CHILE, Santiago/Valpariso, Saturday 25th August
South America, what have a learned so far? Well all those Spanish lessons weren't for nothing, Pisco Sours are delicious, Chilean buses are very luxurious and when the Lonely Planet warns me that I might get mugged I ought to listen...
I'm not sure if being mugged by 10 year olds makes it better or worse. Obviously it doesn't do much for the old pride but 20 year olds might have made more of an impact, so to speak.
It was a miserable rainy day in Santiago so I thought I'd try out the weather in Valpariso. The town is a humming port and also generally accepted as the cultural capital of Chile. Most of its buildings are heritage listed and it came highly recommended by guide books and fellow travellers so I went to check it out.
As soon as we left the valley in which Santiago sits, the clouds lifted and sun shone. We drove along through valleys between the foothills of the Andes, past huge vineyards and arrived in Valpariso 2 hours later. Easy peasy.
Whilst sipping a cafe con leche and watching people bustling about on the docks I consulted my good friend the Lonely Planet which suggested a circular walk that took in the best sights. As some of you may know, the Lonely Planet is an indispensable guide but their maps leave much to be desired.
I huffed and puffed my way up several steep hills away from the crowds and down pretty, if scruffy, cobbled streets lined with shabby houses painted bright colours. There were some good views of the harbour, the weather was beautiful and all was well with the world. After a time though I began to feel I'd wandered a little off pist. There were no cars whistling at me any longer - yes their cars actually have a horn that wolf whistles, very clever - and not many people either. Hmmm. A young guy approached me and said in broken English
'Please, round here much steal, be careful.' Yes yes I know that's what everyone's told me, I'm not stupid, I thought, thanked him, turned a corner and bash! 3 kids hurled themselves at me. I was on a fairly steep hill and they had me over pretty easily. A grim tug of war ensued over my camera, which was strapped to me. They won leaving me sitting on the road forlornly clutching the strap that I had wrapped around my hand in the struggle. I was less than impressed, as you can imagine but my only thought really was that I still had my bag and I suspected I was in an area where the saying 'lightning never strikes the same place twice' rule did not apply. I hot-footed it back down the main road to the harbour, took a steep lift up to another gorgeous part of town and licked my wounds in a friendly cafe. I felt a little shaken and extremely foolish.
I spent the rest of the day pottering around this safer, more touristy area. Neat, cheerfully painted little houses, steep cobbled streets, I would up load some photos but, well...
So there is my wake up call I guess. Day 3, pretty impressive, well done Kate. Still, I've learned my lesson and promise to be much more careful from now on.
Mugging aside though I am having a great time here in Chile so far. Santiago is a nice town, especially the Barrio Brazil where I am staying, lots of old colonial mansions, slightly derelict but picturesquely so, friendly little cafes full of locals and some buzzy bars.
I climbed the Convent-come-Military Bastion: Cerro Santa Lucia, which winds its way in a chaotic manner past the neo-classical Terrazzo Neptune (fountains a-squirting), along crenulated archways and up steep steps cut into the rock, right up to the pinnacle on which sits a rather sombre church and any number of courting couples lurking in grottos and between rocks. The view ought to be spectacular, being the highest point in Santiago, but the smog blocked out anything that might have resembled a mountain and merely gave a view of Santiago´s uninteresting skyline. I picked my way down around the lovers and teenage pot smokers and left them to it.
Yesterday a fellow backpacker and I went to have a look at what Santiago had to offer in the way of its art collection. Housed in a very grand building are some bored-looking Spanish colonial ladies and, as promised by the Lonely Planet, some bleak landscapes and a whole load of contemporary stuff which was lost on us as we really needed to be able to read the explanations. Still, it was fun poking around and having a good guess.
I had my 1st South American steak at a fantastic local restaurant, full to bursting with gabbling chileans slurping yummy wine and eating steak that bled satifactoraly all over the plates. Huge chunks of meat! I look forward to more of that...
Two of my companions were very keen to, ahem, ´commune´ with the locals and so the rest of went along for the ride and followed pretty Chilean girls to Santiago hotspots where we danced until the early hours to latin beats.
Today a had a fantastic flight over the Andes, cloudless skys and breathtaking views of snowy peaks. And now I´m in Buenos Aries and it is cold and wet. I celebrated my arrival by finding a hostel, curling up in bed and watching Harry Potter. Not formost on the ´to do´ list for Buenos Aries I know but I am still sleep deprived due to jet lag and not keen to catch a cold just before Posy joins me.
Tomorrow I suppose I´d better go shopping for a new camera...
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
CHILE, Santiago, Wednesday 22nd August
So goodbye Australia and Buenos Dias LAN Air. Well, eventually. I was delayed for 3 hours. Between avoiding the advances of a persistent Philippino Film maker I found myself a quite corner and began to ponder on past and future adventures. 6 months into my travels, eek! That is worth pause for reflection I think...
Ok so camel riding in the Rajasthan desert, the Taj Mahal, I've been painted bright pink with 'playing Holi', stayed with Burmese hill tribes in the north of Thailand, boated, floated and swam down the Mekong, taught Cambodian children who to read 'The Flopsy Bunnies', sped around the highlands of Vietnam on the back of a honda and drunk rice wine with a village chief, I've danced the sun up on a beach covered in glow paint, seen an opera at the Sydney Opera House, chased a dingo (kinda) and cuddled a koala... It is really hard to imagine how I can top all that.
Well, finally we took off and landed a few hour later in Auckland where I wandered around inspecting numerous sheep-themed merchandise before re-boarding the plane for my longest flight yet. As if to set the scene my neighbour introduced himself and announced that he was a part of a dancing troupe touring the world performing, you've guessed it, the Argentinean Tango. Very appropriate. I was bourne into Santiago discussing Tango lessons in Buenos Aires and writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The scene for my South American adventure has been rather well set...
Once we landed, bemused and travel weary, we were bustled about taken to cash points and sorted into minivans where a cheerful driver handed out sweets and drove us to through the industrial clutter of the outer burbs, river lined with piles of rubbish, snow capped mountains appearing faintly through the smog on either side, into Santiago. We passed through narrow cobbled streets lined with Spanish colonial mansions, pizzas with parks and playgrounds and I began to feel that I was very much back in Europe. Much closer to home, in one way and in another even further removed. I find myself in a country where English is not the language of choice and I am a little uncertain of how and where to start. Having said that, when sitting in a little cafe drinking cafe con leche served to me by a moustached and smiling waiter, bouncy latino pop music thumping in the background I can't help feeling pleased to be here. So far, me gustsa.
So goodbye Australia and Buenos Dias LAN Air. Well, eventually. I was delayed for 3 hours. Between avoiding the advances of a persistent Philippino Film maker I found myself a quite corner and began to ponder on past and future adventures. 6 months into my travels, eek! That is worth pause for reflection I think...
Ok so camel riding in the Rajasthan desert, the Taj Mahal, I've been painted bright pink with 'playing Holi', stayed with Burmese hill tribes in the north of Thailand, boated, floated and swam down the Mekong, taught Cambodian children who to read 'The Flopsy Bunnies', sped around the highlands of Vietnam on the back of a honda and drunk rice wine with a village chief, I've danced the sun up on a beach covered in glow paint, seen an opera at the Sydney Opera House, chased a dingo (kinda) and cuddled a koala... It is really hard to imagine how I can top all that.
Well, finally we took off and landed a few hour later in Auckland where I wandered around inspecting numerous sheep-themed merchandise before re-boarding the plane for my longest flight yet. As if to set the scene my neighbour introduced himself and announced that he was a part of a dancing troupe touring the world performing, you've guessed it, the Argentinean Tango. Very appropriate. I was bourne into Santiago discussing Tango lessons in Buenos Aires and writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The scene for my South American adventure has been rather well set...
Once we landed, bemused and travel weary, we were bustled about taken to cash points and sorted into minivans where a cheerful driver handed out sweets and drove us to through the industrial clutter of the outer burbs, river lined with piles of rubbish, snow capped mountains appearing faintly through the smog on either side, into Santiago. We passed through narrow cobbled streets lined with Spanish colonial mansions, pizzas with parks and playgrounds and I began to feel that I was very much back in Europe. Much closer to home, in one way and in another even further removed. I find myself in a country where English is not the language of choice and I am a little uncertain of how and where to start. Having said that, when sitting in a little cafe drinking cafe con leche served to me by a moustached and smiling waiter, bouncy latino pop music thumping in the background I can't help feeling pleased to be here. So far, me gustsa.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
AUSTRALIA, Melbourne (see entry below for Sydney and the Blue Mountains)
If, like Charley, you are searching for some confirmation that you are in Australia and haven't, after 2 months in Asia, done a full circle and come back to England, Melbourne might not be the place to come. Especially in winter.
When I was suffering from similar concerns in Sydney, I was able to round a corner and come face to face with the Harbour or Opera House, which was reassuring. In Melbourne it is harder. There are no 'postcard' landmarks to remind you where you are. As you pull your coat round you, glance up at the grey sky and dive into a welcoming looking pub, complete with roaring fire, it can be tricky to convince yourself that you are anywhere other than England.
I do not mean this as a criticism by any means, merely an observation. I think Melbourne is a great city. It is not as picturesque as Sydney and does not have any 'show-stoppers' like the Opera House but it is a pleasing city to explore. It offers plenty of little bohemian nooks, crammed full of funky cafes, bars, vintage clothes shops and galleries, all pleasantly casual and some nicely scruffy. I can sit on a slightly fraying sofa in a cosy cafe, walls adorned with flyers for music gigs, fringe theater and alternative therapies, drinking good coffee and eating delicious food without parting with very much money. I can sit for hours over the same cup of tea without anyone batting an eyelid.
Generally the whole place feels much more laid back, just not so different from London. It even has its Arts Centre spread along South Bank...
In order to pinch myself, and reassert the ozziness of my location, I booked myself onto a 'Melbourne must' a trip along the Great Ocean Road.
At 7.30am I was scooped into a minibus by a very cheerful guide called Chris who enthusiastically welcomed us all abored and chatted merrily as he bore us West out of Melbourne.
We had a fantastic day, which seemed as long as 3 by the time I was deposited back at my hostel at 9.00 that night. Our first stop was morning coffee at Bells Beach, a world famous surfing mecca, supposedly featured in the film 'Point Break'(although actually filmed elsewhere). With the wind ripping around us we hugged our tea and marvelled at the surfers, tiny black specs amongst the swells being flipped about like bath toys, and wondered at their sanity.
A quick stop at the lighthouse where children's TV show 'Round the Twist' was filmed (some of you may remember it) and off onto the Great Ocean Road. It is a spectacular drive which winds its hair-pin way along the coast, up along cliffs and aside beautiful unspoiled bays, lined with steep green hillsides. Stunning.
We stopped for lunch at a little caravan park cafe where Chris said he'd eat his glasses if we didn't see any wild koalas. He was right. Up in the trees all around the site where little grey lumps of fur, mostly fast asleep. I was rather disappointed to have my rumour that they are constantly drunk on eucalyptus and sleepin it off (occasionally falling gout of a tree and killing someone as a result of their stupor) quashed. The boring fact is that the leaves they eat are so indigestible that they are forced to sleep for 20 hours a day in order for their bodies to break down the fibres of their diet. So to catch one awake is pretty lucky, to catch up away with a baby even luckier. We were lucky on both counts. Awwww
After lunch we drove inland and up into the rain forest where Chris took us for a walk through a lattice-work of prehistoric tree ferns, criss-crossing above our heads as we scuttled along the forest floor quietly fearful we may disturb a nearby snoozing TRex, or at least I was.
We all dozed for an hour on the bus while the tireless Chris drove, awakening us by giving us a history of The 12 Apostles.
The 12 Apostles are large rock stacks in the ocean. There were 12 but since then 3 have collapsed. They had originally been named 'The Sow and her Piglets' but the tourist board did not deem this name suitable for a popular tourist attraction and so they remaned it The 12 Apostles. The name has no religious reasons as such and, considering the unstable nature of the rocks, to call them The 12 Apostles leaves them potentially liable to claims of false advertising. I think the 1st name was better, if rather unromantic.
Anyway, none of it matter really because they were just a dramatically beautiful as all the guide books promised. The early evening light was just behind them, the turbulent water thundered beneath them and the effect was satisfactory to say the least.
We had one last stop to a shipwreck cove, the coastline around that stretch is extremely perilous and not one to sail around on a dark night... and then it was the 2 hour drive back to Melbourne. Few. Chris put a film on for us and chirpily dropped us off at our various hostels where we all came to rest exhausted.
The rest of my time in Melbourne past all too quickly hangin' out with Charley and before I knew it I was back on the 12 hour bus to Sydney where I received yet another lovely warm welcome from Roger and Co. My room waiting for me again. It will be hard to leave but I am looking forward to it too.
Next stop: South America!
If, like Charley, you are searching for some confirmation that you are in Australia and haven't, after 2 months in Asia, done a full circle and come back to England, Melbourne might not be the place to come. Especially in winter.
When I was suffering from similar concerns in Sydney, I was able to round a corner and come face to face with the Harbour or Opera House, which was reassuring. In Melbourne it is harder. There are no 'postcard' landmarks to remind you where you are. As you pull your coat round you, glance up at the grey sky and dive into a welcoming looking pub, complete with roaring fire, it can be tricky to convince yourself that you are anywhere other than England.
I do not mean this as a criticism by any means, merely an observation. I think Melbourne is a great city. It is not as picturesque as Sydney and does not have any 'show-stoppers' like the Opera House but it is a pleasing city to explore. It offers plenty of little bohemian nooks, crammed full of funky cafes, bars, vintage clothes shops and galleries, all pleasantly casual and some nicely scruffy. I can sit on a slightly fraying sofa in a cosy cafe, walls adorned with flyers for music gigs, fringe theater and alternative therapies, drinking good coffee and eating delicious food without parting with very much money. I can sit for hours over the same cup of tea without anyone batting an eyelid.
Generally the whole place feels much more laid back, just not so different from London. It even has its Arts Centre spread along South Bank...
In order to pinch myself, and reassert the ozziness of my location, I booked myself onto a 'Melbourne must' a trip along the Great Ocean Road.
At 7.30am I was scooped into a minibus by a very cheerful guide called Chris who enthusiastically welcomed us all abored and chatted merrily as he bore us West out of Melbourne.
We had a fantastic day, which seemed as long as 3 by the time I was deposited back at my hostel at 9.00 that night. Our first stop was morning coffee at Bells Beach, a world famous surfing mecca, supposedly featured in the film 'Point Break'(although actually filmed elsewhere). With the wind ripping around us we hugged our tea and marvelled at the surfers, tiny black specs amongst the swells being flipped about like bath toys, and wondered at their sanity.
A quick stop at the lighthouse where children's TV show 'Round the Twist' was filmed (some of you may remember it) and off onto the Great Ocean Road. It is a spectacular drive which winds its hair-pin way along the coast, up along cliffs and aside beautiful unspoiled bays, lined with steep green hillsides. Stunning.
We stopped for lunch at a little caravan park cafe where Chris said he'd eat his glasses if we didn't see any wild koalas. He was right. Up in the trees all around the site where little grey lumps of fur, mostly fast asleep. I was rather disappointed to have my rumour that they are constantly drunk on eucalyptus and sleepin it off (occasionally falling gout of a tree and killing someone as a result of their stupor) quashed. The boring fact is that the leaves they eat are so indigestible that they are forced to sleep for 20 hours a day in order for their bodies to break down the fibres of their diet. So to catch one awake is pretty lucky, to catch up away with a baby even luckier. We were lucky on both counts. Awwww
After lunch we drove inland and up into the rain forest where Chris took us for a walk through a lattice-work of prehistoric tree ferns, criss-crossing above our heads as we scuttled along the forest floor quietly fearful we may disturb a nearby snoozing TRex, or at least I was.
We all dozed for an hour on the bus while the tireless Chris drove, awakening us by giving us a history of The 12 Apostles.
The 12 Apostles are large rock stacks in the ocean. There were 12 but since then 3 have collapsed. They had originally been named 'The Sow and her Piglets' but the tourist board did not deem this name suitable for a popular tourist attraction and so they remaned it The 12 Apostles. The name has no religious reasons as such and, considering the unstable nature of the rocks, to call them The 12 Apostles leaves them potentially liable to claims of false advertising. I think the 1st name was better, if rather unromantic.
Anyway, none of it matter really because they were just a dramatically beautiful as all the guide books promised. The early evening light was just behind them, the turbulent water thundered beneath them and the effect was satisfactory to say the least.
We had one last stop to a shipwreck cove, the coastline around that stretch is extremely perilous and not one to sail around on a dark night... and then it was the 2 hour drive back to Melbourne. Few. Chris put a film on for us and chirpily dropped us off at our various hostels where we all came to rest exhausted.
The rest of my time in Melbourne past all too quickly hangin' out with Charley and before I knew it I was back on the 12 hour bus to Sydney where I received yet another lovely warm welcome from Roger and Co. My room waiting for me again. It will be hard to leave but I am looking forward to it too.
Next stop: South America!
Sunday, July 29, 2007
AUSTRALIA, Sydney (written 31st July)
How hard it is to draw myself away from the luxuries of family living once again. Returning to Sydney was like coming home. Another warm welcome from Roger, Joanne, Sam, Alexi and James. They have made me feel so much a part of the family here, my little room was all ready for me and plans were quickly put in place for showing me the famouse Blue Mountains before I galloped off to Melbourne.
This morning I was up bright and early (remarkable considering lack of sleep after the inevitable Saturday night) and gliding along in Roger's cosy car out of Sydney and up into the Mountains. "They are not looking very blue today," lamented Joanne but they looked pretty damn blue to me and quite breathtaking. View points are dotted along the cliffs, jutting out on pinicals over huge valleys and canyons coated in thick bushland and they do indeed have a bluish tinge, a result of the rising vapours from the eucalyptus. The scale is what had me clutching to the railings of my overhang and breathing "wow". The space is truly emmense, over 1,000,000 hectares of sandstone peaks and deep-cut valleys, a proportion of it still unexplored. It makes you feel painfully small. Anyway, we 'did it' in a very civilised way for so cold a day, and with so short a time availble. We drove to the pretty little town of Leura for a delicious brunch and surveyed the Three Sisters from what Joanne assured me was the best vantage point, tourist-free. She was right, the town on the other side was a chaos of tour busses and jostling bodies all struggling to grab a peak. We sailed past happily to more remote cliff-tops and photo opps.
On our way back to Sydney we stopped at the home of late Norman Lindsay an artist, engraver and illustrator of the children's book series "The Magic Pudding" (familier to those growing up in Australia in the middle part of the last century). Along with his children's illustrations he spent most of his time paying a questionable tribute to the female form. Based New South Wales he created quite a storm with his daring potraials of wicked-looking nymphs and strumpets with spikey, deamon-like features, limbs akimbo. His large garden was full of buxom, betailed pan-like figures lurking in the undergrowth and frolicing around his huge Roman aphitheatre-style swimming pool. A workaholic and doubtless impossible man, his sucess could mainly be attributed to by his industrious second wife who got him organised and sold his work. In a moment of wavering wifly loyalty, she scarpered to America with a trunk load of his best pieces. On the train the box in which there were stowed caught fire. When faced with the singed images, the train porters where so horrifed that such 'filth' could be transported into their country that the merely fed the flames leaving nothing but a pile of ashes and a rather sheepish Mrs Lindsay who returned to Australia and broke the news to her husband.
"Nevermind," he said "I'll just have to start again." This, I think, goes to show a degree of patience that is bordering on saintly and must make up for his tricky artistic temprement. He painted well into his 80s.
So another wonderful week in Sydney...
And now off to Melbourne to lounge in arty cafes and catch up with Adam and Charley.
How hard it is to draw myself away from the luxuries of family living once again. Returning to Sydney was like coming home. Another warm welcome from Roger, Joanne, Sam, Alexi and James. They have made me feel so much a part of the family here, my little room was all ready for me and plans were quickly put in place for showing me the famouse Blue Mountains before I galloped off to Melbourne.
This morning I was up bright and early (remarkable considering lack of sleep after the inevitable Saturday night) and gliding along in Roger's cosy car out of Sydney and up into the Mountains. "They are not looking very blue today," lamented Joanne but they looked pretty damn blue to me and quite breathtaking. View points are dotted along the cliffs, jutting out on pinicals over huge valleys and canyons coated in thick bushland and they do indeed have a bluish tinge, a result of the rising vapours from the eucalyptus. The scale is what had me clutching to the railings of my overhang and breathing "wow". The space is truly emmense, over 1,000,000 hectares of sandstone peaks and deep-cut valleys, a proportion of it still unexplored. It makes you feel painfully small. Anyway, we 'did it' in a very civilised way for so cold a day, and with so short a time availble. We drove to the pretty little town of Leura for a delicious brunch and surveyed the Three Sisters from what Joanne assured me was the best vantage point, tourist-free. She was right, the town on the other side was a chaos of tour busses and jostling bodies all struggling to grab a peak. We sailed past happily to more remote cliff-tops and photo opps.
On our way back to Sydney we stopped at the home of late Norman Lindsay an artist, engraver and illustrator of the children's book series "The Magic Pudding" (familier to those growing up in Australia in the middle part of the last century). Along with his children's illustrations he spent most of his time paying a questionable tribute to the female form. Based New South Wales he created quite a storm with his daring potraials of wicked-looking nymphs and strumpets with spikey, deamon-like features, limbs akimbo. His large garden was full of buxom, betailed pan-like figures lurking in the undergrowth and frolicing around his huge Roman aphitheatre-style swimming pool. A workaholic and doubtless impossible man, his sucess could mainly be attributed to by his industrious second wife who got him organised and sold his work. In a moment of wavering wifly loyalty, she scarpered to America with a trunk load of his best pieces. On the train the box in which there were stowed caught fire. When faced with the singed images, the train porters where so horrifed that such 'filth' could be transported into their country that the merely fed the flames leaving nothing but a pile of ashes and a rather sheepish Mrs Lindsay who returned to Australia and broke the news to her husband.
"Nevermind," he said "I'll just have to start again." This, I think, goes to show a degree of patience that is bordering on saintly and must make up for his tricky artistic temprement. He painted well into his 80s.
So another wonderful week in Sydney...
And now off to Melbourne to lounge in arty cafes and catch up with Adam and Charley.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
AUSTRALIA, Queensland - New South Wales (see entry below for Fraser Island)
Back in Brizzy I was met off the bus bronzed and triumphant by Jonathan who took me out for a lunch of Vietnamese noodle soup, very welcome after 3 days of beef. I spent my last night in Bris-Vagas in a most bohemim way: Back in Jonathan's friend Don's Queenslander huddled in a corner by a heater sipping tea and watching the 'boys' play a very serious and totally incomprehensible game of cards.
And then farewell Queensland. Despite all my little quibbles with it I was sad to leave. I have had a great few weeks. It was lovely to spend time with my Grandfather and Kathy, who has had to put up with a constant stream of people traipsing through on a daily basis and has produced some wonderful meals, oh how I shall miss home cooking when I am back on the road again... Jeanie organised us all so well, I loved spending time with Jordie and Briony and it was great to see all three brothers: Jamie, Jonathan and Tim together for a change. Geography dictates that it was a rare family reunion.
My Grandfather and Kathy refused to let me take a bus into town with my heavy bag and Kathy kindly escorted me to the bus station in a taxi. We grabbed a quick coffee, snatching a brief moment to have a good chat before I charged off down the coast. I shall miss Mount Ommaney, not to mention the Centenary Shopping Centre...
Next stop: Byron Bay. I followed two fellow travellers to a beautiful guesthouse near the centre of town with small immaculate rooms and set off to see Australia's most easterly point, Cape Byron. In the golden evening light we climbed the headland and reached the summit and lighthouse just as the sun was setting. Byron Bay is a lovely stretch of beach and from our view point we surveyed the darkening swells of the ocean, the keen surfers little black dots amongst the waves and felt glad to be up on the hillside awash with orange sunlight absorbing the final warmth before the sun, and heat, vanished. Feeling extremely pleased with ourselves we descended back into town to sample a touch of the famous Byron nightlife. The town itself isn't pretty, just another beach town really but without the gaudy coloured high-rises of Surfer's Paradise and the Gold Coast and it has a pleasant laid-back feel. As for the evening's entertainments, well that was watching the scantily-clad girls strut and boys pose with decreasing finesse as the alcohol took control of their limbs and laughed at them from a safe distance.
I had been trying to meet up with Jazz so after a day pottering about in Byron and eating yummy sushi I was on a night bus headed for Foster, a coastal town a few hours north of Sydney where Jazz was lodged with a troublesome if charming 19 year old from Fulham...
Back in Brizzy I was met off the bus bronzed and triumphant by Jonathan who took me out for a lunch of Vietnamese noodle soup, very welcome after 3 days of beef. I spent my last night in Bris-Vagas in a most bohemim way: Back in Jonathan's friend Don's Queenslander huddled in a corner by a heater sipping tea and watching the 'boys' play a very serious and totally incomprehensible game of cards.
And then farewell Queensland. Despite all my little quibbles with it I was sad to leave. I have had a great few weeks. It was lovely to spend time with my Grandfather and Kathy, who has had to put up with a constant stream of people traipsing through on a daily basis and has produced some wonderful meals, oh how I shall miss home cooking when I am back on the road again... Jeanie organised us all so well, I loved spending time with Jordie and Briony and it was great to see all three brothers: Jamie, Jonathan and Tim together for a change. Geography dictates that it was a rare family reunion.
My Grandfather and Kathy refused to let me take a bus into town with my heavy bag and Kathy kindly escorted me to the bus station in a taxi. We grabbed a quick coffee, snatching a brief moment to have a good chat before I charged off down the coast. I shall miss Mount Ommaney, not to mention the Centenary Shopping Centre...
Next stop: Byron Bay. I followed two fellow travellers to a beautiful guesthouse near the centre of town with small immaculate rooms and set off to see Australia's most easterly point, Cape Byron. In the golden evening light we climbed the headland and reached the summit and lighthouse just as the sun was setting. Byron Bay is a lovely stretch of beach and from our view point we surveyed the darkening swells of the ocean, the keen surfers little black dots amongst the waves and felt glad to be up on the hillside awash with orange sunlight absorbing the final warmth before the sun, and heat, vanished. Feeling extremely pleased with ourselves we descended back into town to sample a touch of the famous Byron nightlife. The town itself isn't pretty, just another beach town really but without the gaudy coloured high-rises of Surfer's Paradise and the Gold Coast and it has a pleasant laid-back feel. As for the evening's entertainments, well that was watching the scantily-clad girls strut and boys pose with decreasing finesse as the alcohol took control of their limbs and laughed at them from a safe distance.
I had been trying to meet up with Jazz so after a day pottering about in Byron and eating yummy sushi I was on a night bus headed for Foster, a coastal town a few hours north of Sydney where Jazz was lodged with a troublesome if charming 19 year old from Fulham...
Monday, July 23, 2007
AUSTRALIA, Qeensland//Fraser Island 24th July
"Ok guys, don't drive into the ocean and don't feed the dingos. See you in three days"
One minute I am at a punk gig with my 3 uncles and a whole crew of aging rockers, (giggling at the bouncing bald patches of the fans as they bounced up and down in vigorous appreciation of The Saints) the next I am in a bright pink 4x4 with 6 people I've just met bouncing along a sandy track on the world's largest sand dune.
After a couple of weeks of hard core 'family stuff' and the luxury of not having to make any decisions I found myself once again adrift and directionless with only me as a guide. We had a lovely final dinner all together, Kathy cooking up quite a storm for the masses, and everyone began to scatter. My parents to Japan, Tim soon to Beijing, it was time too for me to get back on the road again.
With a few days to kill before I was due back to Sydney I thought I'd follow the enthusiastic recommendations and head over to Fraser Island. Within minutes of my arrival at Hervey Bay I had been recruited to fill the last place in a jeep that was to leave the following morning. Clutching our happy hour 'stubbies' we were all introduced, given a safety briefing, focusing mainly on the disadvantages of damaging the 4x4, and told to wrap up warm because it was going to be freezing.
Bright and early the following morning we elected a driver, piled in and set off for the ferry via a stop at the supermarket to stock up on 3 days worth of food and (yes of course) booze.
3 Koreans, 3 Germans, 2 Irish, 2 Canadians, 1 Italian, 1 American 1 girl from Taiwan and moi. Gears grinding we set off bunny-hopping along the narrow sandy tracks through the woodlanded interior of Fraser Island.
Our first day took us to Lake Wabby. Still, green waters, almost deserted, it was enclosed with forest on one side but had steep sand dunes sweeping down to its banks on the other, down which, if you were not afraid of the cold, could be sprinted to land you with a splash in the otherwise still, crocodile free (I'm promised) water. I was content to take photos and shout encouragement. Tides dictated much of our movements so we set off in good time to reach our camping spot in plenty of time and avoid attempting to erect tents in the sudden darkness that descended at 6.00. The drive to our campsite along the beach was across beautiful wet sands reflecting a sparkling mauve sunset, not surprisingly we set up tents feeling very jovial and a night of festivities commenced...
After a bitterly cold night (thank God I brought 2 sleeping bags) we were up early with the sun in order to pack up and get to the Champagne Pools - large rock pools up the coast - before the tide rose any further and we were stuck for the day. We climbed up Indian Head overlooking the sea and watched dolphins and whales cavorting in the serf. No sharks spotted but we had been assured that plenty were around and the water was very much no-go. So we frolicked (briefly) in the shark-free Champagne Pools and caught some rays before mosying back down the coast stopping to inspect the remains of a 70 year old abandoned ship and multicoloured sand canyons.
We had camping down to a fine art by now and we were set up and fed much more efficiently than the previous night. We were, however, camped in a lonelier spot and our cooking smells attracted some unwelcome guests. I am not proud to reveal that, when it comes to dingos, I am something of a wimp. When the boys were playing football and a hungry female came trotting into camp I am afraid that me and another girl sprang behind the jeep and cowered as the braver girls shooed it away. Throughout the night they became bolder and it took more and more to frighten them off although the camp was then manned by brave boys, happy to demonstrate their heroism.
We spent our final hours on Fraser Island lying on the banks of stunning Lake Mackenzie a huge, glass-like, blue water lake surrounded by fine white sand. Inspired by a tourist brochure we spent an entertaining hour building a cross-dressing sandman called Fred and then spread ourselves on the sand to luxuriate in the sunshine before it was time to catch the ferry back to the mainland.
We returned to our hostel elated and one piece, much relieved to find that we had not done any damage to the 4x4s and delighted to all pile into one rowdy dorm, have the hot showers we'd been fantasising about sleep in real beds under blankets. A wonderful 3 days.
"Ok guys, don't drive into the ocean and don't feed the dingos. See you in three days"
One minute I am at a punk gig with my 3 uncles and a whole crew of aging rockers, (giggling at the bouncing bald patches of the fans as they bounced up and down in vigorous appreciation of The Saints) the next I am in a bright pink 4x4 with 6 people I've just met bouncing along a sandy track on the world's largest sand dune.
After a couple of weeks of hard core 'family stuff' and the luxury of not having to make any decisions I found myself once again adrift and directionless with only me as a guide. We had a lovely final dinner all together, Kathy cooking up quite a storm for the masses, and everyone began to scatter. My parents to Japan, Tim soon to Beijing, it was time too for me to get back on the road again.
With a few days to kill before I was due back to Sydney I thought I'd follow the enthusiastic recommendations and head over to Fraser Island. Within minutes of my arrival at Hervey Bay I had been recruited to fill the last place in a jeep that was to leave the following morning. Clutching our happy hour 'stubbies' we were all introduced, given a safety briefing, focusing mainly on the disadvantages of damaging the 4x4, and told to wrap up warm because it was going to be freezing.
Bright and early the following morning we elected a driver, piled in and set off for the ferry via a stop at the supermarket to stock up on 3 days worth of food and (yes of course) booze.
3 Koreans, 3 Germans, 2 Irish, 2 Canadians, 1 Italian, 1 American 1 girl from Taiwan and moi. Gears grinding we set off bunny-hopping along the narrow sandy tracks through the woodlanded interior of Fraser Island.
Our first day took us to Lake Wabby. Still, green waters, almost deserted, it was enclosed with forest on one side but had steep sand dunes sweeping down to its banks on the other, down which, if you were not afraid of the cold, could be sprinted to land you with a splash in the otherwise still, crocodile free (I'm promised) water. I was content to take photos and shout encouragement. Tides dictated much of our movements so we set off in good time to reach our camping spot in plenty of time and avoid attempting to erect tents in the sudden darkness that descended at 6.00. The drive to our campsite along the beach was across beautiful wet sands reflecting a sparkling mauve sunset, not surprisingly we set up tents feeling very jovial and a night of festivities commenced...
After a bitterly cold night (thank God I brought 2 sleeping bags) we were up early with the sun in order to pack up and get to the Champagne Pools - large rock pools up the coast - before the tide rose any further and we were stuck for the day. We climbed up Indian Head overlooking the sea and watched dolphins and whales cavorting in the serf. No sharks spotted but we had been assured that plenty were around and the water was very much no-go. So we frolicked (briefly) in the shark-free Champagne Pools and caught some rays before mosying back down the coast stopping to inspect the remains of a 70 year old abandoned ship and multicoloured sand canyons.
We had camping down to a fine art by now and we were set up and fed much more efficiently than the previous night. We were, however, camped in a lonelier spot and our cooking smells attracted some unwelcome guests. I am not proud to reveal that, when it comes to dingos, I am something of a wimp. When the boys were playing football and a hungry female came trotting into camp I am afraid that me and another girl sprang behind the jeep and cowered as the braver girls shooed it away. Throughout the night they became bolder and it took more and more to frighten them off although the camp was then manned by brave boys, happy to demonstrate their heroism.
We spent our final hours on Fraser Island lying on the banks of stunning Lake Mackenzie a huge, glass-like, blue water lake surrounded by fine white sand. Inspired by a tourist brochure we spent an entertaining hour building a cross-dressing sandman called Fred and then spread ourselves on the sand to luxuriate in the sunshine before it was time to catch the ferry back to the mainland.
We returned to our hostel elated and one piece, much relieved to find that we had not done any damage to the 4x4s and delighted to all pile into one rowdy dorm, have the hot showers we'd been fantasising about sleep in real beds under blankets. A wonderful 3 days.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
AUSTRALIA, Brisbane/Queensland 11th July
I do wonder who it was who 1st looked out over the untamed mass of Australian bush, scorched by an unforgiving sun, ravished by bush fires, kangaroos bounding about in the foreground and thought to himself: "What I really feel like right now is a Devonshire Tea."
Well someone certainly thought it and it has caught on like, well,a bush fire. Picturesque view points around the Glasshouse mountains are, it would seem, incomplete without one and you just make damn sure that you sit nicely at the table and don't even think about trying to wander off in the direction of the wild kangaroos, to see them from a different perspective, you will get shouted at. And it is not just cream teas but Aunty Maureen's Fudge and Hot Meat Pies, their incongruity rendering them absurd but also rather endearing. Like wandering back into an Enid Blyton novel that's found itself in rather a surprising landscape.
All this I observed from the back seat of our hire car as we pootled up towards the fashionable beach town of Noosa, in a caravan of family-laden vehicles. In one car: my father driving, Jeannie, my oldest uncle Jamie's wife directing and me in the back with my 12 year old cousin Briony both plugged in and enjoying the ride. In the other car, leading the way is my uncle Jamie, my Grandfather, my mother and 14 year old cousin Jordie who is very certain which side of the back seat is his and will not be moved. In this merry manner we spent a happy day seeing some of the northern Queensland coastline. I glimpsed a few of the surviving 'Queenslanders' (fine wooden houses on stilts with beautiful wide verandas) and admired the gorgeous sweeping white-sanded Pacific beaches whilst struggling to ignore the concrete of the beach-side towns and villages looming over us which destroyed the effect somewhat. Surf culture has its draw-backs.
Back to Brisbane. My Sydney friends, a little dismissively, refer to Brisbane as "Bris-Vegas" due to its reputation for being tacky and full of, well, not much. My middle uncle Jonathan has done his damnedest to disprove this theory, displaying a patriotism that I found surprising for one who spends most of his time living in Valencia. After coffee at the 'bohemian West End' strolling around the pedestrianised shopping areas Down Town, tea in a beautiful old Queenslander, Saturday morning breakfast in the trendy Valley and a day exploring the Art Galleries of the smartly set out South Bank I am in a position to argue. To an extent.
The major downside, as far as I can see, to Brisbane is the manner in which it has been developed. Town planning failed tragically and the result is that the old and new live together awkwardly, unlike Sydney where the two have been married together nicely. Like an American town, Brisbane has sprawled, mile after mile of suburbs, wide, low rise concrete units, industrial estates, shopping centres and drive throughs. Amoungst this rubble beautiful streets containing surving Queenslanders cower, increasingly boxed in by the incessant development and throwing up of apartment blocks obscuring a once beautiful view of the river, the best view of which is from a highway which they have seen fit to build along its banks.
Having said all of that, however, I have been lucky enough to see some great parts of Brizzy too. The city centre has a nice buzz to it and the pleasing atmostphere of a city on the up. The South Bank has been very neatly put together and houses some good galleries. The Valley on a Saturday was heaving with young hungover folk catching up over eggs and bacon and perusing the markets in preparation for a night out at one of the many clubs and bars in the area. There is fun to be had, culture to be absorbed and to top it all off I am off to a Punk gig with Jonathan and his ageing rocker buddies in the campus of the Queensland University in a week. That will gather me some ammo for the Sydneyites... Perhaps.
Bisbane also has the huge advantage of being where my family are and there is a lot to be said for that. A family "barbie in the backyard" (for the real Ozzy 'experience') excursions with Jonathan, a good catch up with my now 90 year old Grandfather, and a chance to get to know my little cousins better. My parents and I have also been having some great evenings in in our little 'serviced apartment' eating much-missed home-cooked food and catching up properly before they head off to Japan (and typhoons... eek).
We had a family jaunt up to O'Rilies in the mountains along the south coast of Queensland over the weekend. Another spectacular drive through vast, sun-scorched plains, stunning views of golden valleys and into dense forest as we climbed.
An evening tree-top walk in the crisp, icy air on arrival and a beautiful sunset viewed from Jamie and Jeanie's jungle lodge sitting room with panoramic views (to be enjoyed inside sipping wine in warmth and comfort).
The following day I was straining at the leash to explore more jungle and find some waterfalls (can't resist them) so I set out with Jeanie, Jamie, Briony, Jordie, Jonathan and Dad as far as the 1st waterfall where a good-natured Jonathn and I split from the collective and embarked on an 18km hike. After Kao Sok the going was a doddle, clear paths, no leaches and waterfalls at every step, I counted 11 so even I couldn't miss them. We charged around and managed to be back in time for tea. All gathered again, Jonathan slunk off to catch his breath (discreetly, not one to outdone by his little niece) and the rest of us compared notes as we struggled to salvage cake and mini meat pies from the jaws of Jordie who gathers, devours and, if necessary, fights for food with the determination common to 14 year old boys mid growth-spurt.
Once again we huddled in front of the fire and enjoyed another sunset and cheerful baramundi dinner in celebration of Dad's exam results.
Then goodbye O'Rilies and off in different directions. One car to the airport to meet youngest uncle Tim off his flight from Beijing, the other home via Tamborine Mountain and the other car, including me, off to Dream World.
Briony was kind enough to include me in her birthday treat to the vast theme park so after a moderate breakfast (terrified about it reappearing) we drove off in the direction of an enormous tower which loomed over the motorway growing alarmly as we approached...
I now know how it feels to plummet 39 storeys and now understand the eerie silence in which its passengers ride the Giant Drop. you leave your scream at the top and are capable of not much more thn a whimper until you reach the bottom and get that gratifying rush of adrenline when you discover that you have survived after all. Most exhilerating. We had a great time being thrown around, turned upside down and being shot out of things at insane speeds and returned to the Family Fold full of excitment and gabbering about our adventures, to which our good natured family listend without comprehension.
I do wonder who it was who 1st looked out over the untamed mass of Australian bush, scorched by an unforgiving sun, ravished by bush fires, kangaroos bounding about in the foreground and thought to himself: "What I really feel like right now is a Devonshire Tea."
Well someone certainly thought it and it has caught on like, well,a bush fire. Picturesque view points around the Glasshouse mountains are, it would seem, incomplete without one and you just make damn sure that you sit nicely at the table and don't even think about trying to wander off in the direction of the wild kangaroos, to see them from a different perspective, you will get shouted at. And it is not just cream teas but Aunty Maureen's Fudge and Hot Meat Pies, their incongruity rendering them absurd but also rather endearing. Like wandering back into an Enid Blyton novel that's found itself in rather a surprising landscape.
All this I observed from the back seat of our hire car as we pootled up towards the fashionable beach town of Noosa, in a caravan of family-laden vehicles. In one car: my father driving, Jeannie, my oldest uncle Jamie's wife directing and me in the back with my 12 year old cousin Briony both plugged in and enjoying the ride. In the other car, leading the way is my uncle Jamie, my Grandfather, my mother and 14 year old cousin Jordie who is very certain which side of the back seat is his and will not be moved. In this merry manner we spent a happy day seeing some of the northern Queensland coastline. I glimpsed a few of the surviving 'Queenslanders' (fine wooden houses on stilts with beautiful wide verandas) and admired the gorgeous sweeping white-sanded Pacific beaches whilst struggling to ignore the concrete of the beach-side towns and villages looming over us which destroyed the effect somewhat. Surf culture has its draw-backs.
Back to Brisbane. My Sydney friends, a little dismissively, refer to Brisbane as "Bris-Vegas" due to its reputation for being tacky and full of, well, not much. My middle uncle Jonathan has done his damnedest to disprove this theory, displaying a patriotism that I found surprising for one who spends most of his time living in Valencia. After coffee at the 'bohemian West End' strolling around the pedestrianised shopping areas Down Town, tea in a beautiful old Queenslander, Saturday morning breakfast in the trendy Valley and a day exploring the Art Galleries of the smartly set out South Bank I am in a position to argue. To an extent.
The major downside, as far as I can see, to Brisbane is the manner in which it has been developed. Town planning failed tragically and the result is that the old and new live together awkwardly, unlike Sydney where the two have been married together nicely. Like an American town, Brisbane has sprawled, mile after mile of suburbs, wide, low rise concrete units, industrial estates, shopping centres and drive throughs. Amoungst this rubble beautiful streets containing surving Queenslanders cower, increasingly boxed in by the incessant development and throwing up of apartment blocks obscuring a once beautiful view of the river, the best view of which is from a highway which they have seen fit to build along its banks.
Having said all of that, however, I have been lucky enough to see some great parts of Brizzy too. The city centre has a nice buzz to it and the pleasing atmostphere of a city on the up. The South Bank has been very neatly put together and houses some good galleries. The Valley on a Saturday was heaving with young hungover folk catching up over eggs and bacon and perusing the markets in preparation for a night out at one of the many clubs and bars in the area. There is fun to be had, culture to be absorbed and to top it all off I am off to a Punk gig with Jonathan and his ageing rocker buddies in the campus of the Queensland University in a week. That will gather me some ammo for the Sydneyites... Perhaps.
Bisbane also has the huge advantage of being where my family are and there is a lot to be said for that. A family "barbie in the backyard" (for the real Ozzy 'experience') excursions with Jonathan, a good catch up with my now 90 year old Grandfather, and a chance to get to know my little cousins better. My parents and I have also been having some great evenings in in our little 'serviced apartment' eating much-missed home-cooked food and catching up properly before they head off to Japan (and typhoons... eek).
We had a family jaunt up to O'Rilies in the mountains along the south coast of Queensland over the weekend. Another spectacular drive through vast, sun-scorched plains, stunning views of golden valleys and into dense forest as we climbed.
An evening tree-top walk in the crisp, icy air on arrival and a beautiful sunset viewed from Jamie and Jeanie's jungle lodge sitting room with panoramic views (to be enjoyed inside sipping wine in warmth and comfort).
The following day I was straining at the leash to explore more jungle and find some waterfalls (can't resist them) so I set out with Jeanie, Jamie, Briony, Jordie, Jonathan and Dad as far as the 1st waterfall where a good-natured Jonathn and I split from the collective and embarked on an 18km hike. After Kao Sok the going was a doddle, clear paths, no leaches and waterfalls at every step, I counted 11 so even I couldn't miss them. We charged around and managed to be back in time for tea. All gathered again, Jonathan slunk off to catch his breath (discreetly, not one to outdone by his little niece) and the rest of us compared notes as we struggled to salvage cake and mini meat pies from the jaws of Jordie who gathers, devours and, if necessary, fights for food with the determination common to 14 year old boys mid growth-spurt.
Once again we huddled in front of the fire and enjoyed another sunset and cheerful baramundi dinner in celebration of Dad's exam results.
Then goodbye O'Rilies and off in different directions. One car to the airport to meet youngest uncle Tim off his flight from Beijing, the other home via Tamborine Mountain and the other car, including me, off to Dream World.
Briony was kind enough to include me in her birthday treat to the vast theme park so after a moderate breakfast (terrified about it reappearing) we drove off in the direction of an enormous tower which loomed over the motorway growing alarmly as we approached...
I now know how it feels to plummet 39 storeys and now understand the eerie silence in which its passengers ride the Giant Drop. you leave your scream at the top and are capable of not much more thn a whimper until you reach the bottom and get that gratifying rush of adrenline when you discover that you have survived after all. Most exhilerating. We had a great time being thrown around, turned upside down and being shot out of things at insane speeds and returned to the Family Fold full of excitment and gabbering about our adventures, to which our good natured family listend without comprehension.
Monday, June 25, 2007
AUSTRALIA - Sydney, 25th June
Wearing a jacket and tottering along, wincing from blisters induced by feet unaccustomed to shoes after 4 months, I walked through Hyde Park and down Oxford Street trying to shake the sensation that after my 4 months of adventures I was right back where I'd started: London. Then I'd turn a corner and be greeted by the stunning sparkling blue water of the harbour, the Opera House twinkling at me in the wintry sun light, a group of cockatoos strutting about, and be reassured that I was, in fact, on the other side of the world from home, although Australians have done their damdest to feverishly imitate it.
I was met at the airport and swept on a whistle-stop tour of the sites of Sydney by Roger and James, who were kind enough to wake up at 5am on a Friday morning to come and pick me up. I cruised in luxury through a beautiful, icy, winter morning thankful for comfortable seat and heating that was keeping my still flip-flopped toes warm.
In Sydney you get the impression that Australian has been chopped up and served to you in appealing bite-sized pieces, infused with longing references to Europe, particularly England. But Sydney remains its own city too. The Ozzy fashion is so cutting edge that my wallet has begun to bleed as I enthusiastically charge around glittering department stores 'cityfying' myself: Boots, hats, trousers and jackets replace flip-flops and Thai Fisherman Pants.
Asia is fading fast, alarmingly so, as I have plunged head first into the Sydney 'scene' laid open to me by obliging friends who 'know people' about town.
In the midst of the whirlwind, however, I have managed to find time to be reunited with my parents. In the reception of their very swanky hotel we bounced excitedly up and down, marvelling at the miles we have all travelled to enable this reunion on the other side of the world.
We had a happy few days together exploring Sydney, riding about on ferry boats, examining Australian Art at the Gallery of New South Wales and (in total abandonment of my backpacker status) an evening at the Opera House, where we saw a wonderful production of The Barber of Seville.
Yesterday, after yet another night on ze town, my parents tore me away from Sydney and marched me off to Brisbane for some hardcore family time and a bit of a detox...
I now find myself deep in the suburbs of Queensland. We are lodged in some 'serviced apartments' just opposite the Centenary Shopping Centre and I am once again reeling from culture shock. Some exploration of the coast to follow I think. I'm rather enjoying just going where I'm told...
Wearing a jacket and tottering along, wincing from blisters induced by feet unaccustomed to shoes after 4 months, I walked through Hyde Park and down Oxford Street trying to shake the sensation that after my 4 months of adventures I was right back where I'd started: London. Then I'd turn a corner and be greeted by the stunning sparkling blue water of the harbour, the Opera House twinkling at me in the wintry sun light, a group of cockatoos strutting about, and be reassured that I was, in fact, on the other side of the world from home, although Australians have done their damdest to feverishly imitate it.
I was met at the airport and swept on a whistle-stop tour of the sites of Sydney by Roger and James, who were kind enough to wake up at 5am on a Friday morning to come and pick me up. I cruised in luxury through a beautiful, icy, winter morning thankful for comfortable seat and heating that was keeping my still flip-flopped toes warm.
In Sydney you get the impression that Australian has been chopped up and served to you in appealing bite-sized pieces, infused with longing references to Europe, particularly England. But Sydney remains its own city too. The Ozzy fashion is so cutting edge that my wallet has begun to bleed as I enthusiastically charge around glittering department stores 'cityfying' myself: Boots, hats, trousers and jackets replace flip-flops and Thai Fisherman Pants.
Asia is fading fast, alarmingly so, as I have plunged head first into the Sydney 'scene' laid open to me by obliging friends who 'know people' about town.
In the midst of the whirlwind, however, I have managed to find time to be reunited with my parents. In the reception of their very swanky hotel we bounced excitedly up and down, marvelling at the miles we have all travelled to enable this reunion on the other side of the world.
We had a happy few days together exploring Sydney, riding about on ferry boats, examining Australian Art at the Gallery of New South Wales and (in total abandonment of my backpacker status) an evening at the Opera House, where we saw a wonderful production of The Barber of Seville.
Yesterday, after yet another night on ze town, my parents tore me away from Sydney and marched me off to Brisbane for some hardcore family time and a bit of a detox...
I now find myself deep in the suburbs of Queensland. We are lodged in some 'serviced apartments' just opposite the Centenary Shopping Centre and I am once again reeling from culture shock. Some exploration of the coast to follow I think. I'm rather enjoying just going where I'm told...
Sunday, June 24, 2007
THAILAND - Bangkok & Sukhothai Historical Park (16th - 20th June)
No one could be quite certain how long the bus from Khao Sok to Surat Thani would be, we were told anything from 1 1/2 hours to 4. Hmmm so we picked a time somewhere in the middle and still arrived with 6 hours to kill before our train to Bangkok. We passed it merrily enough by finding something that most resembled a bar and settling in. The our over-night train, with its dubious smells, and extremely welcome dining car, brought us into Bangkok where we dusted ourselves off, had breakfast and then left Kao San to the hippies and set off to see some more of the city, showing each other parts that the other hadn't explored yet. I showed Charley the spectacle of Lumpini Park at dusk, when they offer free aerobics classes to anyone and everyone. People come straight from work, solemnly set down their hand bags and proceed to have a coordinated seisure while trying to keep up with the lithe young instructor bouncing around on the stage. Cruelly we sat giggling by the sidelines taking photos.
By this time we had wandered, half intentionally, into Silom and towards Patpong, the famous Red Light District. It was time for a drink so we took a plunge, each of us emboldened by having the other as a body guard (Charley's need for one outweighing mine considerably). So in we went and did not re-emerge until we'd witnessed bored-looking girls doing rather alarming things with various props, had in-depth chats with pretty girls in bikinis with numbers stuck on their chest (I had a nice little dance with them) and it was 3am and enough was quite clearly enough. So we hailed an over-priced tuk-tuk and scampered back to the safety of Kao San content that we had 'done' that side of the Bangkok 'experience'.
By then we both felt that we'd exhausted Bangkok's attractions, I still had a few days before my flight to Sydney and so we decided to head up north to Sukhothai Historical Park, Central Thailand. A 7 hour bus journey through flat landscape and paddy fields and we were in the friendly but rather plain town of Sukhothai where we checked into a pretty little bungalow (Charley was relieved to find that the prices take a dramatic nose dive as you head up north).
Sukhothai was recognized as the first Thai kingdom and gained prominence and independence in 1238. Today all that remains of the city are the crumbling Wats and Buddhas that survived the fire that the Burmese used to destroy it. Now it is a picturesque woodland through which paths wind around trees and alongside lakes and moats with cows grazing around the ruins. Rather sad but very beautiful. We hired bikes and pottered around in the dripping heat trying to take interesting photos which did the old city justice.
Another night in our laid-back guesthouse and it was time to bid farewell to Charley as he took a bus up north to Chang Mai and I headed back down south to Bangkok and Kao San Road, for the last time, in readiness for my flight the following day to Sydney.
Farewell Asia! Rather sad to leave, it is the most crazy, beautiful, smelly, exhasperating, bewitching place and I have had an amazing 4 months.
Onwards now to the controlled order of Australia and a considerable drop in temperature...
No one could be quite certain how long the bus from Khao Sok to Surat Thani would be, we were told anything from 1 1/2 hours to 4. Hmmm so we picked a time somewhere in the middle and still arrived with 6 hours to kill before our train to Bangkok. We passed it merrily enough by finding something that most resembled a bar and settling in. The our over-night train, with its dubious smells, and extremely welcome dining car, brought us into Bangkok where we dusted ourselves off, had breakfast and then left Kao San to the hippies and set off to see some more of the city, showing each other parts that the other hadn't explored yet. I showed Charley the spectacle of Lumpini Park at dusk, when they offer free aerobics classes to anyone and everyone. People come straight from work, solemnly set down their hand bags and proceed to have a coordinated seisure while trying to keep up with the lithe young instructor bouncing around on the stage. Cruelly we sat giggling by the sidelines taking photos.
By this time we had wandered, half intentionally, into Silom and towards Patpong, the famous Red Light District. It was time for a drink so we took a plunge, each of us emboldened by having the other as a body guard (Charley's need for one outweighing mine considerably). So in we went and did not re-emerge until we'd witnessed bored-looking girls doing rather alarming things with various props, had in-depth chats with pretty girls in bikinis with numbers stuck on their chest (I had a nice little dance with them) and it was 3am and enough was quite clearly enough. So we hailed an over-priced tuk-tuk and scampered back to the safety of Kao San content that we had 'done' that side of the Bangkok 'experience'.
By then we both felt that we'd exhausted Bangkok's attractions, I still had a few days before my flight to Sydney and so we decided to head up north to Sukhothai Historical Park, Central Thailand. A 7 hour bus journey through flat landscape and paddy fields and we were in the friendly but rather plain town of Sukhothai where we checked into a pretty little bungalow (Charley was relieved to find that the prices take a dramatic nose dive as you head up north).
Sukhothai was recognized as the first Thai kingdom and gained prominence and independence in 1238. Today all that remains of the city are the crumbling Wats and Buddhas that survived the fire that the Burmese used to destroy it. Now it is a picturesque woodland through which paths wind around trees and alongside lakes and moats with cows grazing around the ruins. Rather sad but very beautiful. We hired bikes and pottered around in the dripping heat trying to take interesting photos which did the old city justice.
Another night in our laid-back guesthouse and it was time to bid farewell to Charley as he took a bus up north to Chang Mai and I headed back down south to Bangkok and Kao San Road, for the last time, in readiness for my flight the following day to Sydney.
Farewell Asia! Rather sad to leave, it is the most crazy, beautiful, smelly, exhasperating, bewitching place and I have had an amazing 4 months.
Onwards now to the controlled order of Australia and a considerable drop in temperature...
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
THAILAND - Khao Sok National Park (written from Bangkok, 20th June)
"The most beautiful National Park in Thailand" promised one website. Not much written about and rarely visited by the convoy of tourists that pass through it on route to Phuket and the islands, hard to resist really, especially with the promise of afore mentioned leeches. An adventure.
After consuming plenty of beer to ensure sleep, we hopped on the night ferry, an overloaded, rickety vessel that had us lying next to each other packed in tightly like sardines with a ceiling so low that you had to negotiate your way to the toilet on your hands and knees. Still, quite fun, or perhaps that was the beer. Apparently the boat went through a terrific storm in the night, the driver going at full pelt, the boat bouncing off huge waves. I say apparently because I slept soundly through the whole thing happily oblivious. Charley wasn't so lucky.
At 5.00am we staggered off the boat spent a few mysterious hours being shuffled on and off buses, driven in circles very slowly while being played loud pop music to stop us from nodding off until we were finally allowed onto the bus to Khao Sok.
After 2 weeks of beach life, the dense tangle of jungle, out of which rose high, craggy limestone cliffs, was so refreshing that we were not long installed in our pretty little jungle cabin (checked thoroughly by Charley of evidence of bugs or any other jungle life that might have crept in) before I was itching to explore. I dragged him, exhausted but good natured, into the jungle with those fatal words: "Let’s find that waterfall."
Any of you who might have read my previous entries might remember my other futile attempts at finding evasive waterfalls in South East Asia. My track record ain't great. With this in mind a 4km trek through thick and rather wild jungle might seem a little ambitious. But the path seemed sturdy enough and I was so exhilarated to be in a noisy, drippy rain forest (what is the difference between a rainforest and a jungle?) that we set off feeling optimistic, well I did, any misgivings that Charley had about the venture he kept to himself. 4km isn't that far after all...
No not that far, but baring in mind that it is 4km of track that became increasingly narrow and took us up and down into rivers, along deep ravines and through the undergrowth, stopping every few minutes to pick leeches off our unprotected flip-flop clad feet, you can see how it was slow going. We met some fellow jungle explorers coming the other way clad in the full regalia: Kaki shorts, long socks, walking sticks and thick boots. They eyed us with pitying contempt as we passed and revealed with some pride their blood-covered legs from giant leeches that they had had to burn off. Still, never to be defeated, even by darkening skies, rumbles of thunder and the threat that it wasn't that long before the sun would think about setting and we only had one liter of water between us that was running low, we pushed on. Dripping and exhausted we finally stumbled across the waterfall and had a well deserved dip in the icy water. We did not have long, however, because we still had the 4km trek back again. By now we were seasoned jungalists (not in the music sense) and made our way back to base without incident, our mutual leech checking becoming rather efficient. We stumbled into the open air gasping, gulped down bottles of water and collapsed exhausted, unused to such activity after the sleepiness of the islands. It had been a long day.
The following day we took things a little easier and followed nice wide tracks to the waterfalls and swimming holes closer to home. In the evening we sat by the fire in a deserted guest house talking to a chatting young guy who proudly told us that his jungle held tigers, wild elephants and bears. We were wondering what had left that alarmingly large pile of dung... We left him happily hunting frogs with a pitch fork and retired exhausted again and ready for another day of traveling.
"The most beautiful National Park in Thailand" promised one website. Not much written about and rarely visited by the convoy of tourists that pass through it on route to Phuket and the islands, hard to resist really, especially with the promise of afore mentioned leeches. An adventure.
After consuming plenty of beer to ensure sleep, we hopped on the night ferry, an overloaded, rickety vessel that had us lying next to each other packed in tightly like sardines with a ceiling so low that you had to negotiate your way to the toilet on your hands and knees. Still, quite fun, or perhaps that was the beer. Apparently the boat went through a terrific storm in the night, the driver going at full pelt, the boat bouncing off huge waves. I say apparently because I slept soundly through the whole thing happily oblivious. Charley wasn't so lucky.
At 5.00am we staggered off the boat spent a few mysterious hours being shuffled on and off buses, driven in circles very slowly while being played loud pop music to stop us from nodding off until we were finally allowed onto the bus to Khao Sok.
After 2 weeks of beach life, the dense tangle of jungle, out of which rose high, craggy limestone cliffs, was so refreshing that we were not long installed in our pretty little jungle cabin (checked thoroughly by Charley of evidence of bugs or any other jungle life that might have crept in) before I was itching to explore. I dragged him, exhausted but good natured, into the jungle with those fatal words: "Let’s find that waterfall."
Any of you who might have read my previous entries might remember my other futile attempts at finding evasive waterfalls in South East Asia. My track record ain't great. With this in mind a 4km trek through thick and rather wild jungle might seem a little ambitious. But the path seemed sturdy enough and I was so exhilarated to be in a noisy, drippy rain forest (what is the difference between a rainforest and a jungle?) that we set off feeling optimistic, well I did, any misgivings that Charley had about the venture he kept to himself. 4km isn't that far after all...
No not that far, but baring in mind that it is 4km of track that became increasingly narrow and took us up and down into rivers, along deep ravines and through the undergrowth, stopping every few minutes to pick leeches off our unprotected flip-flop clad feet, you can see how it was slow going. We met some fellow jungle explorers coming the other way clad in the full regalia: Kaki shorts, long socks, walking sticks and thick boots. They eyed us with pitying contempt as we passed and revealed with some pride their blood-covered legs from giant leeches that they had had to burn off. Still, never to be defeated, even by darkening skies, rumbles of thunder and the threat that it wasn't that long before the sun would think about setting and we only had one liter of water between us that was running low, we pushed on. Dripping and exhausted we finally stumbled across the waterfall and had a well deserved dip in the icy water. We did not have long, however, because we still had the 4km trek back again. By now we were seasoned jungalists (not in the music sense) and made our way back to base without incident, our mutual leech checking becoming rather efficient. We stumbled into the open air gasping, gulped down bottles of water and collapsed exhausted, unused to such activity after the sleepiness of the islands. It had been a long day.
The following day we took things a little easier and followed nice wide tracks to the waterfalls and swimming holes closer to home. In the evening we sat by the fire in a deserted guest house talking to a chatting young guy who proudly told us that his jungle held tigers, wild elephants and bears. We were wondering what had left that alarmingly large pile of dung... We left him happily hunting frogs with a pitch fork and retired exhausted again and ready for another day of traveling.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
THAILAND - Ko Pang Nang & Koh Tao, Monday 11th June
As no doubt most of you will have guessed, no news is generally good news, which would account for my silence over the last week or so. My silence can also be attributed to the general laid-backness of island life. One day blends into another with very little distiction and consequently not much to tell.
However, Jazz and I had a very happy time on Ko Pang Nang, sunning ourselves on the beach and bouncing around until the early hours as the season of Full Moon dictated. The only real shadow cast over our enjoyment was, I am ashamed to say, due to the conduct of my fellow countrymen. There is no escaping the fact that Ko Pang Nang is densly populated with highlighted and bronzed British rich-kids, somewhere between school and university. This wouldn't be so much of a problem if they weren't all behaving so badly.
My natural habitat lies dangerously close to the Kings Road and so I am more accustomed to the ways of some of these kids: Their cheerful oblivion to any outside influences and their stubborn determination to keep it just so. Jazz, however, was unprepared and consequently mortified at the obvious snub that we recieved every time we attempted civilities. As she became increasingly upset, I became increasingly embarassed and endeveoured to try and redeam Britishness to this characteristically friendly Australian who was rapidly going off and entire nation. I did my best.
The best way to discribe the Full Moon Party is to resort back to my university analogy which is appropriate, especially if you take in mind the age group of my fellow islanders.
From Fresher's Week to the Freshers Ball. People and drinks being distributed with equal freeness, casualties of over-indulgence strewn about and naked flesh cavorting in merky swimming pools in the early hours. Amidst the chaos is Jazz and me dancing on a table with Borat and 4 ladyboys dressed as sailors. I am also told that there is video footage of us on a blacony dancing up the sunrise. I would have expected nothing less.
So all lots of good fun and general silliness. Our week on Ko Pang Nang passed in a leisurly blur of parties and sunbathing. We were more than ready to hop over to Koh Tao for some less nocturnal activities and a spot of snorkelling. Koh Tao is a beautiful island with palm tree-covered peaks sloping down to white sands and tourquise waters. We spent a rather exhilerating couple of days clinging on to the back of dirt bikes while our drivers (two obliging essex boys) navigated us off-road to remote beaches and view points, which were beautiful - when I could bring myself to open my eyes, my driver could be a little over zealous with the throttle and seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.
On Wednesday I turned 25 and am less than impressed by my alarming marching of years. My day was chirped up however by an early start and trip to the ferry port to greet a long awaited and very familiar face. Charley arrived on Koh Tao exhausted after a nightmare journey and smarting slightly from the sever ripping off that he'd undergone on Kao San Road but happy to be on a remote island where everything is calmer. By this point we had gathered quite a little possie so I had a great birthday party.
Jazz and the boys left on Friday as the days are slipping by, I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that island life can be somewhat limited. Every self-indulgent whim is catered for, the setting is idylic but after my adventures over the last few months I find myself hankering for more. Fortunately Charley is about ready to leave the islands now too (with a little nudge). I fly to Sydney in just over a week which leaves me time for a few more adventures before I bid farewell to Asia...
We are heading over night back to the mainland where we make our way to Khoa Sok National Park for a couple of days (I could not resist the lure of waterfalls, lime stone cliffs and the promise of blood sucking leeches - Charley has his reservations). We then head up, through Bangkok again, to Sukhothai Historical Park where I shall ponder a few temples and a few last Wats before decending back to Bangkok and onwards to Oz.
I'll be busier so I promise I'll keep you updated.
As no doubt most of you will have guessed, no news is generally good news, which would account for my silence over the last week or so. My silence can also be attributed to the general laid-backness of island life. One day blends into another with very little distiction and consequently not much to tell.
However, Jazz and I had a very happy time on Ko Pang Nang, sunning ourselves on the beach and bouncing around until the early hours as the season of Full Moon dictated. The only real shadow cast over our enjoyment was, I am ashamed to say, due to the conduct of my fellow countrymen. There is no escaping the fact that Ko Pang Nang is densly populated with highlighted and bronzed British rich-kids, somewhere between school and university. This wouldn't be so much of a problem if they weren't all behaving so badly.
My natural habitat lies dangerously close to the Kings Road and so I am more accustomed to the ways of some of these kids: Their cheerful oblivion to any outside influences and their stubborn determination to keep it just so. Jazz, however, was unprepared and consequently mortified at the obvious snub that we recieved every time we attempted civilities. As she became increasingly upset, I became increasingly embarassed and endeveoured to try and redeam Britishness to this characteristically friendly Australian who was rapidly going off and entire nation. I did my best.
The best way to discribe the Full Moon Party is to resort back to my university analogy which is appropriate, especially if you take in mind the age group of my fellow islanders.
From Fresher's Week to the Freshers Ball. People and drinks being distributed with equal freeness, casualties of over-indulgence strewn about and naked flesh cavorting in merky swimming pools in the early hours. Amidst the chaos is Jazz and me dancing on a table with Borat and 4 ladyboys dressed as sailors. I am also told that there is video footage of us on a blacony dancing up the sunrise. I would have expected nothing less.
So all lots of good fun and general silliness. Our week on Ko Pang Nang passed in a leisurly blur of parties and sunbathing. We were more than ready to hop over to Koh Tao for some less nocturnal activities and a spot of snorkelling. Koh Tao is a beautiful island with palm tree-covered peaks sloping down to white sands and tourquise waters. We spent a rather exhilerating couple of days clinging on to the back of dirt bikes while our drivers (two obliging essex boys) navigated us off-road to remote beaches and view points, which were beautiful - when I could bring myself to open my eyes, my driver could be a little over zealous with the throttle and seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.
On Wednesday I turned 25 and am less than impressed by my alarming marching of years. My day was chirped up however by an early start and trip to the ferry port to greet a long awaited and very familiar face. Charley arrived on Koh Tao exhausted after a nightmare journey and smarting slightly from the sever ripping off that he'd undergone on Kao San Road but happy to be on a remote island where everything is calmer. By this point we had gathered quite a little possie so I had a great birthday party.
Jazz and the boys left on Friday as the days are slipping by, I am rapidly coming to the conclusion that island life can be somewhat limited. Every self-indulgent whim is catered for, the setting is idylic but after my adventures over the last few months I find myself hankering for more. Fortunately Charley is about ready to leave the islands now too (with a little nudge). I fly to Sydney in just over a week which leaves me time for a few more adventures before I bid farewell to Asia...
We are heading over night back to the mainland where we make our way to Khoa Sok National Park for a couple of days (I could not resist the lure of waterfalls, lime stone cliffs and the promise of blood sucking leeches - Charley has his reservations). We then head up, through Bangkok again, to Sukhothai Historical Park where I shall ponder a few temples and a few last Wats before decending back to Bangkok and onwards to Oz.
I'll be busier so I promise I'll keep you updated.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
THAILAND - Bangkok, Thursday 4th May
Wow. I'm suffering from an acute, reverse culture shock. Yesterday a hair-raising taxi ride (mainly in the wrong lane, towards oncoming traffic) brought me to Hanoi airport, where a smooth Air Asia flight swept me off to Thailand. I glimpsed Bangkok, while crawling through heavy traffic in an air conditioned shuttle bus, and was deposited at The Kao San Road.
Alex Garland, author of 'The Beach', describes the the Kao San Road as a sort of decompression chamber between East and West. It is a jumping off point from which to explore South East Asia and is consequently full of beaded, dreaded Travellers (yes, with a capital 'T') shuffling around looking bleary and bewildered. There are the aging hippies, who seem to be stuck here, the fresh-from-school kids, who travel in packs, delirious with excitement (and too much Sang Som), and the rest of us South East Asia trampers milling about from bar to clothes shop to Internet cafe, trying to figure out how to get to our next destination and having to pinch ourselves to remind ourselves where we are.
Jazz and I, happily reunited, wandered around the neon-lit, thumping streets feeling like two out-of-towners, marvelling at the bright lights, pounding western music and abundance of (tanned) white faces.
Travelling has come to remind me of university: Starting impromptu conversations with strangers, forming brief but significant friendships and loosing track of week days. If that is so, the The Kao San Road is the culmination of Fresher's Week. Everything is arranged for our entertainment with the sole aim of parting us with our baht. Movies play on loop in cafes with sofas, tour offices sell trips to the islands, bars churn out cheap, lethal cocktails and tattoo parlours are literally a-buzz, taking advantage of travellers' sense of abandonment which comes from being so far from home.
After my last few months in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam I find this jolt back to 'the West' a little unnerving and I'm feeling a little misplaced. It is also rather exhilarating. I can see how easy it is to get swept up in this surreal bubble but it is disconcerting when you can so easily forget where you are.
I'd better get used to it, however, there is a definite Full Moon Party buzz about the place at the moment so I suspect I've just found my travel companions for the next week or so...
Still, if you can't beat em, join em.
Wow. I'm suffering from an acute, reverse culture shock. Yesterday a hair-raising taxi ride (mainly in the wrong lane, towards oncoming traffic) brought me to Hanoi airport, where a smooth Air Asia flight swept me off to Thailand. I glimpsed Bangkok, while crawling through heavy traffic in an air conditioned shuttle bus, and was deposited at The Kao San Road.
Alex Garland, author of 'The Beach', describes the the Kao San Road as a sort of decompression chamber between East and West. It is a jumping off point from which to explore South East Asia and is consequently full of beaded, dreaded Travellers (yes, with a capital 'T') shuffling around looking bleary and bewildered. There are the aging hippies, who seem to be stuck here, the fresh-from-school kids, who travel in packs, delirious with excitement (and too much Sang Som), and the rest of us South East Asia trampers milling about from bar to clothes shop to Internet cafe, trying to figure out how to get to our next destination and having to pinch ourselves to remind ourselves where we are.
Jazz and I, happily reunited, wandered around the neon-lit, thumping streets feeling like two out-of-towners, marvelling at the bright lights, pounding western music and abundance of (tanned) white faces.
Travelling has come to remind me of university: Starting impromptu conversations with strangers, forming brief but significant friendships and loosing track of week days. If that is so, the The Kao San Road is the culmination of Fresher's Week. Everything is arranged for our entertainment with the sole aim of parting us with our baht. Movies play on loop in cafes with sofas, tour offices sell trips to the islands, bars churn out cheap, lethal cocktails and tattoo parlours are literally a-buzz, taking advantage of travellers' sense of abandonment which comes from being so far from home.
After my last few months in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam I find this jolt back to 'the West' a little unnerving and I'm feeling a little misplaced. It is also rather exhilarating. I can see how easy it is to get swept up in this surreal bubble but it is disconcerting when you can so easily forget where you are.
I'd better get used to it, however, there is a definite Full Moon Party buzz about the place at the moment so I suspect I've just found my travel companions for the next week or so...
Still, if you can't beat em, join em.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
VIETNAM - Hanoi, Tuesday 22nd May
I awoke yesterday morning to a cheery wave from the little girl in the bunk opposite me as we rattled through lime green rice fields, tinny musac being piped at me from hidden speakers. It was 6.00am, but at least I'd had some sleep. The evening before, my fellow travellers and I journey down the train, past increasing uncomfortable-looking seats, stepping over bodies, to the 'dining car' (a couple of tables and some boxes) for some beers. It was soon bedtime for the staff though so we crept back to our compritively luxurious quaters and retired.
We arrived at Hanoi at around 11.30 and were swept into town by a hopeful hotelier. Slightly guiltily, I accepted a very smart room complete with shiny bathroom (the irony of the 'American Standard' wash basin, juxtaposed with the red flags a fluttering outside made me smile) and cable TV. Still, for the equivalent of 4 pounds, I thought I could manage it.
We spent the afternoon exploring the Old Quater: Narrow streets packed with motor bikes and shops spilling out onto the pavement. Each street has a theme, be it sunglasses, shoes or toys, and is named accordingly. Frustrating when you are looking for sunglasses but all you can find is pipe cleaners. In the evening we sat out on the street on little plastic stools and sipped very cheap beer from a keg and watched Hanoi bustle past. When in Rome...
Today my friends departed for Halong Bay, I had to forgo the trip as I'm running out of time - always a problem - and so I set solo off to see some of the sights. My trusty Lonely Planet firmly pointed me in the direction of the Museum of Ethnology and so I dutifully headed out of town to see what it was all about.
Aside from offering a welcome sanctury from the growlings of a dissappointed moto driver, who was determined to over charge me, it was rather wonderful. A huge modern building divided into sections dedicated to the different ethnic groups that make up South East Asia and the history of their migration from different parts of the world. Outside there sprawled several examples of different villages, packed full of artifacts. They must have invested a huge amount into the museum, you could spend days there.
I departed, however, to have another argument with a moto and headed to the Ho Chi Minh Museum. A massive Art Decco pile of concrete and marble containging an imposing hall with a gold Ho Chi Minh saluting me as I climbed the stairs. There were some bizzare, stylised displays of ideology, most of which, being in Vietnamese, was lost on me, but I got the jist.
The Old Quater is built around a lake. Futher inspection of the lake I found myself at this afternoon after being dumped by another moto (grrr) revealed that it was infact the wrong one. Still, it was very pretty and surrounded by little cafes so I explored the leafy streets of this more affluent area for a short while before taking my final moto back to the Old Quater for a cup of coffee and spot of re-grouping.
As I was on my way to visit a restored Chiese-style house I heard my name and turned to see some people that I met in my last night in Hoi An. So that is my how-shall-I-kill-this-evening problem sorted.
Tomorrow I fly to Bangkok to be reunited with one of my fellow volunteers and head south to the Islands for some Full Mooning. At this rate I'm going to be Oz before I know it...
I awoke yesterday morning to a cheery wave from the little girl in the bunk opposite me as we rattled through lime green rice fields, tinny musac being piped at me from hidden speakers. It was 6.00am, but at least I'd had some sleep. The evening before, my fellow travellers and I journey down the train, past increasing uncomfortable-looking seats, stepping over bodies, to the 'dining car' (a couple of tables and some boxes) for some beers. It was soon bedtime for the staff though so we crept back to our compritively luxurious quaters and retired.
We arrived at Hanoi at around 11.30 and were swept into town by a hopeful hotelier. Slightly guiltily, I accepted a very smart room complete with shiny bathroom (the irony of the 'American Standard' wash basin, juxtaposed with the red flags a fluttering outside made me smile) and cable TV. Still, for the equivalent of 4 pounds, I thought I could manage it.
We spent the afternoon exploring the Old Quater: Narrow streets packed with motor bikes and shops spilling out onto the pavement. Each street has a theme, be it sunglasses, shoes or toys, and is named accordingly. Frustrating when you are looking for sunglasses but all you can find is pipe cleaners. In the evening we sat out on the street on little plastic stools and sipped very cheap beer from a keg and watched Hanoi bustle past. When in Rome...
Today my friends departed for Halong Bay, I had to forgo the trip as I'm running out of time - always a problem - and so I set solo off to see some of the sights. My trusty Lonely Planet firmly pointed me in the direction of the Museum of Ethnology and so I dutifully headed out of town to see what it was all about.
Aside from offering a welcome sanctury from the growlings of a dissappointed moto driver, who was determined to over charge me, it was rather wonderful. A huge modern building divided into sections dedicated to the different ethnic groups that make up South East Asia and the history of their migration from different parts of the world. Outside there sprawled several examples of different villages, packed full of artifacts. They must have invested a huge amount into the museum, you could spend days there.
I departed, however, to have another argument with a moto and headed to the Ho Chi Minh Museum. A massive Art Decco pile of concrete and marble containging an imposing hall with a gold Ho Chi Minh saluting me as I climbed the stairs. There were some bizzare, stylised displays of ideology, most of which, being in Vietnamese, was lost on me, but I got the jist.
The Old Quater is built around a lake. Futher inspection of the lake I found myself at this afternoon after being dumped by another moto (grrr) revealed that it was infact the wrong one. Still, it was very pretty and surrounded by little cafes so I explored the leafy streets of this more affluent area for a short while before taking my final moto back to the Old Quater for a cup of coffee and spot of re-grouping.
As I was on my way to visit a restored Chiese-style house I heard my name and turned to see some people that I met in my last night in Hoi An. So that is my how-shall-I-kill-this-evening problem sorted.
Tomorrow I fly to Bangkok to be reunited with one of my fellow volunteers and head south to the Islands for some Full Mooning. At this rate I'm going to be Oz before I know it...
Monday, May 21, 2007
VIETNAM - Hue (written from Hanoi) Monday 21st May
Although somewhat forgotten, the central coastal city of Hue served as the nation's capital for over a century. It has sprawled over to the South of Song Huong (Perfume River) but its key attraction is its 19th Century Citadel, which houses the Imperial Enclosure and Forbidden Purple City, used during the Nguyen Dynasty. Since then it has been left to crumble somewhat and took a sever battering from those pesky Americans. But it remains, historically, the cultural centre of Vietnam and, consequently, worth a butchers.
So, after another brief night's sleep (Hoi An seemed able to produce a couple of late night hot-spots after all) I took the 3 hour bus ride up north to Hue.
After a brief, much needed, power nap, I set off on foot in the direction of the Citadel. I was enjoying a nice amble along the river front through neat little gardens when my flip-flop broke. There is something totally absolute about a broken flip-flop. You can't hobble anywhere holding it on with your toe. No, one minute you are comfortably, and airily, shod, the next you are not. A cafe of locals witnessed my misfortune with characteristic giggles and sympathetic cluckings. As I stood there grinning awkwardly, a woman emerged with another pair and gave them to me. I love this country. Fortunately I found a cobbler and was able to return them on route to my destination.
The old city is walled and contains the Imperial Enclosure. Feeling lazy (and not trusting my footwear) I allowed myself to be pushed around the city in a cyclo. The afternoon was approaching evening and thunder clouds grumbled around the Citadel which, aside from the impressive walls and gate ways, spattering of American army tanks and guns and a big lilly pad-filled moat, did little to capture my imagination. The Imperial Enclosure itself was a little haphazard too. Due to the election the following day (May 20th), some event was being set up so I was a little distracted by rolls of cable, trestle tables and plastic dragons.
I wandered around deserted, over-grown gardens and ceremonial halls but felt rather unmoved and in the way, so I bid a retreat and returned to my hotel to see about a trip down the Perfume River to the tombs, the 'must do' of Hue.
That evening, while I was busy getting lost, I came across a rally. Red flags everywhere, hoards of people milling and 3 men in tuxedos on a big stage, bedecked with red banners, stood warbling "Vietnam! Vietnam" What I assumed to be there national anthem. People were wandering about looking mildly interested. I was relived, however, to not detect any inclinations to start throwing their arms in the air or hunting any 'suspect capitalists' to lynch...
The next morning I was up early and on a boat with fellow sight seers and a sweet, shy Vietnamese guide, and off down the Perfume River in hunt of tombs.
The tombs of the Nguyen Emperors are set along the banks of the river and are made more impressive by their setting amongst pine trees, surrounded by beautiful lakes. The solemn, over-sized tombs themselves have the customary air of being absurdly disproportionate to their content - the withered remains of a human being. I often stand at tombs and try and summon a sensation other than that but I am usually unsuccessful. Granted, I am yet to go to Egypt.
I happily contented myself with wandering around the lakes and through the pines, which gave the place a Mediterranean feel.
I returned to the hotel in time to find Cli and the other 2 Irish girls getting off the bus from Hoi An, laden with purchases. So we had an early dinner before I set off to the station, bumping into some people from my river trip on route. I have travel companions to Hanoi. Funny how it works out.
Although somewhat forgotten, the central coastal city of Hue served as the nation's capital for over a century. It has sprawled over to the South of Song Huong (Perfume River) but its key attraction is its 19th Century Citadel, which houses the Imperial Enclosure and Forbidden Purple City, used during the Nguyen Dynasty. Since then it has been left to crumble somewhat and took a sever battering from those pesky Americans. But it remains, historically, the cultural centre of Vietnam and, consequently, worth a butchers.
So, after another brief night's sleep (Hoi An seemed able to produce a couple of late night hot-spots after all) I took the 3 hour bus ride up north to Hue.
After a brief, much needed, power nap, I set off on foot in the direction of the Citadel. I was enjoying a nice amble along the river front through neat little gardens when my flip-flop broke. There is something totally absolute about a broken flip-flop. You can't hobble anywhere holding it on with your toe. No, one minute you are comfortably, and airily, shod, the next you are not. A cafe of locals witnessed my misfortune with characteristic giggles and sympathetic cluckings. As I stood there grinning awkwardly, a woman emerged with another pair and gave them to me. I love this country. Fortunately I found a cobbler and was able to return them on route to my destination.
The old city is walled and contains the Imperial Enclosure. Feeling lazy (and not trusting my footwear) I allowed myself to be pushed around the city in a cyclo. The afternoon was approaching evening and thunder clouds grumbled around the Citadel which, aside from the impressive walls and gate ways, spattering of American army tanks and guns and a big lilly pad-filled moat, did little to capture my imagination. The Imperial Enclosure itself was a little haphazard too. Due to the election the following day (May 20th), some event was being set up so I was a little distracted by rolls of cable, trestle tables and plastic dragons.
I wandered around deserted, over-grown gardens and ceremonial halls but felt rather unmoved and in the way, so I bid a retreat and returned to my hotel to see about a trip down the Perfume River to the tombs, the 'must do' of Hue.
That evening, while I was busy getting lost, I came across a rally. Red flags everywhere, hoards of people milling and 3 men in tuxedos on a big stage, bedecked with red banners, stood warbling "Vietnam! Vietnam" What I assumed to be there national anthem. People were wandering about looking mildly interested. I was relived, however, to not detect any inclinations to start throwing their arms in the air or hunting any 'suspect capitalists' to lynch...
The next morning I was up early and on a boat with fellow sight seers and a sweet, shy Vietnamese guide, and off down the Perfume River in hunt of tombs.
The tombs of the Nguyen Emperors are set along the banks of the river and are made more impressive by their setting amongst pine trees, surrounded by beautiful lakes. The solemn, over-sized tombs themselves have the customary air of being absurdly disproportionate to their content - the withered remains of a human being. I often stand at tombs and try and summon a sensation other than that but I am usually unsuccessful. Granted, I am yet to go to Egypt.
I happily contented myself with wandering around the lakes and through the pines, which gave the place a Mediterranean feel.
I returned to the hotel in time to find Cli and the other 2 Irish girls getting off the bus from Hoi An, laden with purchases. So we had an early dinner before I set off to the station, bumping into some people from my river trip on route. I have travel companions to Hanoi. Funny how it works out.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Boots, shoes, jackets, trousers, dresses...
I've been scampering around Hoi An like a kid in a sweet shop (or a woman in a town where clothes and shoes are tailor made, in abundance and dirt cheap). The magnetic lure of such a place could be fatal. It is not helped by the fact that Hoi An is a really beautiful little town: Narrow streets lined with crumbling French villas and Chinese Silk Merchants' houses, with thick, dark wooden balconies; little lantern adorned river-front restaurants twinkling appealingly and offering Hoi An culinary treats; A beautiful palm-treed, white sand beach just up the road... It would be easy to get stuck here.
Yesterday we hired bikes and pottered around the Old Town poking about in Pagodas, some of the old houses open to the public and little art galleries before returning to our friendly tailors and shoe makers to inspect our purchases.
Today we went to the beach and finally collected our booty, which is now strewn about all over the room. We are wondering how we are ever going to fit it all in our bags and how much we will get charged for being over weight. Time to leave I think.
So tonight we gather up some more Irish girls and some British boys and check out a few Hoi An 'hotspots' and then bright and early tomorrow I'm off to Hue and what I am told is the far from enchanting North. People I meet coming up from the South are, like us, full of praise for the beauty of the country and the friendliness of its people. Those coming down from the North, however, have a very different story to tell and are generally disenchanted with the place. It gets better for them and worse for us. But I remain optimistic. Watch this space...
I've been scampering around Hoi An like a kid in a sweet shop (or a woman in a town where clothes and shoes are tailor made, in abundance and dirt cheap). The magnetic lure of such a place could be fatal. It is not helped by the fact that Hoi An is a really beautiful little town: Narrow streets lined with crumbling French villas and Chinese Silk Merchants' houses, with thick, dark wooden balconies; little lantern adorned river-front restaurants twinkling appealingly and offering Hoi An culinary treats; A beautiful palm-treed, white sand beach just up the road... It would be easy to get stuck here.
Yesterday we hired bikes and pottered around the Old Town poking about in Pagodas, some of the old houses open to the public and little art galleries before returning to our friendly tailors and shoe makers to inspect our purchases.
Today we went to the beach and finally collected our booty, which is now strewn about all over the room. We are wondering how we are ever going to fit it all in our bags and how much we will get charged for being over weight. Time to leave I think.
So tonight we gather up some more Irish girls and some British boys and check out a few Hoi An 'hotspots' and then bright and early tomorrow I'm off to Hue and what I am told is the far from enchanting North. People I meet coming up from the South are, like us, full of praise for the beauty of the country and the friendliness of its people. Those coming down from the North, however, have a very different story to tell and are generally disenchanted with the place. It gets better for them and worse for us. But I remain optimistic. Watch this space...
Monday, May 14, 2007
Half a day on a bus, or 2 days on the back of a Honda with a night in a highland village drinking rice wine with the village chief... A bit of a no-brainer really. Not only did I have a chance to indulge my recently-discovered fondness for riding around on the back of motorbikes, but also a chance to some more remote parts of the highlands with a guide called Monkey. Hard to resist.
So bright and early on Sunday morning, Clio and I saddled up and vroom vroomed off into the mountains. We were amazingly lucky with the weather. After the torrential rain of the previous day, we expected it be rather damp going, but the sun shone brightly as we pootled down mountains and into valleys, stopping every so often to peer at a cinnamon tree, visit a silk factory, scramble down waterfalls or simply just to walk for a bit and regain the feeling in our legs.
Monkey and his mate Buffalo proved to be excellent guides. A real double act who teased us, told funny stories and giggle heartily at our attempts to learn Vietnamese.
We arrived at a pretty little farming village, tucked in a valley on a lake and surrounded by green rice fields, just in time to grab a beer, wade out to an upturned boat and sit and watch a beautiful sunset while the villagers fished, played football or just pottered around, smiling cheerily at us in greeting.
We had a hilarious evening together, joined by the village chief, a crazy little guy who knocked back rice whiskey, chatted away to us in Vietnamese and finally challenged Clio to a wrestling match (which she won). We then went outside to play Keepy-Uppy with everyone, we lost so bought them all ice creams. The young girls were shy but friendly and soon giggling at us two over-sized, clumsy westerners trying to play their game.
Abruptly (as it seems to happen in these remote spots) it turned 11.00pm and the power went out. Bed time. We slept on the floor of a bungalow on stilts, pigs rooting around in the mud beneath us.
Up bright and early yesterday morning for a truly beautiful ride down to Nah Trang, through green paddy fields with grazing buffalo and farmers in straw hats, up into mountains through wisps of cloud and, for a short time, along the Ho Chi Minh Trail and war-scarred hillsides. I can't really do it justice, I know my photos won't either but it was wonderful riding through the countryside in the open air, with the wind in our faces surrounded by such beauty. It will be one of my highlights of South East Asia.
We bid a sad farewell to Monkey and Buffalo when they dropped us at our guest house, we had such a good time together.
Nah Trang is a fairly major coastal town and quite a contrast to the little village of the previous night. We sampled the nightlife last night and then lay on the beach for most of today feeling sorry for ourselves. Tonight we are taking the 12 hour bus to Hoi An for a spot of shopping. Onwards and upwards.
So bright and early on Sunday morning, Clio and I saddled up and vroom vroomed off into the mountains. We were amazingly lucky with the weather. After the torrential rain of the previous day, we expected it be rather damp going, but the sun shone brightly as we pootled down mountains and into valleys, stopping every so often to peer at a cinnamon tree, visit a silk factory, scramble down waterfalls or simply just to walk for a bit and regain the feeling in our legs.
Monkey and his mate Buffalo proved to be excellent guides. A real double act who teased us, told funny stories and giggle heartily at our attempts to learn Vietnamese.
We arrived at a pretty little farming village, tucked in a valley on a lake and surrounded by green rice fields, just in time to grab a beer, wade out to an upturned boat and sit and watch a beautiful sunset while the villagers fished, played football or just pottered around, smiling cheerily at us in greeting.
We had a hilarious evening together, joined by the village chief, a crazy little guy who knocked back rice whiskey, chatted away to us in Vietnamese and finally challenged Clio to a wrestling match (which she won). We then went outside to play Keepy-Uppy with everyone, we lost so bought them all ice creams. The young girls were shy but friendly and soon giggling at us two over-sized, clumsy westerners trying to play their game.
Abruptly (as it seems to happen in these remote spots) it turned 11.00pm and the power went out. Bed time. We slept on the floor of a bungalow on stilts, pigs rooting around in the mud beneath us.
Up bright and early yesterday morning for a truly beautiful ride down to Nah Trang, through green paddy fields with grazing buffalo and farmers in straw hats, up into mountains through wisps of cloud and, for a short time, along the Ho Chi Minh Trail and war-scarred hillsides. I can't really do it justice, I know my photos won't either but it was wonderful riding through the countryside in the open air, with the wind in our faces surrounded by such beauty. It will be one of my highlights of South East Asia.
We bid a sad farewell to Monkey and Buffalo when they dropped us at our guest house, we had such a good time together.
Nah Trang is a fairly major coastal town and quite a contrast to the little village of the previous night. We sampled the nightlife last night and then lay on the beach for most of today feeling sorry for ourselves. Tonight we are taking the 12 hour bus to Hoi An for a spot of shopping. Onwards and upwards.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
VIETNAM - Da Lat (see below for cockroach whimper)
Bidding a cheery farewell to Mui Ne and its insect-life, I hopped on a bus to Da Lat; a town up in the mountains, the principle honeymoon destination in Vietnam and rather eccentric.
The drive was a beautiful, steep climb into lush mountains, the green trees set off nicely against the red earth. The air grew cooler and fresher, for which (after the pungent stench of Mui Ne that is famous for its fish sauce - and smells accordingly) I was extremely thankful. We vanished into the clouds and arrived in Da Lat in a torrential rain storm. The bus dropped us at a hotel (of course) and the friendly, chatty hotelier cheerfully showed us rooms, knowing that the rain was in his favour. Once again the rooms were a good size, clean and cheap and I was very excited to discover blankets on the beds and hot water in the taps. So we settled.
I have picked up (or was picked up by, I'm never sure how it works) by a nice Irish girl who is travelling the same route as me, which brings the living cost down significantly.
To make up for it we spent last night in a bar in the basement of a swish hotel. An amazing place, no doubt built for the homesick French. It was low ceilinged and cosy with thick stone walls and wooden beams, playing sentimental, warbling French music. Totally out of place and yet rather fitting in this chilly town up in the mountains.
Today looked promising weather-wise so we decided to hire a motor bike (Cliomadh being designated driver, me ineffective designated navigator). By the guidance of the handy landmark, a mini Eiffel Tower (yes really) we found and wandered around Boa Dai's Summer Palace, a 1930s pile of concrete that seemed to be designed with Function (with a capital 'F') in mind. More entertaining were the Vietnamese tourists who were dressing up in fancy costumes and solomly posing next to plastic elephants and horse-drawn buggies. Kitch (with a capital 'K'). Emboldened by our success, we set off in search of a waterfall. Halfway there, however, the clouds descended and the rain started pelting, so we about turned and opted for drier diversions such as the insane Hang Nga Art Gallery & Guesthouse and the local museum.
Dripping wet, despite our fetching plastic macs, we poked around the crazy Alice in Wonderland-style Hang Nga, up wonky stairs and stooping down higgldy piggldy passageways into bedrooms complete with leering animal models (some with disturbingly illuminated eyes) and mirrors on the ceiling. Rather warming to Obscure Kitch theme, we had lunch in similarly adorned cafe before heading through the relentless rain to the local museum.
The museum is in another old French Villa and contains various artifacts from local ethnic tribes. More entertaining, however, was the proprietor: A friendly Vietnamese woman with Cleopatra hair, a lot of eye make up and drawn-on eye brows. She welcomed us, introduced herself and became our self-appointed guide. After pointing out various pots and jugs she turned to me, surveyed me thoughtfully and said: "Slim, nice form. Like Asian."
"Thank you."
"Not like other English and Americans. Fat. You are beautiful."
I took and immediate liking to her but still winced at the perceived image of the west. We are so big and clumsy compared to their delicacy.
By now it was cold, we were wet and I'd lost the feeling in my fingers so we've returned to our guesthouse to dry off and discuss the various, exciting ways we can make our way to Nang Trang tomorrow...
Bidding a cheery farewell to Mui Ne and its insect-life, I hopped on a bus to Da Lat; a town up in the mountains, the principle honeymoon destination in Vietnam and rather eccentric.
The drive was a beautiful, steep climb into lush mountains, the green trees set off nicely against the red earth. The air grew cooler and fresher, for which (after the pungent stench of Mui Ne that is famous for its fish sauce - and smells accordingly) I was extremely thankful. We vanished into the clouds and arrived in Da Lat in a torrential rain storm. The bus dropped us at a hotel (of course) and the friendly, chatty hotelier cheerfully showed us rooms, knowing that the rain was in his favour. Once again the rooms were a good size, clean and cheap and I was very excited to discover blankets on the beds and hot water in the taps. So we settled.
I have picked up (or was picked up by, I'm never sure how it works) by a nice Irish girl who is travelling the same route as me, which brings the living cost down significantly.
To make up for it we spent last night in a bar in the basement of a swish hotel. An amazing place, no doubt built for the homesick French. It was low ceilinged and cosy with thick stone walls and wooden beams, playing sentimental, warbling French music. Totally out of place and yet rather fitting in this chilly town up in the mountains.
Today looked promising weather-wise so we decided to hire a motor bike (Cliomadh being designated driver, me ineffective designated navigator). By the guidance of the handy landmark, a mini Eiffel Tower (yes really) we found and wandered around Boa Dai's Summer Palace, a 1930s pile of concrete that seemed to be designed with Function (with a capital 'F') in mind. More entertaining were the Vietnamese tourists who were dressing up in fancy costumes and solomly posing next to plastic elephants and horse-drawn buggies. Kitch (with a capital 'K'). Emboldened by our success, we set off in search of a waterfall. Halfway there, however, the clouds descended and the rain started pelting, so we about turned and opted for drier diversions such as the insane Hang Nga Art Gallery & Guesthouse and the local museum.
Dripping wet, despite our fetching plastic macs, we poked around the crazy Alice in Wonderland-style Hang Nga, up wonky stairs and stooping down higgldy piggldy passageways into bedrooms complete with leering animal models (some with disturbingly illuminated eyes) and mirrors on the ceiling. Rather warming to Obscure Kitch theme, we had lunch in similarly adorned cafe before heading through the relentless rain to the local museum.
The museum is in another old French Villa and contains various artifacts from local ethnic tribes. More entertaining, however, was the proprietor: A friendly Vietnamese woman with Cleopatra hair, a lot of eye make up and drawn-on eye brows. She welcomed us, introduced herself and became our self-appointed guide. After pointing out various pots and jugs she turned to me, surveyed me thoughtfully and said: "Slim, nice form. Like Asian."
"Thank you."
"Not like other English and Americans. Fat. You are beautiful."
I took and immediate liking to her but still winced at the perceived image of the west. We are so big and clumsy compared to their delicacy.
By now it was cold, we were wet and I'd lost the feeling in my fingers so we've returned to our guesthouse to dry off and discuss the various, exciting ways we can make our way to Nang Trang tomorrow...
If someone was to grant one of our earth's more disgusting creatures the power of flight, I fail to see why they neglected to give them any navigational skills to boot. There is something quite mesmerising about the incompetence of a cockroach in flight. It sits very still for a long time and then some impulse hurls it into the air , as if by accident. Seemingly surprised, and unsettled, to find itself air-born, it crashes about noisily banging into things before settling, dazed once more to recover itself, before repeating the whole business again. When you know full well that your face could easily be the next impact spot, you find yourself watching this giant tumbling insect with trance-like terror. This was exactly what I was doing while I finished blogging the other day, when I finally lost my nerve, hurridly paid up and scuttled past the offending bug (now come to rest on the floor) and made my exit before he once more resumed flight. I do not posses the presence of mind, or inclination, of the Vietnamese to simply pick them up and throw them outside. I am pathetic I know, but really, you should see them, they are huge.
Until now I had got off rather lightly on the insect front. Creepy crawlies did not show themselves in the abundance I had expected from South East Asia. But the rainy season has been established for a couple of months in Vietnam and I suspect that has something to do with it.
Sandflies too have launched a major offensive and I have watched with a mixture of awe and alarm as the unsightly blotches on my legs, as a result of constant nibbling, have swollen up, joined together and thrown a party which no amount of Witch Hazel can subdue. This leads to frantic midnight fidgeting. Far from pleasant.
So, with this in mind, I left the sultry, muggy coast and headed for the breezy relief of the highlands...
Until now I had got off rather lightly on the insect front. Creepy crawlies did not show themselves in the abundance I had expected from South East Asia. But the rainy season has been established for a couple of months in Vietnam and I suspect that has something to do with it.
Sandflies too have launched a major offensive and I have watched with a mixture of awe and alarm as the unsightly blotches on my legs, as a result of constant nibbling, have swollen up, joined together and thrown a party which no amount of Witch Hazel can subdue. This leads to frantic midnight fidgeting. Far from pleasant.
So, with this in mind, I left the sultry, muggy coast and headed for the breezy relief of the highlands...
Thursday, May 10, 2007
VIETNAM - Mui Ne (Second Saigon post just below)
Mui Ne is a beach resort town, popular due to its convienient distance from Ho Chi Minh and note-worthy because of its expansive sand dunes which span the indland side of the town. Aside from that it is unremarkable. The long, narrow town lies along 9kms of beach and seems to be entirly made up of beach resorts, souvenir shops and restaurants, all of which seem spookily empty.
We were tipped off the bus straight into one of the resorts (owned by the bus company of course) and we were surprised to find it rather pretty, right on the beach, clean and cheap. So we settled in and spent the rest of the afternoon on the quite-nice beach and swimming i the less-than-clean water - too many plastic bags for my liking. The evening failed to produce much in the way of entertainment, aside from a hair-raising, near-death experience on the back of a moto, so we sipped beer on our little balcony and had an early night.
Seeing as sand dunes seemed to be what Mui Ne is all about, we decided that we'd better go and look at them. So we stumbled, bleerily out into the darkness and into a waiting jeep at 5.00am this morning to bounce our way, gears screaching, to the White Sand dune to observe an overcast sunrise. Despite the uncertain weather, it was very beautiful. We sat perched on a dune overlooking a lake that was lined with what looked oddly like pine trees and watched a family of dogs scamper busily in the foreground while the sun did its best.
We were then rattled off to the Red Canyon, a bizarre little canyon made from bright red sand, which formed shapes very much like those of melting candels in Chianti bottles. I discoverd that, only being made of compressed sand, parts of the canyon could be snapped off and disintergrated in your hand, which lead to a brief moment of gleefull meaningless demolition of parts of the 'mountain' making us feel like giants. Fun.
At the Yellow Dune we were accosted by small boys commaning us to "Slide down, slide down' on thier offered boards. This quickly became simply: "Give money, give money" when they saw we weren't inclined to strap ourselves to sheets of plastic and hurl ourselves off dunes (tempting though) and finally "F**k you, f**k you when they realised that we weren't adherring to any of their requests. Nice. So we scampered from there and took refuge in the insanely picturesque fishing village all a-bob with little painted boats, the locals obligingly wearing triangular straw hats and scurrying around, oblivious to us, the only westerners. We were only noticed by 2 children selling sea shells. They smiled broadly at me, gave me one as a present and waved cheerly as our driver drove us, gawping in amazement, away.
Back for a wade in the Fairy Stream, why it is named that I don't know but it was nice nonetheless. And then it was breakfast time so we returned to our guest house, by now only 8.00am. Few!
We got a bit of sunning in on the beach before the heavens opened and, dodging between rain drops, Philp bid me farewell and got the bus back to Ho Chi Minh leaving me scribbling my diary.
Now, as I write this, the rain thumps down still and I am watching with mounting alarm as a huge flying cockroach is banging its way into the wall towards me...
Off into the highlands tomorrow and more bugs no doubt.
Mui Ne is a beach resort town, popular due to its convienient distance from Ho Chi Minh and note-worthy because of its expansive sand dunes which span the indland side of the town. Aside from that it is unremarkable. The long, narrow town lies along 9kms of beach and seems to be entirly made up of beach resorts, souvenir shops and restaurants, all of which seem spookily empty.
We were tipped off the bus straight into one of the resorts (owned by the bus company of course) and we were surprised to find it rather pretty, right on the beach, clean and cheap. So we settled in and spent the rest of the afternoon on the quite-nice beach and swimming i the less-than-clean water - too many plastic bags for my liking. The evening failed to produce much in the way of entertainment, aside from a hair-raising, near-death experience on the back of a moto, so we sipped beer on our little balcony and had an early night.
Seeing as sand dunes seemed to be what Mui Ne is all about, we decided that we'd better go and look at them. So we stumbled, bleerily out into the darkness and into a waiting jeep at 5.00am this morning to bounce our way, gears screaching, to the White Sand dune to observe an overcast sunrise. Despite the uncertain weather, it was very beautiful. We sat perched on a dune overlooking a lake that was lined with what looked oddly like pine trees and watched a family of dogs scamper busily in the foreground while the sun did its best.
We were then rattled off to the Red Canyon, a bizarre little canyon made from bright red sand, which formed shapes very much like those of melting candels in Chianti bottles. I discoverd that, only being made of compressed sand, parts of the canyon could be snapped off and disintergrated in your hand, which lead to a brief moment of gleefull meaningless demolition of parts of the 'mountain' making us feel like giants. Fun.
At the Yellow Dune we were accosted by small boys commaning us to "Slide down, slide down' on thier offered boards. This quickly became simply: "Give money, give money" when they saw we weren't inclined to strap ourselves to sheets of plastic and hurl ourselves off dunes (tempting though) and finally "F**k you, f**k you when they realised that we weren't adherring to any of their requests. Nice. So we scampered from there and took refuge in the insanely picturesque fishing village all a-bob with little painted boats, the locals obligingly wearing triangular straw hats and scurrying around, oblivious to us, the only westerners. We were only noticed by 2 children selling sea shells. They smiled broadly at me, gave me one as a present and waved cheerly as our driver drove us, gawping in amazement, away.
Back for a wade in the Fairy Stream, why it is named that I don't know but it was nice nonetheless. And then it was breakfast time so we returned to our guest house, by now only 8.00am. Few!
We got a bit of sunning in on the beach before the heavens opened and, dodging between rain drops, Philp bid me farewell and got the bus back to Ho Chi Minh leaving me scribbling my diary.
Now, as I write this, the rain thumps down still and I am watching with mounting alarm as a huge flying cockroach is banging its way into the wall towards me...
Off into the highlands tomorrow and more bugs no doubt.
VIETNAM - Ho Chi Minh (Saigon)
"Bullshit Mister! Why are you such a bad man?" This remark was directed with some venom at Philip. Adult eyes glared out of the face of a 12 year old boy as he spat the words. He'd approached us as we sat outside a bar and had been much miffed by the fact that the cheap, illeagle copy of 'Lonely Planet: Vietnam' that Philip had bought in Thailand, was a more recent copy that the pirate copy that he was peddling. He wanted to borrow the copy to copy it again and Philip was understandably reluctant to hand it over. Finally, for a quiet life, he agreed to do so, on the condition that the boy left all of his other books with us. It just goes to show that if you give an inch... Poor Philip was accosted by the same boy the night after who was just looking for a fight. These kids can be pretty grating on the patience but they seem to grow out of it, if the older hawkers are anything to go by.
But that aside I enjoyed my short stint in Ho Chi Minh. On Monday I happily surrendoured all map reading responsibilities and trotted around after Philip as he lead us around the city taking in the major sites: The covered Ben Thanh Market, where you are practically rugby tackled by merchants trying to sell you trousers as you pass; the Fine Arts Museum, sadly closed on Mondays but in a beautiful colonial villa so I stared longingly at the awening, my thirst for some art remaining un-quenched; the Ho Chi Minh City Museum; the rather depressing War Remnants Museum that offers a rather one-sided account of the 'American War' and holds some unbelievably grusome reminders of the brutality of mankind; past the Natre Dame Cathedral - very incongruous - and then back to the Pham Ngu Lao area where we are staying, diving out of the way of motor cycles and saying a silent prayer every time we crossed the road.
On Tuesday we boarded a large tourist bus and were packed off to suffle obidiently around Cu Chi (a district 60km out of the city) and marvel at the remarkable system okf tunnels winding for some 200kms around Ho Chi Minh. The Viet Cong lived in these tunnels whilst fighting the Americans and they have now become a symbol of 'Vietnamese Revolutionary Herosim'.
Our cheerful, toothless guide showed us a 1960s propaganda 'documentory' about the tunnels commending the Viet Cong as "American killing heros." When you see the ingenious ways in which they disguised the tunnels and numerous ways they found for giving American soldiers long and painful deaths as they fell into traps all over the jungle, recycling weapons used on them, you wonder how the Americans ever thought they stood a chance. The Viet Cong were totally relentless in their determination and, unlike the Americans, where never struck with the moral crushing feelings of futility. Consequently, they won.
On my last evening in Saigon, I went for a wander in the little park near our guest house and cused myself immediately for not bringing a camera. The park itself is fairly conventional, but pleasing, with tarmac for jogging and ball games, punctuated with neat walled patches of grass with an occasional palm tree plonked fetchingly in the middle. The earlier rain had cleared for a pretty mauve sunset that sat reflected in the puddles. People strolled, stretched, jogged and played impressive games of keepy-uppy - popular in South East Asia. I was politely offered a "Good evening" by a beautiful girl dressed in the silk trousers and high necked tunics - slit to the waist - that you see so many elegant girls wearing here (which causes the most amusing effect on Philip). The setting sun danced off the shiny windows of a glitzy office building and the motor horns tooted in approval. I wished I could have stayed longer.
"Bullshit Mister! Why are you such a bad man?" This remark was directed with some venom at Philip. Adult eyes glared out of the face of a 12 year old boy as he spat the words. He'd approached us as we sat outside a bar and had been much miffed by the fact that the cheap, illeagle copy of 'Lonely Planet: Vietnam' that Philip had bought in Thailand, was a more recent copy that the pirate copy that he was peddling. He wanted to borrow the copy to copy it again and Philip was understandably reluctant to hand it over. Finally, for a quiet life, he agreed to do so, on the condition that the boy left all of his other books with us. It just goes to show that if you give an inch... Poor Philip was accosted by the same boy the night after who was just looking for a fight. These kids can be pretty grating on the patience but they seem to grow out of it, if the older hawkers are anything to go by.
But that aside I enjoyed my short stint in Ho Chi Minh. On Monday I happily surrendoured all map reading responsibilities and trotted around after Philip as he lead us around the city taking in the major sites: The covered Ben Thanh Market, where you are practically rugby tackled by merchants trying to sell you trousers as you pass; the Fine Arts Museum, sadly closed on Mondays but in a beautiful colonial villa so I stared longingly at the awening, my thirst for some art remaining un-quenched; the Ho Chi Minh City Museum; the rather depressing War Remnants Museum that offers a rather one-sided account of the 'American War' and holds some unbelievably grusome reminders of the brutality of mankind; past the Natre Dame Cathedral - very incongruous - and then back to the Pham Ngu Lao area where we are staying, diving out of the way of motor cycles and saying a silent prayer every time we crossed the road.
On Tuesday we boarded a large tourist bus and were packed off to suffle obidiently around Cu Chi (a district 60km out of the city) and marvel at the remarkable system okf tunnels winding for some 200kms around Ho Chi Minh. The Viet Cong lived in these tunnels whilst fighting the Americans and they have now become a symbol of 'Vietnamese Revolutionary Herosim'.
Our cheerful, toothless guide showed us a 1960s propaganda 'documentory' about the tunnels commending the Viet Cong as "American killing heros." When you see the ingenious ways in which they disguised the tunnels and numerous ways they found for giving American soldiers long and painful deaths as they fell into traps all over the jungle, recycling weapons used on them, you wonder how the Americans ever thought they stood a chance. The Viet Cong were totally relentless in their determination and, unlike the Americans, where never struck with the moral crushing feelings of futility. Consequently, they won.
On my last evening in Saigon, I went for a wander in the little park near our guest house and cused myself immediately for not bringing a camera. The park itself is fairly conventional, but pleasing, with tarmac for jogging and ball games, punctuated with neat walled patches of grass with an occasional palm tree plonked fetchingly in the middle. The earlier rain had cleared for a pretty mauve sunset that sat reflected in the puddles. People strolled, stretched, jogged and played impressive games of keepy-uppy - popular in South East Asia. I was politely offered a "Good evening" by a beautiful girl dressed in the silk trousers and high necked tunics - slit to the waist - that you see so many elegant girls wearing here (which causes the most amusing effect on Philip). The setting sun danced off the shiny windows of a glitzy office building and the motor horns tooted in approval. I wished I could have stayed longer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
