions of naughty, snack-hunting monkeys – but that just makes the eventual dip in the river all the more welcome.

The Seven Wells lead to what would literally be a deadly drop off the waterfall, so thankfully a couple of flimsy wires stretch across the penultimate pool. It’s a half-hearted effort as far as death-prevention goes, but really, no harm will come to anyone who displays a bit of common sense and doesn’t go too near the edge.

A walk back down to the base of the waterfall provides further swimming opportunities and the scene for some dramatic photos. After that, we considered a ride on the Langkawi cable car to the summit of the mountain, but rain was threatening so we retreated to the hotel.

The rain did indeed descend with some force that evening, ruling out a return to the beach bar, but an excellent dinner of grilled cockles and stingray sufficed.

Lunch is served at Pulau Payar

Our final full day in Langkawi saw us take a tour to Pulau Payar Marine Park. It is one of the most heavily-advertised tourist attractions in the region, with videos and documentation showing delightful images of snorkelling and diving amid coral and hand-feeding colourful fish and even sharks. It looked irresistible, so we plumped for that over other excursions, including a three-island boat trip or a mangrove tour.

The island was indeed delightful – pristine sea water brimming with fish, uninhabited land and stunning views from the hilltop – but in hindsight, there was no reason to take an organised tour there rather than the normal, scheduled ferry service.

The tour staff were, of course, friendly and knowledgeable, but aside from that the only things they provided besides the transport was a snorkel set and a packed lunch – both of which you could buy in Cenang anyway.

So the “tour” amounted to a bus and boat ride to a single desination, a talk, a basic lunch and the provision of equipment. Besides that, we were left to our own devices for a half-day. Don’t get me wrong, Pulau Payar itself is well worth visiting, and it is quite charming to be surrounded by schools of fish – tiny, bright ones up to seabass, non-aggressive sharks and even one enormous grouper – attracted by scraps of bread. It’s just that the organised tour to the island did not offer value for money at RM100 per person.

Rain curtailed another trip to the beach bar, so we spent our final night out in Langkawi at the only other watering hole we could find in Cenang, which I can’t remember the name of but was run by a British guy who was celebrating his birthday that night, so the place was busy and boasting a party atmosphere. We stayed until 3am, and with beers starting at just RM3 (60p), and our return ferry to Penang not until 2.30pm, there was no reason not to!

The return to Penang was simply for convenience, as we would fly back to Bangkok one day later. We stayed again at the Broadway Budget Hotel, had a low-key Friday night out on Jalan Penang (the hangover from the previous night in Langkawi was still in the memory) and then killed a few hours before the afternoon flight on Saturday by visiting Fort Cornwallis, a British colonial military defence fort which was never actually used in battle.

In all, the holiday offered a good mix of culture, fun and relaxation, which is just right for a one-week vacation. I found Malaysian people – whether indigenous, Chinese or Indian – to be very friendly and for the most part fair and honest – something that is unfortunately sometimes missing from the tourist’s experience in other parts of South East Asia. The food was good and costs were comparable with Thailand, and in some cases certain things were even cheaper. It is officially a Muslim country but there no restrictions on dress, drink or other standard pursuits of a Western or Thai tourist. Waew proclaimed it the “best trip ever”, and while she is far from as well-travelled as me, it was certainly among my more enjoyable holidays, too.

A Taxi... Kind of

eschnier — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 15:03:56 +0000

Against better judgement and against the recommendations of co-workers, I boarded a taxi in Johannesburg to take a tour of Soweto. The taxis in South Africa are not what Americans think of as a taxi. You hail them down on the street — or, rather, they hail you down with incessant honking — but the similarities end there. Taxis are 16 passenger vans in varying degrees of disrepair and are the only form of public transportation.

Photo by Andrew Skurka

I wanted to take a guided tour of Soweto, a township outside Johannesburg where Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu are from. In desperation, I hopped into a taxi. Not because I wanted to experience what life is like for a typical Sowetan, but because I had no other option. I don’t have a car, and the tour guide only rents a car for two or more people. She does not own a car herself, and taxis for her are a way of life. Always a “table for one,” my guide met me at my guest house and ushered me around Soweto in no less than ten minibus taxis. If I felt uncomfortable, the other people in the taxis were amused. Certainly most had never seen a white girl use public transportation.

Scrunched in with 15 strangers after having climbed over them to find an empty seat, the springs in the seats poked my legs and back. The wheels seeemed as if they might fall off at any moment, and there was no air conditioning to speak of. During the first trip, the taxi driver got a signal and pulled a quick U-turn to avoid driving into a police checkpoint. By the time I got out of the first taxi, I felt sick and gasped for fresh air. The taxis take routes like buses, and you frequently have to transfer to reach your destination. In addition, there is a complicated (to me) set of hand gestures that signal to the driver where you want to go. There is no discussion once you get inside.

Cartoon by Zapiro

Taking the taxis was extremely unpleasant and made me grateful for my car, which sits parked, waiting for me at home, but they provide an important service to South Africans. Because there is no other form of reliable public transportation, it is the only way for many people to get to and from work and around town. In addition, taxi drivers make their living taking people from one place to another.

In anticipation of the FIFA World Cup next year, the government is building a Bus Rapid Transit (BRT) system that will improve the ease of transportation for many South Africans and visitors. It is desperately needed and long over-due.

The taxi drivers are up in arms and staging protests against the new system. They will presumably be unemployed or underemployed after the new system is completed. The drivers intend to prevent access to and hold up the running of the new buses. This will certainly create a headache for the government, the police force and all people on the road. They have banded together to block traffic on the highway, forcing closures. They will wreak havoc on Johannesburg traffic until the government appeases them.

Even though I have taken enough trips in the minibus taxis to last a lifetime, I sympathize with the taxi drivers who are trying to make a decent living. At the same time, I wish I could have enjoyed the clean, reliable, functioning, efficient buses visitors will enjoy next year. Taxi drivers ignore all traffic laws, jut in and out of lanes, and put ordinary drivers in danger. They often operate without licences, and there is no regard for the safety or comfort of the passenger. If I lived in South Africa, I would do anything in my power to get them off the streets.

Cartoon by Zapiro

Sights, Smells and Sounds

tkneller — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 06:30:51 +0000

What a whirlwind trip we are having! I can’t believe it’s Wednesday already, with only 2 full days of travel left! We haven’t seen the Great Wall yet, but we’ve seen the “Great Firewall!” Yes, many webpages, blogs, Facebook and YouTube are blocked in China. I guess the government doesn’t like the content, so they have somehow blocked all people from accessing these pages anywhere in China (we, of course, have a way around it). Don’t tell anyone, k?

So, we couldn’t go to the Great Wall the other day because the highway we wanted to take to get to that section of the Wall was closed, due to limited visibility due to “fog.” This is what people call the smog, because it makes them feel better. But, it didn’t seem like the air was moist, like it is with fog, but with a healthy temperature inversion, the pollution was staying close to the ground and bringing the visibility down. I would say the visibility was about a mile for a couple of days, maybe a little less (and have I mentioned I have training in weather observation?). So, we went to a tailor on Saturday instead, and ordered some clothing to be made — I am very excited! I am having a Chinese dress made, and a shirt, and Darren is getting a shirt and a “zoot suit.” Zoot suits are what serious swing-dancers wear — it is going to be great! Yesterday we went for our first fitting of the clothing, and saw some beautiful dress coats made of wool and cashmere, so we decided to order coats as well! Somewhere, there is a small group of ladies sewing madly for us, so we can pick it all up on Friday. I have to go back tomorrow for a second fitting, but Darren should be good to go. What an opportunity for us to have hand-made tailored clothes, really great quality, made by a friend of a friend!

What else have we done? We went to the Ancient Observatory, which was neat. It was a collection of metal instruments on top of a huge stone structure, which was actually a part of the original city wall, and some stone and metal sundials on the ground, in a little park. There were some indoor displays, which we enjoyed thoroughly due to them being inside heated buildings! It was a cold day, and we were starting to be pretty chilled. It’s been quite cool here (-6 C to +17 C on the hottest day) and if I don’t wear my long johns, it’s pretty chilly — especially now, since the inversion is gone, it’s clear and cool (but the cleaner air is worth it).

Beijing is a funny place, in many ways! Some areas are completely modern, western, and familiar: Starbucks, McDonald’s, KFC, shopping centres with all the typical stores (although I don’t necessarily recognize the chains, as many are European), shiny glass buildings, skyscrapers, subways, cars, buses, etc. I saw a double-decker transit bus yesterday — pretty crazy! I’ve been squeezed into subway cars, when I thought it was full and then 6 more people got on! It’s crowded a lot in places like subways and busy streets with shopping nearby, but I’ve also walked down quiet back streets with very few people. There are taxis everywhere! I don’t think we’ve ever waited more than 5 minutes to catch one. The taxi drivers are not very talkative, but some say “bye bye” when we get out. Darren can speak a bit of Chinese, enough to hold a simple conversation, give the taxi driver directions, or talk to the seamstress or whatever. The traffic here is nuts (it reminds me of Montreal, only worse!) and the taxi drivers are right in there making it worse! Gads. Lanes are a suggestion, and for some drivers, speed limits a dare. Pedestrians are everywhere, crossing against the light all the time, standing between lanes, dodging cars, leaping in front or behind, it’s madness! One time, we went through a tunnel of people, standing 3 or 4 deep along both sides of the curved lane we were turning left in, leaning in to see when the traffic would end and they could continue across. It’s tricky to stay together, yet it’s dangerous to hold hands in case one person needs to leap out of the way!

I promised to tell you about the toilets. Sheesh! Most are not “sit-down” toilets like we are used to. They are squatting toilets, which means a shallow ceramic bowl set into the floor, which you put one foot on each side of and then squat down and do what you have to do. I don’t like them. I can do it if I can’t find a sitting toilet, but I don’t like it. The bathrooms are pretty smelly too, especially the men’s (which I can smell when I walk by) — I guess they can’t aim very well! (They have ordinary urinals as well as the squatting toilets.) The only good thing is that no skin touches anything.

That’s all for now… Sorry for the picture-less blogs, I’ll do some photo blogs once I get home. I’ll write more later, when I have time!

This taxi hell can't continue

lukejohnsonrcp — Sun, 03 Dec 2000 12:11:36 +0000

If you compare the quality, safety and comfort of a London cab with taxis in, say, New York, there is no contest. The London cabbie will know the route and speak clear English. The equivalent journey in Manhattan will probably be cramped and the passenger may find communication with the driver difficult.

However, London’s favourite emblem does not operate in a perfect system. We enjoy high-class cabs because we pay for them. London’s taxis are easily the most expensive in the world – even more than the white-gloved cabbies in Tokyo. And while the trip from JFK airport to Midtown Manhattan costs a fixed $30, a similar journey from Heathrow to the West End costs about £40.

The reasons for this are many. Fuel costs much more in Britain – partly thanks to high government taxes. Licensed black cabbies must drive one of three specially permitted vehicles – the Metrocab, the Fairway and the TX1 – all of which are expensive to buy, run and insure. They probably cost at least twice as much as a typical minicab vehicle and much more to operate. For example, by law all are designed to take disabled passengers, which most foreign taxis cannot do – but this comes at a price.

Yet perhaps the main reason why licensed cabs are so expensive is the nature of the trade and those who work in it. All legitimate cab drivers must pass the fabled “Knowledge,” an incredibly difficult exam, which tests their understanding of London’s roads and important sites such as hotels and hospitals. The detail with which black cab drivers must know the geography of London means they are more expert about this huge city than any taxi drivers abroad about their home town. It means passengers always feel safe that the cabbie knows the best route.

The control of London’s hackney carriages is vested in the Public Carriage Office, a branch of the Metropolitan Police. It has been doing this since the Government started regulating the trade in 1654, and it does a fine job. But it is very tough on applicants and that means only determined and resourceful individuals qualify. People only go through the rigours of such a process knowing the ultimate rewards are well worthwhile. Typically applicants take at least three years to acquire the Knowledge and get their badge.

They expect to earn a good, safe living after such a difficult apprenticeship. And I am quite certain those cabbies who work hard do earn a handsome living – much more comparatively than taxi drivers do in New York. There the job is not really seen as a profession, but as something done by immigrants who can’t find work elsewhere. There taxi drivers work for others; in London most cabbies are self-employed and own their own vehicles. The whole business of being a London cabbie is a very long-term investment.

Naturally, London’s cabbies want to protect their livelihood and investment. There are just 18,000 licensed vehicles and 23,000 licensed drivers – not enough for the boom city of London. But the Licensed Taxi Drivers Association, probably the most powerful cab trade organisation, insists that this number must not be radically increased and that drivers continue to study for the full, traditional Knowledge if they want to ply for hire in the street – in other words, pick up fares who hail them. Currently it is illegal for private hire cars to do this, although in London (unlike most of the country) anyone can set up a private hire service and take bookings.

Next year the Government has promised to pass into law various new rules covering private hire. Operators will have to be licensed and pay an annual fee of about £1,500. Drivers will have to be vetted for criminal records. This will help weed out undesirable elements, sharp practice and uninsured vehicles. At present perhaps 50,000 private hire drivers operate in London. Some work illegally, picking up passengers in the street at night when many black cabs refuse to work.

For tourists and locals out in the evening in an increasingly late-night London, the current choice is between an endless wait for an expensive black cab or a risky journey in a private hire car illegally touting for business. In no other major city is there such a disgraceful lack of safe, legitimate public transport after midnight.

Ken Livingstone must work with the Greater London Authority, Transport for London, and the Government to devise a new London taxi and minicab system as part of his integrated transport policy. Legitimate cabs must be made much more plentiful at night, and fares must be reduced for those willing to take a less comfortable, less expert ride. Perhaps cheaper vehicles driven by less qualified drivers should be allowed to operate at night, when black cabs mostly refuse to work.

Of course cabbies know that few politicians and journalists want to make enemies of the trade, since they dread the day a cab refuses to pick them up. But the chaos for the public wanting to get home on a Friday night from the West End cannot continue forever.