On meeting a self-proclaimed music enthusiast at a concert last week, my effusing about this year’s Glastonbury festival was met with the response ‘all music festivals are crap’. Although admiring his bold conversational technique, I wanted badly to disagree with his sentiment. But sadly, it is not just my new acquaintance who sees the festival season as a time for despair; his attitude is shared by many fans of alternative music genres (by alternative, I’m talking about anything you definitely wouldn’t find in the top 40 on a Sunday evening).

I concede that with the exception of Glastonbury, the major music festivals seem to have jettisoned the free spirited, and new-music promoting ethos that they espoused at their inceptions, favouring instead unethical corporate sponsorship and line-ups wholly saturated by the most vomit-inducing bubble-gum pop, or worse, Pete Doherty centred re-unions.

Perhaps the bitterest of blows came to alternative festival goers earlier in the year when the bastion of electronic music platforms, Glade Festival, (a spin off festival of the Glade district in Glastonbury) announced its 2010 cancellation, citing irrational policing restrictions and unreasonable price-hikes as reasons for the decision. To the despondent, the cancellation of Glade, which was borne out of ‘a love of electronic music, free spiritedness and alternative culture’, represented the death of the real music festival.

But these people are wrong; I propose that the ‘alternative’ festival is an institution more fruitful than ever – one simply has to look in the right places. What’s more, the best of the year’s are still to come this summer. For those who crave the experimental, perhaps the most satisfying event is Birmingham’s Supersonic Festival. Held in the city’s artistic epicenter, The Custard Factory, Supersonic is entering its eighth year this October, and is showcasing a line up of unrivaled gravity in the left-field music scene.

Supersonic Festival utilises converted factory warehouses and art galleries, making it, I think, one of the more interesting settings for a festival in the UK. And it’s not just the venue that makes Supersonic the antithesis of V; the musical line up is decidedly fascinating. It boasts a bunch of names that the average Joe would never had heard of, and granted, some are a little obtuse for my liking, but acts like Peter Broderick and People Like Us are bound to make the event a goer. As a resident of the West Midlands myself, one of the most refreshing things about Supersonic is its facility for breathing life into an ever diminishing alternative music scene within the second city – this, a cause for celebration in itself.

For music that doesn’t spawn from a western tradition, a remarkable event is The African Music Festival in London, which, also in its eighth year, is held at several venues across the city, the principal one being The Festival Hall. The most outstanding feature of this festival is its musical authenticity. The majority of (the few) festivals that don’t neglect non-western music entirely tend to feature just watered-down, westernized acts, that draw only slightly on eastern flavours, and who they present under the ubiquitous, lazy and frankly meaningless ‘world music’ banner. To this, The African Music Festival, whose roster features genuine African musicians playing genuinely African music, is a viable antidote.

So far so good. Perhaps with this selection of musical feasts my festival-hating friend might begin to come round. But for some people, despite the overwhelming musical credibility of the aforementioned events, there is a component missing – the traditional festival spirit: the camping, the parties, the living it rough – the carnival experience.

For many, however good the line up, a music festival isn’t a music festival without such a vibe, and for these people I offer Stop Making Sense festival. Stop Making Sense, for me the most exciting festival of the summer, is situated on the coast of Croatia, and promises spirit in abundance. The inaugural party held in the first week of September involves round-the-clock clubs and regular boat parties – all in a pretty idyllic place.

However, the most remarkable thing about SMS is its relative diversity of line up. To date, most alternative festivals focus solely (albeit brilliantly) on a specific niche; Glade, for example, would have a comprehensive roster of everyone who is anyone within electronica. But SMS delves into the niches of further spanning sub-genres. Its organisers boast an expansive soundtrack touching upon as far ranging fields as flamenco, balearic, techno and psychedelic. It has an impressive line-up, with Radioclit, Django Django and Richard Norris all making appearances, making Stop Making Sense a very worthwhile go-to for any Eastern Europe travelers or people looking for a good time (ironically, a go-to that makes a lot of sense).

So, fans of alternative music genres needn’t despair when it comes to festival season each summer. There are evidently copious opportunities to see interesting music in interesting places, whilst still enjoying the festival atmosphere. Of course, if you’d rather go the other way, then do so, but don’t say I didn’t warn you when Pete Doherty doesn’t show up.

It’s 2 in the morning. I’m on Asia’s answer to Easy Jet. Yet somewhere over the airwaves comes the chirpy, “Welcome to Paradise Island”. The plethora of wailing babies suggested otherwise, but we had made it- Bali.

I went travelling this summer with four old friends from school, the inspiration behind this (deliberately) cringe title. I say travelling, but in reality ‘holidaying’ would probably be more accurate- backpacks and hiking boots had certainly been replaced by wheeled suitcases and flip-flops. We had planned 10 days in Bali, split across the lairy capital, Kuta, and the more picturesque region of Nusa Dua. This wasn’t our first time away together, we’d always been culture vultures; our trip to Magaluf after A-levels is a case in point. Sadly our holiday plans have never qualified in that unique category either- Magaluf was packed to the rafters (of the booze cruise) with Brits, and I’ve heard many are going out to Bali this year. So I thought I’d give you the low-down on Bali…. And even if you’re not heading out, I’m sure there will be some universally useless advice given. Throw out your Lonely Planet and get reading this guide.

Money

The rupiah and I did not get on. With 1,000 rupiah translating to roughly 10p, the mental mathematician is a strong asset to any group- make sure you befriend one and invite them out with you. The only bonus to this insane currency is the feeling of being a millionaire, but that quickly passes. We didn’t only have problems doing the maths between us; it was when our money troubles involved the locals that things got sticky. Indeed, having just hailed a cab after a night out in Kuta, with some members of our group slightly worse for wear, we learned this lesson the hard way. We didn’t suspect the driver- he was small, very round and hiding behind such a strong moustache that I feared for his respiration- but fraudsters come in all shapes and sizes, and apparently with varying degrees of facial hair. We gathered our money and paid the driver the agreed 30,000 rupiah (roughly 3 pounds), but no no, this man was demanding 300,000- ten times our expected rate. And of course, due to the alcohol and arithmetic situation one of us might have promised him the wrong amount. But if you’re going to take one thing from this article it should be the knowledge that in Bali a promise is a PROMISE. Just as I began negotiations with the driver: “Look. We normally pay £2 (20,000) for this journey, we’ve only been to one bar, we’re not drunk enough to agree to a £30 (300,000) bill”, I hear screeches in the background from some very ‘respectable’ friends, “You knoooob. Knoooobbbs. We hate you.” Apparently the driver didn’t buy the ‘we’re not that drunk’ line, I can’t think why. Negotiations were over- a fond farewell to thirty pounds.

Out ‘nd about

If you’re looking for nightlife, Kuta is the place to visit. With numerous bars, clubs, karaoke bars and even a shipwreck (a purpose built structure offering another club, not a piece of history), it’s got it all. To stay on the safe side I believe it’s advised not to drink local alcohol to avoid ‘Bali belly’, but the mainstream brands are available if you ask. A personal favourite spot was the club ‘Bounty’ -the shipwreck- and in particular its accompanying bar. This bar serves its drinks in sports water bottles which allow big moves on the dance floor, yet minimal spillage. Moreover, in one corner of the club a charming piece of ‘statement’ furniture can be found, a cage, which gives the perfect opportunity for some up close and personal gyrating, or an insight into the feelings of a dancing prisoner. Kuta nightlife is heavily dominated by Australians, as Bali is far more accessible to those down-under, so if you’re aiming to bag yourself a Nicole Kidman or Hugh Jackman then you may well find them on the Balinese dance floor… or in Australia, maybe just go there.

Beaches

Bali offers some of the finest beaches in the world and Nusa Dua certainly did not disappoint. White sand, blue seas and clear skies- this was the “Paradise Island” that the flight attendant had mentioned. Jimbaran beach would be a particular recommendation for a less commercialised beauty and more authentic food. If you want to avoid over populated beaches certainly do not visit Kuta’s; sitting at the edge of the town, the crowded streets seem to pour out onto it. Plus, in the daytime, the hagglers from the town patrol the shores- an area which leads us seamlessly onto our next sub-heading…

Haggling

If a haggler says to you: “Sexy price. I love you”, he almost certainly does not love you, but wants you to buy a ‘real Chanel’ handbag that is actually a Sainsbury’s plastic bag. There are plenty of ‘Rolexes’, ‘Ray bans’ and ‘real leather handbags’ on the stalls flanking the streets of the Balinese towns- the credit crunch has clearly hit these quality brands with designer sunglasses for sale at two pounds. Remarkable. If you’re not interested on what’s on offer, be quick to walk away- lingering can lead to unfortunate situations; after an episode of this kind a man followed me down a street poking my back with a bottle opener… in the shape of a penis. Note to any guys reading this: girls do not enjoy that sort of humour, move on.

Elephants

One real treat in Bali is the endangered elephant sanctuary. This sanctuary has the largest number of rescued Sumatran elephants in the world, and I would really recommend spending a day there. The sanctuary is situated deep in the rainforest with buildings tottering on stilts, and the elephants happily roam the green space, rather than being chained-up or penned-in in small cages. The shelter gives visitors the opportunity to take a ride around the park on an elephant, but not just any old elephant, this is meet and greet time. Like a very bizarre first date, you find out the basics about your animal: our elephant was Melanie, aged 24, still single, and still looking for ‘the one’. She was just another girl doing her thing -as she waved her trunk at me, I knew we’d be friends for life… or something sentimental like that.

All in all, Bali is a peculiar mix; it combines immense natural beauty with the tackiness of a velour tracksuit; the most tranquil beaches with nightlife akin to Fuzzy Ducks. With only 10 days on the island, I’m not sure that I sought out all the hidden treasures- Bali boasts several beautiful temples and ancient settlements that I wish I’d had time to explore. With hostels and even fairly luxurious hotels at brilliant prices, it’s the perfect place to go with friends, but if you’re looking to go away for a more enlightening trip, there’s plenty on offer too.

Seeing all my friends applying for law and banking internships in the early days of Michaelmas 2009 set me on the case trying to get work experience myself. I knew I didn’t want to enter the corporate world, and so began writing to advertising agencies, magazines, newspapers and TV production companies. Many months and many emails later I managed to set myself up 4 weeks’ experience at a monthly magazine, which I was delighted about, despite the fact that it was completely unpaid.

I arrived on the first day, and was quickly directed to the intern desk, which used to be a paid assistant position, but had recently been turned by some wily money-saver (keen to preserve the office Christmas party budget) into a rolling secretarial position filled by keen graduating or near graduating interns, more than willing, in fact, begging, to work for free. Super-keen as I was, I spent a month running around, returning clothes to PR firms, answering phones and tidying people’s desks.

I wouldn’t call the experience personally fulfilling, or in itself really useful. None of the skills I learnt, which mainly revolved around a greater control over sellotape and brown boxes, were really what I was looking for from a magazine internship. I was not observing and shadowing those in the office, in fact, I was never given any real description of how the magazine was run, or even what my endless stream of tasks were directed towards. If I’d wanted to spend my summer in a secretarial position, I could have signed myself up to a temporary agencies and been paid for the tasks I was privileged to do at this magazine.

I’m not saying that I regret the experience, I don’t. The month’s slog was worth it even just for the line on the CV, but it certainly wasn’t what I’d expected. Being one of a long line of interns in a company which, in essence, saves on a paid secretarial position with a rolling set of bright-eyed undergraduates left me with a bitter taste and perhaps even sense of exploitation.

In fact, the law states pretty clearly the case surrounding such a scenario. “Work” includes having set hours for any extended period of time, and being given defined roles rather than simply observing. The law says anyone who is “working” should be being paid the minimum wage of £5.80 an hour.

My “internship” definitely fell under this category. When you’re expected to be at work at a certain time every morning, to complete concrete tasks every day,when your tasks are assigned to the extent that you might be working whilst the person in the paid position next to you is filing their nails at their desk, it’s not unreasonable to inspect a wage, in fact, it’s illegal not to.

Many working bodies have picked up on the problems surrounding free-labour dressed up as an “internship”. The Low Pay Commission in 2010, published a report suggesting that “there is a systematic abuse of interns, with a growing number of people undertaking “work” but excluded from the minimum wage”. Companies rely on graduates’ keenness to get experience and fill up their CV in a way which is undisputedly unfair, but extends to discriminatory. Those from a lower income background may not be able to afford to work unpaid, and when they do take, what is a financial gamble, their experience may be menial desk labour. Lucky enough to live in London, my travel expenses of £5 a day were actually able to cover my travel costs. However, for those without easy access to the South East, these internships are inaccessible, and unattainable with no money to cover accommodation costs. The Panel on Fair Access to the Professions indicated that many internship opportunities are based in London, including 90 per cent of internships in law and nearly 60 per cent of banking internships.

Some say that unpaid work experience is part of a young person building their CV, but this seems unfair when opportunities are so concentrated, and when ability to accept such a position is dependent on financial background. The fact that parliament (a field already criticized for elitism and the narrow social spectrum of its members) employs an estimated 450 interns in parliament, working an estimated 18,000 hours of unpaid work a week can do nothing but perpetuate such a statistic.

The Chartered Institute for Personnel and Development has proposed an intern’s minimum wage of £2.50, mirroring the minimum wage rate for apprentices that is being introduced from October 2010. But its seems doubtful that this £20 or so a day could go far enough to combat the real problems of skewed internship opportunities, given that the accredited living wage in London is £7.60 an hour.

That’s not to say that everyone is convinced by the necessity of an intern’s wage or the plight of intern’s working conditions. Barbara Ellen argues in The Observer, in an article entitled “Hey intern, get me a coffee and stop wingeing” that “spoiled, deluded innocents find the unwritten laws of the internship, the traditional exchange of slave labour for the holy grail of experience, a strange and chilling concept” and that interning is “a short-term lesson in humiliation…and suck it up”.

Ellen makes the distinction between opportunities to do such internships (which are skewed steeply towards the financially supported) and the content of these internships themselves. What she fails to understand is the direct connection between the two. Many people, even those from financially unstable background, are prepared to do a stint of unpaid work experience as part of boosting their CV, but when you’re staking the wage of a paid job, you expect to be doing something useful. The trouble comes when the unpaid experience stops being a way to gain experience, and becomes the equivalent of a full-time job that they are doing for free.

‘Let me guess – sunny and warm?’

Without even looking we proffered this appropriate greeting to our first full day in Damascus. After a four-day tour of Lebanon (recounted in some earlier articles), my friend and I moved-on to Syria, primarily Damascus but with planned trips into the surrounding countryside, first to Bosra and then Palmyra.

When it came time to negotiate a taxi to Bosra, about two hours south of Damascus, we were so accustomed to the experience that we burst out laughing at the outrageous first offers from the drivers. Clearly they were not used to dealing with such quick-study tourists because they couldn’t quite catch themselves smiling at our bargaining prowess. (Hard-earned, to be sure, after we locked ourselves in a Lebanese taxi, forcing the driver to give us our correct change or else forgo an afternoon of additional fares.) We eventually agreed to a price less than half of where we started and felt tremendously satisfied; only later did we find out from a local that we still overpaid. ‘Said the spider to the fly…’ Those smiles, we should have known.

Less beguiling was our experience of Syrian politics. The situation is complicated, far more so than one might think after reading, for example, the description offered by the U.S. State Department: ‘Officially, Syria is a republic. In reality, however, it is an authoritarian regime that exhibits only the forms of a democratic system.’ All of which is true, and to be sure, talking about politics with Syrians can be surreal. We had the following exchange with a Syrian student at the American University of Beirut:

‘Did you vote in the last election?’ [To confirm Syrian President Bashar Al-Asad.]

‘Of course.’

‘Who was the opposition?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If you didn’t vote for the president, who would you have voted for?’

‘No one, it was either Yes or No.’

‘Do you have political parties in Syria?’

‘What is that?’

When he grew wary of our questions, fairly pointing-out that many westerners just want to hear that all Syrians hate their president, we tried to explain that our interest was purely academic:

‘So, for example, whereas Syria amended its constitution in 2000 to permit Bashar to become president before age forty, Britain doesn’t even have a constitution.’

‘What is a constitution?’

What’s complicated is that while political discussion is clearly self-censored, it took us days to realize that Facebook is banned in Syria because most internet cafes used proxy servers. We met two other Syrians, Sary and Radwan, both employed by the same local private firm, who, after learning we were Canadian, asked us why Jon Stewart was always giving Canada such a hard time on The Daily Show. Most perplexing of all: the U.S. considers Syria ‘a regional hub for Iranian support to terrorist groups, such as hizballah’. The only building between the Lebanese and Syrian borders, its pink and orange sign resplendent with hegemonic glory? Dunkin’ Donuts.

Just for fun, we challenged Sary and Radwan to an arm-wrestling contest to see who would pick-up the cheque for our drinks. (We invited them for drinks after they translated our explanation to the Syrian military of why we were taking pictures of an abandoned school that turned-out to be a military facility.) The catch: Winner pays. (We paid.)

This raises some interesting observations about male culture in Syria. There were very few women out-and-about, shopping or working, even in more cosmopolitan Damascus. (We saw almost no women, other than tourists, in the desert town of Palmyra.) What we did see were many men walking around, arm-in-arm, even holding hands. Most gay culture in Syria is underground (necessitated by Article 520 of the Syrian penal code, which punishes ‘carnal relations against the order of nature’ with three years imprisonment), so at first we didn’t know what we were seeing. After we gave it a go and no one seemed to notice (my friend and I are clearly not Syrian, so it could have a different significance for us), we started to think the situation was more like being in an all-boys school: with no females around, there is less pressure to appear hyper-masculine in the perpetual competition for mates. The West, of course, struggles in the opposite direction, where there are many more women in public but just as many men worried about ‘looking gay’. Two ships, alas, pass each other in the night.

To end on a lighter note, it turns out that the Syrians (like the Lebanese) are crazy for football. On our way back to Damascus from Palmyra, three hours through the Syrian desert, we stopped at the Baghdad Cafe (about 130km from its namesake) to purchase water. There was nothing but sand, rocks and highway as far as we could see in every direction. My friend emerged from the shop to report that the owner ‘likes Germany in the World Cup’. Of course he does. Back in Palmyra the previous evening, we joined most of the town crowded inside the only restaurant with a subscription to the World Cup channel, watching Spain defeat Paraguay in the quarter finals. As the game wound-down a donkey-cart lumbered by outside, taking advantage of the cool evening atmosphere (about thirty degrees centigrade). The second-loudest cheer of the evening erupted when Spain scored the winning goal, eclipsed almost immediately by an even louder cheer as the camera panned the crowd to show distraught – but beautiful – female Paraguayans. Of course we joined in the enthusiasm.