Where's George?

Everybody in Como has a story about George Clooney.

Even the local brochures list the fact that the Hollywood star lives in Laglio on Lake Como, although others say he actually resides in the nearby town of Carate Urio. Perhaps his villa is in between the two.

And a Nespresso ad with Clooney jumping into a cab driven by God - played by John Malkovich - always seems to be on TV.

Once spotted all over the place, he's become a bit more illusive in the past few months - not surprising considering the slew of YouTube videos depicting people aimlessly searching for him.

The local tourist office told us that he likes to go for lunch at Harry's Bar. Not that we knew where Harry's Bar was, or had the slightest interest in finding it.

We spent a wet weekend in this most beautiful of areas, an hour or so by train north of Milan and close to the Swiss border.

Como is a place where the rich Milanese have holidayed for centuries - escaping the heat of the city to boat, swim and drink coffee in the sun.

May is meant to be the best month but even in winter rain it's still gorgeous.

The first thing tourists do when they land here is take a boat trip around the lake - before heading up the hill on the steep funicular to take in the magnificent view.

The boat trip takes about an hour and is refreshingly free of commentary. You can just sit and stare at the massive and beautiful villas that dot the landscape.

We did just that and jumped off at a random stop along the way, Cernobbio, knowing we could get back on the boat around an hour later.

And what was the first thing we saw but Harry's Bar.

Running through the rain (we'd declined offers by a sea of barters to buy an umbrella in town) we pushed the door open and entered a little world of its own.

Harry's Bar is an elegant restaurant with windows looking out on the lake and a good old fashioned bar - just the sort of place George would love.

That area was closed for a party of adults with precocious children, who annoyed the waiters no end. (I was so glad to see that precocious children don't just live in Australia these days.)

Our beautifully presented waitress languidly handed us a menu and suggested an aperitif as we peered around. Of course we pretended to have never heard of the actor.

I ordered a glass of champagne, which was the perfect start to one of the most pleasant Sunday lunches I've ever had. It included thin pieces of rare roast beef with sublime mashed potatoes - not what you would expect to eat in Italy.

The service was laid back but efficient. It was on the pricey side but it was worth it - the bill came to around 64 Euros ($A86.60) for two people.

Giordano, the bar manager (who previously worked in Perth), chatted to us before offering a free glass of dessert wine to perfectly end the meal.

He told us the restaurant was owned by "people in Venice" but it was not a franchise and no relation to the franchise chain, Harry's Bar, including the less than salubrious one at the airport.

He said not only Clooney but Robert de Niro ate and drank there regularly.

"George Clooney is nicer," he said. "He smiles and jokes a lot."

He always came with his Sardinian model girlfriend Elisabetta Canalis.

"But he hasn't come for six months," he said. "Because of the paparazzi."

(I'd also read in a local magazine Hugh Grant saying he remembered having dinner at a "retro" restaurant in Como but I'm not sure if was talking about Harry's Bar.)

We were lucky. The restaurant was about to close for Winter. We got there at 2pm and the closed sign was put on the door at 3pm, disappointing a group of people who knocked on it.

Usually guests of the luxurious hotel, Villa D'Este, around the corner are directed here by the concierge but the resort closes in November so we were also free of rich Americans.

Feeling satisfied by our delicious lunch and slightly tipsy, we jumped back on the boat which was heading in the other direction but looped back to Como in the rain.

A line from the Guns N'Roses rock anthem, "Nothin' lasts forever even cold November rain", filled my head on the way back.

We never did spot George but we felt as if he was there in spirit. We knew he would have loved to have met us, anyway.

Fijian freedoms

Bula

When somebody needs to be buried in Suva, Fiji’s capital, they call on the prisoners from the jail to dig the graves.

Or at least that’s what I was told.

They wear bright orange jumpsuits and are big and hefty.

Who knows what they’re in for.

They used to try and escape, running up the many paths that criss-cross the hills behind Suva but the guards can run fast too. When they were caught they were often beaten to a pulp.

So now they have just one skinny guard with a baton watching over them as they dig the graves. They know it’s not worth escaping.

While families enjoy the sunshine and the blue skies at Fijian resorts, my thoughts were on how much we take our freedom for granted.

We travellers drop in and drop out – parachuting into trouble spots so long as they have good resorts and happy hours, usually paying little heed to political prisoners or prisoners of any kind.

In Fiji, it’s particularly apt when you realise how many journalists have been jailed or deported since the present administration of Prime Minister Frank Bainimarama took over, not to mention the censoring of the media there.

Fijians and expats have mixed feelings about Bainimarama and his government and eight days in the country isn’t long enough to make a final judgement. Some say a western form of democracy doesn’t work for Fiji. Others are worried about the lack of investment in the country now, except by the Chinese. Most certainly don’t want to go on the record about their feelings.

My driver to the airport in Suva says at least roads are being built and schools improved. (The thought, and Mussolini made the trains run on time entered my head.) But you can see his point.

When I pick up the local papers including The Fiji Sun (no longer owned by Murdoch) there’s photos of a smiling Bainimarama on almost every page.

Over at Savusavu on Fiji’s northern island of Vanua Levu, you can understand why it’s known as the Hidden Paradise. It’s remote, beautiful and has a post-colonial feel about it.

We’re in a Methodist church in a village just down the road from motivational guru Anthony Robbins’ resort Namale, where guests pay thousands of dollars for the privilege of being told how to make thousands when they leave. We're waiting for the villagers to perform. And then out of nowhere we’re given an impromptu sermon about men’s rights and Adam’s rib – a lesson on misogyny, perhaps?

First we’re told missionaries brought the light to Fiji and then that men should always rule the roost, as the Bible showed.

Fijians are deeply religious and I respect this but when the giver of the sermon later jokes that "you come from my ribs" I want to run for the hills. I just hope a prison warden doesn’t chase after me.

Vinaka.

Feeling Foolish or the Blind Barber

One of the most endearing characters I came across during my travels in India was a barber in the village of Kheradergarh in Rajasthan.

He told us he was a “travelling barber”, and he carried an old bag, a former armaments case, to prove it. As we sat under a neem tree worshipped for its medicinal value in healing wounds, he took out his various instruments used in his day to day work.

And then he proceeded to show us how he cut nose hair and cleaned ears.

We wondered how he managed, because he wore thick government-issue glasses, and complained that as his eyesight deteriorated nobody wanted to have him cut their hair or shave them any more.

“What about your children? Do they help?” we asked.

“Hmph, my children, they are useless,” he said. We dubbed him the blind barber, which wasn’t very kind. With no governmental social services, he was doomed in his old age to the care of the local Hindu temple.

We’d earlier visited a potter, who showed us how he made pots on his wheel. When his son knocked his new creation over and broke it he muttered in Hindi: “Here we go again!”

He lived mainly by bartering, exchanging his pots for milk from the shepherd, who we had earlier visited. In his humble abode, a huge poster of Bollywood star Ajay Devgan held pride of place.

I joked that he looked like Devgan and was given a withering look as if to say, “You are a bloody idiot”.

As we arrived in the village a group of women wearing vibrantly coloured saris walked towards us, singing a welcome song.

"That's nice," I said.

“Well they’re actually being quite cheeky and making fun of you,” our guide explained.

"It's a bit like somebody singing the wedding waltz as you walk in the door."

Again I felt foolish.

Earlier that day we had visited the Sirilar Prajapat Government Upper Primary School in nearby Nimaj.

We had started by telling the kids about Australian native animals, with one of the group drawing a platypus on the board in chalk.

"Sir, sir, it's a seahorse," one child called out.

But it wasn't Australian animals they were interested in. This year eight group had more pressing matters in mind.

"Does your country have the nuclear bomb?" one fresh-faced youth asked.

"Why is your country with such a small population so developed?" asked another.

"Does your country have a caste system?" (They looked perplexed when we tried to explain that we didn't, and status was based more on money rather than what group you were born into.)

"What is your marriage system? How does it work?"

"What is the name of your prime minister?" (They of course knew the name of our cricket captain and several players.)

The girls were shyer, although one stood up and sang for us. Another asked us to sing an Australian song, and probably regretted it, as we embarrassed ourselves by performing a bad rendition of Waltzing Matilda.

One thing you have to get used to when travelling in countries such as India is looking like a fool. But meeting these kids and eve the blind barber with his familiar tale of familial exasperation brought another thought. We're all the same under the skin - pretty damn funny.