Don't touch wild camels

"Don't touch wild camels" warned the tannoy announcement as I arrived at Hong Kong airport. Slightly confused, I boarded the train to the city centre, safe in the knowledge - I assumed - that my trip would be entirely camel-free.

What with the food, the people and the language, Hong Kong feels quite, you know, foreign. Until, that is, you charge your phone with a British 3-pin plug and it blows your mind, or you go for a drink at a pub called The Globe in the heart of Soho and you're surrounded by pompous, white city boys. It's little wonder so many expats feel at home here.

Hong Kong © Ryan Chapman

After all, this identity-muddled corner of China was under the thumb of ol' Queenie until as recently as 1997, when the British Empire completed its imperial liquidation by handing Hong Kong to the Chinese. That's more recent than such culturally signifiant events as Arsene Wenger taking charge of Arsenal and R Kelly believing he could fly. My point being, it wasn't very long ago.

On my flight from Heathrow I had sat next to a very helpful lady who took it upon herself to recite the entire Hong Kong Lonely Planet guide into my face. As a result, I had a fairly in-depth knowledge of all the tourist hot-spots, but ended up doing exactly what I usually do in foreign cities: wandering around aimlessly, taking photographs and drinking beer.

I stopped regularly at food stalls and snacked on a variety of local favourites from roast duck on a stick to curry fish balls on a stick and from grilled squid on a stick to chicken cartilage - the bits you’d usually spit out - you guessed it, on a stick. The stick, of the latter combination, being the more edible of the duo. 

Hong Kong © Ryan Chapman

On my last evening before moving on I took in the harbour view from The Peak (because everyone said I shouldn't leave town before at least doing that), caught up with some old friends who I belatedly remembered lived in Hong Kong and watched English football in the only bar I could find not screening the Rugby World Cup. All, I feel compelled to add, without any encounters with camels. The next morning, I headed north over the faintly drawn border to Shenzhen.

Hong Kong and Shenzhen are linked by their metro systems: it's like getting the Tube up to High Barnet on the Northern Line, crossing the road, and then being at the Morden of an entirely different, but equally large city. Small and insignificant until as recently as 1979, Shenzhen is a product of China's effort to prove that a capitalist economy can thrive under a communist government, or "socialism with Chinese characteristics" as they put it. Whatever it is, it's boomtown: growing from the size of Dover to the size of London in just a few decades.

I was in Shenzhen to point cameras at people talking about cameras in exchange for money. My accommodation was sorted for me by the client and, as such, didn't bare the usual hallmarks of somewhere I'd usually choose to book myself, such as damp walls and stained carpets. To the contrary I found myself in the ridiculously luxurious surroundings of the overtly five star Langham Hotel.

Greeted at the door by four people – two to open it and two to smile – my first impressions were accompanied by the gentle plucking of a harp. Suitably impressed, I dumped my bags on the polished marble floor, sweat dripping from hauling them across the city, and was tempted to ask the immaculately presented receptionist whether this was the backpackers hostel.

Thinking better of it, I handed over my passport to Sunny, who checked me in, and was then shown to the lift by Sunny's colleague, Rainy. I really hoped that the next employee I encountered was called Windy but I forgot all about that when I entered my room and found a pillow menu awaiting my perusal, along side a note telling me what the weather was like today (in case I couldn't work out how to open the curtains). I could tell most of these luxuries were going to pass me by.

Every morning my cables were tidied
(which was actually quite annoying)

Settling on the normal pillow-shaped and normal pillow-sized lavender scented option that came as standard - albeit tempted by the alluringly named full-body pillow - I went for a drink in the hotel bar where I was soon to discover the annoyances of five-star Chinese hospitality.

As I sat, watching Shenzhen go by from the 21st floor, I was overcome with horror when my perfectly measured Cuba Libre was flooded with Coca-Cola by the over-eager resident topper-upper. Luckily for them, there was no openable window or else they may have found themselves being ejected through it.

The next morning at breakfast, exasperation levels were only marginally lower when, half-way through my morning cup of tea, along came a waitress who topped it up with coffee. Such was their desire to serve guests their every whim, the only option was to greet such travesties with gratitude and a smile. Anything else would have no doubt seen some lower-lips begin to tremble.

On another night, when a glass broke near me and I bent down to help pick up the pieces, the look on the waiter's face was one of terror. I stubbornly continued to help until I was literally man-handled out of the way.

Somehow avoiding death after daring to touch broken glass with my bare fingers, and surviving the incessantly hindering helpfulness of the hotel staff, I finally got the chance to explore Shenzhen on my last day and found it to be a much greener, more pleasant city than I had expected. One thing I was particularly keen to check out was a park containing replica landmarks from around the world that filled a huge site just outside the city centre.

Copy of Venice, Shenzhen © Ryan Chapman

Divided into zones, visitors can enjoy the morning in South East Asia and the afternoon in North America. Though it got boring quite quickly, I stayed long enough to find the area depicting England and was amused to find locals particularly enamoured by a replica of Stonehenge.

I've heard it said at home that Stonehenge is "just a pile of stones", which is definitely true if you take away the historic and spiritual context, like here. However, that didn't stop people photographing themselves, selfie-sticks at full stretch, in front of the pseudo-ancient rock formation; safe in the knowledge they'd now never have to go to Wiltshire.

Copy of Stonehenge, Shenzhen © Ryan Chapman

Copy of Paris, Shenzhen © Ryan Chapman

The place had replicas of a whole lot more: from the Vatican City to an almost-life sized interpretation of Paris, complete with a Parisian cafe serving croissants. And then, just when I'd forgotten the advice from Hong Kong airport I entered the Egyptian zone and there, standing by The Sphinx, staring into my soul whilst munching on hay in an all-too sinister fashion was a very real and very large camel. And I swear, at that very moment, it winked it me.

[Film] The Other Human: "no victims are necessary"

With the ever-worsening humanitarian crisis unfolding in Europe, and the subsequent vilification of people fleeing violent conflict and untold misery, there are many who could learn a great deal from Kostas: the warm-hearted Athenian in this short film who believes "no victims are necessary".

The Other Human - my second film under the banner of Destination: Utopia - focusses on a volunteer-run social kitchen in Athens that has been feeding people free of charge and indiscriminately every day for the last four years. 

Since I was in Athens just a few months ago, and blogged about the political situation in Greece, a lot has changed. What remains is an austerity-ravaged society struggling to deal with the influx of refugees and an ever-increasing amount of mouths to feed.

The solution is clearly not erecting fences and arming borders. So, while our leaders debate their next move, let's all learn from Kostas: that a little compassion goes a long way. 

Please share as you see fit and follow @DestUtopia on Twitter for more of the same: ideas, initiatives and stories from around the world that inspire positive change (also on Facebook).

The Other Human

Athens is tired and unwashed but wears a warm, resilient smile. Greeks have it tough right now: the crippling hand of austerity has inflicted almost irreversible damage. In January this year the socialist Syriza party won the election and now change is in the air, but it’s hard to distill from a fog of desperation.

Around four years ago, in the wake of austerity-driven devastation, Greece’s solidarity movement was born. Volunteer-run foodbanks, soup kitchens and health clinics sprung up all over the country, almost over night. Where the government failed, people stepped up. 

One such person was Kostas Polychronopoulos. Sick of seeing people rummaging through bins for titbits of anything to eat, he founded a social initiative called The Other Human. The aim: to provide free meals for anyone who's hungry.

Kostas at his Name Day party. © Ryan Chapman

Kostas is a bearded Athenian oozing character. His twenty-four carat heart bears overwhelming compassion and empathy. If the ancient Greeks had a god of charity - like they seem to have had a god for everything else - Kostas would be the modern day equivalent. Every day, since starting out in December 2011, he has taken his stove and a small army of volunteers to the streets to cook. "Free food for all" he told me, "for solidarity, respect and love for all people".

I went along to a few cook-ups to share his story and spread some inspiration in the name of Destination: Utopia (films coming soon - more here). He chooses busy locations - usually bustling with pigeons as well as people; often public squares - and prepares the meals in a large steel pot, rhythmically stirring the contents with a wooden paddle as he has done a thousand times before. 

When the meal looks close to ready his first patron gingerly approaches and gratefully receives their foil tray, usually containing potatoes and beans in a tomato sauce, always accompanied by a chunk of bread. In turn, others come forward; those who have been observing from afar and those who seem to appear from nowhere. Young and old; male and female; even a guy in a suit.

The Other Human's banner in central Athens. © Ryan Chapman

Greece is far from becoming some kind of socialist utopia, despite the best efforts of people like Kostas. The radical left's recent election triumph speaks volumes but the voice of the far-right is so loud and abrasive that Golden Dawn, the neo-Nazi party - whose flag is eerily swastika-like and whose leader openly admires the Führer - received nearly 400,000 votes. We’re not talking Nigel Farage-like casual racism delivered with a cheeky grin: Golden Dawn are all for violence-led extremism. Blood, honour reads their slogan.

Syriza received over 2.2 million votes, significantly more than Golden Dawn, but the friction between far-left and far-right is constantly threatening to boil over. This was highlighted during a chance encounter with a local legend called Tom, known for maintaining a street art gallery of sorts, comprising of left-leaning slogans and symbolism in central Athens.

When I tracked it down however, only ‘Make Tea, Not War’ was eligible through the hastily applied layer of blue paint covering his work. The reason for the cover-up? Fear. "I've had enough" he told me, "Last week they vandalised my home. Next time they said it would be Molotov cocktails. Enough is enough".

The Acropolis. © Ryan Chapman

Greece, the much-touted birthplace of democracy, is at a political cross-roads. Held over a barrel by the European Union, Syriza are struggling to forge the changes they promised, much to the disappointment of many voters. So far, only symbolic gestures - such as the removal of security fences around parliament - have come to pass. They have an Olympus-sized mountain to climb.

The ball, however, is rolling. Greeks chose socialism; they chose to fight austerity; and more than that, they chose a new brand of politics: that of grassroots initiatives, creative activism and taking matters into their own hands.  For as long people like Kostas are out there - nurturing a desire for social change, reminding us that we're all human beings - there is hope.

[film] Iron Heart

For the second time in as many months, purely by coincidence, I found myself jetting off to the wind-battered island of Fuerteventura as part of a small production team filming an extremely fit person being more active than I've ever been. I took it as fate's way of telling me I should look at changing my lifestyle (just one more summer, fate, I promise!)

This time the truly inspirational Elmar Sprink was the focus of our attention. Elmar is a German triathlete whose extraordinary story will be told in our feature length documentary Iron Heart, coming later this year. For now, I've cut this teaser which we're all very proud of:

Over the next few months we'll be following Elmar around Europe - from the pine-filled hills of Northeastern Mallorca to Hansel and Gretel's very own Black Forest in Southwestern Germany - as he trains for the Ironman European Championship in Frankfurt this summer. The fact Elmar is even up and about is testament to his sheer determination; the fact he's competing in one of the world's most gruellingly competitive triathlons is nothing short of astonishing. 

Qatar You Serious?!

I recently read an article on a satirical news site that declared ISIS had been selected to host the 2026 World Cup. “At FIFA we believe that football is a truly global game” read the imagined Sepp Blatter quote. The most striking thing about the article is how worryingly plausible it all is. Remember FIFA's admission that, when organising a tournament, democracy is a hindrance.

Back to reality, around this time four years ago, football fans everywhere waited to find out whether FIFA would look to North America, Asia or Australasia for hosts of the 2022 World Cup. There was that other option, the Middle East, but it was widely regarded a token candidate.

Immediately following Sepp Blatter's ceremonious envelope-opening the football world collectively paused - stunned and open-mouthed - before texting mates to condemn dear old Sepp in such a manic rush that one such message I received referred to him as a - presumably auto-corrected - corrupt blunt.

The most hated man in football.

Personally, not only was I disappointed - having hoped for an Aussie World Cup - I was curious. So much so that, on my way to South Africa to make a film about yet another FIFA-inspired scandal (namely, the building of Cape Town Stadium) I stopped over in Qatar with the intention of making an entirely separate film about their football culture.

It didn't materialise for two reasons: One, I was refused permission (bringing a camera into the country was fine, but if I pressed record I could be in serious trouble) and two, there was the somewhat debilitating issue of there not being a football culture. Subsequently, I found myself with the best part of a week in Doha, the capital - and pretty much only - city, with not an awful lot to do.

Seeking cultural immersion I couchsurfed with a local lad who was so trusting he left me a set of keys to his apartment before he'd even met me. I repaid his trust by accidentally traipsing all over his prayer mat with my shoes on: an act that was met with a horrified gasp followed by an awkwardly prolonged series of tuts. Suitably guilt-ridden I offered to buy him dinner that night, but he politely refused insisting that, as his guest, I shouldn’t have to spend a single riyal for the entire duration of my stay.

Doha, Qatar

Despite Prayer Mat Gate we got on well and it was a joy to be on the receiving end of this genuinely warm Islamic hospitality. However, as it happened, this generosity was just about the only thing in Qatar I did warm to. I left knowing I'd probably never return and feeling all the more disgruntled with FIFA. As someone who travels to major tournaments often I felt like they'd taken a World Cup away from me. More broadly speaking: I felt like they'd taken it away from the fans.

There are a range of reasons why Qatar is a terrible place to host this month-long festival of football. For a start, FIFA claim to be against discrimination and gender inequality yet fans traveling to Qatar will be entering a state where homosexuality is illegal, women still need permission to apply for a driving licence* and rape within marriage is not considered a crime.

Then there are the practicalities: the temperature in Qatar can - and frequently does - get dangerously high. I went in the autumn and still couldn't handle the heat (whole swathes of the day were a write off) and there are legitimate concerns for the safety of the players. The original plan was to counter this by building air-conditioned stadiums, but these plans have now been scrapped.

Furthermore, there's the simple fact that not many Qataris really care much about football. This considered, you’d surely have to question the sanity of building eight - perhaps even ten – very expensive stadiums around the Yorkshire-sized country.

© The Guardian

Perhaps I could forgive them for all of the above, but for the fact that the tournament's infrastructure is being built at the cost of untold human death and misery. According to some sources a thousand slaves have already died on World Cup-related construction sites (That's right, slaves. Apparently it's still the 18th century over there). The International Trade Union Confederation has predicted the death toll could reach 4,000 by the time a ball is kicked.

You could argue that FIFA aren't to blame, and I would counter that argument by suggesting that you're talking out of your arse. They have the power to stop it today, but it's still happening. So fuck them, and fuck their World Cup in Qatar.

*I just re-read this 8 years later and felt I should note that since 2020 women no longer need a guardian’s permission to obtain a driving license. 

My Love-Hate Relationship with the World Cup

Following the frantic flapping of three terrorised doves desperately trying to flee the stadium's four walls of noise, the 2014 World Cup kicked off. 

One of the three kids charged with releasing the birds - a stunt presumably arranged to symbolise FIFA's renowned dedication to world peace (!) - proceeded the act with a protest. As thirteen year-old Jeguaká Mirim walked off the pitch he held a sign aloft demanding land rights for indigenous people. However, unless you were there you wouldn't have seen it because the television cameras ignored it. After all, this was to be the World Cup of turning blind eyes and ignoring the needs, rights and desires of the people. Welcome to Fifaland.

The view from my 'office' one evening in Rio. © Ryan Chapman

The opening day of the World Cup provided me with a cocktail of emotions. By that point I had spent two incredible weeks in one of the most scintillating cities on earth, falling in love with it all over again having first visited back in 2007 - as an only slightly fresher faced traveller - on my first foray outside of Europe. The previous evening had seen Christ the Redeemer bathed in yellow and green light to mark the imminent arrival of the tournament and surely never before has such a simple gesture had such a huge impact on the mood of a city. Rio de Janeiro was positively buzzing, and it was infectious.

In the hours leading up to the much anticipated kick-off I attended two very different anti World Cup demonstrations. The first had a party atmosphere with samba bands marching through the streets accompanied by revellers in fancy dress shooting bubble guns and water pistols. The second had a far darker tone after beginning with the arrest of two activists, much to the anger of the gathered crowd. There were times in both when I didn't want to be branded 'just another journalist' and so put my camera away and got more involved. When I caught myself on the frontline shouting slogans against the violence of the heavily armoured military police directly at the heavily armoured military police I justified it by calling it immersive filmmaking.

Me (bottom left with the camera, not the sign)

I dragged myself away as Brazil's opening match approached and entered an entirely different world: The Fan Fest. Occupying a sizeable chunk of Rio's famous sands, this was the FIFA-organised public viewing area and I had assumed, the place to be. I entered with an open mind, determined not to blindly resent it. However, it appeared for whatever reason that most locals had stayed away. It was full to capacity but out of those in Brazil shirts - and there were many - barely any knew the words to the national anthem, revealing just how many gringos had adopted Brazil as their second team.

I left the Fan Zone after fifteen minutes and found the scenes on the streets much more as I had expected. Every bar and restaurant had people spilling onto the pavement, straining for a view of the action. Street corner barbecues encouraged gatherings around tiny television sets; viewers taking it in turns to readjust the aerial for a better reception. This was more like it. When Brazil scored their equaliser the place went berserk. The explosive barrage of fireworks was drowned out by the delighted screams of a nation and the significance of the occasion hit me like a train.

My World Cup unfolded in much the same vein: dipping in and out of protests while sustaining a complicated love-hate relationship with the whole affair. Most days were spent either shooting or editing my films (FIFA and the Perfect Con) and most nights involved reluctantly declining invitations to go out drinking due to the workload and early starts. Unfortunately, the limited time I had set aside for 'enjoyment' coincided - in a very non-coincidental and all too premeditated way - with England matches. Considering this wasn't the first time I'd followed England to a major tournament, I should've known what to expect.

The disappointment after scooting across to Sao Paulo full of hope that we could perhaps scrape a 0-0 draw against the Uruguayans was somewhat sweetened by the enormous nightly street parties. Fans from every nation - even non-participating ones - gathered to mingle, sing, drink and dance through dawn. Street vendors provided chilled beers and spirits from cool boxes while bass-loving locals showed off their vehicles' sound systems, parking up to provide tunes from car boot discos.

Throughout the journey I was pleasantly surprised to discover that even the most fanatical flag-waving, horn-blowing Brazilians were willing to voice their anti-government and anti-FIFA opinions. Few, it seemed, supported FIFA's event unconditionally. Of those who chose to protest some opted for high-impact methods while others went for subtlety, like the red card protest on Copacabana (somber looking folk lined up displaying red cards to FIFA) or the theatrical open heart surgery carried out by a mock surgeon wearing goalkeeper gloves (in response to the state's prioritising of football over health care).

Perhaps the most poignant metaphor of all, however, was an accidental one. I've since learnt that two of the three aforementioned doves released before kick-off didn't make it out of the stadium alive, reportedly crashing into the roof structure in blind panic. Not only does this obviously make a mockery of the whole gesture but it is characteristic of FIFA's World Cup on a much broader scale: everything looks great for the cameras, but reality is heartbreakingly different.

Originally featured on filterview.tv you can now watch all three parts of FIFA and the Perfect Con combined on Vimeo:

Brazil's Mellowed Yellows

Finally! Today sees the start of Brazil's month-long party and who's going to admit they're not at least a little bit excited? Get the crushed ice and limes ready! Also, while you're at it, prepare for police brutality and lungs full of tear gas.

Recent research revealed that 61% of Brazilians are now against the World Cup. That, when you think about it, is an incredible statistic. Several years ago almost the entire country was in favour of hosting the event, but evidence suggests enthusiasm has faded. How this enormous swing in public opinion has occurred I hope is answered in my films (FIFA and the Perfect Con).

Though 61% of the population may be against the World Cup I wouldn't suggest for one moment that they won't be tuning in to watch their yellow-shirted heroes later today. It may be a moral tightrope, but I for one am walking it with ease, and I expect most Brazilians will too. I have no problem with being against FIFA and their abhorrent World Cup model whilst being excited by the prospect of four weeks of watching the best players in the world in action (and England).

Salvador © Ryan Chapman

Over three weeks ago I arrived in the sun-drenched city of Salvador to begin my filmmaking adventure. Not many people go to Salvador for a week without hitting the beach, but that was me. If I wasn't out meeting people and shooting interviews I was sat with my laptop and Final Cut Pro with a flowing supply of coffee. I did find the time to explore Salvador's streets - even plucking up the 'courage' to leave the confines of the 'tourist safe' three-block centre of the old town - and what I saw cemented my preconceptions that Salvador is a city of contrasts. Cobbled roads lined with colourful colonial buildings by which men sit playing dominoes soon give way to chaotic thoroughfares where shops compete for attention by blaring out terrible dance music amid the enthusiastic hooting of a thousand impatient drivers.

Most people I encountered would enquire as to whether I was there for the World Cup and would be happy to talk about it. We'd invariably communicate in either their broken English or my terrible Spanish-Portuguese-hybrid and conclude with a laugh that England have no chance. Only when I questioned them further would they reveal their feelings towards the government and FIFA, and on every single occasion they admitted that their passion for the tournament had been diluted. And this was in Salvador: a city that hadn't seen protests on the same scale as cities in the south.

Brasilia © Ryan Chapman

From Salvador, the first capital of Brazil, I flew to Brasilia: the current. For a period in between, Rio had the privilege, but in the late 1950's it was decided that Brazil's government should be more centrally located and so two men were tasked with designing a new capital. I like to imagine them plotting the roads and utilities on Sim City, perhaps sending in the occasional tornado or alien invasion when things got boring. The architect of the pair's work is well celebrated thanks to the striking modernist nature of his creations. The urban planner, however, did not receive many accolades.

He did not design a pedestrian-friendly city, having assumed everyone who lives there would drive cars. As a result, Brasilia lacks street-life and thus personality. It is split into zones specific to their purpose - residential, commercial, banking, hotels - inside which blocks are assigned numbers and buildings are assigned letters. There's something eerily science-fictional about the repetitive layout and the uniformed naming convention. Even the metro stations are numbered (I won't admit how many times I got off at Sul 108 instead of Sul 106. Or was it Sul 104? I forget.)

On my second day in Brasilia was an anti-World Cup protest which I document comprehensively in Part 2 of my films (which, by the way, will be online tomorrow). As a consequence of my experience during this protest my opinion has changed. Originally, I thought the significance of the occasion, and the importance of the World Cup to Brazilian society, might prevent people from protesting and disrupting the tournament. However, I've now realised what a small role the World Cup is playing. Instead, it is the violence of the military police that is keeping people off the streets. Many people are simply too scared. It seems in Brazil the government is successfully repressing the people, and it's not a very pleasant thing to be witnessing.

Ipanema Beach, Rio © Ryan Chapman

I'm now in Rio, and over the last week or so I have noticed gradually increasing levels of what can only be described as World Cup fever seeping in. There are several streets drowning in flags and stalls on major junctions selling just about everything in yellow and green that you can think of. By all accounts, however, it's not happening on even close to the same scale as it usually does during a World Cup. You'd expect hosting the event would intensify the carnival atmosphere, but apparently not this time.

When the actions of a governing body causes the most passionate supporters of the thing it is governing to resent it you have to question the viability of that body. FIFA have lost the game. I personally hope there are regular protests that cause a good deal of chaos and disruption to send them, and the Brazilian government, a very strong message. And I would love to see visiting fans taking part. I, for sure, will be one of them.

Film: FIFA and the Perfect Con

It is said in Brazil that the nation's most popular sport is volleyball, as football is not considered a sport, but a religion. Indeed, though the game originates in England (I'm writing this now just a goalkeeper's kick away from the currently very soggy patch of grass in Cambridge where many of the rules were established) you cannot think Brazil without thinking football.

Later this year Brazil will host what promises to be one of the biggest parties the planet has ever seen: The 2014 FIFA World Cup. However, not all Brazilians are as enthused by the prospect as you might imagine. Several months ago, over a million people poured onto the streets in cities across the country to join anti-government demonstrations fuelled by anger over a rise in bus fares, inadequate public services and corruption. These protests soon developed anti-World Cup sentiments with 'FIFA, go home' being one of the more prominent take-home messages. Why? Because hosting a World Cup that meets FIFA's stringent demands is a huge drain on public resources. Too much of a drain, according to many.

A clear message from protesters. (Photo: sueddeutsche.de)

My film - working title: FIFA and the Perfect Con - will explore the contrast between Brazil's unwavering passion for football and the somewhat paradoxical, but no less justifiable, rise of World Cup resentment. It will tell the stories of people who feel neglected by the government - like those who've been forcefully evicted from their homes to clear land for construction projects (170,000 people according to one report) - and those who feel they have been brushed under the carpet as the country prepares itself for the beam of the brightest spotlight imaginable.

Sadly, it's not the first time we've seen a country that is plagued by poverty needlessly overspend in order to tick FIFA's boxes. An assortment of brand new stadiums were built across South Africa for the 2010 World Cup to satisfy football's international governing body and their requirements. This was despite the fact that, in some cases, upgrading existing stadia would have sufficed. One example of an unnecessary new-build was Cape Town Stadium: the focus of my 2013 film Cape Town's White Elephant.

Shooting a time-lapse shot of Cape Town's 'white elephant' for the film mentioned above.

In Brazil, six new stadiums are being constructed and though they stand a better chance of a prosperous post-tournament life, due to the greater popularity of football in Brazil than in South Africa, many Brazilians say the money could have been better spent. 'We want FIFA-standard hospitals and schools' is a common jibe seen inscribed on protesters' placards and graffitied on walls around cities nationwide.

The 'perfect con' in question is of course the World Cup itself. Countries - or more specifically, politicians - want it because of the immediate punch it packs on the global stage. They're willing to do anything to make it happen, but give little thought to the repercussions. Meanwhile, FIFA sit back and dictate; ensuring everything goes their way and nothing impedes their relentless quest to maximise revenue. They even implement strictly enforced 2km 'exclusion zones' around each stadium, inside which they have full control of what is sold and advertised (in accordance, of course, with their lucrative corporate partnerships).

Then, following the last blast of the referee's whistle, they walk away with the lion's share of profits which, as stipulated by themselves from the very beginning, is received entirely free of tax. The prolific Brazilian goal-scorer and 1994 World Cup winner Romário, now a politician, has been outspoken against FIFA, saying: "they come, set up the circus, they spend nothing and take everything".

They get away with it because, unfortunately, one cannot support the World Cup without supporting FIFA by unavoidable association and, for me at least, every fourth summer would be agonisingly dull without the damned thing.

England fans in 2010 before it all went horribly wrong. Bloemfontein, South Africa.

The last time the World Cup was contested on Brazilian soil it ended in disaster for the hosts. On July 16th 1950, Uruguay stunned the world by coming from behind to win the decisive match at Rio de Janeiro's Maracanã Stadium in front of 200,000 spectators. It's a day Brazilians have never forgotten. The goalkeeper who was ultimately blamed for the defeat suffered immeasurably for the rest of his days; was considered a curse; and died penniless. Shortly before his death he revealed the saddest moment of his life was when, twenty years after the event, a woman pointed at him in a supermarket and told her young son "he is the man that made all of Brazil cry".

That defeat made the World Cup a national obsession and Brazil went on to dominate future competitions to become arguably the greatest team of all time. Regardless of the success, however, a victory on home soil is what Brazilians crave, and sixty-four years later they have the chance to exorcise the demons of 1950. This time though, their young and inexperienced team will have to compete amidst a distracting backdrop of political tension and civil unrest. The World Cup is not expected to pass without incident, and to curtail any rebellion, a special riot force has been formed and armed with rubber bullets and tear gas bombs.

Rio's iconic Maracanã Stadium. (Photo: The Guardian)

When I heard of the growing voice among Brazilians calling for a boycott of the tournament, there was an element of surprise. However, after taking a moment to consider their position, I found it easy to understand why they're so discontented and why they believe FIFA has stolen the soul of football's biggest festival. It's thanks to FIFA that the World Cup continues to be less and less about the football and more and more about the money.

Nonetheless, football is still very much a lifeblood of this vibrant nation and regardless of the dubious motives of FIFA as they're pulling the strings, I find it hard to believe that, come June, Brazil won't be bouncing to its own samba-infused beat.

Film: Ultra Culture (and impressions of Hamburg)

I was in Germany recently for ein langes wochenende (and that's where the random inclusion of snippets in German starts and stops, I promise). I was there partly for the beer and currywurst and partly for a dose of the famously vibrant atmosphere at German football (which in turn, is at least partly due to the abundance of beer and currywurst). 

Aforementioned commodities aside, I was also there to continue the production of Ultra Culture, my film which explores the inspirations and motivations of some of Europe's most diehard football fans.

If you know football you probably know of the German club FC St. Pauli, based in Hamburg's port-side district of the same name. It's also likely that you owe your awareness of the club to the notoriety of their supporters rather than their success on the pitch. And therein lies the reason that somebody not so into football may not have heard of them: they've never won the German title and currently play in the 2nd tier among even lesser-known clubs such as Erzgebirge Aue and Ingolstadt 04. Their fans, though, are famous, and for a very good reason.

During the mid 1980's - in the pre-reunification days and around the time Boris Becker became famous for being good at tennis - fascist-inspired football hooliganism was all the rage in Germany. In response to this, recognising that football was in a dark place, St. Pauli became the first German club to ban right-wing nationalist activities inside its stadium. This sparked the beginnings of a huge cult following and average attendances rose from a couple of thousand to nearly thirty thousand (not quite over night: challenging an embedded culture takes time and stadium upgrades were necessary to house all the Lefty new-comers).

Today, St. Pauli have a huge following with over 600 supporters groups based around the world. From New York to Indonesia. Their fan base is made up of mostly politically left-leaning supporters who stand vehemently united against racism, sexism, homophobia, commercialism, and all those ugly things that continue to plague the otherwise beautiful game elsewhere. In short: they're a wonderful bunch of people.

A clear message inside the Millerntor-Stadion, home of FC St. Pauli © Ryan Chapman

I arrived in Hamburg on a bitterly cold November evening on a train from Berlin and immediately went to find the kebab shop that had been enthusiastically recommended to me by the ticket inspector. They, despite my desperately hungover state (Berlin does that to you), had seized the opportunity to practise their English and I, despite wanting to curl up against the window and wallow in self-pity, obliged. 

I've never heard falafel being described with such bountiful linguistic beauty, but let me tell you, it was entirely justified. The bad news is that if you're reading this with a trip to Hamburg in the pipeline I can't tell you where it was. Not because I'm sworn to secrecy or anything, I just can't remember (it was near a sex shop, but that really doesn't narrow it down in Hamburg). The point is, I had a delicious falafel. And satisfied, I headed off to explore the district of St. Pauli.

St. Pauli is full of those quirky little shops that have window displays so alluring you're physically unable to walk past without going inside. Think bizarrely dressed arm-less mannequins and things you look at and think they're 'retro-kitsch' without really know what 'retro-kitsch' means. 

They're the kind of shops you step inside but regret it immediately because everything that's remotely interesting is in the window - and probably not even for sale - and what you're left with can only be described as tat (which, annoyingly, you then rediscover is just a synonym for retro-kitsch anyway). 

Yeah, those shops. There's lot's of them, and I went in one. After idly browsing the contents for as little amount of time as possible that would not be deemed rude - all the time being watched by the woman at the till who wore a peacock feather in her hair - I looked at the time, made an exaggerated gesture to indicate I was late for a prior engagement, and hurried out the door.

Around the corner I was approached by a guy in his twenties who asked me if I had a minute spare to roll a dice or two. Hoping it wasn't an euphemism I reluctantly agreed and he handed them over. Bulky, wooden and painted green; each side had a word in German inscribed with golden letters. 

Suitably concerned, I rolled them on the pavement, secretly urging them to bounce awkwardly and disappear down a drain in order for me to avoid any consequences. They didn't. "You", he translated from one, waiting for the other to settle: "must learn something". He proceeded to announce that I should now go, as the dice had dictated, and do something educational.

He suggested I go to the Hamburg Harbour Museum and learn about the city's rich maritime history. I pointed out that it was Sunday and the museum was probably closed (I had no idea) and negotiated that, instead, I go to a bar and learn how satisfying it would be to sit down and drink a beer. He accepted my compromise and off he went; presumably to find other people to roll his dice until they landed on 'we' and 'become friends'. 

Meanwhile, I made my way down to the harbour for that beer thinking it must be my destiny. Nothing happened. The beer was good though, thanks dice guy.

Port of Hamburg

The following day I headed to the Millerntor-Stadion armed with a plethora of questions for St. Pauli employee and fan, Sven Brox. He is head of match day security, and works closely with the ultra groups. My interview with him touched upon subjects such as the ultra groups' influence in the running of the club and the general all-encompassing sense of community. I've noticed this is more or less consistent across Germany: the relationships between football clubs and their fans are invariably rock solid. At St. Pauli, fans don't only have a say in what goes on behind the scenes, in many cases, it seems they make the final call.

To draw a comparison, the owner of English Premier League outfit Hull City has recently applied to change the name of the club to Hull Tigers in an attempt to make them more marketable, apparently. The majority of Hull supporters are against the name-change and have started a campaign group called 'City Till We Die'. In response to this, the owner hit back saying these fans "could die as soon as they want". It's an easy conclusion to make then, that this man is an enormous tw*t. Not only that, it's a sad reflection on how little fans are respected in this country and how poor the general club-fan relationship is.

In contrast, over in Germany, St. Pauli once toyed with the idea of selling the naming rights to their stadium (a move which could have generated millions of Euros in revenue). However, the fans said no, fearing it would compromise their proud identity, and so it didn't happen.

Sven Brox in interview mode © Ryan Chapman

Arriving at the Millerntor a few hours before kick-off, fans were already gathering. Inside the fan-run supporters' bar there was a raucous atmosphere and a DJ blasting out sing-along rock anthems. I could already tell this was not going to be a typical match day experience.

The game itself was worth a watch: St. Pauli emphatically brushing their visitors Energie Cottbus aside with a 3-0 victory. However, it was the ultras who put on the real show, suppling an unrelenting soundtrack comprising of reworked classics from songsmiths ranging from KC & The Sunshine Band to Bonnie Tyler. Beginning when the first players emerged from the home team's dressing room to begin their warm-up, and not ceasing until the very last victorious hero had left the field of play, they provided constant vocal encouragement. A display of support that any ultra would be approving of.

I was unable to obtain the relevant permissions to film inside the stadium, thanks to the media company who were covering the match and their unreasonable financial demands in return for the privilege. That, however, didn't stop me returning home with hours of material to be used in a way I haven't quite figured out yet. But, for as long as Ultra Culture is in its production phase I'll be looking to span the continent, watching football. So, to be honest, I'm in no great rush.

Albania: Hidden Gems & Mercedes-Benz (Part 2)

On a day that had a distinctly Sunday-like feeling - and that actually, now I think about it, was indeed a Sunday - I left Tirana on a bus bound for Berat: The City of a Thousand Windows; The City of Two Thousand Steps; The Museum City; The City of Lots of Names. 

Tucked away in a mountainous region of central Albania, Berat has none of Tirana's vibrancy, but all of the warmth. Upon arrival it was eerily quiet; only a few lonesome men shuffling down the main street and stray cats basking in the sunshine. Everything seemed to be moving in slow-motion. Even the river couldn't be bothered.

According to an Albanian legend that I have absolutely no reason to doubt, the Osum River which flows through Berat was formed by the tears of a local girl mourning the death of a giant who died fighting some other giant. Subsequently, the perished giant turned into a mountain. On top of this mountain now stands a two-and-a-half-thousand year-old castle that, though tired-looking, crumbly and everything else you'd expect an age-old castle to be, still has people residing within its walls; in homes that date back to the 13th century.

Unfortunately, here, just like most of Albania, they are lacking an effective waste disposal solution, meaning some of the ancient decaying turrets double up as rubbish tips. Down the hill, towards the more modern part of the city, are the graceful, white window-happy houses of the Ottoman era that earned Berat its City of a Thousand Windows nickname. When you think about it, a thousand windows isn't an incredible number for a city to boast, but you get the sentiment.

The preserved Ottoman-era buildings of Berat © Ryan Chapman

After a comforting dose of English football, having watched the North London Derby in a dark and dingy betting shop with more televisions than Berat has windows, I emerged into the early evening and witnessed something quite bizarre. Almost the entire population of Berat spilled out of their homes and headed to the main street to partake in the traditional xhiro, which happens every single night, at roughly a quarter of an hour before sunset.

The xhiro has it's roots in communist times, when entertainment options were somewhat limited, and so walking and talking became the most popular social activity. All they've done is come outside for fresh air, chit-chat and a bit of a wander, and there's a lovely warm atmosphere as news of the day is shared and pleasantries are exchanged with friends, family members and acquaintances. 

Kids drive pedal cars, weaving in and out of the crowds, whilst old men play chess on upturned cardboard boxes and street vendors sell flutes of pumpkin seeds to anyone who fancies a snack. Mostly, though, people are just walking back and forth, up and down the main street ad infinitum. Well, not really ad infinitum, just until bed time.

After a couple of days in Berat, lazing around the hostel, picking the sweetest of grapes off countless vines, exploring the squeaky cobbled streets (but mostly lazing around with the never ending supply of grapes) it was time to head to the coast. 

There were whispers on the traveller's not so grape-abundant grapevine of unspoilt, remote and deserted beaches better than anything else in Europe: a real backpacker's paradise. So, I eagerly packed everything I could find that I thought might be mine I boarded a bus - possibly the oldest Mercedes yet - and headed west.

A deserted beach near Dhërmi with Corfu on the horizon © Ryan Chapman

As I watched the world go by from the bus window it was easy to forget I was in Europe, passing through scenes more synonymous with South America or Asia: a bustling village market where women in traditional dress carried dead chickens by their necks; Patos-Marinza, the biggest onshore oil-field in Europe, scarring the landscape for as far as you can see in every direction, with oil-wells and other industrial eyesores; winding mountain roads where a lapse in concentration could quickly become a fatal drop. 

Five or so hours later, after a particularly long ascent, we emerged from the clouds and were welcomed by a view of Dhërmi, a village way down below by the turquoise coloured waters of the Ionian Sea.

Every so often when I travel I come across a place that makes me so immeasurably happy I wonder why on earth I would ever leave. The hostel-style campsite I found, a mile down the coast from Dhërmi, is one such place. It was indeed a backpacker's paradise and offered everything I could possibly want: a comfortable bed, hammocks strung between trees, warm-ish showers and a bar. 

I rented a roomy ready-pitched tent in a shady spot, with a foam mattress, fresh bedding and two meals per day included, all for less money per night than a pint of cider and a packet of crisps at my local pub back home. I fell asleep each night to the sound of waves lapping up against the shore and woke every morning to glorious sunshine and a salt water bath. 'Home' couldn't have felt any further away.

The sun setting into the Ionian Sea © Ryan Chapman

Days were wiled away on isolated, picture-perfect beaches, playing card games, dice games and games of run-like-a-lunatic-into-the-sea. In those moments I wanted for nothing that couldn't be fetched from a fridge. Nights began with spellbinding sunsets which gave way to spectacularly star-filled skies unlike anything I'd ever seen. It didn't take many shooting star sighting before I ran out of wishes.

Sometimes there would be no more than a handful of people to a mile of coast-line. In stark contrast, just on the horizon and within a fitter person's swimming distance of Dhërmi, is Corfu: the package holiday capital of Europe. Another world. I couldn't help but feel smug about the fact that, here I was, just several miles away, in such a relative paradise. No postcard stands, no fake designer brands, no beauty-spot turned tourist-trap, no shops selling tacky over-priced crap. Not least, no rowdy Brits disturbing the peace. Not even me.

Albania is one of Europe's last remaining frontiers of adventurous travel. Only since the early 1990's, since the fall of the communism, have foreigners been able to enter freely. It offers the backpacker a unique and challenging, yet ultimately rewarding, travel experience. Albania has emerged from its dark age and even brighter days are on the horizon. If you want to experience it before the inevitable tourism boom I suggest you go now.

Albania: Hidden Gems & Mercedes-Benz (Part 1)

Here's everything I knew about Albania before I went: I knew the capital was Tirana and that the roads were a nightmare. I knew they had a communist dictator in power for much of the 20th century and I knew they had a famously eccentric king in the 1920's called King Zog (as if I could forget a name like that!). I also knew draught beer was cheaper than bottled water. I couldn't wait to go.

I arrived overland from Macedonia on a bus from another era and was held up for two hours at the border. It took the border guards about 5 minutes to collect everyone's passport and perhaps 10 minutes to carry out the relevant checks. As far as I could tell, the rest of the time was spent having a jolly good catch up over coffee, reading the paper, finishing the crossword puzzle, and walking the dog.

Finally, our ancient bus was permitted to continue on its way along the winding mountain roads, grunting up steep inclines as it went, and negotiating the twists and turns like an old master. Twenty minutes down the road, the driver stopped for dinner at a road-side cafe. A dinner consisting of three courses, with a coffee chaser. This was my first experience of the phenomena known as Albania Time. Four hours in to the journey and we had traveled about 35 miles. Needless to say, after a long, bumpy afternoon, just as the sun was setting, I was pleased to see the urban sprawl of Tirana.

Dull communist-era buildings given technicolour makeovers in Tirana © Ryan Chapman

Tirana has the friendliness and warmth of a village contrasted by the chaotic vibrancy you'd expect from a capital city. The streets are dangerous, but not in a don't-carry-too-much-cash-in-case-you-get-mugged way, more in a watch-your-step way. You're far more likely to trip on the disastrous pavements or fall down a cover-less manhole than be a victim of violent crime. 

There are hazards and holes everywhere. The city is being modernised at an exponential rate, but there are still families living in heart-wrenching poverty right on the edge of the centre. In rows of simple tarpaulin shelters squeezed together alongside busy roads. Just a stone's throw away, in complete juxtaposition, those with money frequent the hip cafes and bars of the Blloku area of town. An entire area that, until 1991, was exclusively reserved for the dictator at the time, Enver Hoxha. No ordinary folk allowed. 

Hoxha was a devout Stalinist and ruled Albania with an iron fist from 1941 until his death in 1985. He was so communist in fact that he fell out with the Russians in the 1960's because they were too liberal. He then buddied up with Chairman Mao's China until they, much to his horror, invited President Nixon to visit Beijing. So he cut all ties and settled on being ally-less. Paranoid of over-land invasion he had hundreds of thousands of (some say as many as 700,000) igloo shaped concrete bunkers built around the country, preparing the land for a war that never came.

They are virtually impossible to destruct and litter the countryside to this day. Most have found new purposes as rubbish dumps, but some as small coffee shops or blank canvases for artists to decorate. They are Hoxha's concrete legacy and a reminder of a time when being caught listening to a foreign radio station would land you a 10 year sentence working in the chrome mines. Reminders are everywhere.

The biggest reminder of all, and the most expensive construction in communist times, is located smack-bang in the centre of Tirana: the now dilapidated concrete pyramid that was designed by Hoxha's daughter in memory of her father. 

Looking at it now, it's easy to imagine she was five years-old at the time, armed with a box of crayons and boundless scribbly enthusiasm. Perhaps surprisingly, the government's recent plans to demolish the eyesore have been met by fierce opposition from people who consider it a part of their history, rather than merely a symbol of the former regime.

What it is, actually, is Tirana's only interesting building. If there's another one, I missed it.

Tirana's controversial Pyramid © Ryan Chapman

The 1992 elections ended 47 years of communist rule in Albania and sparked a new era for the country: the era of the Mercedes-Benz. Permitted to own cars for the first time, it seems all Albanians got together and collectively opted to buy second-hand Mercs. Hoxha had liked them, and this had clearly rubbed off on the population. Not only are they a status symbol, they are also reliable and able to handle the atrocious pothole-riddled roads.

Perhaps also, maybe, there's a huge Mafia-run stolen car ring that targets Mercs in Western Europe which are then brought back to Albania and re-registered in Tirana on a 'no questions asked' basis. Like I said: maybe, just maybe. 

However it happened, the sheer number of Mercedes-Benz vehicles on the road struck me immediately. Every bus, every van and almost every car. Everything from robust 1970's war-horses to the more slick models of this century. According to one source, as many as 80% of all cars registered in Albania are Mercs. It's an incredible statistic. 

While foreign cars are welcomed with open arms, fast-food outlets certainly are not. It's refreshing to walk around a city and not be confronted by the same old American chains on every corner. Actually though, they're all there in spirit, just in Albanian imitation form. A restaurant called Kolonet has a McDonalds inspired yellow and red logo and offers an almost identical array of burgers and greasy fries, with just one key difference: there is table service. People in this part of the world do not like to be rushed at dinner time and the American interpretation of acceptable restaurant etiquette (eat quick, then get the hell out) does not go down well here.

My favourite clone of all is the KFC rip-off. The logo is almost identical to that of their Kentucky-fried counterparts, except they've changed the 'K' to an 'A' and called themselves Albanian Fried Chicken. It's genius! And that's not even the laziest or most blatant rip-off. Instead of Burger King and Pizza Hut Tirana is home to both Burger Hut and Pizza King. What a crazy topsy-turvy world Albanians are living in.

Albanian Fried Chicken © Ryan Chapman

Albania is full of delightful little culture shocks like this. Just little things that make you smile, or incidents that make you do a double take. Whilst enjoying some drinks with a group from the hostel in one of Blloku's bars, a young boy approached selling something that looked like it could be chewing gum from a small cardboard tray. 

After politely declining a purchase a guy I was with offered him some nuts from the bowl on our table. The boy looked at them longingly, smiled a wry smile, but then shook his head. Maybe he doesn't like nuts, we thought. Maybe he's been told not to take food from strangers, we doubted. The boy shook his head again, this time a little more enthusiastically, with his gaze still fixed upon the bowl and that's when we remembered: Albanians shake their heads to mean 'yes', and nod their heads to mean 'no'. 

Of course the boy wanted some nuts, he just considered it too impolite to help himself. "Thank you" said the boy, as we placed some nuts in his open hand, "It's ok" we replied, whilst nodding our heads, thus probably confusing him just as much as he'd initially confused us.

I liked Tirana, but I was keen to move on. I had heard on the traveler's grapevine of unspoilt, remote and deserted beaches better than anything else in Europe. True hidden gems just a handful of hours away by bus. But first I headed to the mountain town of Berat. A place where everyone's favourite hobby is officially listed as 'strolling around aimlessly'. And not even AFC have infiltrated...

To be continued.