Stopping War and Attacking Blair and Thatcher in Sloane Square

9 Apr

Ten at Royal Court

The Ten programme ( Photo-Op by kennardphillips)

Ten, at the Royal Court, was to mark the tenth anniversary of the invasion of Iraq. According to emcee, comedian Arthur Smith, it was ‘not a celebration but a condemnation’.

A fundraiser for Stop the War, organiser of the eve-of-operation march of February 2003 when two million people protested, it brought NW3 to SW3. Lefties including Ken Livingstone and Jeremy Corbyn MP found themselves deep behind class enemy lines. While the theatre has enjoyed an amazing bout of creative energy in the last five years – Jerusalem, Enron, Jumpy, Clybourne Park etc etc – it is still on the borders of Belgravia. “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Out Out Out” chanted some in the audience, little knowing that the former PM – Out for more than 20 years – would indeed be Out for good the following morning. Being a vehement Thatcher detractor must be like being someone who was dumped two decades ago, but is still obsessing over their lost love. Isn’t it all a bit of a waste of life and time and energy? Surely, it’s time to, er, move on? As Ian McEwan has noted in the Guardian, ‘We liked disliking her.’

What Ten highlighted is that the political right of centre doesn’t have the monopoly on provoking division, vitriol and loathing. Ten acts, each lasting ten or so minutes, were all inspired by, or were commentaries on, the military intervention and its aftermath. With the exception of Brian Eno, little was actually said by anyone about Iraq or Iraqis. On his journey through the ancient history of Sumeria, focusing on the epic of Gilgamesh, the world’s oldest ‘book’, he reminded us that the site of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon was, post-invasion, the US military’s Camp Alpha. The mini-lecture was accompanied by images of the work of kennardphillipps. Later, there was a film of Harold Pinter reading his anti-war poetry outside a 2004 exhibition of theirs. He wasn’t so much an Angry Old Man as About to Burst into Flames Incandescent.

The evening was really concerned with the effect of Iraq on Britain, particularly creative Britain, which still has to square the circle of its support for a Blair government that delivered the country from 18 years of Thatcherism (Major didn’t count), with that government’s illegitimate and possibly illegal war of choice. At least the Falklands had conformed to the tenets of jus ad bello and there’s never been any suggestion that Baroness Thatcher should have been prosecuted in the International Criminal Court. A recurring theme concerning the Thatcher years is how divisive they were, but as Shappi Khorsandi said, she still can’t allow herself to fancy anyone who supported the Iraq intervention, while That War, a two-hander by Shelly Silas, underlined its effect on British Muslims, all too often perceived in the last decade as ‘the enemy within’.

For some of those in the Royal Court on Sunday, enemy number one wasn’t Al Qaeda, the Taliban, Saddam or the Mahdi Army. It wasn’t Thatcher or war itself. It was Tony Blair. In You Don’t Know What You Don’t Know, Timothy West’s character says when he sees the former PM’s autobiography in a book shop, he moves it to the crime section. Director Ken Loach spoke of the ‘war cabinet of criminals’, while the biggest cheer of the night came from the suggestion that one day Blair would end up in that dock in the Hague, which is where you now go when you’re charged with crimes against humanity.

Iraqi oud-player Ahmed Mukhtar finished with a song called ‘Hope’. Perhaps he wanted to inspire members of the audience to put aside their parochialism and petty posturing and take an interest in his country which their country had violently reshaped.

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The Shard: A Heart of Glass in the Heart of Southwark

10 Feb
The Shard - St Thomas Street, SE1

The Shard – St Thomas Street, SE1

‘Is it safe?’

Just as it dominates London’s skyline, the Shard diminishes its neighbourhood.

Having started to blossom in the last 15 years or so, not least because of the influx of urban foodies flocking to the evermore chi-chi Borough Market, the Southwark surrounding the Shard is now shown up to be a scruffy, down-at-heel loser. Streets that until a year or so ago could have been considered charmingly quirky are suddenly seen in a different light: potholed, rubbish strewn and depressing. The once grand Georgian outposts of Guy’s Hospital are like potless toffs – forever harking back to a glorious past because they’re not coping too well with today.

shard69thfloor

View Towards Canary Wharf – The Shard, 69th Floor

London is a curmudgeonly old git. Any change is begrudged and grumbled over, the tut-tutting never louder than when a skyscraper goes up. St Paul’s is the tower against which all the others are compared, not because of its height – a mere 365 feet – but to assess whether the latest lofty Johnny-come-Lately blocks a view of it. As the tallest building in Europe, the Shard at 1016 ft easily outstrips not just Wren’s landmark, but the Post Office Tower (581ft), the Gherkin (590 ft) and Canary Wharf (771ft). We know this because, just as the Shard, with its tip often in the clouds, is more-or-less inescapable in large parts of the capital, as if it’s giving its detractors an elegant finger, inside the building there are reminders of just how far it surges above the competition – for those who don’t want to see for themselves out of the floor-to-ceiling windows up on the 69th floor.

‘Is it safe?’ Getting to the viewing platforms is a two stage process; the lift to the lift. It doesn’t feel safe when you’re on floor 30-something, waiting to be taken to up to the sky. A nails-down-a-blackboard, can’t-hear-yourself-think, screaming fills the hall, caused by air in the lift shaft and the cars plunge downwards. As yet, the Shard isn’t finished; apparently there are gaps somewhere in the shaft’s 70-something storey length. Or something. Who cares how and why the air screams? It’s a horrible, horrible noise. People waiting cover their ears.

Out of the lift and up some stairs and you’re there. Almost at the top of the tallest building this side of the Atlantic. For anyone who gets vertigo, it’s torture. Szell drilling through Babe Levy’s teeth in Marathon Man.‘Is it safe?’ It doesn’t feel it. The Gherkin, Canary Wharf, Hyde Park, Tower Bridge, Battersea Power Station are all tip-tilting – magnets pulling you down towards them. It’s even worse three floors up, which is partly open to the sky and the wind. Whether the gift shop fits in with Renzo Piano’s vision is doubtful. However, once safely down, ‘1,001 Buildings You Must See Before You Die’ is probably a more appropriate buy than Shard fridge magnets, Shard tees or the weirdly uncute soft toy version of Romeo, the fox who roamed the building for a fortnight, living off builders’ food and saving himself the 25 quid entrance fee.

Open to the elements - Shard 72nd Floor

Open to the elements – Shard 72nd Floor

The Shard is beautiful. It is a monument to today, right now. But if architecture is frozen music, the Shard sounds a discordant note in SE1, a neighbourhood that is still trying to holler out the stuff of Victorian music halls – ‘Roll out the Barrel’; ‘My Old Man’. Who else could better give the area its new soundtrack than Philip Glass?

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Myanmar: Burmese Days Revisited

11 Jan
Dawn over Bagan

The Burmese Dream: Dawn flight over Bagan. Martin Sojka, Visual Escapes

Anyone arriving in Myanmar and expecting paradise preserved is journeying to disappointment. A golf course greets you as you come into land at Yangon’s main airport and small Samsung adverts are on all immigration desks, a foretaste of the hideous giant billboards that line the roads to the city centre. It is quite a culture shock for all those Westerners who have been anticipating the tourist-free, land-in-a-timewarp charm, that has been implicitly peddled in the travel pages of the Sunday papers and by their tour company paymasters. But many Westerners, particularly the British, don’t actually want to be in Myanmar; they are trying to find Burma.

Coaches outside Shwedagon pagoda, Bagan, Myanmar

The Myanmar reality: coaches outside the Shwedagon pagoda, Bagan

Most Burma-hunters are on some sort of package: those who aren’t are few and far between, not least because of the absence of visitor-friendly infrastructure. To go to Myanmar is indeed to step back in time – to a world where almost nowhere accepts credit cards, there are very few ATMs, your mobile phone doesn’t work at all, anywhere, wifi is intermittent at best and the few Internet cafes are apologetic. Despite all this, it’s possible to avoid the dreaded tour buses and their aged occupants, whose Lonely Planet ‘night life’ section will remain unread in favour of swotting up on pagodas and kvetching on Trip Advisor about the lumpiness of their mattresses. Received wisdom holds that the Yangon-Mandalay-Bagan-Lake Inle trail followed by all the tours needs to be booked months in advance. Outside of the peakiest season that’s wrong. All you need is a couple of nights booked in Yangon, a fistful of shiny new dollars, a local travel agent, a willingness to wing it and a dirt cheap ticket back to Bangkok on Air Asia – should all else fail.

George Orwell’s ‘Burmese Days’ – fake copies of which are flogged outside every major pagoda – is a portrait of 1920s colonial life among a small community of British ex-pats in an isolated station, whose existences are centred on the Club, which all but one are determined to keep as Whites Only. The dissident, Flory, knows that the game is up for Empire, but his moral cowardice prevents him from supporting Club membership for his friend, the Indian doctor, Veraswami. Rings are run round the bored, whisky-soaked pukka-sahibs by the wily local magistrate, U Po Kyin. Orwell captures the heat-induced ennui, the racism and the nascent independence movement against British rule. Flory is the misfit: an Englishman out to make his fortune exploiting Burma who appreciates Burmese culture. The allure of Burma – or rather Burmese women – is central to ‘Mandalay’, Kipling’s poem that for more than a century has distilled and instilled a view of the mysterious, magical East. Not bad for someone who was in the country for just three days. (George Webb)

The news that dozens of Spitfires – the most iconic British plane in history – could about to be unearthed seems to underline the existence of a Burmese-British special relationship, at least in the minds of many British. British rule over Burma was brief compared with neighbouring India, but has left its mark. Colonial-era buildings, many of them now in need of rescue, include the law courts and the railway offices, while the railway network itself is an imperial relic. Yangon’s Taukkyan War Cemetery, commemorating the 27,000 Commonwealth troops who died during the Burma campaign against the Japanese in the ‘forgotten war’, is surely more evidence of the countries’ ties. Cementing the comforting fiction of the Burmese-British bond is Aung San Suu Kyi, educated in Britain and married to a British academic. Overlooked is that she derives much of her local prestige not only from her stance against military rule and her international recognition, but that she is the daughter of the revered General Aung San who led the fight against the British and delivered Burmese independence.

Irrawaddy River

Irrawaddy River at dusk

The reality of Myanmar pours icy water on visitors’ dreams of ballooning-over-Bagan, steaming-up-the-Irrawaddy Burma. Of the three most famous hotels in Yangon, the small Governor’s Residence probably best panders to the fantasy but at $600 a night so it should; Traders is a modern high-rise next to a main road, while the slightly mildewed Strand invokes Somerset Maugham. Angry Birds tee-shirts, the English Premier League, hustlers flogging postcards and knick-knacks, Skynet dishes and lousy 4×4 drivers hardly give the impression of isolation and autarchy.

The 20-year imposition of sanctions and declarations of pariah status by the West cut little ice with some of Myanmar’s nearer neighbours, who themselves are hardly bastions of free speech and democracy. While corporations in the US and EU have been given the green light by their governments to set up shop in Yangon, they might find it already a little crowded. Those golf courses have been around for a while.

Inle Lake, Myanmar

Inle Lake, possibly the most beautiful area of Myanmar

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Ethiopia: Mugged by Charm in Axum

4 Jan

Axum is yet another former capital of Ethiopia, a rival to Gondar and Lalibela, where an emperor began to build a new Jerusalem about a thousand years ago, carving churches into mountainsides. But evolving from about 400 BC – as they’d say in this devout country – Axum can claim historical and religious supremacy. Not only did the Queen of Sheba have her palace here, but this, after all, is the site of the monastery of St Mary of Zion, the resting place of the Tabot, aka the Ark of the Covenant. How do we know? Fittingly, it’s a matter of faith: no outsider can actually get to see it.

Axum today might be a place of pilgrimage, but it is also, frankly, a bit of a dump and should be deleted from the non-Ethiopian non- Orthodox tourist’s to-do list. The atmosphere is as flat as the plain it’s sited on. Sheba’s Palace ruins, tick. The museum, tick. Yawn. The stelae field, tick. The church built by Haile Selassie; if we must. Yawn. Travellers’ websites bemoan the dreadful hotels – ‘which is the least bad option?’ – but no one actually advises avoid.

Avoid Axum.

Axum is the sort of town which inspires a wishing one’s life away, tomorrow is another day, tough it out, counting the hours until leaving, attitude. Yes, it has intermittent dim street lighting, a delapidated cinema, and several banks, but there’s something forsaken about it. Of course it’s safe to walk to the bar says the hotel receptionist, offended.

Heading back along the broken pavements I sense that I’m being followed. I’m right. The boys are under five feet tall and about 10 or 11. They are curious: what’s my name? Am I American? Oh. Which football team do I like? How old am I? When I stop in front of a tiny shop, they stop too and hover at the doorway. It isn’t hard to guess the man behind the counter is telling them to go away. ‘They’re with me.’ Where did thst come from? Hungry, unable to stomach any more indigestible local meat, I’ll have biscuits for dinner. I ask the boys whether they want some: they hesitate over the strawberry wafers and the bourbons.

Ten minutes later the three of us are sitting in the dictator-baroque hotel bar, tucking into bourbons and watching English premier league football and drinking. Fanta-like Mirinda for them. They both go off to the restroom to wash: at home, they don’t have a bathroom, they don’t have TV, they’re too poor, they say. They usually lurk outside bars and shops to watch anything. Their sing-song English separates every syllable, with very unEnglish rolling rrrs. ‘Not brrrot-hers, frrrr-ends.’ No, their mothers won’t worry about them being out. We exchange email addresses; apparently every child at school has one. The game transfixes them. The shop sells footballs. For 50 birr. What time am I leaving tomorrow morning? Inspired like so many of their countrymen by the late Prime Minister Meles Zenawi, whose sudden death stupified the nation, one wants to be a teacher and the other an engineer. Shocked that I am unmarried, they say will pray for me. ‘When you’re marrrrr-I-ed, you can come back to Et-eee-ooo-pah and adopt us.’

The following morning, they are waiting out by the road, with the same desperate, patient hope seen in labradors hanging around dining tables. 100 birr is probably what I would have spent on the rip-off birr-a-minute hotel Internet access – in every other hotel outside Axum it’s been free. On our way back to the biscuit shop to get the footballs, they ask if I can pay their rent instead.

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Ethiopia – The Road From Beijing Avoids the Bleeding Hearts

23 Dec
Simien Mountains, Ethiopia

Simien Mountains

Ethiopia’s Simien Mountains and National Park beat the lot. The Grand Canyon suddenly isn’t quite so grand or Monument Valley so monumental. Mounts Kenya and Kilimanjaro are more famous, not least because they’re on the tourist/backpacker Africa trail while, right now, Ethiopia is not. Just as the country is the only part of Africa to be ignored or to remain unvanquished in the 19th century colonial ‘scramble’ by European powers, when it comes to an African destination of choice, Ethiopia has yet to get on the radar of most first-worlders, who are either desperate to live the toff White Mischief dream peddled by upmarket tour operators – tents, wicker, Landrovers, leopards and linen suits – or just desperately seeking cheap thrills, sex and booze along the Kenyan and Gambian coasts.

Instead of colonising Ethiopia, the West has recently busied itself being patronising, unable to forget civil war, famine and Geldof’s haranguing to ‘give them the fucking money’ during the Live Aid smug fest. And we haven’t stopped giving, while never starting to ask if aid not trade is such a good thing. The Ethiopians are a proud, stately and dignified people: while self-important western do-gooders on a permanant gap yah and British politicians sign up to ‘Africa – Scar on the Conscience of Humanity‘ worldview, they overlook that the country’s annual growth 2005-10 was 6.5 per cent, while infant mortality plummeted. While some in the West tut tut over sluggish mobile phone take up in Africa’s second most populous country (85 million and the numbers predicted to rocket before they crash), Ethio Telecom doesn’t seem to be doing too badly: reception was stronger in the rural mountain town of Lalibela than in 0208-land along the A3, with the priest in the remote 12th century cave church of St Nakutolab breaking off from his talk on processional crosses to answer a call.

The dead-end of so much recent Western policy in Ethiopia is best symbolised by the highway between the ancient capital Gondar and the Simien National Park, more than 100 clicks of paved, pothole-free perfection. Still under construction in parts, the road building is being supervised by Chinese engineers, recognisable, somewhat ironically, by their bamboo coolie hats. Along with their fleet of Sinotruks, they’re stationed in a huge compound of pale blue Portakabins outside the town of Debark.

Children in countryside outside Lalibela

Children walking alongside typical road outside Lalibela

Although a cruising speed of 60mph is achievable between the villages of eucalyptus-wood clad mud shacks, the road’s main users are pedestrians, mostly aged under ten, sometimes in gangs but often on their own, many shepherding humpbacked cattle, sheep, goats and donkeys. Not so much Home Alone, as Miles Away From Anywhere Alone, these sturdy, exuberant youngsters are the most disconcerting sight for affluent Westerners, brainwashed into living in a permanent state of near hysteria about child safety.

Road-building outside Gondar, Ethiopia

Road-building outside Gondar

Sinotruk, Ethiopia

Sinotruk, Ethiopia

Of all the tangible dangers to the children living and working and playing alongside the highway, traffic doesn’t seem to be one of them.  There isn’t much, if any. In an hour there’s one minibus (level 3, the cheapest), a handful of 4x4s and the construction teams of diggers and Sinotruks, whose drivers are far too busy to enjoy some of the most spectacular views of anywhere. Outside Addis Ababa,  few own cars. But give it a decade or two, those children – for whom a mobile phone and the Internet are starting to become as much of a fact of life as TV is already – could be driving their own cars, their new-found prosperity delivered by the highway.

Gondar to Simien mountains highway, Ethiopia

Thank you Beijing: A completed section of the Gondar-Simien mountains highway, Ethiopia

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Concrete, Tin and Angels

9 Nov

The way to Ambika P3

Drivers heading west along the Marylebone Road towards the Westway should be grateful as they pass the University of Westminster on their left. They probably don’t realise it, but deep under the building is Ambika P3, a massive space where concrete and concrete structures are tested. Structures like the columns holding up the flyover a few minutes down the road.

The subterranean laboratory is currently the venue for Stifter’s Dinge by Heiner Goebbels, who has revisited the multimedia show/performance/installation he created in 2008. Apparently it is ‘a composition for five pianos with no pianists; a performance without performers; a play with nobody acting’. Ummm. The Unguided Tour is certainly dramatic because of the cathedral-scale monumentality of the venue. On offer are five upended pianos, three shallow reservoirs of water, lights and music interspersed with chit-chat or readings from the likes of Claude Levi-Strauss. Goebbels (no relation?) is inspired by the Austrian Adalbert Stifter, a mid-19th century Romantic writer and poet. Stifter’s Thing (Ding) is an extract about travelling by horse-drawn sledge through a frozen silent forest as ice-heavy branches crash to the ground: how the other Things (Dinge) – such as Malcolm X – relate to Stifter is harder to grasp. As the programme says, this is ‘an opportunity to come to terms with unfamiliar cultural references’. In the ambient half-light as pretend-rain falls into the reservoirs, there’s plenty of time for the mind to wander, not least to unfamiliar cultural juxtapositions. Nietzsche and The Beano. Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology and Grazia.

Stifter’s Dinge was commissioned by Artangel, now in its twentieth year of supporting the ground-breaking and conceptual. The locations – often in the capital’s disregarded crannies – are integral to the work. Last month, Kilburn’s Tin Tabernacle staged Nowhere Less Now, Lindsay Seers’ filmic exploration of a sea-faring ancestor who sailed to Zanzibar. Home to the Willesden and St Marylebone Sea Scouts, complete with wardroom, rigging, flags and portholes, the main hall of the Tabernacle was filled by an upturned wooden hull, which threatened to encase the audience. Watching Seers’ dreamy quasi-documentary, they too were cast far away on a sailing boat to the Indian Ocean island where an identical corrugated iron tabernacle can be found.

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The Blues and E1

1 Nov

James McNeill Whistler: Nocturne Blue and Silver – Cremorne Lights 1872
(Tate Gallery)

Where the creatives lead, the money and estate agents follow.

Chelsea’s slide into its current suburban coma probably started when Whistler, Rossetti and the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood made SW3 the centre of artistic life in Britain. Although the Chelsea Arts Club is still a beacon of bohemia, it’s a light that flickers rather than blazes, almost extinguished by the disappearance of the hundreds of artists’ studios over the decades and some of the most expensive property prices on the planet. The Kings Road has been living off its reputation since the 1970s. Vivienne Westwood’s store Sex , the epicentre of punk, is long gone: today, too many of the shops are either dreary on-every-high-street chains or boarded up, unable to pay their way and pay the rent. Despite its blue collar roots, symbolised by Chelsea FC’s ground at Stamford Bridge – actually The Blues are across the border in Fulham – Chelsea today is true blue Conservative. Most of the artists packed up long ago and headed East.

Chelsea’s fate to go from being socially-mixed Swinging London’s Creative Central to becoming The Location of Peter Jones, that Mecca of the middle classes, is the stuff of a sociology PhD on the effects of gentrification. Something similar has been happening in E1 since the mid-1990s as the indie shops are elbowed aside, the warehouses converted and the prices creep out of the reach of the locals. A trawl through Shoreditch and Spitalfields today brings up plenty of Foxtons signs and Euro-tourists, who have just crossed Portobello Road off the to-do list. In Tracey’s shop, Emin International, limited edition prints and posters can be found along with eggcups and tea towels that feature sketches of birds and Docket the cat. We could almost be in Peter Jones, especially with background chatter about how a Coutts’ debit card has been lost yet again and the bank’s £600 a year account charges. It’s quite a way from The Shop Tracey ran with Sarah Lucas almost 20 years ago and parallels the changes to E1. Money can’t buy you love, but it can buy you Love is What You Want.

"Love is What You Want" by Tracey Emin neon light

“Love is What You Want” by Tracey Emin

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Kilburn and the High Road

25 Oct

Forget Primark or Poundland, the great-value destination in NW6 has to be the salon offering tanning for 45p. Yes – 45p. You too can look as though you’ve been Tangoed for less than the cost of a can of the nuclear-orangey fizz. Nine shillings in old money doesn’t buy you a stamp, a tea, a loaf of bread, a Twix or most daily papers. If you’re pale and wan about this, trot along to Kilburn High Road where for 45p, you can just be wan.

Tricycle Theatre, Kilburn, London NW6

Tricycle Theatre, Kilburn, London NW6 (Image: Bricoleurbanism)

Skin colour is the theme of the Tricycle Theatre’s Red Velvet, based on the true story of African-American actor Ira Aldridge who shocked 1830s London when he played the lead in Othello. The play’s poignant ending is set in 1867 when we see Ira ‘white-ing up’ to be Lear. While agitation surrounding the (final) abolition of slavery in the 1830s is a background theme, the play does not mention the American Civil War. This omission is all the more curious as the hostility to Ira’s Othello is claimed to be ‘political’ (‘It is. It always is’), lending tacit support to the anti-abolitionist cause. Writer Lolita Chakrabarti has ducked the War whose repercussions are with us today, in favour of making the audience feel good about itself. Gasps went round the theatre as the verbatim 1830s reviews were read out, the gaspiest when the N-word was used. It is too simple to generate a miasma of self-congratulation in any theatre by comparing today’s enlightened attitudes with those current 180 years ago. Whatever next? Some nice warm self-righteousness for spotting sexism in a 1975 episode of The Sweeney?

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Anish Kapoor and the After Party

12 Oct
Shine 2012 - Anish Kapoor by Zoer

Shine 2012 – Anish Kapoor (Photo by Zoer)

After that Royal Academy show, then perplexing the parakeets by scattering Kensington Gardens with giant dishes, discs and distorting mirrors, there was the Orbit, the Olympic Park’s very own helter-skelter. Release from The Project meant that “Anish Kapoor – Now What?” could be answered on Tuesday night at the Lisson Gallery, not too far from the Edgware Road. Early October is Frieze London, the art fair that attracts international galleries – and more crucially – international collectors. Some might want a six foot hemisphere of perfect, uncompromising colour; a green or violet or gold so intense you can get lost in it. Yours for £200,000, someone whispered. Or was it £400,000? Or £800,000? Each. Not that this has put anyone off – Kapoor is one of the world’s most collectible artists. Among the gallery scrum, talk wasn’t of the exhibits or the prices but of The After Party – invitations to which were that night’s equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Golden Tickets. A few hours later somewhere near the Ritz, all that held back a crowd of hundreds verging on the hysterical, was a velvet rope and two meaty taking-no-shit doormen. An elegant man carrying a wine-glass was ordered back inside by them. Despite being perhaps in need of fresh air – or a smoke in the fresh air, which is the least he deserved – Anish Kapoor did as he was told.

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Anish Kapoor

11 Oct

One of Anish Kapoor’s Sky Mirrors

Anish Kapoor by Herry Lawford

Photo – Herry Lawford

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