Bienvenue au Festival de Cannes. Fasten your seatbelts

Finally, Southern Sun.

I am sitting at the Martinez, one of th most exclusive hotels during the Festival in Cannes, with my South African friends from the acclaimed local film 'Bunny Chow' and Nadia from 702 who is covering each day of the festival through radio broadcasts. There is boisterous laughter in the a corner as several scantily clad young women stand around someone who just has to be famous. Di Caprio maybe? Jake Gyllenhaal? George Clooney? No. Think real Hollywood. Think of the men who shape the industry, not just grace the tabloids. It is Tarantino. Quentin Tarantino. Writer and director of cult classics such Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and the Kill Bill Duo. So we are all somewhat starstuck and Nadia has to remind me not to stare, and though I feel somewhat embarassed nothing would compare with the embarrassment local comedian Kagiso Ledige would feel the following morning.

John Barker and the Bunny Chow Boys

With his wits a bit beyond his grasp, and champagne in its place, he walks over to Tarantino's table in a manner that is inapproprately non-chalant. He stands there for a while chatting away, wokring his charm no doubt. Reminding myself not to stare I glance in the other direction. IT is Roasario Dawson and though she is enchantingly beautiful in person my gaze is broken by Tarantino's thunderous overhear him scolding Kagiso - ' Thats really inappropriate. You are bringing us down." Director John Barker intervenes and soon a night of hollywood glamour looks like it has turned into lunchbreak o the playground with Quentin in one corner, Kagiso on the other and John trying to keep the peace interbetween. Tarantino is not impatient and walks off only he walks straight into my chair and I find myself in an unthinkable position - receiving a sincere eye to eye apology from one of the most influential men in Hollywood. At which point I can only utter that ' It's ok. I love your films.' and as he walks off' ' you can bump into me anytime.' His manner is surprisingly down to earth and approachable.

Joey, Dave and Basement Jaxx.

The night is only beginning for these big boys as Tarantino heads over to another table and sits down with his good friend and Hollywood heavyweight, Robert Rodrigues. The rest of our South African crew arrive outraged about the event and Anne Roberts of Terraplane entertainment takes i on herslf to iniate damage control. The story goes that Kagiso walked over to Elli Roth and proceeded to insult them both, after which he asked Tarantino if he is he was a racist due to the the portrayal of violent black characters in his previous films. everyone is outraged and embarassed. Anne decides to smooth things over with a feminine touch by ordering a bottle of thousand rand champagne and taking it ove to their table to apologize. She does this with more charm and finesse than we could imagine as Tarantino stands up to give her a hug. By the time we leave the Martinez the incident has turned into an occasion we will remember for the rest of our lives as it gave us a point of reference to engage the stars.

In retrospect Cannes will always be a magical time in my life. A fusion of glamour and hype, good friends and laughter, dancing all night and watching films all day. But most of all, demystifying the idea of Cannes, which is more a business iniative with endelss oppurtunity, so that I know what to expect when I return ;)


The festival pretty much dies down by the last weekend so it was at that time that we decided to hit Monaco and possibly fish for tickets for the Grand Prix. Ah, sweet success. Cheap last minute tickets and the oppurtunities of a lifetime in close sucession. The Cannes Film Festival and the Monaco Grand Prix in the space of two weeks, both of which are equally prestigious events in their own right. I managed to squeeze my way close to the track and while it was a terrific sight my ears were not so grateful afterwards. Wow, C'est vraiement la vie.

I love Paris in the Spring Time...

View of Paris from the Centre Pompidou

When one thinks of Paris there are immediate associations which have become an international symbol of this Cosmoplitan Ville - The Eiffel Tower, The Champs au Lycee , the Louvre. I have been to Paris before and so I did not feel drawn to its touristic features and felt hungry to demistify what the real Paris might be. My method for doing this was simple - shack up with the locals as I found myself lucky enough to spend a week with my Parisian girlfriends.

My stay in Paris would be intiated with the intentionally surreal David Lynch Art exhibition. It included short animations, photography, paintings and music that he has composed. It felt, quite simply like descending into his subconcious mind and unravelling the intentions behind his art; which I must admit is something I have struggled to do when watching his films. I read an article on him in a local magazine and found it surprising and inspiring that he feels that his work has spiritual rewards. He feels that the world is becoming progressively more and more concious which unveiled an unexpected optimism that we have in common.

The Thinker in the 'flesh' at the Rodin Museum

The next few days would be spent discovering as much as Paris had to offer, albeit often off the beaten track - from the Musee du Louvre to musems of Fashion and advertising. My favourite museums continue to be the modern art museum - Centre Pompidou and the Musee d'Orsay and the recently opened Musee de L'orangerie which houses Monet's WaterLillies. But as I walked them halls, often shadowing my former sixteen year old self, I found that my scope of fascination surprised me as it expanded with new intrigue. While my artistic loyalties have always remained with the impressionists and surrealists, this time I found myself curiously overwhlemed by the works of the Realists, Post Impressionists and Abstract Expressionists. I had one of those intense moments of disbelief when staring at a canvass only to realise that it resembled... no.. it was a Jackson Pollock painting. And so it was that I entered the world of Marc Rofka, Vasilly Kandinsky and the late Picasso and began to probe that which I previously struggled to understand.

The contemporary artist through various excercises which release psycho-automatic creative impulse, aims to understand his subconcious and hence himself. His canvass is not an observation of the external world or a tribute to moral or aesthetic codes, but rather it is a reflection of his own state of mind. We have become our own subject and source of greatest interest, and we search for truth and understanding within ourselves. And in much of the same manner as the great men who inspired my thoughts I reflected that I too have changed and evolved and these recents insights implied growth.

but apart from the intellectual we certainly did alot of socialising in Paris, and while the French appear to be cold and self centered, I discovered that they simply need time to let their guard done to strangers and that once they did, I discovered some of the most charming and faschinating people I had ever come to meet. But from Paris there was an entirely different adventure looming in the background, the Festival de Cannes. Deep breaths ladies and gentleman. Deep breaths.

Transit in Toulouse

Aaah France. The home of Omlette du fromage, The Little Prince, Amelie Poulain and in my opinion the birthplace of Idio-syncrasy. I cross the boarder via the University town of Toulouse also known as 'La Ville Rose' because of the pink terracotta complexion of locally made clay bricks. In retrospect, travelling through Spain on my lonesome was probably one of the most challenging things I have ever done in my life and their is a mild sense of relief to be in a country where I can ask for directions and undersstand the response.

I walked the streets of Toulouse early in the morning waiting for places to open up and found myself a comfy spot on a bench in pretty park. But I was not alone, there were several people talking jovially and walking tehir dogs at this unsuspecting hour. At a second glance I notice that none of these people are well dressed and appear to be armed with beers for breakfast. It was then that I remeber a peculiar French Law I had discovered on my previous trip to France in 2003. Basically, the French governement stipulates that if a Hobo/Bum/Street person has a dog they cannot be put into jail or detained because the governement doesn't want to be responsible for putting down the dogs. The Result - scores of homeless people with fierce german shepherds who do their dirty business on the streets of its quaint town and give the air of a touch of Mumbai.

The intention of my stay in Toulouse was actually to head to the nearby town of Alby in which is the birthplace of one of my all time favourite French Impressionist painters - Henri de Toulouse Lautrec. Lautrec was the sickly dwarf son of a French aristocrat who found comfort and sympathy in the arms and Beds of Parisian brothels such as the famed Moulin Rouge. As a result, unlike his contemporaries, the subject of his work for most of his life would be prostitutes and the working class. But as things things go there would be no time to head to Alby to the grand Lautrec musuem because of the bus delay and my prebooked flight that leaves for Paris that afternoon. So instead my visit would consist of lunch with a friend and things left undone for later trips.

It was an interesting time to be in France, two days after the presedential elections, with the Right Wing Politician Sarkozy as President Elect and hundreds of Frenchman up in arms, burning six hundred cars in protest. And so it was that Steff and myself found ourselves in a political discussion about the past, present and future of the European reality. Steff is a Civil Engineer who's sense of history is equipped with chronological precision. She explained to me that the origin of French words in English began in the English Court through the inclusion of French royalty in the Aristocratic circles through marriage. It was a brief yet enlightening time and so I found myself a little sad to leave, but yet still eager and excited for the week in Paris that awaited ahead.

I leave Spain at a Spanish Pace...

So my intention was to head straight to Madrid in order to catch an interconnecting bus to Toulouse and spend the weekend there. Once in Toulouse i would be staying with french friends whom i met up with in Barcelona. Ofcourse I did not factor in that the French would be consumed in their upcoming Presedential elections all weekend. This translates into my friend Steff being unable to take me in for the weekend as she intended to visit her parents when casting her vote. Instead I found myself referred to another Frenchie for boarding and lodging in Madrid for the next few days.

I spent that time mostly recuperating and eating home cooked meals which proved to be an incredibly diverse distraction at times, when the dinner guests included a Dutch girl, Frenchman, Spaniard and myself. The quiet routine was broken again when I felt the urge to rush around Madrid to see some sights on my last day. There was one Spanish delicacy I had seen everywhere and had every intention of trying before I left - Chocolate con churros. You can get churros at your local Vida E, though not entirely authentic, but you would have an extremely difficult time tracking down the thick dark chocolate with which to dip.

The event was made even more delightful when a elderly french canadian man introduced himself and started a stimulating discussion about french, local and South African politics. Undoubtedly a keen intelectual, he seemed to have an informed perception of the conditions in South Africa and was very curious about its uncertain future as an emerging democracy. I remarked that South Africans seem more likely to have forgotten their past than come to terms with it and he drew a comparison with the forced amnesia in Ancient Athens after years of warefare with Sparta. Any mention of the previous conditions was punishable by death. Ofcourse nothing neqrly as extreme exists back home but it seems to me that while South Africa is progressive, at times it is diseased with a momentous optimism despite its obvious socio-economic problems, and that only the future would reveal whether this is a strength or weakness.

I then made my way to secure my bus ticket booking for later that evening only to be informed that there would be no Sunday bus this Sunday. I have been travelling for two weeks now and even in that short period of time one quickly becomes adjusted to the realities of travelling. Some things won't go your way but don't waste your time feeling disheartened because even blunders present oppurtunity and other things may exceed your expectations. With that I spent the evening walking through a Park with a friend I met on my previous stay in Madrid as the sun only sets at around 10pm. He was a civil engineer aiming to specialise in Sustaniable development in order to pursue his interest in the environment.

We struck an unusual point of mutual interest when he informed me that his mother was a Sai Baba devotee and as a result they had made many trips to his Asharam in Putthapahti in India. My family has at times followed the teachings of Sai Baba who is a renowned miracle man in India with a masive global following. In fact as it turns outh our families were there at the same time for Baba's 70th birthday celebrations. His most recent trip to India was in 2002 at which time his family was granted a much coveted interview with the holy man. He described the sensations, materialisations and Baba's ability to read your mind. So it was that we spent the evening discussing our mutual spiritual experiences and ideas about the world and its future. Later I wold ponder on the conversation and realise it had left me feeling more positive and energised and effectively confirmed my theory that mishaps can often turn into miracles if you are open to them.

Malaga. Malgagaga.

That strange period of disorientation seems to be hitting me less and less as the days go by. I have been staying in Malaga, a town in the South of Spain after taking a twelve hour overnight train from Barcelona. Málaga is the major coastal city of Andalucia and is a genuine and typical Andaluz city with a gritty individualism untouched by tourism and, to a large extent, the passage of time. More accurately I am staying in a coastal suburb 20km away from Malaga called Benalmadena, in a Five Star Beach Resort courtesy of RCI. I have been living in my own apartment for about eight months in South Africa and it feels good to return to my own comfortable space even if it is only for a few days.

A view of my hotel

Ofcourse it is also an added benefit to have a view of a the Costa del sol out my window. And I think for the first time in my life I have found blue skies that rival the clear blue of the Johannesburg winter sky. Although that moment of awe would be brief shortlived as the rain seemed to follow me everywhere I went. Malaga is also filled with British tourists, infact it would probably be easier to find fish and chips than tapas on the coastline.

Coush surfing somes to the rescue again as I met up with an American exchange student from Missouri, Sarah, for a drink. We then later went out with her friends for trivia night with somer of her friends. I still think it is the most fun I have had in Spain so far. We came second place which equalled a free shot when we realised I had missed the last train to back to the hotel so I had to stay the night with Sarah in her spare bed. Her manner is almost identical to my cousin and childhood other half, Kavita. I havent seen her in years so it felt nice to be close to someone who reminded me of her.

The Alahambra

So the next day I set out to Granada as everyone said I should. ¨There is a huge punk and grunge scene you have to see¨, they said. So i got on a bus a trekked for two hours to the neighbouring city only to find that the rain clouds didn´t dissipate with distance as they did back home. It was pouring and miserable and seeing that I didn´t not go out back to the Hotel I ended up spending an extra three euros to buy another Umbrella. Having come all this way, I refused to leave without makingmy way to the Alhambra,anold Arabian Fort dating to Spain´s Arab days. The architecture is astounding and it kind of took the edge of my grumpy mood. On the walk down the hill I happened to stroll into a shop in search of postcards and managed to strike up a conversation with the salesman. He was a Jazz enthusiast from Peru who said he had been to South Africa (!). He had stayed in Kempton Park and took great pleasure in recounting his trips to Newtown to visit the Jazz Clubs. He insisted that I stay with his niece when I make my way to Lima, so we will see what happens.

From Malaga I have decided to take a bus to Sevilla. If the weather is good I will stay the night, If not I will head back to Madrid and then off Toulouse in France. Until then...