Being a gypsie on the East Coast

It’s been a pretty action packed few weeks; there’s been boats, waterfalls, sharks and smoking vans. Oh and two blond girls. Here we go then.

So we left Perth at the beginning of the month, and caught a flight over to the Whitsunday islands. On the way we met up with a friend of Rosella’s from home, and the terrible two’s became the terrible threes; we arrived at Airlie beach, ready for adventures and checked into our hostel.

Airlie Beach is one of the many stepping stones to the Great Barrier Reef, so after much shopping around and hard – core bargaining we booked ourselves onto the catamaran Emperors Wings 3, and headed off on a three day three night adventure out to the the reef.

We shared our boat with 13 others, Americans, Dutch, Germans, and Australians, all pretty excited to be seeing the reef. The trip was amazing, three days of snorkeling with incredible fish, I did a few dives and got up close and personal with a few sharks, some turtles and dolphins. We also went out to the outer reef, much more untouched, and much deeper water! I can quite happily say three of the best days of my travels so far.

Once we found our land legs again we decided to hire a van to drive north through the Table lands to Cairns, where we would turn around and head back down the coast to Brisbane. Our budget stretched to what was basically a tin-can on wheels, it had a cool box for a fridge, some dirty mattresses for a bed but surprisingly a sink. And it drove. Although if you drove it too long uphill it did smoke.

Our first night we stopped in Townsville, and parked in the local boy-racer car park which wasn’t too much fun. We moved to the sea front and got moved on by a police man on a bike, eventually finding a car park by the beach for us to kip in. This was pretty much the story for the next week.

But what a difference having your own wheels makes, we stopped at amazing waterfalls and rock-pools, slides made out of the riverbed, and pitched up in all manner of places. I didn’t shower for 5 days, it was great.

We made it up to Cairns in beautiful sunshine drizzling over the rainforest, where we traded in the tin can for a 3.5l V6 monster with a fridge, freezer, DVD players that pop down out of the  ceiling and a pop – up bed room on the roof. It’s actually amazing.

So we are now cruising in style, although it’s not quite the battered backpacker-mobile we had before, but at least this one’ll get us there in one piece!

We’ve made it south to just above Brisbane, tonight we’re heading to a place called Noosa and tomorrow are going to Australia zoo to play with Koalas. We even stayed in a campsite last night and I had a real life shower.

Felix arrives on the 28th..

let the party commence

xx

Guess who’s back…

*schlopp*

This is the sound of me exiting the cocoon of the past 4 months.

My bubble has burst.

Welcome back wold.

For some of you out there you won’t have heard a peep out of me for a while now, and for that I apologise. The hole I began to dig in the sand on arrival has grown quite substantially by now and I had begun to think that if I shouted loudly enough down it, some echoes of my voice would get through.

Needless to say I have lots to tell you, and nothing at all.

As you all know, I’m in Perth, western Australia, staying 30 seconds away from the beach at a place called Trigg.

On arrival in Australia I bused down south to a place called Albany to catch up with one of my best friends from home, Joe, who was working on a strawberry farm. The original plan was to work down here for a bit, recuperate the depleating bank balance and head off on a bush-trip extravaganza.. it turned out however that I wasn’t best suited to picking strawberries, in the sense that I didn’t make it out of the caravan once at 6am with the rest of the (mainly Japanese) crowd to head off into the fields. It was hot, I was hungover, and definatley not feeling the love.

So, after 7 days of adjusting to the western world again I packed up my bag, and headed back up to the city to make my fortune.. luckily enough I had another good friend from home heading out to stay with family friends, and was offered an invitation to tag along. And so it was, that I found myself lodging with an amazing family, who have fed me, watered me, and given me wheels while I’m here. They have definatley made up for whathisname never paying me back in Cambodia for my good samaratan’ness, and me losing faith in all Australians. (Remember that!?)

Within my first week up here, we both found jobs, at a great place on the water, bartending, cocktail making and waiting, which is still where I am today – (you can have a look at http://thebreakwater.com.au/), we made friends, got surfboards and joined gyms, and really, made a home.

The funny thing was it never felt odd to have been traveling for so long and then to suddenly have stopped, if anything it felt amazing to finally unpack my bag and have a room I could call my own..

But all good things come to an end!!

wanderlust(wan¦der|lust)

Pronunciation:/ˈwɒndəlʌst/

//

noun

[mass noun]

a strong desire to travel:a man consumed by wanderlust

 

Yes, I woke up the other morning filled with a feeling that could only be described as a wanderlust. Or itchy feet. And so in a week I’m off to Bali, but only for a week mind.. not my usual 7 month slog or anything like that. I have an uncontrollable urge to get back to Asia, and be surrounded by mayhem and filth. Don’t ask me where it comes from, I haven’t a clue.. but I hope that this will supress it, at least for a bit anyway!

I’ve also just brought the Australia Lonely Planet in preperation for my East coast trip in April.. which should go something like renting a van in Cairns, and driving it down to Sydney or Melbourne to meet that other ball of trouble commonly known as ‘Felix-on-his-uni-summer-break’.

I forecast snorkelling on the east coast, chilling on beaches in Fiji, and watching the Rugby world cup in New Zealand.

So everyone, I’m here, I’m alive, I’ve just been in a bit of a rut for a while with not much to report.

All love to you all,

and get well soon Mary

xxxxx,

Bangin Bangladesh

“What country?”

“What religion?”

“Why you here?”

Are pretty well the three questions I seem to be asked on a daily basis. The first one seems to be the most popular.. with guys just walking straight up to me, and walking straight back off again at the mention of the UK.

Although what the second question seems to evoke the most intersting sub – question, where I get asked whether I’m:

A. Muslim

B. Christian

C. Muscle Man

I still haven’t worked out what C. actually means. But whatever it is I think it deserves to be googled.

So here we go then, Bangladesh. I wasn’t really sure what to expect, I knew it would be quiet since I haven’t met a single person while traveling who’s been / was planning on going. But so far I haven’t seen a single white person. Bangladesh is officially off the tourist map. Even the Lonely Planet has a ‘are you mental?’ feel about it.

And I won’t lie, it doesn’t really have much in the way of tourism, if any; and the sights aren’t, well, that exciting, but what certainly sets this place apart is the people.

Maybe because they don’t get many tourists, or maybe because they actually have never seen a white person before (I’ve had more than one person come up to me just to touch my skin..) they are the most inquisitive people I’ve met. Always going out of their way to chat to you, make sure you’re ok (“any problem?”) and find out a little bit about you. Walking around I feel like the Pied Piper – always surrounded by a gang of people (usually kids) following you around, hanging off you, holding your hand, or just generally touching you.

Yes. It can get annoying, and ‘shop diving’ has been a newly acquired skill.

The funny thing is I think everyone wants to be your friend. Randomers come up to you, and ask you straight out for your email address, it usually ends in slightly awkward conversations, while at the same time try to work out whether you’re a follower of the muscleman religion.

Because Bangladesh’s a Muslim country, at the moment they’re fasting during daylight hours for Ramadan festival.  No food, drink, cigarettes, or ‘bad thoughts’ may be consumed while the sun’s up. That even includes not swallowing your own spit (lovely) and results in looks of disbelief while walking down the street munching on a samosa. I’ve so far done a day’s fasting. Yeah it’s a rubbish attempt ain’t it, but I’m doing another tomorrow, and anyway apparently I’m a muscleman not a Muslim so I’m off the hook.

I met a guy on a bus who invited me to his home in a village outside the village of Mongla (stifle laugh..) Generally this would be something I’d probably decline but since getting here I’ve decided to become Yes man and see where it leads me. So before I’d even managed to get into my grubby ‘hotel’ room where strangely everything in it was brown I was sitting on some generator-with-wheels contraption and being whisked into the country side with a random man at my side talking to me about the pros and cons of the Brasilian football team.

The entire village turned out for our arrival, gallons of sweet, black tea was drunk and I was laced with plates of sweet, sticky sweets. I even got given a Guava. To all intents and purposes, I suppose I was shown off. But it made me laugh, which in turn made them all laugh, and I spent a good few hours chatting drinking and eating before being taken back into town on a cycle-rickshaw under a cover of stars the likes of which I hadn’t seen in a long time. Even the frogs seemed to be croaking louder.

The next day we headed out on an early morning boat trip, Tiger hunting in the Sunderbans National park. You won’t be surprised to hear that the closest I got to seeing one was a bleached skull in a nearby museum, and possibly the most interesting sight we saw was a floating brothel, but I did manage to touch a crocodile (albeit behind the back of the tour guide who I don’t think would have been too happy about it..) who seemed deeply uninterested in my poking and prodding. Maybe it was plastic.

Later that evening, I was again whisked out into the middle of nowhere to drink liters of sweet tea, and sit in a power-cut practicing my Bengali with fellow tea-addicts.  The guys here drink their tea with two or three teaspoons of sugar, and use condensed milk instead of ‘normal’ milk. Brings a whole new meaning to the term sweet tooth.

Tonight I’m heading off on an old paddle steamer boat for an overnight journey up to Dhaka the capital. I’m expecting cockroaches, insects, and possibly the odd biting child.

Talking of which, I unexpectedly found a cockroach in my wash bag yesterday morning. I haven’t screamed like a girl in ages.

Saalam Aleikum

x

When camels attack

Camels, as those of you that have ridden them, aren’t really the most comfortable of animals. In fact, I’d go as far to say that they’re probably one of the most uncomfortable animals to ride after the kangaroo and the hippo.

Needless to say a camel trek is one of those ’10 things to do before you die’ kinda things.. which could be translated in this case to ’10 things to do before you feel like you might split your body in half’. I was teamed up with ‘Sunday’, a pretty odd name for a camel and a pretty odd camel full stop. His showpiece was trying pretty hard to head-but me.. thus releasing the barrage of flies that seemed to find all camels irresistible, and generally ending up wiping camel juice over my legs / body / face. And you thought wet-dog was bad?! We had a love / hate relationship, love when he actually took me the right way for a change and I didn’t have to fight his reins to keep him in with the rest of the crowd, (I decided he was a bit of a loner..) and hate, when in retaliation to being made to walk with the rest of the pack would ‘accidently’ walk me through a cactus. A couple of times he just sat down and refused to move. Gotta love em.

Jaisalmer’s still one of my favorite places in India, a huge sandstone fort that looms like a giant GM sandcastle in the middle of the desert, it brings to life my childhood fantasy of living in a castle, with narrow dirty streets, the unquestionable cow at each corner, and lobsided, wonky buildings that look like something out of a doctor Zeuss book.

I decided it was time to leave India, even if it was only for a week or two and travel to Bangladesh, so embarked on a usual 44 hour journey to the east side of India, involving trucks, tuk tuks, taxis, buses and trains. On arrival at Delhi I swarmed about Connaught Place (the main shopping hub) picking up my still broken iPod and grabbing a (disappointing) Maheraja Mac from McDonalds, that was, well, rubbish. Hustling onto the train at New Delhi I felt a not so sly hand slipping into my pocket, and, grabbing the hand, found that it led to a well dressed guy about my age. Our eyes locked for a few seconds, waiting to see how the other would react. I’d clocked his accomplice standing a few meters in front of me watching the stand off.

I burst out laughing.

The sheer stupidity of it all seemed hilarious, he had hardly been discreet as he tried to rummage around in my empty pocket and to all intents it would have been a miracle if his amateur skills had worked on anyone! He grinned at me and sheepishly apologised. I returned his hand and the two of them disappeared back into the mass that was India.

X amount of hours later (by this point I’d lost count) we pulled into Kolcata as they now call it. Big regal buildings line British-esque streets, while yellow ambassador cabs whip through the throng of human-powered rickshaws, with wheels as big as a Penny farthing. The usual chaos bubbles just below the skin, but there’s a different sense of order, and of pride that I haven’t felt anywhere else in India.

I headed over to the very regent Victoria Park for sunset, where I was promptly mobbed by a gang of Indians, and seemed to attract the attention of a certain lad who didn’t speak any English. Mr No Speakie English seemed enthralled by my white legs, and before I knew it was getting a little too close for comfort. I pegged my retreat, only to be followed by Mr No Speakie English enquiring as to how many beds there were in my hotel room. At my cursing reply which doesn’t need to be repeated here Mr No Speakie English went straight in, without warning, for a crotch grab at which point I was nearly taken out by a hurtling horn blaring taxi as I leapt into the road. By the time I’d righted myself out of dangers way he’d slithered off, back to the depths that he’d come from no doubt.

And yet this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be molested in Kolcuta either, as I would find out the next day while walking down the street in broad daylight.

Aside from the freaky frisky Indian men, Kolcata’s a brilliant place. Seemingly ‘tainted’ by the work of Mother Teresa, who solidified it in the worlds mind as a city of the poorest of the poor, it’s actually one of the forerunners of the Indian economy and society. Don’t get me wrong, the poor are abundant but when you’re in India when are they not?

I’ve attracted the attention of a pavement dwelling old lady, I took her out to the market and brought her a new sari to replace the tattered sheet she was wearing and now deems it appropriate to cover me with kissed whenever I appear, and to wait outside my hotel day and night to walk with me. She doesn’t speak a word of English.

Yesterday I had a 2 hour Hindi lesson with the guy who runs the juice stall, and at one point was surrounded by 5 people all trying to teach me at the same time.. on the way back to my hotel I was set-apon by half a dozen street kids, none of which were wearing clothes and some of whom were barley old enough to walk. I sat down and brought them all rice and curry and before I knew it had 15 of them around me. I gave the shopkeeper 200 rupees, (the equivalent of about 3 quid) and together we all sat at the side of the road eating and trying to chat in my barely understandable Hindi. Smiles all around.

So next week I head to Bangladesh, new culture, new money, new people. I’ve got a list of Bengali phrases to learn, my number one being ‘ami ki boka’.

Do you think I’m a fool?

xx

It’s amazing how much can happen in a few weeks..

So in my last entry we’d just about survived a 3 days bus journey from hell. (‘From Hell’… I’ve just realised this seems to be a phrase that’s used pretty often in these entries. Honestly it’s not all doom and gloom I promise..)

Leh was an amazing place, filled with ancient mountain-top monasteries that look like they’ve been pillaged right out of some dodgy Jackie Chan movie or from the set of a James Bond villain, flat topped houses, plateaus of arid, dry, unmanageable land dotted with small oasis’s of lush green land on the banks of fertile rivers.

It was from here that we arranged permits up to the Nubra Valley, which took us up over the ‘highest motor-able road in the world’, which if you were wondering was pretty rubbish, and more or less consisted of a mountain-top loo, however for reasons I wasn’t going to explore the majority of these loo-seekers had decided to partake in their business outside the loo. I don’t know, maybe they wanted to look at the view or something.

We arrived in Summur to find the entire village kitted out in their bests, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Dalai Lama who was to spend 7 days offering public teachings, and was pretty much the main reason we were here. (Although we weren’t planning on doing the whole 7 days.. you don’t even do that in school people!!)

The tiny village was entirely booked out. But we managed to find somewhere that had a small, A frame tent that we could use.  In the warmth of the afternoon we thought we’d hit lucky. By 3am I honestly thought we might freeze to death. Not such a clever idea now eh.

The teachings were great, the Dalai Lama is quite an amazing character, who owns the most infectious laugh I’ve ever come across. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying but the sight of us all nestled amongst almond and apricot trees, which him up on his throne was one I’ll remember for a long time.

A few days later we undertook another mammoth bus journey, this time from Leh (in Ladakh) to Srinigar (in Kashmere). This time round we were prepared and payed the extra 2 quid or whatever it was to go on the ‘Super Deluxe Bus’. Oh yeaaaaaaah. We were going to be traveling in style!!

The only deluxe thing I could honestly say about it was that it had seats. And glass in the windows. Well, most of them. The head-rests were so matted in grease I felt like I could have styled my hair for the rest of the year with them. I was back to the old-10 inches of leg room routine, and to top it all off we were on the back seat. Which meant that any bump we encountered felt like we were those people in old school medieval times who had to sit in the catapults, and any spew-olympics would be coming our way. Wooohooo! I love my life!

I won’t bore you with the details. Apart from the face that when I did FINALLY get to sleep after my 5th exploding tyre now, good ol’ mum tried to wake me up, in the dead of night, to look at a RIVER.

I could have killed her.

And so, welcome to Srinigar, where 20 miles out of town the bus was boarded by touts trying to get us to stay on their houseboats. Guess who wasn’t very impressed.

People have said to me while I’ve been away, “so what have you learnt about yourself?” And I used to think, learnt? What a stupid new-found hippy-dippy question. Well, I suppose I’ve learnt that I can navigate an Indian railway ticket counter, I can barter like a local, I’ve learnt to count to ten in Thai. But none of those are really things I’ve learnt about myself..

Well now I have one.

I’ve learnt that I’m a grumpy, moody, not-to-be-talked to monster of a man in the mornings.

I do not function well on little sleep.

So, Mr ‘Do-you-have-a-houseboat-to-stay-on’, NO I DON’T. And you pretending to be my new best friend is not going to help matters. Go on.. away.

Ok, I have to be careful here because this is in danger of turning into one of those ranty-blogs that I can’t stand. So we’ll get back to case in hand.

Srinigar, ah the joys of Srinigar, the beautiful Mosque-filled town, the placid lake, the beautiful mountain air, the gondola-like Shikaras to punt you around to your houseboat. Sounds great doesn’t it!

And here’s the reality:

Srinigar, the city of armed soldiers on each street corner, the city of 8pm curfews and daily strikes. The city where young kids are shot dead for throwing stones at security forces. The city where you can’t actually go anywhere lest the razor wire grabs you. And just as importantly, the city where you can’t buy beer.

We arrived the day the curfew was reintroduced, which meant that town ground to a halt at 8pm. Electric was infrequent and internet facilities were routinely shut down. The government’s even cut off SMS services to try to curb protesters. And it’s all because soldiers are shooting protesters who are protesting against soldiers shooting protesters who are protesting against soldiers shooting protesters.. etc. I think we would call it a rather vicious circle.

So all in all not the most amazing place to be. And to top it all off we had a Mosque behind our hotel, and were woken up daily at 4am by the call to prayers which basically sounded like a drunk man outside the Pier nightclub in Aberystwyth with a megaphone on a Friday night. (Go back to earlier said mentioned point about what I’ve learnt about myself..)

We eventually booked our tickets out by bus only to find on the day we were leaving that the roads had been closed by the protesters, and in effect we were stranded in the city. I booked us a flight for the next day, and after a 5am start for an 11am flight (it took 20 minutes to drive to the airport..don’t ask) and 5 security checks later we found ourselves back in the normality of Delhi.

Since then we’ve visited the burning ghats at Varanasi and spent a sunset at the Taj Mahal, Zoe’s headed home and I’m looking forward to an 18 hour train journey to the desert-fort city of Jaisalmer.

My camera’s been bust for the past 3 weeks, but I’ve just had it repaired so expect a new barrage of photos.

And I’m a little bit worried,

I’ve started watching Cricket

xx

The 42 hour journey

The journey from Manali - Leh up in Northern India is roughly 450 miles.

The ‘shared minibuses’ leave in a mini convoy at 2am, conveniently getting you into Leh at 8pm the same day. Sounds pretty mammoth, but your options are pretty limited when you’re 3500m high.

The journey started pretty well, in as much as the mini-bus arrived.

We were bracing ourselves for our onslaught of a journey, blankets were coming out, food was being unwrapped.. you know the score, when the real journey began.

I should have realised from the strip of neons framing the windscreen really. The alloys gleaming in the darkness. The sub-woofer hidden under the seat in front of us blaring a mix of 50 Cent, Nelly Furtado, Britney and Michael Jackson.

Our driver was a Nepalese boy racer in a mini-bus.

Oh this was going to be interesting.

So, 2 minutes in missus next to me starts shouting at him to turn the music down. In all honesty it did feel like the air was actually compressing in my ears. I must be out of shape, see what a lack of clubbing does to you? We fly over pot-holes, sleeping policemen, goats, in a blink of an eye, while veering uphill at the speed of sound. Thank god it’s dark and I can’t see what we’re driving up.

Eventually the sun comes up. My nether regions lurch as far inwards as possible. No explanation needed.

And before we know what’s happening our driver’s pulled into a lay-by, pulled a towel over his head, put his feet up on the dash and knocks himself out for a few hours. Random! Our few hours turn into 12, due to a rather large landslide that’s happened a bit further up the hill. In the subsiding chaos a drunk truck driver imagines that his truck has wings and tries to drive over said landslide, resulting in a truck full of petrol dangling precariously over the edge of a rock.

Our driver is mightly not impressed.

The army is called in, with what we are told is a crane, but looks more similar to something you’d find in a Meccano set. Needless to say their efforts are futile. And eventually they just decide to push it further down the hill and sort it out later (go India!)

Hurrah though! Our road is clear, and led by a man in a rather large turban we navigate our way through the single track road, lined with every conceivable vehicle possible against a drop unmeasurable. Time to not look down again.

Driver at this point is in a bit of a rage, foreseeing not being able to get home in time for Eastenders, he drives like a boy racer in a mini bus. No gap too tight, no bump too light, and no bass too quiet.

At this point we’re subjected to Enrique Englasias’ album. Need I say more.

We’re pushing 2am now, and driver has become delirious, no amount of dodgy driving or Michael Jackson can keep him awake. We pull over at a cafe on top of a mountain, where we’re supplied with blankets and a pillow and made to lie down on the benches to catch a few hours kip, all for the grand total of 25 rupees each (30p..)

Daylight graces us with its prescence once again, a grumbly mum accuses me of cover stealing (which is UNTRUE by the way..) Loo duties have to happen in a 3-sided bit of corrugated iron. Rough. And on we go.

Today takes us up over 5,200 metres, over the 2nd highest road in the world, through 2 glaciers, past a frozen lake, through a plateau of goat herds, with a quick stop at the highest mechanics in the world, 4 sick stops, and a bump taken so fast it catapults the mother into the roof.

She.was.not.impressed.

And so, hours and hours, miles and miles, piss stops and piss stops later we arrive in Leh.

Which you’ll be pleased to hear is wiked, and we aren’t going anywhere for weeks.

Did someone say plane?

x

A walk on the wild side

This is a picture of Rum, a 69 year old guy who took us out for a trek up to his house in the mountains yesterday to show us his cow. Each day he walks the 5 mile round journey up the mountain and back to attend his Apple orchard, feed his cow, and keep a check on his wife who lives up the mountain (and isn’t the cow if you were wondering..)

He’s lived in the same village all his life, as did his dad, and his dad’s dad, and the one before that.

Thought you guys might like to see his face!