“Do you think,” our Irish friend, Finn, leans over and asks, “we are the first ones to listen to ‘How to Explain’ by The Cat Empire in the Atlas Mountains?”
My friends all laugh, but in truth it is a good question.
We are in Morocco, campaigning across the set of North-African ranges that divide the Atlantic and Mediterranean on one side, and the Sahara Desert on the other.
Much in the same way that Zach Braff and Natalie Portman explored the philosophy of individual expression in the film Garden State, we now find ourselves asking these questions against the gloriously sparse backdrop of the Atlas Mountains.
Trundling across the hairpin, razor-thin road in the back of a small 12-seater van, it is easy to be tricked into thinking this is the first time anyone has ever done anything in the mountainous region of North-Africa.
Aside from the odd near-death experience as our van narrowly escapes collision with a car heading the opposite direction, the landscape is spectacularly devoid of life and activity in every direction. Sporadic ruins of former grandeur are juxtaposed against run-down roadside diners and over-glorified public bathrooms.
This is 21st Century Morocco, but if it was not for the van we were driving in it would be impossible to tell. This could be the 11th Century, back when the road was occupied only by troops of nomadic Berbers following the change of seasons. Better still, this could be 10,000 or 20,000 years ago – the mountains speak as though things are as they always have been, and hopefully always will be.
Occasionally, the bus finds space to pull over, offering us the opportunity to come to terms with exacerbating motion sickness and to properly appreciate how far we are from the sensory-overload that is modern Marrakech.
As the road draws to its peak, our party is taken aback by how far―and high―we have come.
“I didn’t even know this place existed” one particularly overwhelmed Brazilian girl remarks to our tour guide. There is a collective murmur throughout the van. In all the excitement of buying our headscarves and water for our overnight experience in the Sahara, it turns out none of us had given a thought to the magnificent scenery we would go through to get there.
Individually, we all take a moment to steal a photo with the utterly breathtaking nothing-ness around us, before carrying on to our pre-organised camel ride, authentic dinner ceremony and evening campfire entertainment ‘out’ in the Sahara.
If the ride through the mountains felt like journeying into unchartered territory, the Sahara experience is the perfect opposite. We are left with little doubt that this is something that many people have experienced, many times before.
When the story is later retold, it is done so with certainty that we were, in fact, the first to listen to that particular song by The Cat Empire right there in the rollicking ranges of Morocco.
The night in the Berber tent was enjoyable and the camel ride … interesting, but none of us will forget that inimitable feeling of solitary remoteness among the barren expanse of the Atlas Mountains.
This week Tourism NZ unveiled the next installment of their highly successful “100% Pure New Zealand” campaign, leveraging the intrinsic value of Middle Earth and the Lord of the Rings.
The video advertisement, featured above, builds the message that the awe-inspiring natural backdrop to Peter Jackson’s films is just as stunning in real-life New Zealand.
It is a natural evolution of the previous “100% Pure” brand messages, which since 2000 have sought to portray New Zealand as a feast for the eyes with an unlimited array of activities and options to suit every traveller. The campaigns have been enormously successful, and sure enough this one looks certain to follow in the same stead.
The imagery and quality of the film is absolutely beyond question – it is stunning and reinforces the brand message of one of the most beautiful places in the world. It shows the full spectrum of what a New Zealand travel experience has to offer – from mountains, to rainforests, to beaches. This, though still spectacular, is not exactly new ground for Tourism NZ (but hey, if it ain’t broke why fix it?)
What is, however, is the addition of the Middle Earth theme to the NZ brand identity. A LOTR themed narration runs across the short film, building the notion of New Zealand as the ‘real Middle Earth’.
In the words of Tourism NZ Chief Executive Kevin Bowler, “Our objective is to show people that while New Zealand stars as the fantasy world of Middle-earth, what people see in the cinema is actually a real place just waiting to be explored.”
The decision to leverage the LOTR brand is not a surprising one – it has been one of the most successful film franchises of all time and Peter Jackson looks set to replicate that with The Hobbit trilogy due out at the end of November.
What is more curious, however, is the timing. With The Hobbit still not due out for a few more months and the last LOTR film released almost a decade ago now, to me it seems odd that they didn’t wait until after the first of the The Hobbit films was released and the brand was enjoying renewed Top of Mind Awareness.
Better yet, why was the campaign not run back in 2003 to capitalise on the hype created around the Return of the King? The local tourism industry had already started taking advantage of the Middle Earth connection back then … in fact I’m pretty sure back in 2002 my family went on this very same LOTR themed holiday the campaign is trying to sell now in 2012.
Bowler went on to say “The campaign’s primary aim is to compel people already interested in a New Zealand holiday, to make an actual booking”. If this is the case, to me it seems nonsensical to not wait an extra 6 months and try to capture the extra buzz created around the natural environment shown in The Hobbit.
On the other hand, however, if Tourism NZ is committed to sticking with this incarnation of the campaign in the mid to long-term, perhaps it makes sense to iron out all the kinks before “game day” in November. That would explain the decision to roll out the campaign to Australia in August, which (despite our position as the biggest tourism market for NZ) is already well informed on the connection between New Zealand and Middle Earth.
According to Bowler digital and social media will feature as a predominant feature of the 100% Middle Earth campaign. Quite frankly this saddens me a little bit because it will probably replace all the digital buzz around the Lara Bingle web episode of Air New Zealand’s ‘Kiwi Sceptics’, which I actually really enjoyed.
At the end of the day, however, Tourism NZ should be applauded for recognising and exploiting a clear point of difference. Honestly, if you take away the sound and words, the style and format of the ad isn’t really all that different from the Tourism Australia campaign: Middle Earth offers New Zealand a tangible and leveragable POD to give it a distinguishing edge over two destinations that are both outdoors-based and both at the absolute end of the world.
It will be interesting to see where Tourism NZ go with it from here: this is probably just a taster for when The Hobbit comes out, at which point they will make a real red hot go of it.
In the meantime, lets just watch the trailer for the new movie and get excited about hobbits and Gandalf all over again:
The cute blonde receptionist at our hotel stares at us smilingly. We are deep in enemy territory, and so I tip-toe nervously around the question.
“Yes” I smile back, “just the weekend”. She keeps smiling. If anything she smiles harder, I am not at ease.
“Where are you two from?” More smiling. I open my mouth to answer, but she beats me to it.
“Sydney?”
We both nod, and it is easy to tell that the dynamic of our conversation has shifted. Everyone is still smiling, but now it’s a different kind of smile.
“I don’t know how you deal with Sydney. It’s just too much, ya know?”
I sigh. It begins.
“I have a lot of family in Sydney, but like … I don’t know. I just prefer it down here – it’s more relaxed, more chilled, more cultured”
Cultured. I was wondering how long it would be before that word entered the equation.
“Sydney’s changing,” I tell her, “you should give it another chance. How long was it since you were there?”
“Two weeks.”
“… Oh.”
We are, of course, in Melbourne, and no visit would be complete without being subjected to the odd spot of Sydney bashing. It is true that we love to wax lyrical about every little shortcoming of our city, but the truth is we are amateurs to our southern counterparts.
It is an expectation that any visit to Melbourne will come with a free lesson in humility bundled in for good measure, but it is alarming me that we are yet to even leave the hotel and it has already begun.
Remember what I said before about her being cute? Forget about that one.
Flustered, but determined to maintain the high ground, I head upstairs to our room and try to focus on the fun activities planned for the next day. This lasts all of 12 hours, and the very next morning I find myself invariably comparing Melbourne and Sydney.
“I wouldn’t want to come here in summer.” I tell my partner, sitting on the tram as it rolls across the Yarra River. “It’s just … not really built for warm weather. The beach is too far away and the Yarra doesn’t count as waterfront.
She rolls her eyes. “Can’t we just enjoy Melbourne?” Evidently, she is not yet ready to stoop to their level.
I give her a day.
We get off at the National Gallery of Victoria, eager to partake in this famed Melbournian “culture” and visit the recently opened Napoleon Exhibition. Somewhat annoyingly, it is really really good.
The security guard smiles as we leave. Always more smiling. I am not convinced. His mouth might be saying “Thank you for coming”, but his eyes tell a different story.
“That’s one point for Melbourne, bitch.”
Touché, Melbourne, touché.
Back outside, and it is war again. Our next stop is Chapel Street – that most revered of retailing meccas – because my partner has decided that our relaxing weekend escape to Melbourne is in fact a 48 hour shopping blitzkrieg.
Before long I begin to clue on that each and every shop is some slight variation of the last one. Bizarrely, every retail assistant is actually incredibly nice. Too nice.
They don’t seem to be particularly concerned with whether or not they can actually help us, and yet they all ask more general, probing questions. “What have you guys been up to today?”, “What’ve you got on for the rest of the weekend?”
Always asked with a smile. By now you should know my position on smiling.
Gradually, I work out that this is actually a form of market research and personal survey. They are trying to establish whether or not we are good enough to be in their store, not whether they can help us.
This puzzles me – why the pretence of niceties? Suddenly, it all makes sense – as Michael Corleone famously stated in The Godfather II, “keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.”
Minutes later my suspicions are confirmed.
“Oh you two are from Sydney?” I tune into the conversation my partner is having with the shop assistant in the background, “Yeah, I’d come to Melbourne for weekends too if I lived in Sydney.”
What does this even mean? We don’t hang around to find out.
It is around 5pm by this stage, or at least close enough to it, and I decide for the both of us that a drink is needed. Luckily, when Chapel St. isn’t busy being the culture/shopping/boutique/vintage/trend capital of the Southern Hemisphere, it doubles as a bar and dining district.
Annoyingly, it seems to be pulling it off.
We pull up at a modest-looking diner offering al fresco dining/drinking, and at this point the exorbitantly priced beers seem like the best value deal in the world. Minutes later, I am being thumped over the back by a friend from home who has serendipitously stumbled into us.
This is a coincidence, though less surprising considering we are currently in the Melbourne equivalent of the Eastern Suburbs – the area back home where he is unlikely to ever be found outside of. This is less surprising still, however, considering we already knew that he was staying in South Yarra and spending the afternoon on Chapel St.
“What do you reckon?” he beams. Oh God, I think, this smiling thing is infectious. “I could live here, definitely. Everyone is so chilled.” He’s been here even less time than I have, and he’s already been corrupted.
“What about the whole ‘thinking-we’re-better-than-Sydney’ thing?” I retort, trying to gauge whether there is any hope left or if he’s lost forever.
“Yeah, there’s that,” he professes, but his eyes are quickly drawn to our buxom waitress a couple of tables away, “but … everyone here is an absolute belter.
Another smile. I try to remind him that we are in the more genetically blessed end of Melbourne, but by this point he is too far-gone.
Turncoat. Judas. Traitor.
I eye him suspiciously for the remainder of our time together, and eventually he has to leave to make a dinner reservation. As he walks away, I genuinely feel for his safety and worry what further brainwashing will occur when I am not there to chaperone. Still, I take a deep breath and order another drink. Finally, I can relax.
My rest is short lived, however, as we progress to our next destination: a local friend’s bar. The security guard sniggers as he checks my ID.
“You’re from Sydney?” he smirks (note: a more openly conceited version of the Melbourne smile), “I’m sorry.”
“Ha, good one. I haven’t heard that one before.”
I am lying.
“You should move to Melbourne!” my friend yells above the sounds of drunken revellers when we meet him inside. I laugh, but before I have the chance to respond a young and very intoxicated man by the name of Jake comes and joins us at our table.
Jake is friend with a friend of a guy that knows … I lose track and similarly lose interest. After all, this is Melbourne and everyone seems to know everybody else anyway. Jake is charming enough, but at this point he is a lot further along the way than we are and he is too eager for my liking.
Even still, he is nice, unassuming and sees no issue with our northern origin – decidedly not Melbourne. Jake unwittingly betrays this fact moments later, when he reveals he is actually from rural Victoria.
Bingo.
We move on. The rest of the night is a swirling haze of pints, lights, and very strange people. I meet perhaps the worst, rudest, most vindictive security guard from anywhere, ever, at The Bottom End, and pay $20 to get into the upstairs club that we don’t actually enter. This part of the night is confusing, but I let it slide.
Around the corner, we find another establishment and things get hazier. From the 15 odd iPhone photos I discover the next day, I have fun. Eventually, we retire to our hotel and do not wake until after 12.
I crawl out of bed and it does not take long to reach the conclusion that it will not be a good day.
At this point, I realise that the only thing that can salvage the afternoon is a big bowl of Vietnamese vermicelli and spring rolls. Luckily, I know just the place.
Located on Swanston St, Mekong Vietnam is the kind of city-based Vietnamese restaurant that Sydney wishes it has. Or at least that I wish Sydney wishes it has. Plastered across the shop window is a pictured of President Bill Clinton eating at the joint, and I can sense the undertones.
‘Sydney – how many city-based Vietnamese restaurants do you have that Bill Clinton has personally endorsed?’
Given the state I am in, this is a low blow, but unfortunately the food is too good to leave in protest. I sit in the corner and sulk while reluctantly enjoying their delicious, delicious noodle soup.
It turns out the previous evening wasn’t quite as unforgiving on my partner, and I am thrilled to learn she has planned another eventful afternoon of retailing Armageddon.
As we walk towards the tram stop, a hand taps me on the shoulder from behind.
“Excuse me” We turn around.
“Hi!”
Before I know what is happening I have a business card in my hands and this woman is telling me about how she wants to take my photo for a Melbourne street fashion blog.
I oblige, the woman pulls the largest camera I have ever seen out of her perplexingly small handbag and I still don’t know what’s going on.
“What are you guys doing this afternoon?” she says in between photos. I quickly become aware that when it comes to Melbourne street fashion blog modelling I am a natural.
“Oh … er, you know, shopping.” I avoid mention of our evening flight home. I really want to be on this stranger’s blog, and I am genuinely concerned that if she finds out we’re from Sydney she’ll delete the photos and destroy the evidence. Instead, I play it cool and act like a local.
“Probably head to a bar, drink some coffee, maybe have a couple of boutique beers in a converted terrace somewhere.”
Nailed it.
We board a tram north, this time to Brunswick St. My local friends have warned me that north of the city “everyone is a bloody hipster”, with Brunswick St their veritable Zion. Of all things, this did come as a surprise, but only because I presumed everyone in Melbourne was a bloody hipster.
I can smell the arrogance coming from Lygon St, but to be honest I don’t really care. Soon enough I will have documented evidence that in a city of Melbournian fashionistas I was selected to feature on this woman’s blog. I feel like Jason Bourne, flying under the radar.
That’s one for Sydney.
We close out the afternoon at a bar (or is it a café? I honestly can’t tell) and any lingering swagger quickly disappears. There is a man with dreadlocks playing smooth reggae beats – he looks like probably the coolest person I have ever seen and I instantly hate myself for not being him.
Instead, we sit awkwardly on mismatched furniture that doesn’t face each other, and I spend more time trying to figure out what to do with the overly large cushion on the chair than drinking my tea (tea? What was I thinking?)
Around us, everyone in the packed bar/café is drinking and laughing. The whole place feels like a big party that I’ve invited myself along to. No matter how often I go to Melbourne, the city always seems to feel like this. The only thing on any TV channel at any given time seems to be AFL, and no matter where we go everyone seems to always know everybody else. There is even a god damn Tumblr dedicated to Melbourne.
We are on the tram back to our hotel to pick up our bags, and I am eager to get back to Sydney to where everyone is cold to each other and no one says anything more to strangers than they absolutely have to.
However rolling towards Swanston St, I arrive at a bitter realisation. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t hate Melbourne. No matter how much it pushes me away, I keep pulling back in for more. It dawns on me that my relationship with Melbourne is like a Meg Ryan line from the end of When Harry met Sally.
And it’s unfair, because I hate you Melbourne. I really really hate you.
A girl gets on the tram and asks for directions about how to get to the number 8 tram.
“pfft” I mutter under my breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear, “probably from Sydney.”
I smile. It’s contagious. The weekend isn’t over yet.
All across Australia’s south-east, we are feeling the cold right now. The winter months in Sydney – colder than our northern hemisphere counterparts will ever acknowledge or give us credit for – are a typical low point for a city eager to return to the vibrance and warmth that November brings. It is true that Bondi is beautiful all year round, but from March to September I am unlikely to be found wetting my toes along the Eastern seaboard.
For as long as I have had any sense of geographical/social/city awareness I have always argued that when the weather is miserable in Sydney, there is simply nothing to do. I doubt I am the only one that has – or will – make that argument. Sydney is one of the world’s truly beautiful cities – of that there can be no doubt. The view from Kirribilli, Darling Point, and even (my personal favourite) the top of the Gladesville Bridge does a far better job of evoking that than anything I will ever write.
However for too long Sydney has been resting on its laurels – the appalling state of public transport in this city is the most enduring testament to this. With Melbourne ever nipping at our heels (and even, dare I say, those odd folk from just across the northern border), one got the feeling that being beautiful was no longer enough.
But this year, for the first time, it seems to me that Winter in Sydney is not the same unattractive proposition that it has always been. It could be that I am simply getting older and finding more value in events and activities that didn’t much interest me several years ago, however I truly believe it to be more than that.
The seamless integration of talent and activity across five diverse and unique venues has been an international showcase of how a citywide event should be run. The free ferry running between Walsh Bay, Circular Quay and Cockatoo Island is a shining example of how to connect disparate venues utilising our beautiful network of waterways.
The Biennale is the culmination of a gradual return to form for Sydney, and with the Tourism industry facing such a difficult and competitive environment it could not have come at a better time.
All grievances aside about public transport, health, education, or whatever else might be the popular gripe of the day, it is worth remembering that Sydney is one of the world’s truly great international cities.
On the food and bar scene as well, Sydney is kicking goals left, right and centre. Despite a series of big name restaurant closures in recent weeks and months, let’s face it – we’ve never had it so good. From the old favourites to the bustling start-ups, the depth and variety of Sydney’s food scene is shockingly good. Thang Ngo, a writer for the Sydney Morning Herald, recently attributed the big name closures to the fact that good food can now be found anywhere for any budget. And it’s true. In an increasingly competitive market, diners are departing in droves for the fairer waters of cheap eats and ethnic specialties available all across Sydney. Fine dining is the obvious loser here, but the big winner? You!
And on the bar front? Many a word has already been written about how new licensing laws have transformed the Sydney drinking experience, and so I won’t waste many more here. I lamented to a friend recently my frustration at the speed with which new bars are proliferationg. Quite simply, I can’t keep up. Before enough time passes to become acquainted with one bar, another opens around the corner.
This is a pretty good problem to have, or so I think anyway. Living in Sydney has become an experience again, rather than just a tired reiteration of how visually stimulating it is to live here. There are things to do, places to go, people to meet – showing a visitor around isn’t just a walk around the harbour and a trip out on the Manly Ferry anymore.
It might still be too early to call this, but I’m going to go ahead and do it anyway – Sydney, it appears as though we might just be starting to get over ourselves.
Check out my flickr account for more Biennale/Sydney photos.
UPDATE: July just keeps getting better – The Sydney Morning Herald today announced a series of special discounts and offers for some of the city’s best bars and restaurants. This truly is a golden age for our fair city!
India’s extensive rail networks are the veins that course across the entire country. These old caravans of rusted metal pulse and ebb with the flow of people, of which there is apparently no end. As anyone venturing to India will tell you, trains are an inevitability – much like the unceasing spruiking of Chai-wallahs, or sickness, or being coaxed into an uncle/brother/friend/dog’s-brother’s-friend’s-son-in-law’s spice shop. No matter your budget, it is only a matter of time until you find yourself on one of these great big chugging death-traps.
Perhaps death-trap is too strong a word, but the metal bars across the windows certainly imbue each train trip with an air of finality. Morbid fantasies aside, they are every traveller’s dream: absurdly cheap with a night’s free accommodation thrown in for good measure, and the chance to mix with locals and maybe head home with a eye-rolling good story or two. In case you haven’t clued on yet, this was exactly the case with me.
And so, it was with one eye on the purse strings and the other filled with nervous trepidation that I boarded the 16595 Bombay to Kerala Express. I had some experience with long trains in India, but never alone and never for this length of time. I arrived at the station early in order to make sure I was the first person in my designated seat, and was admittedly puzzled when the train pulled out of Mumbai with my carriage still half empty.
This was not to last long.
As the train rolled south the carriage began to fill, and within the hour the last of my evening companions had taken their seats around me. On an Indian train, the typical Sleeper Class carriage is configured with a series of six seat ‘compartments’. Actually, this is just two long open plan berths that face each other, which at night double as beds. Two identical berths act as back rests during the day which also transform into ‘middle level’ beds. Two more can be found up the top to complete the six seat/bed combination.
One of the benefits of train travel in Europe, the USA, or any country that isn’t India is that when you book a seat it is most likely that upon embarking the train your seat will either be available or the person in it will vacate to allow you to take your place. This isn’t always the case in India. By the time the sun started to go down I was sharing my compartment with 4 others on my side, and a further 6 on the berth opposite. Above, a man snored loudly on the upper bunk, wedged between an impossible number of plastic bags and suitcases. That’s 12 people in an area designed to hold six.
The ticket inspector waltzed into the carriage, with a distinct look of disinterest written in permanent marker across his face. I produced my ticket and smiled, he didn’t smile back and instead started chatting with the man seated next to me. Now, I don’t actually speak Hindi or any Indian dialect for that matter, but it seemed to me that this man next to me did not have a ticket.
Relieved that the inspector would ask this man to leave the train or at least make him relocate, I foolishly allowed myself to be disappointed when a few hundred rupees changed hands again. Did he somehow manage to purchase a ticket for the sold out train? Was it a bribe? I suppose it didn’t really matter, the only thing I needed to worry about was that I would stay crushed against the window for at least a little while longer. Rule #1 in India – expect nothing, you’ll only be disappointed.
In this country, Murphy’s Law might as well be written into the constitution.
My luggage was stored safely beneath my seat, but even that had become a point of contention. The man next to me muttered grumpily in Hindi, and while I couldn’t understand him I remain certain it was to do with the fact that there was no room left under the seat and his luggage had to go between his legs. I felt like pointing out to him that he didn’t actually have a ticket, but it wouldn’t have achieved much. I don’t think he spoke English anyway.
With no one to talk to, it became clear that after only a few hours I was already missing the sound of my own voice. Craving structure and some sense of normality I fished through my bag for a book to read. My options: Kafka, Tolstoy, and Conrad. What on earth was I thinking? Any of those three were likely to leave me feeling more disconnected from reality than I already was. I threw them back into my day pack, cursing myself for having not had the good forethought to bring a copy of Harry Potter.
At this point, the train pulled into Vinhere, a small outpost in the middle of nowhere. All of a sudden the carriage was filled with men carrying kettles, eskies, boxes and newspaper-wrapped parcels. “CHAIIIII-CHAIIII-CHAIIIII”, “ORAN-GEEE” “BIRYANIII”, “SAAAAAANDWICH, CHOCOLATE, SAAAAND-WICH”. The fact that it was almost dinner did not appear lost on the local population of Vinhere, who seemed to make a living off the 16595 Bombay to Kerala Express. I looked out the window to try to discover exactly where these people had come from – there was not a house or building or anything other than hills and trees in sight. Rule #2 in India – no matter where you are, there will always be someone trying to sell you something.
Out on the platform, men and women were taking the opportunity to stretch their legs and take in some fresh air. I gazed at them longingly – myself too scared to move in case I lost my seat for good. At the very least, I was worried I would return to find my luggage relocated to where I was sitting so that my good friend next door could place his where mine was presently living. See: Rule #1.
After some time the train pulled out of the station, the sun now well and truly on its way down for the day. Despite leaving the local population of Vinhere behind the raucous cacophony inside the carriage continued. To relieve myself of the insanity, I took to spending long periods of time just staring out at the countryside. India is the most spectacularly diverse place on this earth, and no where is this showcased better than hurtling across the country on a rattling old train. The gorgeous landscapes are unrivaled, whether it be the deserts of the north or the tropical paradise of the south.
Lost in an utter state of delirium and tip-toeing the edges of sanity, I began to imagine the world outside the train as my own personal theatre stage with a production playing out in front of my eyes –
– Shirtless boys throwing down rocks along a makeshift cricket pitch. A quick scene change and the boys are now clothed – school uniforms – teachers look on from within the confines of the concrete grounds. The tropical environment coming into focus, but only for a second as the smoke and fire of backburning (…backburning? In India?) leaps up at the side of the train. The flames are quickly snuffed out as the train disappears into a tunnel. Sight and smell disappear, replaced by a screeching that suffocates the ears. Entering stage left, the inhabitants of half-finished and abandoned apartment buildings scale the bamboo scaffolding, another tunnel, more palm trees, more rollicking hills, a bridge. All the while the sun continues its descent, bouncing off the disharmonious pastiche of a constantly evolving backdrop –
– At this point the grumpy bloke next to me pressed harder into my already compartmented left side, snapping me back to reality. One of the younger men on the seat opposite me had relocated to my berth, bringing the total number on my seat to six. The reason? Two of the gentlemen on his side had unfurled what must have been an entire newspaper filled with chutneys, curries and rice. Apparently, there was not enough room for five people and a dinner setting, so the poor man on the end was wordlessly relegated.
This is not an uncommon feature on Indian trains, as people perpetually change seats back and forth in an unending game of Railway Musical Chairs. To someone having grown up within the rigid conformity of western expectations where a designated seat means a designated seat for the entirety of a journey, the continuous seat-swapping was a little difficult to come to terms with. In my head I could only imagine some insane Indian Mad Hatter visible to everyone but me screaming out “CHANGE PLACES!”. What other explanation could there be? Rule #3 in India – don’t expect anything to make any reasonable amount of sense. Ever.
I honestly hope those two men enjoyed their lavishly spread out makeshift dinner table, because it came at the expense of whatever little personal space I had left.
Who am I kidding, all personal space had disappeared a long time before that.
Sleeping on the train was a whole other experience entirely. As the night hours wore on, the population of the carriage returned to near normal levels until finally the option of putting up the middle bunk so people could lie down became an actual possibility. By this stage my original neighbour had departed, and my new friend caught my eye and gave me a prompt little head wobble. Having been in India about a month by this stage, I knew that this was code for “let’s put up the bed”. Rule #4 in India – the head wobble means whatever you want it to mean. I once witnessed a woman use a head wobble to signify both yes and no in the same conversation. Why? How? See: Rule #3.
I climbed into the middle bunk and, during what was probably the only relaxing point of the trip, gently nodded off to sleep to the comforting side-to-side rocking of the train. I actually slept quite well under the circumstances. Still, all good things must come to an end and soon enough I was dismantling the middle bunk and returning to my corner seat. The characters accompanying me had changed again overnight, though the size of the cast was somewhat smaller as we ventured further south.
Across from me, an old man now sat smiling at me. I smiled back, tentatively. “Where you from?!” he called out. Rule #5: expect nothing, but always expect to be asked your place of origin. At this point though, I didn’t care.
“Australia!” I replied. He nodded, “Cricket!!” Elated, I launched into a discussion of the recent test series against India in Australia. I was halfway through a spirited demonstration (including hand gestures) of why India had been unable to adapt to the bounce of Australian pitches when I noticed the glazed look on his face.
It was at this point it dawned on me that “Where you from?” was almost certainly the only English this man knew. The train rolled into the next station, and the invisible Indian Mad Hatter called “Change Places!” as a new game of Musical Chairs began. Dismayed and disheartened, I returned to my fantasy land outside the window, trying to remind myself that I only had another eight hours on this sordid train.
These long, tortuous eight hours brought with them their own surprises, from the extended family who had decided to make my compartment theirs for the afternoon, to the workers playing a rather noisy game of bridge that they insisted “wasn’t really Bridge but a game like Bridge but an Indian version”. Note: it was Bridge. Completely. No argument. Bridge.
As fate would have it, I did eventually arrive in Kochi. Like a bear emerging from a cave after months in hibernation, or a prisoner who has been in solitary confinement for far too long, I shielded my eyes from the sun as I contemplated a new lease on life. With wobbly knees and a body odour unlike anything I had ever smelt before or since I stumbled off in search of a shower, accommodation and a Harry Potter novel.
Despite my utterly dejected moral and physical state of being, however, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly happy and excited. There are a lot of rules for getting around India, but there is only one that really matters. Weeks earlier, a woman in a cafe in Agra had told us that no matter what happens, you just need to stop and remember “I … Love … India.”
Walking away from perhaps the worst and most dehumanising 27 hours of my life, I repeated the mantra to myself.
“I Love India.”
Note: I forked out the extra cash to fly back to Mumbai, at roughly 12 times the cost of the train. No amount of love for India was going to put me back on the return train back…
Clearly, the slogan is much more than just one of the biggest-selling novelty t-shirts, and New Yorkers are very protective of it.
The basic premise of the campaign is simple – replacing the love heart in the centre of “I ♥ NY” with images of other activities and features of America’s most famous state. The slogan is renowned across the world, and has been adopted by seemingly every city from Milan to Melbourne. According to Roy Elvolve, campaign designer and Director of Worldwide Communications for global creative agency BBDO, the ad was designed to ‘repatriate’ the slogan for New Yorkers. The company has released a statement in response to the ad’s detractors, declaring it an homage of sorts to what has become one of the most successful tourism campaigns of all time.
Certainly, the negative response has been interesting to witness as an outsider. Much in the same way as Australians have been so discerning of DDB’s “There’s Nothing Like Australia” campaign, it is a testament to how fiercely proud people are of where they’re from. More than this, it shows how opinionated they are when it comes how these cities are sold to the world, and how this makes them look in return. Detractors say that the reinvention of the slogan is indistinguishable from defacing the Mona Lisa. I have several problems with this assessment, the least of which is that the Mona Lisa is possibly the most underwhelming thing on display in Paris.
More than this, however, the criticism is unfair and fails to take into account the fact that the slogan has already been more than bastardised by almost every other major city in the world. I definitely agree with the campaign’s creators that the ad does more to return the slogan to New York than to disfigure it. By building on it in this way, the ad is an expression of ownership of the phrase. It serves as a reminder that this is where it all began, and that if the state of New York wants to disfigure it, then as owners it is damn well within their rights to do so.
At the end of the day, New York is a brand, and through some crafty long-term marketing this slogan has taken on a life of its own and has helped generate some of the most enduring brand equity for the city.
Beyond this, the locations and ideas raised in the campaign demonstrate that New York is more than just Manhattan and the Brooklyn Bridge. Food, wine and Niagara Falls are all emphasised to the total neglect of The Big Apple itself.
If anything, it is this that I find most controversial about the campaign. Of course, New York is more than just the big city but in terms of attracting summertime tourists it seems silly to gloss over what is one of the biggest attractions in the country. Call me old fashioned, but I believe in playing to your strengths. Although I think the campaign in a good one and a great way to get people thinking about what else is on offer in New York, a little city shot wouldn’t have gone astray.
Still, I can understand why the campaign has gone in the direction it has – it isn’t targeted towards foreigners for whom the city itself remains the biggest drawcard. Instead, BBDO has clearly focused their attention on the domestic dollar, eager to paint the state as more than just ‘New York, New York’.
Hats off to the agency for being brave enough to tinker with something as revered as
“I ♥ NY”, and at the end of the day it is a smart campaign that leverages the state’s brand equity firmly in its favour. If they have to step on a few toes a long the way then I say so be it.
Watch the ads below – what do you think? Creative winner or strategic miscalculation?
A couple of years ago a good friend and I were travelling through Brazil and South America when, to quote American Statesman and General Colin Powell on a recent episode of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, “things went horribly wrong”.
In hindsight, I do blame myself. It was my decision to leave the very beautiful island paradise of Florianopolis to travel inland to visit Iguazu Falls, and so with that I must assume responsibility for us finding ourselves on the ‘Robbery Route’ between Paraguay and Rio de Janeiro. If someone had informed us of this prior, perhaps different plans might have been made. As it were, however, we blindly boarded that fateful bus, only to be awoken mere hours later in the middle of the night to the sound of frantic yelling in Portuguese.
Anyone who knows me well enough has probably heard this story multiple times – and with good reason, it is a great story. At around one in the morning a man stood up at the front of the bus, pulled out a gun and demanded the driver pull over to let his friends on. From there, the bus was led to a deserted outpost where men and cars were waiting to transport the belongings relieved from us moments earlier. While some savvy onboard thinking by yours truly managed to save our passports and ATM cards, little could be done to protect our backpacks down below.
18 hours later the bus arrived in Rio, after two additional diversions to both a state and federal police station. Upon arrival, the bus staff could only shrug when we asked what we were to do now, literally reduced to little more than the shirts on our back. Despite the obvious setbacks that come with losing practically everything you own, the next few weeks were infinitely more interesting than they otherwise would have been. Here are a few things that I learnt along the way:
1. Telling someone that you were a victim of Highway Armed Robbery in Brazil is awesome. The old adage states that no one cares about the holidays that go right, they only care about the things that go wrong. This is even more true of holidays that involve highway armed robbery when told to fellow travellers who are forced to catch the exact same methods of transport. It is the ultimate travelling one-upper, confirming our credibility in the discerning eyes of the off-the-beaten-track traversing traveller.
Whether casually dropped into conversation to impress the attractive 20-something from London, or proudly recounted to the bewildered local, the small ego boost that came with the story almost accounted for the fact that we owned absolutely nothing. It was almost enough to forget that while others were able to change into fresh clothes every so often, we became “those guys” who wore the same filthy clothes every day. This leads me to the second thing I learnt…
2. Wearing the same filthy clothes every day is awesome… Just kidding. It sucks. It really sucks. Of course personal hygiene goes out the window a bit while backpacking, especially in hot and sticky places such as Brazil, but even for two 20 year old boys the same shirt/shorts combination each day was a tad excessive. Any “advantage with the ladies” that might have been won with this story was almost immediately overturned when they came close enough to fully appreciate our physical appearance. In fairness, we could have bought new clothes, but aside from the odd novelty shirt we both resolved to try and spend as little as possible in replacing what was taken from us. Our budget was pretty tight already with beer money, and we just couldn’t afford to splurge our spare cash on clothes or any of those other ‘necessities’. We found that, after an initially steep learning curve, it is surprisingly easy to live without those things that we consider to be needs. Toiletries and shirt changes are luxuries.
A sad confession: at the time of the robbery, for one reason or another neither of us were wearing underwear. I eventually bit the bullet and bought a pair off the street (after it embarrassingly emerged that the boardshorts I purchased turned see-through when wet). My friend opted for the alternative, and simply went ‘free-balling’ for the remainder of the trip. I have never felt as dirty in my life as I did watching the colour that came out of that pair of underwear while washing them in the shower – it is the reason why, when embarking on my next trip, I made sure that a surplus of undies made it into my backpack.
Note: If you’re lucky enough to have all your belongings stolen, be prepared to spend a lot of time shirtless…
3. You really can always rely on the kindness of strangers. Really. In the days and weeks after the robbery we were inundated with kindness from people willing to help out in some small way. Travellers shouted us the odd meal or beer, helped us out with medicines from home and one British man even offered me a pair of shoes. I politely declined at the time, though it was a decision I would later regret. Big love went to our hostel in Rio de Janeiro, who gave each of us a singlet leftover from their Carnival package the week before (this isn’t a plug – at least not a paid one – but we both seriously recommend that hostel).
The standard daily attire
4. The realisation of what you can and cannot do with limited resources. On the penultimate night of Carnival in Salvador, Bahia, I lost one of my thongs (flip-flops) in a Bloco progression. In Sydney, that might have been game over for a lot of things, yet it was another 2 days or so before I bought a new pair. To be fair, roughly half of that time was spent on a return bus back to Rio, but the fact remains that I went in excess of 48 hours without owning a pair of shoes. In our heads we had convinced ourselves that havaianas would be cheaper in Rio, so we both held off on purchasing new thongs until we returned from Carnival. In the meantime, my soft feet became very acquainted with the blistering hot streets in the middle of the day. Calmly calculated business decision or complete stupidity? Almost certainly the latter, especially considering that havaianas turned out to be more expensive in Rio.
That aside, it was really interesting to discover what our lack-of-personal-items did and didn’t allow us to do. Hang-gliding without shoes? No problema. Not wearing a shirt on the streets of the city or into most street side restaurants? No need to ask. Catching a bus on the other hand – don’t even consider getting on without something on your back.
We were similarly crestfallen to discover that our sartorial shortcomings would prevent us from joining the nocturnal migration to the nightclubbing district of Lapa. Instead, we were confined to the odd tiki shack or beach bar somewhere between Copacobana and Ipanema. This was the eternal Catch 22 – we couldn’t afford jeans or proper shoes because we needed our money to buy beer, but without those two items we couldn’t actually get into the clubs that sold the beer. It was a real ‘chicken and the egg’ dilemma.
On the plus side, we never felt unsafe walking the streets of Rio – in our opinion, we’d already lost all our stuff, what more could anyone take from us? For some reason, in our heat-induced state of delirium the notion of physical harm seemed straight up impossible. Bearded, shirtless, covered in sweat and dirt – it seemed to me that people probably would have crossed to the other side of the road to avoid walking past us.
Hang-gliding … one of the many activities not requiring shoes in Brazil
5. The purchasing priorities of 20 year old boys are somewhat eschewed. Words will never be able to describe the expression on the face of the woman at the airport as we only checked in one small canvas bag and two bizarre Brazilian ‘musical instruments’ between the two of us. When we arrived back at Sydney Airport, we redistributed the various must-have items that we had purchased in the time since the robbery to the great amusement of my onlooking father.
These included: A hammock, two bottles of Cachaca (Brazilian rum), three singlets, two toothbrushes (the toothpaste got confiscated after a ‘bomb scare’ during a return layover in Buenos Aires), six pairs of havaianas, the two above-mentioned instruments, two pairs of striped novelty pants from Salvador and three brazil flag themed beach cangas (sarongs).
Underwear we apparently couldn’t afford, but Brazilian rum – damn that was a necessity! If I had my time over, would our purchases be any different? Probably not … except maybe the toothbrushes. They were something of an ‘impulse purchase’.
Our collective belongings the day we flew out of Rio de Janeiro
Of course, the list could on – the decision to never travel with anything valuable after the realisation that some of my most cherished items were gone, or the utter look of bewilderment on the faces of taxi drivers, hostel staff, travellers when they saw how little baggage we were travelling with etc. But the points listed above were probably the top five things I took away from the experience. Although it certainly made life difficult, now the story itself is probably worth a lot more to me than most of the things I lost. And, that aside, I still have a really great pair of striped pants from Salvador … which won’t be coming with me on my next trip.
On Monday DDB launched the second installment of Tourism Australia’s “There’s Nothing Like It” campaign with a very visual and very expensive advertisement that featured on the evening’s television programming. With a reported budget of $250 million, the campaign will focus heavily on digital/social media with short videos exploring different parts of Australia and why they are so special.
The showcase advertisement, featured above, comes in a three minute, a 90 second and a 30 second format and is the visual manifestation of the tagline “There’s Nothing Like it”. The video is quite different from the earlier installment of the campaign that ran two years ago – gone is the Australia wide celebratory sing-along, replaced with intimate and sentimental music and imagery.
The ad is definitely grand and certainly very alluring, but will it be successful? On the evening of the campaign’s launch, social media was ablaze with commentary about whether or not it was a good ad, and predictably opinions were very mixed. Some argued it was too cliched, too predictable and not daring enough. Others responded with pride about how beautiful our country is, and more than a few lamented having not yet taken that NT holiday.
Ben Groundwater, a SMH travel columnist argued that it doesn’t matter whether or not Australians like it because it’s not aimed at us, but that is only partly true. The Australian Tourism industry relies on our money as well, not just that of overseas, and the high Aussie dollar isn’t doing tourist vendors any favours. Only a couple of months ago, the Liberal Party ran its own digital campaign encouraging Australians to take a ‘staycation‘, highlighting the importance of domestic tourism.
All that aside, it will be interesting to see the ROI of what is such a huge campaign. Over the coming months there will be more content to analyse however for the time being let’s focus on the 3 minute showcase advertisement above. Personally, I am a fan of the ad and think it does a lot of things right. Most importantly, watching the ad gives me that little funny feeling inside and all the patriotic sentiment that comes along with it.
Yes, the big sweeping landscape shots are a little ‘same old, same old’, but this is what Australia has to sell in spades and for an internationally-aired campaign it would be absurd to not utilise the breathtaking natural environment. There are, however, three main points where I think this campaign has distinguished itself from its predecessors.
1. The sounds
A lot of criticism of the ad has been directed towards the music used in the clip for being too sentimental and a bit irrelevant. The song – ‘It’s like Love’ by Australian singer-songwriter Dewayne Everettsmith – is a world away from the Paul Hogan days of shrimp and barbies.
The tune is slow and heartfelt, pulling at the heartstrings of the audience and promoting the idea of a truly life-changing experience down-under. When did sentimentality become a bad thing? Hipster indifference may be all well and good on the streets of Surry Hills but I can’t imagine an American tourist booking a flight to Australia with a campaign of “come, don’t come … whatever”.
Likewise, we are well known enough already for the adventurous “everything here will kill you” aspect of Australia, so I don’t blame DDB for taking the angle they did.Listen to the lyrics of the song and you’ll find that they mirror exactly the core messages that the campaign is trying to drive home.
The lines “You’ve seen it all before, til you’ve found something more” epitomise this. Everyone has heard of Australia and knows of its natural beauty, but this advertisement is hammering home that nothing will prepare you for the experience that’s coming. It is a strong message, suggesting that now is the time for people to rethink Australia and any ideas of the country they might have.
The second thing that impressed me was the incorporation of natural sounds into the video. It’s not something I picked up on the first watch, but view it again and listen carefully for the sounds of the kookaburras, the evening crickets etc. Talk to any Australian expat and they will tell you that one of the things they miss most are these ‘sounds’ of Australia.
Our incredible fauna is something that truly sets Australia apart, and it was nice to see that more than just a kangaroo was featured (even though one little joey was blessed with some prime face time towards the middle). Will the average German or American pick up on these sounds? Maybe. It depends on how well they know the country, probably. More important than that is that it all contributes to the authentic ‘feel’ of Australia the ad is trying to portray (however over-idealised it may be).
2. The people
Watch the ad again – notice that whenever people are featured it is almost always in small groups or couples. While the jingle of two years back pushed the notion of a nationwide community that tourists were encouraged to come and join, this campaign has focused on the intimacy and personal nature of a trip to Australia.
This is very much in keeping with the core message of uniqueness and a life-changing experience promoted by TA. Everything from the couple walking through the bush to the young girl with the kangaroo is designed to depict the wholly personalised experience that Australia offers.
According to this video, Australia is exactly like what Everettsmith’s song suggests. ‘It’s like love’ – something so deeply touching, moving and personal, and a journey that will never be forgotten.
3. The luxury shots
The clip’s stunningly intimate landscape sequences are matched complemented by shots of luxury dining and accommodation. This, I feel, must be the outcome of some pretty in-depth consumer profiling. As mentioned above, the high Aussie dollar is hurting the tourism industry and the reality is not everyone can afford to come here.
By immersing imagery of breathtaking dining views or stunning 5-star accommodation this campaign is suggesting that Australia is the perfect holiday destination for those who, shall we say, appreciate the finer things in life. This isn’t Mexico, and it definitely isn’t India. Australia is a place for those who love good food and wine, but still want to have that incredible life-changing adventure.
Will this ad act as a deterrent to those in search of adventure-tourism? Probably. But then again those people are probably already in Vang Vieng (Laos) or Queenstown (New Zealand) anyway.
There is only one thing that I don’t really understand about the ad. For a campaign that is supposedly heavily targeted towards the burgeoning Chinese market, why was only one shot of a smiling (half) Asian couple included? This, I think, was a missed opportunity to dispel concerns that Australia is racist and unwelcoming towards our Asian friends.
That, and the same question that everyone that isn’t from Sydney must ask at least once – why does every Australian tourism ad have to finish with a shot of the harbour??
Sometimes, it’s fun to be a tourist in your own city.
Sometimes, it’s the little things that you appreciate the most. Sometimes, it’s the multi-million dollar large scale designed-to-impress public works that do the trick.
Fantastic advertisement! It’s true – despite the economy etc Greece is still Greece. Those sunsets on the islands are as beautiful as ever, and with budget airlines flying directly into Mykonos and the like there isn’t any need to visit Athens. I feel like I’m soliciting Greece a bit here, but still – great ad!
never in toronto 
