Uninspired Signage in Brussels

I go to a DVD shop on Blvd Anspach called "Excellence" for no other reason that it's brilliant. Videoclubs are dying, it' s a fact and I stream the shit out of whatever I can but the fact is you can't find French movies with French subtitles free to stream online. I'm a firm believer that the only way to learn another language is to watch the movies in original version with sous-titre. Without that I'll never learn French and I'll have nothing to brag about when I finally drag myself back to Ireland. When everyone at home is going "Yeah well now I have a big fuck-off high definition TV that I can't afford that I watch X-Factor on, and everyone in my family has two cars each that we bought on credit" I can be like "Yeah well I speak French so Je m'en foo".

But the name, Excellence. I don't like it. I don't like it because its an unimaginative English name, chosen by a non-English speaker. It's uninspired and inoffensive, and though there are many worse, it's true (I recently returned from Greece where I saw a poster for a band called "Scum on your Face") I wish there was some way I could offer my services as a freelance consultant on such naming matters, for the Belgian commercial public. I would say "Mr. Dupont, I'm afraid the name you have chosen for your establishment is not cool. That will be 2,000 euros, please."

I always wished in india I could act as a freelance spelling consultant. These people are poor. One third of all of the poorest people in the world live in India. These businessmen (they are always men) fork out thousands of rupees for a sign for their shop, in colour with backlighting, and they hand a sketch of what they want to the sign-maker wallah and it says:

COOLDRINGS - COK, SPREET, FONTA, LIMONDRING

God Almighty, just ask someone first, dude.

Brussels Midi Festival - A Poor Show

Le Foire du Midi is a giant funfair right beside Gare du Midi train station that runs every year for a month or so at the end of summer. It's always busy and loud and seems to attract the have-nots of Brussels society. Also features the Belgian chav.

Do you know that Belgian chavs don't know about the Burberry thing? You would imagine that if chavs and skangers were universal, which they are, they would all know about the Burberry thing. Alas, no. My Belgian man told me that they are more into Fred Perry and I said "Yeah but what about the distinguishing pattern of a brand like Burberry? How would they identify each other?" He didn't get it.

I brought my mother to the Foire du Midi today. She clutched that handbag to her chest like it was sewn onto her. It's both frightening and saddening down there. People are quite poor, and it seems like that's where they go on holiday. Large families out in force, overweight with teeth missing and, saddest of all, not enough money to treat mental illness. There were lots of crazy people, and they all seemed to be on the Kriek. Lots of persons of the Muslim faith, also, dressed up to the nines and stuffing barbe du papa into their gobs. Kids screamed, once the little metal bar went "click" across their bellies and they realised they wanted to get off the ride, but it was too late. Sad life lessons being learned there.

There was vomit on the tarmac, dance music on the loudspeakers, gypsies behind counters. Large VCR players went dusty while toothless travellers urged people to try to win one by hooking small plastic ducks onto a fishing rod line.

Living here as a foreigner, it would be possible to live years without seeing Belgian poverty, right here in Brussels, as it really is. A short visit to Liege or Charleroi produces the same saddening result. Years ago wen I saw Charleroi listed as a (fucking) Ryanair destination, I thought it sounded romantic. Charles the King. So noble. So fairy tale. I imagined big castles and Brugge-esque belfries. On my first visit to the city, a drunk man grabbed my tit in the train station. I yelped and hid in the toilets until my lift arrived. What the fuck?

We didn't stay long at the funfair. I think my mother was intimidated by the tattoos and excess flab, and was in a hurry to go back to the postcard Brussels where everyone speaks English and has insurance.

Beware the Inquisitor

Shame is a big feature in Indian culture. So is asking foreigners intrusive questions.

For Indians, I am a walking, talking, cigarette-smoking puzzle. Where is my husband? Why don't I have one? Where are my kids? If this man is not my husband, clearly he is my brother. No? Boyfriend? Unfathomable. Not least of the puzzles I present to Indians is my insistence on wearing trousers like a man, or my preference for my hair in a short stylish crop, unheard of in a country where femininity is ass-length hair slathered in enough coconut oil to grease a wheel.

Indians don't stare at me, or gaze or gawp. They consider me, the white skinned blue eyed puzzle, as I saunter, unmarried down the street, shins blazing, cigarette hanging from my un-ringed fingers, looking for all the world like marriage and kids and what mom and dad think don't even graze the outer limits of my consciousness. Which they don't.

And how do they know all this about me? How do they know that I have a car and a string of boyfriends, a crappy salary and divorced parents? Because they ask.

In India, personal details such as age, marital status are public property. You may be asked by a total stranger on a train how many kids you have. An answer in the negative may produce quizzical looks and downright disapproving shifts sideways away from you along your shared blue plastic Indian Railways seat.

On my first visit to India, I was on a train with a boyfriend. Apart from not sharing nationality, he wasn't even white, like me. Such an odd situation threw my fellow passengers into a frenzy of confusion. The look on my neighbour's face when I told him of our arrangement reminded me of a computer crashing. I could see his brain going 'control alt delete' as he tried to digest the information he had so nosily requested. Subsequent visits to this beautiful country have found me more prepared, and previous unsavory opinions of my lifestyle have firmly wedged a 7 euro faux wedding ring on the correct finger.

Taking this cue, I have done my fair share of nosing around. Learning about another culture by talking to locals is a mind opening exercise in self improvement.

When I was in Tamil Nadu, I stayed in a small guesthouse on the beach. The owner was a friendly, aged frenchwoman, and she had a team of local helpers. One of them, Govinda, was the cook. A beautiful woman of 26, she ate with us some nights, and with her broken english followed our conversations and smiled demurely at everyone throughout the meal. One night, I asked her if she was married. Her smile disappeared, and she shook her head and looked away. My question had evidently upset her.

Govinda has a physical defect. Her feet turn outwards, like a mermaids fins, and she has difficulty walking. When she got to marrying age, the defect caused problems in her parents' ability to find a match. As is the tradition in conservative india, especially among the lower caste fisherman colony to which she belongs, if the older sister isn't married, it can cause a problem for the younger sisters. It was imperative that a groom, any groom, be found. Her father was approached by a local man, and a deal was reached. The man's son was willing. The son was praised as a hard worker, a great son, an excellent match.

A dowry was demanded. Govinda figured out pretty soon that the man to whom she had been betrothed was far from her ideal match. For the sake of her sisters, and her family's name, she had agreed to marry him. She planned to stay married for three years, the legal amount of time you must wait before filing for divorce. Doomed before she even began, Govinda made plans for her wedding.

Three days before the wedding ceremony, the tsunami struck south India, destroying thousands of kilometers of coast. The wave brought destruction and misery, swept away people, houses, boats, livelihoods. It also swept away all of the gold, jewels, and money that Govinda's family had managed to save for her dowry. As she clung desperately to a coconut tree, trying to keep her head above water, Govinda wondered of she should just let go. She thought it would be the most noble thing to do. How could her family ever replace the valuables for her dowry that had been taken by the great wave? But she clung on.

Govinda is now married. Her husband, who regularly beats her, turns out to be neither a hard-worker nor a nice guy. She is ashamed, humiliated, and unable to go back to her family because its unacceptable. I know this because our french host gives her a couch to sleep on when the abuse gets really bad.

This was the story that lurked behind my apparently safe question. Every time I saw Govinda after that, she wouldn't smile at me. She stayed silent through meals and the pleasantries stopped.

My question unleashed a wave of misery of its own. My inquisitiveness brought shame to her deep brown, unlined face. It made me realize why I was such a puzzle to these people. They needed to figure out why my unorthodox admissions didn't bring a huge barrage of shame tumbling down on me. That I can swing my hips around India in apparent sin is beyond them. Beware the inquisitor...

And God Created Controversy : the creationist movement is gaining a foothold in the hearts and minds of America's kids.

Sigh.

Talking about God (see image, right) in the U.S. shouldn't be a problem. The land of the free and the brave has the world's most jealously guarded freedom of speech laws. But what about talking about God in the classroom? An argument of biblical proportions has been raging between fans of Darwin's theory of natural selection and fundamentalists who believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible.

In the beginning....

The dispute concerns the evolution of living organisms, the idea of common descent, the geological history of the Earth, the formation of the solar system and the origin of the universe. Creationism, an argument for the existence of God, centres around the theory that God created everything in its present form roughly ten thousand years ago. It is a fundamentalist, evangelical “pseudoscience” that was born as a challenge to evolution theory being taught in U.S. Schools. Proponents believe in a Young Earth of between 4,000 and 10,000 years old. Creation Science is the premise that this theory can be supported by scientific evidence, dinosaurs and all.

As recently as 1968 it was a crime to teach evolution theory in public schools in some U.S. states. Ever since evolution's triumphant return to the curriculum in the late sixties, “creationists” have been trying ever more cunning ways to edge it out of textbooks again. Back then, creationists insisted that if evolution theory was to be taught in schools, it was had to be “balanced out” by teaching creation theory alongside it. This was backed up in the 70s and 80s by new legislation in 23 states. More recently, creationists have begun to argue that because there is evidence against evolution, it is only fair that this evidence must also be taught. This may seem like a very fair argument, but it has one major flaw: teachers are not encouraged to teach evidence against creationism, (and let's face it, there is plenty).

If not A, then B

There currently exist only two options: if a christian fundamentalist teacher can plant doubt in the minds of students about evolution, the only alternative is creationism. Eugenie Scott is the Executive Director of the National Centre for Science Education, a non-profit organisation that supports teaching of evolution theory in U.S. schools. “It means you don't necessarily have to prove that Noah's great flood created the grand canyon. If you can eliminate evolution, creationism is the only thing that exists. You don't have to come up with scientific support or backup, you just have to eliminate evolution. If not A then B.” says Mrs. Scott. Creationists are making it a black and white argument in which creationism, by default, is becoming the accepted theory and no other alternative theories are offered in science class. About 44% of Americans believe the earth is thousands, not billions of years old and was created by God in its present form.

Mrs Scott also criticises recent national education legislation called “No Child Left Behind”, or “nickelbee” for short. It was signed into law by that other famous “young earth-er” George W. Bush. The legislation stipulates that in order to promote analytical thinking and to stimulate discussion in class, teachers are encouraged to “teach the controversy” surrounding the theory of evolution. The wording of the legislation, however, is ambiguous. Mrs Scott says this gives teachers the freedom to suggest that the controversy exists within the scientific community, as opposed to in society. This, she says, gives the impression that scientists themselves cannot agree as to whether or not evolution is feasible, and that it is a “theory in crisis.”

In September 2008, the battle for the United States presidency was in full swing. A lot of media speculation revolved around whether or not Sarah Palin, the republican candidate for vice-president was a “young earth-er”. In a television interview, Hollywood actor Matt Damon echoed the fears of many Americans when he said that he did not feel comfortable having a vice-president who “holds the nuclear codes, and yet believes that dinosaurs existed 4,000 years ago.”

Another Ghandi Tipped for the Top Spot... Surprise Surprise

Letter to the Economist that went unpublished, the bastards :

When the leaders of the Indian Independence movement ruled out a sectarian government in favour of a secular democracy, everyone braced themselves for polling stations and civil society. Yet they have never quite abandoned political nepotism. The knowledge and expertise of any trade in India is passed from father to son and so on down the line (a legacy of the caste system). Who else would be better equipped to make leather shoes than someone whose father's father's father also made leather shoes? And so it is in politics.

Indians believe that the Ghandi/Nehru dynasty is the best trained for the job because it's a family tradition. I once asked a shoe-cleaner on the streets of Amritsar why he chose that profession and he looked at me like I had paneer for brains. Is it any wonder Indians don't question Rahul Ghandi's trajectory towards congress-wallah, and possibly even PM-wallah?

Answers on a postcard.

Have conscience, will travel

The world is full of dogooders. But does "free" volunteering exist? Kind of...

In a world of uncountable good causes there is an equal number of good citizens to pursue them. Volunteering abroad is popular among young people with energy and a desire for social justice. But navigate far enough into a charity website and you'll find a hefty fee standing between you and your role as samaritan. At first this seems bizarre. Why can't you volunteer abroad without paying through the nose? Surely your willingness to toil for the benefit of others is enough?

It is cold water on good intentions. Upon consideration, it is equally implausible to expect a foreign charity organisation to pay for your accommodation and living expenses, whether you're teaching them English and building schools for them or not. But the fee, in addition to the cost of flight tickets, can be up to two thousand dollars a month for doing your bit.

The reality is that charities need your cash more than they need your sweat.

Charity is changing. In the past, foreign donors donated regularly to a charity and received a regular brochure. This method is becoming less trendy. A more popular (and accountable) method is to sponsor an individual, such as an orphaned child or someone with a chronic illness. This way the samaritan receives regular news and personalised correspondence.

But to visit and spend time with those affected is something that appeals to a travel-happy and socially conscious generation. Find a company, pay the cash, and get picked up from the airport. Thus begins the volunteer experience. In the case of young people, parents feel assured by websites and photos that the organisation is legitimate, the volunteers are looked after, and the money well spent. For the volunteers, they experience another culture, have a holiday (some volunteer packages even include cultural activities) and help save the world all at the same time.

Still, it is difficult for some people to believe that “free” volunteering doesn't exist. Some try pounding the pavement. Arrive in a country and go knocking on doors. This way the volunteer can present themselves in person and offer their services.

But this can be risky; illegitimate charities find it easier to hide when they have no websites, phone numbers or testimonies. Marianne, a Canadian backpacker awoke to this grim reality after coming across an ad nailed to a tree in Goa, South India looking for volunteers. A “Christian” charity mission, a nun took her passport and told her to pay huge sums of money to get it back. Caroline from Argentina visited the same orphanage was offered a baby for a “good price” before her documents were taken, too.

Katmandu, the dusty, congested and terminally poor capital of Nepal, is full of charities, legitimate or otherwise. Tons of NGOs and charity middlemen make a tidy profit getting volunteers set up in the numerous orphanages and village projects in the valley. Most volunteers are Europeans who have borrowed lots of cash from Mammy and Daddy to be there.

Rajendra Subedi knows all about it. An experienced trekking guide in the Annapurna mountain range, Raj also runs a small house for Nepali orphans in the city. He set up his charity “Ocean Nepal” in 2005 with financial backing from western customers. A soft-spoken, smiling guy, Raj says “I just want to help a few children. And then a few more.”

He operates trekking tours to the beautiful peaks of Annapurna, and uses a percentage of the profits for the orphanage. Raj merged his knowledge of the mountain ranges with his sense of social obligation and came up with the latest trend in volunteering. Go trekking, marvel at the peaks, and when you make the steep descent back into Katmandu after your trek, hang out with the kids at the orphanage and help them with their ABC.

“Ocean Nepal” has no flashy website or fancy letterhead. It's a grassroots charity that involves little administrative work, just a phone and an email address. Raj says “I have no business training, so it is often hard to find trekkers and volunteers.” He is convinced that other “free” volunteering opportunities do exist “but with so many famous charities vying for your time and dollars, its difficult to know where to begin.”

Wear it again, Sam - Second-Hand clothes Shopping in Brussels

A lot can be discovered about a city from the clothes its citizens wear, and even more perhaps, by the clothes they throw out. From musty dark second-hand recycle bins to the more chic vintage boutiques, its all been worn before and I went to check it out.

It is said that Brussels is not as fashionable as its stylish cousins Paris, Milan or London, but what is its rating on a global style survey? It doesn't feature, unfortunately. Despite an abundance of creative designers, and a growing number of internationally known brands, Brussels can't be found on any top ten style lists, or top 50, for that matter. Brussels fashionista and style blogger Perrine Postic says “Style in Brussels is hidden, you have to look for it to find it, not like in Antwerp. It may be because the city is poorer than Antwerp, people use their money differently”. But even Mumbai and Dublin come higher on style surveys than Brussels. Are these people on drugs?

Fortunately, my personal style is not very tendence. I used to think Moschino was an insect repellant. But with so many festivals and parties happening this summer, its time to shuck off my overcoat and reassess my wardrobe, which after a brief once over turns out to be full of falling apart H&M garbage that you wouldn't give to a dog to sleep on. And being a freelance journalist during a financial crisis means means I'm not exactly dripping with cash. The sheer number of second hand and vintage shops in Brussels means I could do a bit of cheating, so I called up my editor and asked if he would mind “funding” my summer outfit challenge. He gave me fifty quid and a deadline. Thanks, Tony!

The area around Halle St. Gery is famous for beautiful pre-loved vintage shops. My first stop was the Ramon & Valy Vintage shop on Rue des Teintures. Valy was a stylist for 15 years and she knows what she's talking about. Her shop is full of vintage pieces from the 20s and 30s, all in very good condition and smelling good. Though the clothes were to die for, the price tags were not: a classic second hand 1920s dress comes with a 75 euro burden, and though it was lots of fun being dressed by Valy and paraded around the shop, we air kissed goodbye and I went on to cheaper things.

I then tried the other end of the scale, less vintage and more hand-me-down. Rue Malibran in Flagey has a number of musty, pot luck second hand shops. The nameless no. 58 Rue Malibran is run by a Syrian family and features lots of discarded Zara and ETAM articles, sometimes featuring suspicious stains. The items are less lovingly displayed than in Valy's and the owners are less likely to administer style advice. It was difficult to find anything incredibly chic from the bins of balling, shapeless size 46 t-shirts piled up in every corner. What I did find however was a pair of almost brand new black and white kitten heels from Cinderella's of Boston. No stranger to bargaining, I got the owner down from 13 euro to 9 and left the shop with the shoes swinging in a plastic Delhaize bag. Nice.

Episode on Rue Violet is a big vintage shop right around the corner from the Grand Place. It is a hit with RUN DMC fans and the baggy pants brigade. You can find a nice 1980s shiny tracksuit for less than 30 quid. The question is why would you want to? It has original pieces and revamped oldies and is a popular spot around halloween. (Is it really okay to buy your clothes from a shop that's popular around halloween?). Their price range is well within budget and they have an array of really beautiful gear. A proper look through the rails would take hours so I handpicked a couple of nice pieces, asked a few shop assistants “Do I like fat in this?” and chose a very nice (even if in need of an iron) black dress with pink and purple stripes and hanging neckline. Very sexy, very feminine and a nicely priced 25 euro. I also picked up a chic 70s purse for 10 euro. Episode, we salute you.

Modes on Rue Blaes in an unassuming little shop full of one of a kind bric a brac. Like any vintage shop worth its salt, it would take hours to get through all of the leather jackets, velvet waistcoats and Chanel ballgowns that are crammed into the shop. So I went straight to the sunglasses section where I found, among piles of 1970s aviator Raybans, a pair of oval shaped black vintage shades for a decent 10 euro. Strong, sturdy and incredibly retro.

Dress : 25 euro Episode

Purse : 10 euro Episode

Shoes : 9 euro no. 58 Rue Malibran, Ixelles 1050

Shades : 10 euro Mode

Total : 54 euro

Wear it again, Sam

Second hand shops abroad are usually called charity shops or op-shops. Clothes are donated to charity and the profits from their resale are used for different causes. Not so in Brussels. The clothes you donate are generally sold for profit, apart from a few notable examples like British charity Oxfam which has shops in the city centre and around. Les Petits Rien is a charity organisation that fights poverty and social exclusion in Belgium by gathering, sorting and reselling second hand clothes, furniture, books, appliances etc. Their colossal warehouse can be found on Rue Americain.

Buying second hand shoes is slightly nasty if they have been worn a lot by their previous owner. Getting a decent pair is pot luck – they only come in one size. It would be disgusting to wear shoes whose original owner had a foot hygiene issue. On top of that, the original owner may have passed away - second hand shops often get their stock from the houses of the recently deceased. This doesn't bother me too much but walking around in dead people's shoes is a bit too creepy for some.

Tip: to get the old smell out of your “new” old clothes, the trick is not in the washing: you need to hang them in the wind for a day or two and then throw then in the wash.

Upmarket : Rue Dansaert, Rue de la Paix, Rue de Flandre

Slightly tattier: Rue Malibran, Flagey, around Avenue Jean Volders, St Gilles

Downright cheap: Place jeu de balle market, Les Petits Rien

Best place for second hand books : Nijinsky, Rue Page, Ixelles (near Chatelain market)

For bikes : second hand bike market every second Sunday at Gare du Midi