Live To Win

Some years ago while shoplifting from a major hardware store I experienced a type of old fashioned security system – one that needs no technology, or cameras or electronic tags and yet has the possibility to be everywhere. I’m speaking of the undercover security guard, and I found the experience remarkable because it caused me to reflect on how systems of fascism and state control have always relied on the impulse that humans have to turn on one another. Much like the panopticon (a circular prison system designed around a central tower from which guards could, in theory, always be watching), centralised states with heavy surveillance – like the former German Democratic Republic, or the Stalinist USSR, keep their citizens in check by making sure that there could always be someone watching. Lets call this “someone”, Mr Invisible – because he is everywhere, yet only reveals himself at strategic moments. Mr Invisible is the shadow that walks just a step behind you, keep...

About 5 years ago a climbing magazine fell open in front of me. In bold, exciting type the article’s headline read “Deep Water Soloing – Vietnam’s Dangerous New Adventure!” The picture showed a lithe and muscular climber ascending a face of pitted rock overlooking a sparkling and iridescent tropical landscape. Remarkably, the climber was wearing neither harness nor gear – and there was no rope in sight. Being of mild mannered nature and not prone to taking risks I was instantly intrigued. Soloing, I learnt, refers to the practice of climbing rock faces without the aid of ropes or other protection. Deep Water soloing involves doing so on cliffs that sit over large channels of water deep enough to leap into from great heights. Thus the climber can solo a wall until they fall or decide to jump off. This image stayed with me even as other interests and adventures took place – purposely being so exposed and precariously balanced within nature, driven by the need to challenge and exp...

The Djemaa el-Fna square bustles and throbs. Its lights glimmer in the smoke of cooking fires that rises and twines its way through the thronging crowds of hustlers, beggars, locals and tourists. But at it’s heart, on the eastern edge and in full view of the stalls and restaurants there is a hole. Bandaged in sagging earthen cloth over a makeshift wooden construction frame, the Argana Cafe is a stark emblem of violence, like a wound on this colourful square. Less than a year ago an explosion ripped through its guts, wounding 20 people, and killing 15. What colour they were, their social standing or occupations was swept aside by a blast that scattered bodies, and drained the square of its touristic life blood for months afterwards. They’ve come back of course; they always will explains my friend Hakim. But it’s a frightening reminder of the darkness here or anywhere that there is a cultural clash between worlds and attitudes. Do locals turn their heads away and tr...