Life on Earth

And then some.

2008-06-25T09:07:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I leave London.

The end of a journey always coughs up a strange mix of feelings. There I was all excited for moving on, moving forward and now I find myself tripping on the final step, reluctant to go. (Hoping James doesn't read this and freak out - note to James: you can have your floor space back tomorrow I promise).

I intended to stop blogging on here after Denmark. Blogging personal stuff from Sydney never really interested me much, nor do I think it holds any benefit to anyone else. The only exception might be to keep this open to track my final journalism project, which I am in the planning stages of now. It's going to be exciting.

Until then, though, thanks for stopping by.

Life, sedated.

2008-06-16T10:54:00.000-07:00

Yeah yeah, I haven't updated in awhile. Being back in Arhus editing footage and writing transcripts is far less interesting (though necessary) than being on the road so I don't feel the need to share it blow-by-blow.

I know you miss me, but be patient. I'm busy.
In the meantime, here - have some cats.

Cats on a treadmill is set to LADYHAWKE's Back on the van (Van She Tech remix). Gold stars to all parties involved.

In Dubrovnik

2008-06-07T05:37:00.001-07:00

We made it!

(Trying to) move on

2008-06-06T05:08:00.000-07:00

We're still in Pristina.

We were supposed to head off last night, but we have been delayed with the excellent excuse being that we can't figure out how to leave.

It's now slipping into evening and we really, really have to make our way back to Croatia. None of us really want to go. It's only the thought of sunny coastal cities that is making us bother at all. So, after googling, calling, pleading with non-existent bus officials and asking everyone we know, our plan is this:

1. Leave apartment
2. Go to bus station.
3. Aim for Montenegro and pick a bus.
4. Hope to be in Croatia in 1-2 days.

Google has this to say about our trip: We could not calculate driving directions between pristina and dubrovnik. Maybe that's because it doesn't even show Pristina on the map below. For the record, it is just above Prizren.

Ah well. We'll get there eventually. Suffice to say, we have no other choice.

View Larger Map

Kosovo, Part II.

2008-06-04T15:32:00.000-07:00

An interesting couple of days. There is almost too much to post about.

Yesterday we went to Mitrovica, the site of most the recent unrest in Kosovo. The city is small, and sliced in two by a river. North of the river is the city's Serbian community. To the South is the Kosovar Albanian one. There is a solitary bridge dividing the two, French KFOR soldiers keeping watch at either end. As we approached they ID'd us warily at first, breaking into shy smiles as we explained our presence there. I got the distinct feeling they were painfully bored. There is tension in the area, but it is peaceful. People on both sides are tired of fighting.

Prizren, in contrast, was not a city divided. The Serb area lay burned, broken and abandoned. As we rolled through the countryside on one of many long, hot bus rides I watched over the plains and couldn't help wondering; how many died over this bare land?

The struggle over this place has lasted for centuries, a veritable tug-of-war between neighbouring populations. Although I have spent time in Kosovo and not Serbia, I am trying desperately not to be biased towards any side. It is difficult for many reasons. Too many stories to hear, too many complex issues to understand, too many conflicting interests. For the civilians, there were no winners at the end of this war. Just a kind of painful relief.

The stories we do hear are hard to believe. They are of survival during the war, of being six years old, hiding in trees and alerting the village of incoming soldiers. Of shooting 8 opponents before being killed in the front yard. And of after the war, of being beaten bloody for changing religions. Of having to lie to your whole family about being gay, and sneaking to Albania to see your Serbian boyfriend, a toxic combination in the eyes of some.

We were taken to visit a Roma community in the outskirts of Mitrovica. There was a wedding being held that day. The bride, just fourteen years old and beautiful in her heavily adorned blue gown, greeted us with a grave bow, clasping our hands. Illegal in the eyes of the state, she won't be able to make her marriage official for several years. Maybe she won't bother to do that at all.

I love Kosovo. The friendly people, the amazing food. And the way the small deprivations can so easily erode the importance of superficial things. Our little group gets along well. We keep each other entertained during the long hours without electricity, without water. We shop for food from the vendors who pitch their scant selection of vegetables on the side of the road, next to rusty generators and stray, scary-looking dogs. We sit on the balcony in the evening as the heat wave breaks, sending shattering storms to wreak havoc above. We have a dinner party that turns into a party, inviting everyone we have met here so far. We stay up late into the night, laughing harder than we have in a long time.

Pristina, Kosovo - Day 1

2008-05-30T08:46:00.000-07:00

Through heavily blinking eyes we see our first glimpse of Kosovo around 4am. Woken up by border control, and for once we are thankful.

The countryside is even more stunning than Bosnia. Mountains, clear blue rivers and endless green fields. We try in vain to stay up to watch the waking sun, but we can't. We are too tired, and our eyes won't obey.

Our apartment is in Ulpiana, a suburb to the south of Pristina. Not a beautiful city but a friendly one. A friend asks me to describe it and I'm not sure I can - it's like nowhere else I have been. There are signs of poverty, but also of wealth. No tourists. Smiling faces, never feeling uncomfortable. A small city with rolling hills in the background. No signs of tension, nor of trouble that apparently lies close to the surface, still for now.

Our new home sits high on a hill and has a nice view. Some interesting grafitti lines the doors on the level below. Probably no one lives there now. Outside, the children giggle at us as they draw in chalk on the sidewalk. "Americani!" They call out as they laugh behind their hands. Used to the UN trucks that prowl the streets.

We meet with a friend of a friend who calls this home. Like many young people in Kosovo he works abroad and returns just for the summer, to see his family and friends. I quiz him about the ubiquitous anti-UN grafitti.

It's done by a small pro-Kosovar group, he tells me. They're tired of having others try to solve their problems. "Good in theory," he says. "Just a bit too radical."

This morning we go to the University of Pristina. An adviser takes us to a classroom, finds a young man who is happy to be interviewed. He is a Christian, against the wishes of his Muslim family. Another fascinating story.

In the afternoon we visit the Kosovo museum. It's empty but for us. The military exhibit takes up half of the small building. They don't really use cabinets - many weapons for display are just lying on the floor.

Tonight we have an interview and an invite to a nightclub. That's for my story. Youth, identity and moving on.

Road to Sarajevo

2008-05-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

I read somewhere that the trip we'd planned from Split to Sarajevo was via the "bus ride from hell". But before I launch into that, let me touch briefly on Split.

From its coastal beauty you can tell the Croatian coastal town is vaguely related to the prestigious 'Cities of the Med' family, although if Nice is a showy young daughter then Split is more like a distant great-uncle, a bit worn and whiskery at the edges.

The hostel we stayed at was welcoming, friendly and small. Apparently breaking and entering can be a problem so most places have guard dogs.

Lucky for us ours was really scary and no one would ever dare to cross its path.

We were barely there 4 hours when the time came for us to trek onwards, 5am wake-up call, last mournful look at the coast in the morning light, and off we went on the smallest, most ragged bus out of the station.

Despite what I'd heard the bus ride was seamless. There was a sense of calm on the road to Sarajevo, peaceful and pretty despite the failing air con in the 45 degree heat. The remnants of war are visible but fading - Bosnia is quietly healing away. All you can see are the scabby wounds of bullet holes in buildings and shells of bombed houses being reclaimed by the earth. Long sealed over but not forgotten.

The sky in Sarajevo is not the deep azure of home but a lightly tinted blue, and when we saw it, completely cloudless. It's Spring, and the countryside is beautiful.

Somewhere in the Balkans

2008-05-28T16:15:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Blogger's new scheduled post publishing option, by the time you read this I'll already be on the road.

We touched down in Denmark for less than 12 hours before heading out for our final project. A couple of other students and I have decided to go to one of the most interesting and under-touristed routes we could think of: Kosovo.

We're flying first to Split, Croatia where we'll spend the night before boarding an early bus for Sarajevo and eventually onwards through the night (and Serbia) to Pristina, newly proclaimed capital of Kosovo. The journey itself will take somewhere around 48 hours, and though I can't get google maps to sketch it out, you can sort of connect the dots for yourself here:
View Larger Map
We're all pretty keen to set up in Pristina and start researching and making our stories, but there might be time for some sightseeing and sunshine on the way home. Either way, excited!

Tales from the city

2008-05-26T15:16:00.001-07:00

Pre-departure log
Flying time: around an hour
Additional time for buses, trains, customs and waiting: about 7 hours
Weather at destination: 18 degrees and a cloudless sky
Mood: chipper

We were sluggish but optimistic when we crawled into Notting Hill towards chez James. He's just moved in, and the place is rather snazzy. Allow me to show you around:

This is the view from the window.

And this is James.

We were tired, but not tired enough to skip the event we'd come for. After a siesta we headed to Brixton for Jojo and Nix's party. It was nice to see some familiar faces (and a few new ones).

Unsurprisingly, the next morning was a bit rough. With our powers combined though, we somehow got through it. A quick raid of Portabello market for some breakfast ingredients helped.

Despite being a bit slow off the blocks Siena and I happily played tourists all day, stopping by Portabello and every shop in Notting Hill, through Hyde Park, down to Kensington with a brief hiatus in Harrods where S. tried to make a new friend...

...dodged several hundred tourists taking photos of Big Ben at Westminster, walked along the river and wound up at one of my favourite places in the world, the Tate Modern. They had a Kandinsky I hadn't seen before, and I could have stayed forever in the Surrealism wing. Also impressed by the huge and hypnotic Monet water lilies.

Being summer in the city there was far too much more going on than I could ever report about. The streets were packed with bank holiday euro-trippers so all the wares were out, all the lights were switched on and all the dogs and ponies in the zoo ran free.

The other days were much the same. More friends, more food, more drinking and more relaxing.

London's sort of a strange place for me now. Every part of the city seems to hold a thousand memories I've forgotten, scratched into some corner of my mind. It's been less than 2 years since I've left but it does feel like a lifetime ago.

But, it's nice to know that some things, and some people, will never change.

Nudity, scandals and death to bees

2008-05-20T22:01:00.000-07:00

Hear all the latest news from Denmark this Friday at 9am on 2SER.

Inspiration

2008-05-18T20:28:00.000-07:00

Or maybe just procrastination! Whatever, I like it: Twistori

Oh, and did you notice my new twitter box? That's a not-so-subtle attempt to prove that I actually use it. Now you can track me every second of the day. Lucky you!

How do you take your stories?

2008-05-17T12:06:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like a good old fashioned book sometimes.

They're great for tactile comfort, their doggy-eared reliability and the way they don't need plugging in after 4 hours on the road, but lately they've been losing points for their same-same-sameness. (Or maybe I've just been choosing the wrong books - right now I'm forcing my way through a Picoult novel I found abandoned in the dining hall).

Luckily for the attention poor and under-entertained, digital publishing is here.

We tell stories goes where Carmon San Diego and her floppy disks never could: google maps.

Wikinovels are also slowly growing in popularity. The concept is beautifully simple, exemplified by "a thousand monkeys at a thousand typewriters". Why not have a thousand humans at a thousand laptops each in their corner of the globe, with their own set of colourful experiences creating a vibrant world of fiction together?

Chaotic, you might think, and messy. Both are probably true, but weighed up next to 524 pages of drivel about an arizona housewife, well, you decide.

Waking up to the web.

2008-05-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

This is one of the best articles I've read in a long time.

I've been resisting the pull of interweb geekdom longer than everyone, despite happily gorging on the benefits everyday, but there's no denying it is here to stay.

Tides are also shifting in my life. My time in Denmark is winding down, and though the course here lasts for several more weeks, much of that will take place abroad in Brussells and Kosovo, with side trips to London, Amsterdam, Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia. That leaves me a grand total of 12 days here in the bike riding capital of the world.

What this means is you'll be seeing less random snapshots of my life on here, and more of stuff you might actually be able to use. Hurrah.

Going lighter

2008-05-02T06:26:00.001-07:00

From a recent gmail chat:

R: brb..
R: ok back
M: hey wow I just worked out what brb stands for. I'd previously thought it was some kind of cyber burp
R: hah.. that's almost as good as your "moleskin" blanket
M: ...and almost as good as when I thought the Queen and Margaret Thatcher were the same person

And from the Vice guide to picking up chicks

"Ladies Love Bill Murray. Remember when he lifts her up on to the stove and then starts jabbing her bum with a spatula? No woman on earth can resist that."

I hate google.

2008-05-02T03:07:00.000-07:00

Or more specifically, I hate the glue-like internet, where anything you say and do in the course of your work and life (if you happen to live your life on the web) is held against you forever and ever, amen. Being categorically a Gen Y, it’s central to my genetic makeup that I must automatically change my mind about everything ten seconds later, and I often do. But according to the web, I am still 15 years old, calling myself some idiot name and claiming to be a fan of Blink 182. How annoying.

It also fills me with a mild disgruntled feeling to know that there is at least one other person with my name living in this world, also contributing idle stuff to the pool of Rhiannon Elston-isms, distorting and diluting my identity and generally marauding as me.

So let me just nix both these irritations at once, and say that should you ever background check me and find anything bad, wrong, illegal, disagreeable or otherwise contrary to your general state of happiness plastered all over the interweb, well, that was the other one.

Moldova kidneys cheapest in Europe

2008-04-30T22:25:00.000-07:00

An innocent conversation takes a macabre twist.

"So what's Lithuania like these days?"

"Yeah, you know, it's pretty good. Except you gotta be careful. You go to a party, you get your drink spiked, maybe wake up without one of your kidneys. That sort of thing."

So I'm paraphrasing, but you get the drift. Organ harvesting is alive and trucking in Eastern Europe. And it's not the only place. Moldova recently topped a Reuters poll for countries with the highest amount of organ harvesting, with Brazil and India coming in close behind.

Good news, though. Moldova has recently banned organ trade. This, of course, does not stop the thriving black market. Underground gangs have been known to pay desperately poor living donors up to $2,700 for a single kidney. According to the World Health Organisation, that's the cheapest price in Europe.

Abduction for body parts is less common, but still happens in parts of the world. Victims are either killed and used for multiple organs or drugged and dumped with bloody scars.

In related news, claims have just recently emerged that organ harvesting was practiced by the Kosovo Liberation Army on 300 abducted Serbs during the 1999 conflict. The Chinese government has also been criticised for its practice of selling the organs of prison inmates. The practice was banned following pressure from the international community in the lead up to the olympics.

If you're so psychic, how could you not know your site is burning my retinas?

2008-04-30T17:03:00.001-07:00

click.

Through darkness to dawn

2008-04-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

Uncharacteristically somber on a Wednesday night. Something to do with being too idle and unsure about the future.

Wind the day back to when it started. 10am, cheerful, washing up and flashback funky house playing through the tinny speakers of my laptop. No work or school today.

The laptop doesn't know it yet, but (just like the music) it's getting upgraded for a newer model soon. It's nearly time to jump ship and get a mac. I know I said I'd never do that, but things change. I'm not who I used to be, sorry.

Lunchtime, a boat race down at university lake. The Danes are all refined and tidy six days of the week, but when they bust out they go crazy. Today I saw things I never wanted to see, a male blow-up doll and nine guys peeing into a single bush. A few boats, a freezing swimmer. Fireworks. Beer cairns. Costumes.

The day fades, and I'm here, pensive. Soon we'll be leaving and I can't see what happens next.

Lucky for me the nights are short this time of year.

24-hour border raid

2008-04-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, one of my favourite books was Number the Stars. It tells the fictional story of a Danish family who helped smuggle their Jewish friends across the Oresund to Sweden. I didn't know it back then, but this was a fairly accurate depiction of why around 90 percent of Danish Jews survived WWII, despite the fact that Denmark was fairly lax about letting Germany come in and take over (to be fair, any resistance on their part would have been futile).

Yesterday, we made the same journey that saved so many lives. By train, of course. Not stapled in the bellies of fishing boats with rabbit's blood and cocaine hankerchiefs to keep the sniffer dogs away.

Sweden was fun, but there were weird moments. Like when we were in tired, silent Malmo drinking coffee, feeling sleepy, and a truck full of newly minted high school graduates came bounding through the streets out of nowhere (really, nowhere - Malmo is just not that big) in a cattle truck. They were playing Benni Benassi and dressed like sailors, looking like ravers on a misplaced Mardi Gras float. We laughed, scuttled into the sunshine and went for more coffee.

The Vanity Project

2008-04-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago in class we were made to turn the camera back on ourselves in what can only be called a vanity project. You can see it here. The brief was to film "who we are", which is not something a journalist would normally do, and I have mixed feelings about the outcome. By most people's definitions, it's pretty cheesy. Sorry.

If nothing else, it's nice that it features my lovely flatmate. I'll miss her when we're no longer here.

Is this art?

2008-04-19T21:21:00.000-07:00

The wonderful Frankie magazine has an article this issue about a chick who is speaking only in quotes all in the name of art.

Is it really art? The magazine interviewer wants to know. And it's a good question. Some of her quoted quotes seem dubious. Observe.

"It is simply this."
--Kevin Rudd, 2007. (Simply what?! Explain yourself. Articulate, dammit.)

"But."
--Bevis and Butthead, 1993. (Useless filler)

"That is the question."
--Hamlet, c. 1601. (Trite. I would like to say 'also useless' but too many years of academia have taught me that slamming Shakespeare is wrong. I fear the wrath of something I don't quite understand.)

Danielle Freakley, the Quotess, has answered the question in accountable rhetoric, spinning the question around and around and around... it makes a vague point, but is it art?

My primative yet trusty test of anything that falls into the toybox of art, or at least good art, is that it sticks around in your head long after you stumble upon it. And if my Psych degree taught me nothing else, that means the thoughts remain in working memory. The mind chews on the information awhile, squeezing it, playing with it, trying to figure out where it belongs.

Yes, it's a very subjective thing, but to me this is art. As is the loaf of bread covered in fur that, on close inspection, is breathing. I didn't get it, never will, but love it anyway. The fact that I can still ponder on the absurdity of it even now fills me with boundless, inane joy. (Sadly I can't find a link to this, but I think it may be a work called Atemobjekt, or Breath Object by Gunter Weseler. A shame, I think you'd like it.)

Also, I rather think that this is art (language warning if you have sensitive eyes).

It didn't keep me up all night, but I like it. It's fun. Quote me on that.

I want to know...

2008-04-13T01:07:00.000-07:00

When Malcolm Turnbull finally suceeds in his takeover of the Libs next month, will he remember to update his dogblogs?

Chicken-chasing badass

2008-04-09T04:30:00.000-07:00

It's always a rush seeing my words actually hit the press, especially when the publication falls into the calibre of ACCLAIM magazine.* For this issue I spoke to Sebastien Foucan (the bad guy - or the "chicken-chasing badass" - at the start of Casino Royale). It was the highlight of my year until at least February.

*At time of print I am still trying to work out whether this sentence actually makes sense. It's good, okay? Buy it.

Sunday

2008-03-30T10:58:00.000-07:00

I wake up in a great mood, to daylight savings time. The sun appropriately streams through my window, despite all the snow we've had lately.

I'm in my bedroom all morning, talking to friends, listening to music, working on various projects. Busy but relaxed. For once the sun decides to stay and keep me company.

A knock on our door around lunchtime, four friends with expectant faces. We eat cake that I made yesterday and go for a walk, down the road, through the forest. We meet more friends. Aarhus is a small place. We keep walking til we hit the coast and follow the railway tracks to the beach.

Somewhere on the walk back home I realise I love it here.

Lessons in perspective

2008-03-29T07:31:00.001-07:00

Click here to watch an intriguing story of one young African man's journey to get to Europe.

It makes my cramped 24 hour transition from Sydney-via-the-inverted-toadstool-of-Abu Dhabi-to-London look like a magic carpet ride.

I once had a mouse, I called it Nicky.

2008-03-28T04:58:00.000-07:00

When I was an undergrad at UNSW, I was stopped one day on the pathway outside the library. It’s something of a catwalk for student groups and random activists, but I was still surprised to be accosted by a middle-aged woman with an odd request.

“I’ve started a new religion,” she told me. “Do you want to join?”

She had one of those fuzzy yellow moustaches that you see on women sometimes when the home bleach job goes a bit pear-shaped. I couldn’t stop staring at it.

“It’s called Verna’s religion. I’m Verna.”

She tried to shake my hand and I think I waved around a collection of notebooks and folders, trying to brush her off.

“I’m already in a religion,” I mumbled and hurried into the library, crossing that invisible line to a place I knew she couldn’t follow.

But it still bothers me a bit. Why did I lie?

I’m not in a religion at all, haven’t been for a long time.

I think I became disillusioned with the whole thing around the time I realised the Catholic scripture kids got to make origami frogs in class, and we didn’t.

Creationist theory is another story. I get wildly excited every time I read a particularly good science fiction novel or conversation at the Friday bar takes an existential turn.

But really it’s like giving a mouse a gift of a running-wheel. Something to keep our minds busy, to jump on and off at whim but never find an end point.

It would be a tragic disappointment if we ever did; what would we do then? Once the complex problem of our existence and where we came from is cracked, is that it? Do we retire to beaches and mountains with martinis, patting ourselves on the backs and watch humanity settle into self-satisfied regression?

No, we need to keep fighting. So we run round and around, recycling old stories, making them seem different, never ending.

But religion.

The more I rake through centuries of civilizations rising and falling, of waves of people pushing bloody battles back and forth across lands deemed as holy, of systematic genocide of unbelievers, of stubborn belief in unseen things, of faith for faith’s sake, of unquestioning obedience, the more I am polarized. I don’t want any part of it.

A friend of mine has a great quote on his facebook profile. Under the tag of religion he’s written, “Bit of God never hurt anyone. Oh, wait.”

By all means, religion itself is a harmless thing. The principles are great. Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Don’t sleep with your neighbour’s wife.

Good advice.

Achievable? I’m not convinced, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with trying to live your life within certain parameters.

And no, the promotion of religion is not responsible for all violence. Indeed, sometimes the repression of religion has led to more bodies on the pavement.

But I have to ask myself, as I struggle to understand a hundred years of Balkan politics, how important is our identity? Why does it matter where we have come from?

Enter the debate if you’re interested, but don’t give me the answers. Because then I’ll need a bigger wheel to run on.

The Bang Bang Club

2008-03-10T07:12:00.000-07:00

I’m just taking a quick hiatus from a brilliant book I’m reading to share it with you.

The Bang Bang Club tracks the lives of four young conflict photographers as they document the various atrocities of Africa in the 90s, from famine to apartheid to genocide.

Only two of them came out alive.

There are fierce arguments raging in classrooms across the world about those who dare to stand in the face of extreme violence and poverty and do nothing but capture the moment.

Is it exploitation? Should they lay down their reporter’s hats and pitch in to help instead?

Kevin Carter’s incredible photograph of a starving girl crawling in the shadow of a vulture shocked the world into giving millions of dollars in aid to Sudan, but constant accusation that he did nothing to help her drove him to kill himself.

You can argue about the existence of the thin, wobbly line between humanity and journalism, but how would we know about our world if no-one dared to stand by and record it?

Their bare hands might not stop bullets or wipe out famine, but they are there to bear witness. Not of individual lives but whole plagues against human survival.

They stand by the victims of inhumanity and say to them – we saw what happened. You didn’t die alone, or in vain, because now we can tell the tale. So somebody, somewhere can make sure it doesn’t happen again.

The true cost of free speech

2008-03-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

It was frightening to read about American journalist Tony Loci's prosecution for refusing to reveal confidential sources this morning.

The former USA Today reporter published a series of articles about the government's investigation of anthrax attacks in 2001.

Now, not only is she required to pay increasing hefty fines the longer she withholds information, but the court has refused to allow anyone, including her media company employer, to pay the fine for her.

Keeping sources confidential is, in many cases something journalists avoid. Most generally agree that disclosing sources helps to build trust and strengthens the integrity of reporting. But in some cases, particularly when whistleblowers are involved, it is necessary.

In these cases, journalists generally agree that a promise made is a promise sealed. With good reason. How can critically important private information that affects the whole of society become public if the passage to do so is blocked?

As Reporters Without Borders says, "forcing journalists to disclose (their sources) undermines one of the key elements of investigative journalism, which is vital for democracy."

While Australia is no squeaky clean rubber ducky when it comes to free speech, the United States has this concept built into the very fabric of its constitution.

Specifically, it reads:

"Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble and consult for their common good, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."

I would love to have been in Loci's courtroom at the time to see how that particular cornerstone of American democracy was neatly leapt over.

Jagtvej 69

2008-02-29T04:50:00.000-08:00

This is my first solo project.

Shot in Copenhagen, it tracks the story of the city's former youth house - Ungdomshuset.

The campaign for a new house continues, with a big rally planned for April 3rd. Protesters have warned if they are met with active resistence, there could be more violence on the streets.

Work in progress

2008-02-27T09:53:00.000-08:00

Surprised a few people didn't kill each other in today's reporting workshop.
Same time tomorrow?

From the DSJ Newsroom: All quiet in Kosovo

2008-02-27T04:23:00.000-08:00

Belgrade will host the biggest ever Eurovision song contest to date in May this year, bringing together 43 countries from all over the continent. But its closest neighbour, Kosovo, will not be competing. The fledgling nation declared independence from Serbia on February 17 this year, too late to be considered for the competition.
But organisers say that it doesn't know if or when Kosovo will be invited to the competition.
"We are not aware of plans for Kosovo to join next year," a spokesperson said today.
For Kosovars, a lack of representation is nothing new. Previous years have seen hopefuls, including all-girl band Flakareshat, travelling to neighbouring Tirana to compete under the Albanian flag.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I did try to ask the Euro organisers about the political ramifications of Serbia hosting the event, but (perhaps unsurprisingly) they hedged around the topic.

Joe Le Taxi

2008-02-26T10:55:00.000-08:00

Life is small bubbles of boredom wrapped around school. We find ourselves in strange places trying to occupy our time. The other night a few of us hung around the main building in our college, too apathetic to play pool, too inept with AV equipment to watch movies and too fragile from the weekend to drink. So we watched old music video clips on the only English station.

I had to laugh at Johnny Depp's now-partner and her very first taste of fame. There's hope for us all.

Sunday morning

2008-02-24T06:36:00.001-08:00

Thanks to Borglum kollegiet for hosting an interesting Fastelavn party last night. This is the Danish version of halloween, held 6 weeks before easter so it was kind of late. Everyone dresses up in costume and smacks a wooden barrel with a cat drawn on it. Historically they used to use a real cat inside the barrel... now they fill it with mars bars instead. Have to say I prefer the chocolate to the dead kitty. The person who busts open the barrel is named 'queen of cats'. It's always some enormous bloke with muscles. Never me.

Except for Eric, whose mum shipped his man-sized cow costume out from the states, we were pretty low on outfits. Nothing a trip to ikea and $10 couldn't solve. Apparently you're not supposed to use a sheet when you make a toga, but some skillful sewing by our lovely neighbour did the trick.

This morning my flatmate and I headed back to Gellerup so she could finish her story on Danish immigration and identity. She interviewed some young Somalian guys who ended up inviting us into their shop and chatting to us over coffee. There are many informal communities that gather in the bazar, hanging out, talking, smoking, hiding from the cold.

We asked them what it was like to move from the sunshine in Africa to this cold place at the tip of the world. They had to leave, they said. Too dangerous at home.

They laughed when we asked them why Gellerup is called a ghetto. They described places where you had to walk miles for water, where the streets were made of dirt and you fought to survive.
"This is no ghetto. I can wash myself every day, get food... " one said.
"It's more like heaven... cold heaven."

After awhile a stoned looking guy came up to inspect our camera. He started touching it, fiddling with it, trying to take it. In a flash no less than 5 other men were grabbing him, pushing him away and protecting our things. But soon after we had to leave.
"I'd better escort you out," said our new friend.
"Some of these guys just don't know, there's a time to steal and a time to not steal."
He smiled at us. "But I know."

Friday night fire

2008-02-23T04:51:00.000-08:00

A friend just sent me a text saying "they're been nothing but fires, riots and bombs since you guys arrived!"

This is sort of true, although to be fair none of it has really threatened our safety. Last night, after making the long trek back to Aarhus we decided to unwind a bit.

Annoyingly, the bar in our college was closed for ballroom dancing(!) so we decided it would be a great idea to bike down to the University bar. In wild and freezing gale force winds (and in heels -I am not really a fan of this bike thing). After getting lost and riding straight into a traffic light we made it eventually, soaked, but warmed up fast.

The bar was fuggy with cigarette smoke, and I was surprised.
One of the bartenders told me that it was legal here, but only just.
"People can't smoke that many places so they come here because they can," she said.

About 15 minutes later we had to leave the bar because it had caught fire. Someone had thrown a cigarette butt in a bin and toxic fumes flooded the building.

That was it, we gave up and biked home.

Explosion in Osterbro

2008-02-22T12:45:00.000-08:00

For our next couple of days in Copenhagen, we were chasing interviews and shooting our stories.

My main story took me to the suburb of Norrebrod, a trendy, edgy place not far from the centre. Reminds me a bit of Newtown at home. Norrebrod's had some negative media attention lately, and people were touchy about cameras. More than once I got asked by locals not to film them. At one point we were told off by a pedestrian for filming a brick wall.

We got the takes we needed, and hopefully I can post the finished product up here in a couple of days. (The image is a still from my story, about a local Youth House that was torn down and is an ongoing source of conflict in the city). On the way back to the centre we were filming some swans on the river for an environmental story. A loud blast reverbed through the air and frightened the birds away. Minutes later a bunch of firetrucks and police bikes sped past.

Turns out a solarium was blown up nearby. The day after, another was blown up.

The Copenhagen Post is claiming the first was a private vendetta attack done by professionals, and the second was an unrelated prank.

Copenhagen, city of chaos

2008-02-22T12:36:00.000-08:00

Copenhagen turned out to be all work and no play!

Day one started at 5am, rolling out of bed with thump to catch a pre-dawn boat southwards. About 5 hours later we rocked up in the capital, scraggly and dishevelled lot that we were, for a meet and greet at the International Press Centre which became our home for the next few days.

A full day of meetings/press conferences/I don't know what followed. Seventeen hours later we broke up a political argument to head back to the hostel. Good journalists that we are, beer is quickly becoming our best friend. Tuborgs get you free internet in Copenhagen, so we were right at home.

Road trip!

2008-02-18T20:25:00.000-08:00

It's far too early to be awake, but anyway we're off to Copenhagen this morning. And I should stop blogging and finish packing.

UPDATE: Image taken on the pre-dawn boat ride out of Aarhus.

Nazism lives on in Denmark

2008-02-18T06:04:00.001-08:00

This was a surprising topic of conversation at Saturday night's party. One of the hosts was an incredibly talented photojournalist, and his photos of a nazi gathering intrigued me.

But it was not as uncommon as I would have assumed.

A month after worldwide neo-nazi group Blood and Honour annouced the resurrection of its Danish arm last November, the office building of a left wing political party was targeted and attacked in here in Aarhus. The vandalism was attributed to the pro-nazi group.

Although card-carrying support for nazi movements is minimal, extreme-right wing parties are quietly active throughout Europe, North America and indeed even Australia. The difference is that south of the equator, pro-facism seems mostly limited to an ideological war of words. Here, they are campaigning for votes.

The National Socialist Movement of Denmark is a modern incarnation of the Danish Nazi Party of the 1930's, tracing its history back to the pre-World War II era. In 2005, the party ran for regional council in Zealand. Wikipedia claims it was the first time since WWII the Danish people could elect a National Socialist above municipal level.

Where to from here?

A morning's work

2008-02-18T04:59:00.000-08:00

We had a lecture this morning from one of the staff writers at the Jyllands-Posten. His opener got our attention. "If you see a burning house, or a burning car these days, you can think of my newspaper," he said.

The Danish stand by their freedom of speech policies and it was in this respect that the cartoons seem to have been reprinted, although the lecture quickly skimmed over the topic. It was mostly about environmental reporting and very interesting.

We then heard from a German academic who made an important point. "Keep your distance from the scientists, from the politicians, the Non-Governmental Organisations and the experts. Because you, the journalist, might be used as an ideological transmitter," she told us.

Good advice.

This just in

2008-02-17T09:58:00.001-08:00

We went back to Gellerup today. Signs of the riots were much more apparent in the daylight hours.

On the other hand we bought loads of hard to track down specialty food from the Bazar. Dinner was a weird but awesome mix of tropical fruit and middle eastern cuisine.

Party in the ghetto

2008-02-17T00:35:00.001-08:00

Last night we went to a student party out in the suburb of Gellerup.

Calling it a "ghetto" is kind of sensationalising it, the high rise, high density housing kind of reminds me of an estate in London, or any part of the world really. To the locals, many of them immigrants, it's just home.

In the wake of the Jyllands-Posten cartoons reprinted last week, there have been a few riots in the area. It's sort of a strange place for student accomodation, even stranger that the other Australian was allocated not a room but a bed in the living room, but the apartment is newer and arguably nicer than ours. Just a lot further from the centre. Annoying for those that live there, given that the buses have recently been cancelled due to violence.

There is a small but definite undercurrent of dissent both here in Aarhus and down in Copenhagen, none of it accounted for by the press. Instead of explanations there's some mumbling about kids being bored, latching onto any excuse to oppose the government. Even if that is true, there would still be a reason they're afraid of the powers that be, and no one seems to be talking.

The Danish School of Journalism

2008-02-10T00:04:00.000-08:00

Tonight will be my one-week anniversary in Arhus. Wish I could write the proper spelling of the city's name, but my keyboard is lacking in Danish characters. A halo usually sits above the 'A'.

Once again I've been surprised by how natural it seems to be sitting here, in this alien corner of the globe, and feel like I'm home already.

It helps that the school are keeping us incredibly busy, both with work and social events. The dreaded cultural night turned out to be hilarious. The German apres-ski dance about a horse and flea has become a mini-anthem for us all.

Life on... earth?

2008-02-09T23:51:00.001-08:00

The day before I left Sydney was just like any other.

I walked down Oxford Street in the blinding morning sunlight, heading towards work. Coffee first, like always, then work. Buses and street sweepers rumbled past, looming over the worker bees, morning joggers and last night's leftover party people who walked a tiny fraction of the footpath.

A cluster of ragged-looking people milled around the closed grill of the liquor store. It was five minutes to 8 - their wait was nearly over.

I counted the hours left in the day and realised my wait had just begun.