The land of wooden bikes

Thaksin Watch

The former Thai prime minister, Thaksin Shinawatra, is continuing to evade authorities seven months after skipping bail. He was charged with two years in jail for abuse of power for his role in the purchasing of state land by his wife. Rumours continue to circulate of his whereabouts, as well as the number of passports he has accrued during his time in exile.

Thaksin’s legal advisor, Noppadon Pattama, recently commented on his clients growing passport collection, stating, ‘Leaders of a few countries have given Thaksin passports because they sympathize with his position and know the injustice he suffered,'

It is alleged in January of this year, that Nicaragua named Thaksin, 'Ambassador on a Special Mission' The mission being to bring investment to the Central American country. A passport is believed to have been issued and according to widespread reports, it is believed the ousted PM is using the diplomatic passport issued by the Nicaraguan government.

After an arrest warrant for Thaksin was ordered by the Thai justice system, police attempted to exert pressure on the fugitive PM by asking Interpol police in 187 countries to help locate and arrest him. . Thai police have also been dispatched to countries Thaksin was believed to visit frequently such as Hong Kong, Nicaragua, Montenegro, Cambodia and the UAE.

It was recently claimed that Thaksin was in Dubai, with its relatively close proximity to Thailand, it appeared convenient for his visiting aides and advisors.

However, a senior Dubai police officer has denied Thaksin is using Dubai as a refuge. “The former prime minister of Thailand, Thaksin Shinawatra, is not in Dubai and no one with this name is here," Major General Khamis Mattar Al Mazeina, deputy commander general of Dubai Police told Gulf News.

Photo:Flickr/publik5

Kulture Karnival, Kreuzberg

I woke to the sound of drums reverberating the springs of my camper bed.  Given my new flatmates penchant for creating noise, I cursed the likelihood they had adopted a bongo related hobby. It was then with a mixture of relief, pursued within a knuckle wrap of a a cow hide, by delight. The realisation it was the whit sunday Karnival der Kulturen marching outside. 

I quickly got dressed - my plan to sit on Miche’s balcony, clasping a coffee - the sound from the street made me recollect the elephant scene from The Jungle book.  Joining an excited, but sleepy Miche, I watched as first Peru, India, Belgium?, and then, as you can see from the attention it drew from the local Pap, the money shot paraded below us.

A stately wake up call,  befitting even... Mustafa 'Better-than-Beckham" Izzet

                                                                             Pap attack

After the caffeine started to return my senses, I  started to notice that lots of people who passed in the street were gazing up at the obscured windows to the left of us. Whole floats were waving, giggling, blowing kisses and pointing as they passed in their organised traffic jam. Given the exhibitionist nature of my new flatmates, I wasn't entirely shocked by the view that greeted me as I looked up, now standing with fellow bystanders on the pavement.

                                                              Petra Flurr, some bumpkin, and Rodrigo                         

With beer from the usually overflowing newsagents now encroachiong onto the pavements on makeshift tables too, I was quickly in stride. After sitting on the curb and watching the floats go by,  I noticed for the first time the way middle aged Germans dress on holiday as tourists,  is actually how they dress on a daily basis. 

                                                             The girl was a heartbeat from feigning injury

I then met my Danish/French mate Ervin from work. We spent ten amusing minutes watching the heavily intoxicated, and I presume self titled, "King of Fallafel" , attempt to construct a wrap for me, while lurching and stumbling around his kingdom.

Brushing aside suggestions to follow the Electro with the Scandinavians we met, I marched behind the Dub/Ragga/Dancehall float. Ignoring the glaringly obvious Caucasian rhythmic inadequacies when it comes to dancing to reggae and Dance Hall, this white cat shook his booty out of time to African drums for the following five magical hours. 

The Purple explosion magical mystery tour. One love to my boi dem Escobar!

The Purple explosion bringing da party

Exhausted from the full afternoon of stomping, we finished the night listening to Electro in a packed West Kreuzberg  street;  sipping Caiprinhas, feeling groggy, and swaying like the King of Falafel himself.

Pretty self explanatory. I want, as you should too.

Henne (Leuschnerdamm 25)

Tucked away, at the end of one of the leafy, graffiti scrawled side streets that form gratin like grids around eastern Kreuzberg - perches Henne. I arrived without a reservation, and was first placed awkwardly on a stool on tall bar table.  My elbows, being British, overcompensating polite tucked in at my sides, yet still only a beer mat in distance from that of a newlywed bride on a Chinese honeymoon. Luckily, the waitress soon found me a nook, a tartan clothed table the size of a pizza box, that I could just about fit my cricket legs under.

 

I had a perfect panorama of the restaurant,  my table gave me the discretion a hide affords a twitcher. The timber interior, unchanged since 1907, is equally grand to the customer a century on from its creation. My attention however, was soon drawn to the chickens coming out of the kitchen at methodic intervals,  When one was placed in front of me, it became immediately apparent why the restaurant is such an institution.

                                                                                                                                                                

How the organic chicken is cooked so perfectly remains hotly debated. Some claim it is fried, while others adhere the delightfully crisp - almost like the torched brown sugar of a crème Brule - exterior, to a more complex milk roasting technique (similar to the buttermilk chicken roasting tradition in the deep south according to a Californian work collegue). The chicken arrives with just a slice of bread for company, so, being greedy, I ordered the karttofelsalate - thinly sliced potatoes in an effortless, yet tasty cream sauce.

Cleaning every bit of flesh from the bones of the succulent chicken, I felt a little like Obelix as I did so.

Gleefully I observed a wealthy looking German family- complete with face lifts and family rings - chatting and flattering over mugs I at first assumed, nievely given its lack of alcohol content-compote (A mix of winter fruits, stewed to liquid and served cold in mugs. It's popular in Poland), but later discovered was in fact Landbier.

I also watched in embarrassment as a clearly sozzled Munich tourist in his sixties, approached the Chinese newlyweds and gave a very German two thumbs up twice. Announcing, "I love Shanghai," and "I love Beijing!"- gesticulating both "I's", with a slap of his portly, pink golf t-shirt swathed chest - before stumbling after his wife to a table.

On returning to the bar to settle up, I admired the letter from JFK that sits proudly at eye-level. It offers his sincerest apologies for not being able to dine at the restaurant, as originally planned on his state visit. I felt sympathy for the president, given the meal I had just delighted over. But, I mused and consoled - although the odds are slim, he might  have been returning to Broadway to spend an evening with Marilyn. Swings and roundabouts.