As you all know I am now back in the country and have been for some time. I think it's safe to say that my life is now very uninteresting and consists mainly of me trying to apply for jobs between pulling pints for lecherous old men. However, it would be wrong to think that my life is no less amusing (from the outside- for me it is still disastrous) and so I thought that as we are constantly threatened by terrorism, economic collapse, environmental meltdown and a rather oddly shaped government why not bring a little smile (if I can) to you and see that life really isn't so bad. It could be worse. You could be me.
Apart from the obvious things that I have done in the last few weeks like severely scalding my leg with mint tea or poisoning myself with tesco-own vodka I thought I would relay my recent little trip to London town.
My visit was based around two plays which I had been invited to see with a theatre company I interned for and having a "chat" with an arts PR company about more interning. Between these outings I was going to get a cheap haircut with Toni and Guy trainees maybe do a spot of shopping and generally enjoying the capital. Exciting, relaxing and productive what could go wrong?
Let me start by saying that I was going to drive to the Thornhill Park and Ride. I haven't driven by myself until very recently and I imagine most people's mouth's have just made that "ee" shape like when you're watching a home video show and someone falls backwards over a deckchair. I thought I would drive to Thornhill get the coach and be in London fro 1.45pm for a haircut. My dearest mother gave me directions for Headington so that I wouldn't have to go on any scary dual carriageways this did involve driving through some countryside that I swear I have never seen before. I almost gave up but sure enough the signs for Headington appeared and I found the Park and Ride. The only problem with this was that there wasn't a parking space. Not one. I decided I would do the adult thing and call my mother. No reply. Shit. Right I was going to be an adult God damn it I would go to the other Park and Ride in Watereaton. I would go through Headington to Summertown. Right. How do you do that again? After making up a route, I found myself in Headington which was chock-a-block with road works, new students at Brookes (bloody students) and people leaping out in front of me. Did they not know that I had relatively little control over my vehicle and would/could probably kill them? (It turns out probably not since at some point during this debacle my P plates had either been stolen or fallen off). I stalled at several traffic lights, stopped suddenly at another set of traffic lights almost causing a collision with the driver behind; I got to Summertown, same situation- reckless pedestrians, roadworks and even worse school children. Parked down South Parade, almost cry, stop, have to try and parallel park because damn road is too narrow just to stop in, try to call mother again, no reply; carried on to Watereaton after again stalling/pausing too long at roundabouts; at Watereaton; found parking space; ran to bus; looked at watch-now 1pm. I call Toni and Guy and convinced them to hold my place for me after begging and looking like a crazed/flushed person running down George street.
After that the day gets a little better, have lovely haircut from nice young man, which turned out to be free. Feeling a lot better I step onto Oxford street and now I have to get to Dalston to see the play. I have bus number but really no clue about which end of London Dalston is. I get on a bus and vaguely remember the map I saw from the station to the theatre and think "Oh someone will be able to direct me". I ask the first passerby when arriving in Dalston and he directs me up the road and to turn at Tescos. Cool. Get to tescos and ask the security guard, he directs me down dark side road. Hmmm. Not convinced but having faith I amble down for about twenty minutes ask another person who tells me to keep going. I then get to a big junction and ask a few people where the theatre is none of them know and someone says "Isn't that in Dalston?" I am a little confused until I see a sign saying the "Hackney Downs". I am now very lost and very late. In a fit of panic I call my dearest older sister to Google map me and the theatre and find my way for me. It's times like these I think the Iphone would be a good investment. She chastises me for not organising myself but finds my way and I arrive as the bell goes for everyone to go in. Yes! Success. On the way back the overground trains are all delayed so I have to get a series of buses home that take an hour and a half. I no longer care but I think Jen does though when I have to wake her up at 12.30 so she can open the door for me.
So London Day 2 has got to be easier. I over-plan both my journey to the theatre and the PR company. After I meet with the PR people (which I hope went well) I head to covent garden for some shopping since I have four hours til the play. My phone is now running out of battery so I do the proactive thing and find somewhere that will charge it for me. Now who knew that in vodaphone there are little lockers in which you can charge your phone by putting money in a meter and take a key away with you and retrieve the phone when it is charged? An excellent idea I think you'd agree. I am browsing along Long Acre and decide that I will just go and get my phone now so I'm not rushing later- I amble up to the shop and it's closed. Ah. My mother and sister keep asking me what time this was- I don't actually know because I use the clock on my phone. The irony is not lost on me.
So now I can't think what to do; I need my phone but that would mean staying another night to get it back in the morning but I'm supposed to be working at 10am. Tricky. I decide to get to the theatre earlier than planned and use a phone there. The theatre is easy to find thank god. I very politely explain to the box office man what I've done and now need to phone my mum to get my sister's number to ask if I can stay an additional night. I also have to google my work's number and call them to explain I will be a little late for work the following day due to this error. I have to keep repeating what I've done down the phone to the great amusement of the staff. My mum at this point is driving to Glasgow and has to call me back from a motorway stop with my sister's number. What the box office staff failed to tell me was that the phone I was using didn't ring, it only flashed. After trying to call one another many times, calling a wrong number and mistaking someone who was calling for Ellen (a theatre employee) for my Mother (Helen) ("Yes, yes my mum's called Helen I think the call's for me. What? Ellen? Who's Ellen?") my sister managed to get through to me. She agreed to let me stay another night as I downed a glass of wine after realising I wouldn't be driving.
The following day I retrieved my phone and when turning it on get a variety of messages from friends and family including an anxious one from my dad asking if I was in a cell.
*I should breifly explain that before, when I was arrested at the protest, I text my sister from the police van to tell her what had happened but to tell the parents that I had lost my phone therefore, not to panic if they couldn't get hold of me. Ever since then losing a phone is apparently synonymous with prison time to my parents.*
I get to Paddington board my delayed train and worry how late I am now going to be for work. Coincidentally at that instant I get a phone call from my the pub telling me that I wasn't down to work today and that I'm not working til 6. At this point I began to laugh hysterically.
It was only when I got back to Oxford that I began to worry about the car. I thought I could leave it there for free for 72 hours but Jen was convinced that after a day you needed to pay. If it had been towed or I had a fine (which I wouldn't be able to pay) my Father would kill me. Oh really just kill me. As I slowly approached where I'd left my little Ford Focus, I spotted that dented boot (my grandma's work not mine) and there it was in all it's blue glory, Brian, my car. I threw my hands in the air in a Rocky type gesture and drove home. Luck was finally on my side and I only stalled twice.
Saturday 25 September 2010
Sunday 13 June 2010
Week 13: Motos
How apt it would seem that my final post would be on it's 13th week. It's only unlucky for some though...
We are now in, the slightly cooler than anticipated, Australia for the next few weeks. However I am saving these anecdotes for our return. So, for my final blog will be on our final week in Vietnam and something that typifies its capital.
Although I think the previous blog's moto driver will stick in my (and my mother's) memory for quite some time we were not done with Motos.
We had quite a few memorable rides on the back of bikes around Hanoi due to the risk-taking abilities of the drivers but it got me thinking; what would happen if we tried to drive them ourselves? (There is my tribute to the new and the terrible Sex and the City 2 film).
In our final week in Asia we decided to visit the renowned Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island. Halong Bay is famous for its gorgeous limestone formations that jut out of the bay's waters.
We arrived on the Island and it did not disappoint. The main reason for this is that most of the island is a protected National Park meaning that only the sea front has been allowed to develop. The area was slightly too big to see on foot and so we were debating how else we could see the island in its entirety. It was then that we saw many street vendors offering moto rental for $3 a day. The roads were fairly quiet and we thought how hard can it be?
The owner of the bikes asked for our driving licenses. I could offer my one for a car but Lizzie can't drive. The man merely shrugged and explained that we may just have to pay off the police if they stopped us. Well thank goodness for that.
We were both a little nervous and decided that we would test our driving abilities in the car park first. It turns out that those things really zip along when you first start them up. After a few failed attempts we got the hang of it and ventured onto the roads at a snail's pace compared to the other drivers. We were not going to be hurried along however. Slow and steady wins the race and all that.
As we first went to get petrol with the bike owner still on the back of Lizzie's bike we managed to pick up a young German student who was also looking for the National Park entrance. He stayed with us for the rest of the day despite riding a proper motor bike and seeming to become exasperated with our slowness. We did encourage him to go off alone but he simply smiled and sighed. He didn't seem to remember that he joined us through choice.
After about twenty minutes of driving I noticed Lizzie was no longer behind me. I turned round and went back to find Lizzie looking quizzically at her bike. It wouldn't start. We were now too far to push the bike back and on a pretty dangerous corner of road. We pulled the bike over and kept prodding and poking it until two young Vietnamese boys stopped and offered to help. We were really grateful until we realised that they wanted money for fixing it. They didn't speak English and without our phrasebook we were useless. We wanted to know if they fixed it wold it last for the rest of the day? This was futile. After a few more minutes another man stopped on his bike who spoke very good English and translated for us. We haggled the boy down in price at which point he seemed to start the bike as normal and it worked. Grrrr.
After this minor hiccup we could enjoy our surroundings and relax. Except of course when my bike kept backfiring and spitting out oil. Nevertheless, we were having a good time. We reached the northernmost point of the island and turned around to go to the West. It was at this point that I realised my bike was running out of petrol. The backfiring was happening because my bike was leaking. All the shops we passed sold oil in old water bottles so we bought one of these and shared it out.
My bike began running out of oil again fairly quickly and so we stopped for food and to figure out what to do. As we were chatting I said to Lizzie that she'd obviously become more confident on the bike as I worked out she must be going about 50-60mph when she said she wouldn't go over 30.
"What?" Lizzie said sounding surprised.
"You were just going quite fast that's all",
"I didn't think I was going fast", she paused, "But then again my speed gauge is broken", another pause "And I only have one mirror". We had not hired the best bikes.
I told her how fast I thought she'd been going and she thought she couldn't have been doing more than 40.
We returned to our bikes and since my bike was nearly out of oil again I drove very slowly back to the vendor trying not to burn the petrol too quickly. We arrived back feeling invigorated and full of life, if not a little shaky. Neither of us crashed but I very nearly went straight into a bollard. All in all we counted it a success.
A few days later we flew from Hanoi to Bangkok (where the only odd thing we encountered was a guard on a segway) and then to Sydney.
I don't think this is the most exciting of my blogs but I think it shows the progression of our travels. If we had tried this in China we would have died. Now, we are practised travellers with the life experience under our belts. Or we were just the luckiest eedjits in south east Asia at that point.
I think I have managed to answer my own question though; What can possibly go wrong? Well, quite a lot really but nothing that can't be fixed with a smile and a Lonely Planet to hand.
We are now in, the slightly cooler than anticipated, Australia for the next few weeks. However I am saving these anecdotes for our return. So, for my final blog will be on our final week in Vietnam and something that typifies its capital.
Although I think the previous blog's moto driver will stick in my (and my mother's) memory for quite some time we were not done with Motos.
We had quite a few memorable rides on the back of bikes around Hanoi due to the risk-taking abilities of the drivers but it got me thinking; what would happen if we tried to drive them ourselves? (There is my tribute to the new and the terrible Sex and the City 2 film).
In our final week in Asia we decided to visit the renowned Halong Bay and Cat Ba Island. Halong Bay is famous for its gorgeous limestone formations that jut out of the bay's waters.
We arrived on the Island and it did not disappoint. The main reason for this is that most of the island is a protected National Park meaning that only the sea front has been allowed to develop. The area was slightly too big to see on foot and so we were debating how else we could see the island in its entirety. It was then that we saw many street vendors offering moto rental for $3 a day. The roads were fairly quiet and we thought how hard can it be?
The owner of the bikes asked for our driving licenses. I could offer my one for a car but Lizzie can't drive. The man merely shrugged and explained that we may just have to pay off the police if they stopped us. Well thank goodness for that.
We were both a little nervous and decided that we would test our driving abilities in the car park first. It turns out that those things really zip along when you first start them up. After a few failed attempts we got the hang of it and ventured onto the roads at a snail's pace compared to the other drivers. We were not going to be hurried along however. Slow and steady wins the race and all that.
As we first went to get petrol with the bike owner still on the back of Lizzie's bike we managed to pick up a young German student who was also looking for the National Park entrance. He stayed with us for the rest of the day despite riding a proper motor bike and seeming to become exasperated with our slowness. We did encourage him to go off alone but he simply smiled and sighed. He didn't seem to remember that he joined us through choice.
After about twenty minutes of driving I noticed Lizzie was no longer behind me. I turned round and went back to find Lizzie looking quizzically at her bike. It wouldn't start. We were now too far to push the bike back and on a pretty dangerous corner of road. We pulled the bike over and kept prodding and poking it until two young Vietnamese boys stopped and offered to help. We were really grateful until we realised that they wanted money for fixing it. They didn't speak English and without our phrasebook we were useless. We wanted to know if they fixed it wold it last for the rest of the day? This was futile. After a few more minutes another man stopped on his bike who spoke very good English and translated for us. We haggled the boy down in price at which point he seemed to start the bike as normal and it worked. Grrrr.
After this minor hiccup we could enjoy our surroundings and relax. Except of course when my bike kept backfiring and spitting out oil. Nevertheless, we were having a good time. We reached the northernmost point of the island and turned around to go to the West. It was at this point that I realised my bike was running out of petrol. The backfiring was happening because my bike was leaking. All the shops we passed sold oil in old water bottles so we bought one of these and shared it out.
My bike began running out of oil again fairly quickly and so we stopped for food and to figure out what to do. As we were chatting I said to Lizzie that she'd obviously become more confident on the bike as I worked out she must be going about 50-60mph when she said she wouldn't go over 30.
"What?" Lizzie said sounding surprised.
"You were just going quite fast that's all",
"I didn't think I was going fast", she paused, "But then again my speed gauge is broken", another pause "And I only have one mirror". We had not hired the best bikes.
I told her how fast I thought she'd been going and she thought she couldn't have been doing more than 40.
We returned to our bikes and since my bike was nearly out of oil again I drove very slowly back to the vendor trying not to burn the petrol too quickly. We arrived back feeling invigorated and full of life, if not a little shaky. Neither of us crashed but I very nearly went straight into a bollard. All in all we counted it a success.
A few days later we flew from Hanoi to Bangkok (where the only odd thing we encountered was a guard on a segway) and then to Sydney.
I don't think this is the most exciting of my blogs but I think it shows the progression of our travels. If we had tried this in China we would have died. Now, we are practised travellers with the life experience under our belts. Or we were just the luckiest eedjits in south east Asia at that point.
I think I have managed to answer my own question though; What can possibly go wrong? Well, quite a lot really but nothing that can't be fixed with a smile and a Lonely Planet to hand.
Tuesday 25 May 2010
Week 12:Culture Clashes
I have so much ground to cover figuratively having not kept up with the blog when we have covered so much ground physically. I last wrote about my encounters in Dalat that lead us to the seaside town of Nha Trang. I have failed to write since then about Nha Trang, Hoi An, Hue and Hanoi.
As you will have already noticed most of my blogs have been about the clashing of our culture with the far east. However, it seems that these last few places are best talked about in relation to specific moments where something was definitely lost in translation.
To start where I left off then with Nha Trang. This large beach town reminded me of an under-developed version of Miami with the tall hotels and apartment buildings lining the coast. If you turned your back on all of this the view out accross the water was still beautiful.
We spent our time on the beach and enjoying the "buzzing" nightlife. It was not a place to immerse yourself in culture. Our most memorable experience came from (as ever) a day trip on a boat which included seeing a few of the surrounding islands. This was all lovely except when, after lunch, the guide said that a famous Vietnamese boyband were going to play for us all. We of course thought he was joking. In a matter of minutes the table we had eaten lunch on was turned into a stage and a few of the crew were tuning guitars and had set up a drum kit. They proceeded to play a few Vietnamese songs but most of the time was spent with the guide/lead singer thrusting at all the girls on board. Of course I was sat right in the middle didn't quite know where to look. Before anyone asks-no he was not cute. He was 40 if a day and kept saying things like "Up the bum no baby". Culture clash number one.
The second occurred in Hoi An that is famed for its tailoring. Unfortunately, we seemed to pick the most reluctant tailors in the town.I got a dress and Lizzie had a dress and playsuit made. After the initial measurements we came back for a fitting and all garments had to be adjusted. That was fine but when we returned and my dress was now a little too big and Lizzies' were still not right they seemed to become...well...arsey. When we came back a third time they quite obviously wanted to see the back of us and all pretence of friendliness had vanished. My dress was slightly baggy and Lizzie's playsuit was slightly too small. It seemed that my width and Lizzie's height was alien to them. Culture clash number two.
Hue was fairly uneventful and really quite pretty. We spent our time enjoying the old citadel and the surrounding countryside. Our only problem ocurred when we thought we had agreed a fixed price with a cyclo driver and we had not. It wasn't pretty.
We were very excited to get to Hanoi becasue we knew a few people who had told us it was their favourite city while travelling and we were keen to see what all the fuss was about.
A majority of our time was spent wandering around the the old quarter where we were staying. We could get lost for hours in the narrow winding streets that were crowded with restaurants, bars and shops.
I felt that I should try and experience some culture before we left the city so I went to see the Museum of Ethnology. Oh what a mistake. I seemed to attract the moto drivers from hell.
The one who took me there (after some rather heated haggling) was chatting away quite politely about where I was from and where I was staying, all joking and light. He then asked if my dorm was mixed or just girls. "Just girls", I said happily. Although this hadn't been our choice I was pleased not to be seen as another easy Westerner.
"I think you have more fun in mixed dorm", he said.
I just laughed thinking he was being funny. He was quiet for a minute and then said, "After you have been to Museum you spend an hour with me". This should have been my first warning but I thought he wanted me to spend more money getting him to show me the city.
"No thank you. I have to get back to meet my friend".
"Oh come on you come back and have fun with me". This same dialogue continued for a bit until I realised that he didn't want to show me the odd Pagoda or War monument. I continued to be polite.
"No thank you".
"Oh come on you come for half an hour".
"No".
The fact the amount of suggestively allotted time had decreased hardly made me keener.
"Don't you want to see my big banana?" shockingly he actually said that. I wondered how successful I would be at rolling off the bike at the next corner. I was wearing a maxi dress and this made the manoeuver far more complicated. I thought I might just be able to beat him into a stupor with my Lonely Planet if he didn't back off. I kept saying "No" for another few minutes.
"Why not? I like women you like men"he said.
Ah, get out clause here.
"Actually I like women", I ventured.
"Bullshit".
I don't think they really believe in lesbians here.
We still weren't at the museum and I was beginnning to wonder if he was taking me back to his house to have his wicked half an hour with me.
"You come with me and you will be happy".
I tried to explain that it wouldn'tmake me happy.
"I tried Vietnamese women but never Western woman".
"I'm flattered you want to "try" me but still no".
Thankfully we were approaching the museum. I warned him that it would be very unpleasent should he still be there when I came out.
On the way back the driver barley talked to me which was a relief. It was only when he tried to dupe me out of 100 dong by pretending he hadn't just put the note I'd given him in his back pocket, that I almost throttled him.
I got back to the room and flopped down on the bed vowing never to leave the room again.
As you will have already noticed most of my blogs have been about the clashing of our culture with the far east. However, it seems that these last few places are best talked about in relation to specific moments where something was definitely lost in translation.
To start where I left off then with Nha Trang. This large beach town reminded me of an under-developed version of Miami with the tall hotels and apartment buildings lining the coast. If you turned your back on all of this the view out accross the water was still beautiful.
We spent our time on the beach and enjoying the "buzzing" nightlife. It was not a place to immerse yourself in culture. Our most memorable experience came from (as ever) a day trip on a boat which included seeing a few of the surrounding islands. This was all lovely except when, after lunch, the guide said that a famous Vietnamese boyband were going to play for us all. We of course thought he was joking. In a matter of minutes the table we had eaten lunch on was turned into a stage and a few of the crew were tuning guitars and had set up a drum kit. They proceeded to play a few Vietnamese songs but most of the time was spent with the guide/lead singer thrusting at all the girls on board. Of course I was sat right in the middle didn't quite know where to look. Before anyone asks-no he was not cute. He was 40 if a day and kept saying things like "Up the bum no baby". Culture clash number one.
The second occurred in Hoi An that is famed for its tailoring. Unfortunately, we seemed to pick the most reluctant tailors in the town.I got a dress and Lizzie had a dress and playsuit made. After the initial measurements we came back for a fitting and all garments had to be adjusted. That was fine but when we returned and my dress was now a little too big and Lizzies' were still not right they seemed to become...well...arsey. When we came back a third time they quite obviously wanted to see the back of us and all pretence of friendliness had vanished. My dress was slightly baggy and Lizzie's playsuit was slightly too small. It seemed that my width and Lizzie's height was alien to them. Culture clash number two.
Hue was fairly uneventful and really quite pretty. We spent our time enjoying the old citadel and the surrounding countryside. Our only problem ocurred when we thought we had agreed a fixed price with a cyclo driver and we had not. It wasn't pretty.
We were very excited to get to Hanoi becasue we knew a few people who had told us it was their favourite city while travelling and we were keen to see what all the fuss was about.
A majority of our time was spent wandering around the the old quarter where we were staying. We could get lost for hours in the narrow winding streets that were crowded with restaurants, bars and shops.
I felt that I should try and experience some culture before we left the city so I went to see the Museum of Ethnology. Oh what a mistake. I seemed to attract the moto drivers from hell.
The one who took me there (after some rather heated haggling) was chatting away quite politely about where I was from and where I was staying, all joking and light. He then asked if my dorm was mixed or just girls. "Just girls", I said happily. Although this hadn't been our choice I was pleased not to be seen as another easy Westerner.
"I think you have more fun in mixed dorm", he said.
I just laughed thinking he was being funny. He was quiet for a minute and then said, "After you have been to Museum you spend an hour with me". This should have been my first warning but I thought he wanted me to spend more money getting him to show me the city.
"No thank you. I have to get back to meet my friend".
"Oh come on you come back and have fun with me". This same dialogue continued for a bit until I realised that he didn't want to show me the odd Pagoda or War monument. I continued to be polite.
"No thank you".
"Oh come on you come for half an hour".
"No".
The fact the amount of suggestively allotted time had decreased hardly made me keener.
"Don't you want to see my big banana?" shockingly he actually said that. I wondered how successful I would be at rolling off the bike at the next corner. I was wearing a maxi dress and this made the manoeuver far more complicated. I thought I might just be able to beat him into a stupor with my Lonely Planet if he didn't back off. I kept saying "No" for another few minutes.
"Why not? I like women you like men"he said.
Ah, get out clause here.
"Actually I like women", I ventured.
"Bullshit".
I don't think they really believe in lesbians here.
We still weren't at the museum and I was beginnning to wonder if he was taking me back to his house to have his wicked half an hour with me.
"You come with me and you will be happy".
I tried to explain that it wouldn'tmake me happy.
"I tried Vietnamese women but never Western woman".
"I'm flattered you want to "try" me but still no".
Thankfully we were approaching the museum. I warned him that it would be very unpleasent should he still be there when I came out.
On the way back the driver barley talked to me which was a relief. It was only when he tried to dupe me out of 100 dong by pretending he hadn't just put the note I'd given him in his back pocket, that I almost throttled him.
I got back to the room and flopped down on the bed vowing never to leave the room again.
Thursday 13 May 2010
Week 11: Easy Riding
Sometimes in life you just have to say "Fuck it"- you throw caution to the wind and deal with the consequences later. I have never been that person. However, when given the opportunity to spend three days on the back of a motorbike with a man I didn't know, how could I refuse?
What I am referring to are the "Easy Riders" of Dalat in Vietnam. Dalat is a sizable town up in the Central Highlands. The surrounding area is full of delightful mountains, waterfalls and many minority villages. The service the Easy Riders offer is unique in that they take you on a guided tour of the area on the back of a motorbike. The idea is that you can have a more personal tour and see more of the country with someone who knows about it.
When we first arrived in Dalat we were approached by a Mr Phuc and a Mr Thien who encouraged us to take their tour. After they'd followed us to our hotel and waited outside we felt we should hear them out. We saw that they did a three day tour to Nha Trang (our next destination) that took us to many exciting places along the way and the opportunity to stay overnight in one of the villages. They were both very enthusiastic about the trip and convinced us that the three day tour was our best option.
We handed over a deposit and agreed to start the trip the very next day. Although we'd only just arrived the initial part of the tour took us around the vicinity of Dalat and then beyond.
Although we had happily agreed to the tour we still had concerns; I had never been on the back of a motorbike before and worried about falling off; Lizzie worried it wouldn't be fun; I worried we'd be raped and murdered; Lizzie worried she'd burn her leg on the exhaust; I began worrying I'd burn my leg on the exhaust. But the Easy Riders had been recommended by guides and other travelers alike so we spent the night in Dalat convincing ourselves all would be well.
When Mr Phuc and Mr Thien met us at our hotel it seemed I would ride on the back of Mr Thien's bike and Lizzie would ride with Mr Phuc. There seemed no problem with this as both had seemed perfectly nice the previous evening and I was comforted by the fact that Mr Thien's English was slightly better.
It was clear after the first few hours that our guides were very different.
Now that we had handed over our money Mr Thien saw no need in making small talk or in fact talking to me at all. The only times when he would speak were to explain a point we'd stopped at or berate my choice of clothing. During that first day Mr Thien huffed every time I climbed on the bike because I was wearing jeans and this meant I had to stand on the foot rest to throw my legs over meaning that the bike would tip every time I did this. I tried to explain it wasn't the jeans but the fact I was too short. He ignored this and said I should wear something more appropriate tomorrow.
By comparison, when Lizzie rode with the smiley Mr. Phuc his phone went off. The ringtone was Barbie Girl by Aqua and he then proceeded to sing along. He also said that in his next life he would like to be a pig. Lizzie understandably asked why to which he replied, "All they do is get fed by women and sleep. I think it would be nice". Mr. Phuc was both adorably sweet and unknowingly funny. Mr. Thien was neither.
On our first day we visited the "Crazy House"- a hotel designed to look something like Alice in Wonderland meets a Dali painting- the Dragon temple, the Elephant waterfall, a flower farm and many villages. Despite the unfriendly nature of my guide both men were very good at explaining each visited spot and the importance in Vietnamese culture.
Over the three days we kept stopping in villages inhabited by Vietnamese minorities. Although interesting it was exceptionally awkward. Mr. Thien would lead us around showing us the differing designs of the houses and the farmland they owned. This was fine. It became uncomfortable when we went into a few people's houses and while it was amazing to see how differently people lived we couldn't help feeling we were looking at these people and their lives like animals in a zoo. It didn't help that Mr. Thien encouraged us to take pictures saying, "They don't mind they happy". This was empahsised when Mr Thien showed us a Ho Chi Minh trail bike which could carry an 300kg. He dressed Lizzie up in a conical hat and made us both pretend to push it. We felt like we were violating the culture somehow.
By the end of a brilliant but very long first day we were offered the opportunity to do a homestay in one of the villages. By "homestay" we had understood that we would be staying in a family's house. We were lead to a cabin on stilts where, inside, was an empty room of about 20m by 8m except for two mattresses with mosquito nets and electric fans. This was our room for the night. Rather surprised, and a little confused, we quickly fell asleep and only woke the next morning to the sound of tractors, cows and the constant crowing of the cockerel.
I started our second day with renewed enthusiasm thinking that maybe Mr. Thien had just been having an off day before. He hadn't. He was still rude and still unfriendly.
We stopped at various places again along the way but most memorably another waterfall surrounded by jungle where we swam for a few hours.
It was a really stunning spot with crystal clear water that we welcomed after the intense heat of the morning. The only thing that worried me was when Mr Phuc (who had just done an over-zealous butterfly stroke across to reach us) said that an Easy Rider Driver had died here a few years before. Dumbstruck with horror Lizzie tentatively asked how. Mr Phuc went on to explain, laughing as he did so, that the guide had gotten cramp and the tourists that were with him didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. We tried to express our condolences but Mr. Phuc just seemed to find it funny. We couldn't begrudge him though- maybe he thought his friend was now happier as a pig?
After "gracefully clambering" as Lizzie put it, back up the path to the bikes we carried on with our journey.
We stopped at a few more villages and several spots where the effects of Agent Orange were most prevalent.
Mr. Thien explained how the Americans had sprayed the chemical to kill off all the plants and crops of their enemy. What we didn't realise was that more than thirty years later the land would still be effected by it. It looked like patches of the hillsides were bald where things still couldn't be cultivated. More importantly it means that the small villages surrounding it are even poorer than the ones we had previously seen because they can't grow food to feed their families. I was just happy that the Vietnam War was one that Britain had decided to stay out of.
That evening, we were glad to be staying in a little hotel that both guides proudly told us had 2 stars. We were surprised by the level of luxury it gave us; it had a TV, a bath (granted no plug but I still sat in it) and air conditioning. We felt very taken care of. We all once again ate together at a restaurant and Mr Phuc made good company where as Mr. Thien went and sat at a different table once he'd finished.
We quite happily passed out in our huge beds and were a little sad at the prospect of spending our last day with Mr. Phuc and wondering if I could casually push Mr. Thien off the bike. Not so he seriously hurt himself just a scratch or two maybe.
On our final day we had a lot of ground to cover to get to Nha Trang and so a majority of the day was spent on the bike. We still managed to stop at a small basket market, a rubber tree forest, a cocoa plantation, a pepper plantation and a brick factory. These may not sound the most exciting things but we had never seen cocoa pods growing or peppercorns on a tree or even see people make bricks and so it was interesting if anything just to see a little more of the country and the work people do.
Even with these stops we still spent a lot of time on the bike and after a while my bum lost all feeling. Mr Thien seemed even less happy when I tried to shift my weight, as I had done before, and managed to make the bike almost veer off the road. Our relationship was never going to recover after that.
By mid-afternoon we arrived in the beautiful seaside resort of Nha Trang and were sad to say goodbye. Despite Mr. Thien's continual rudeness we had really enjoyed ourselves and definitely seen more of the country we could have ever of otherwise hoped for.
Lizzie wrote a stellar review for Phuc in his comment book. I was more reserved with my opinion. Mr. Thien reminded me three times to write a review for him online. He even said that he would be going on the next day to check and "Hoped he would see my review on there". I have yet to compose exactly the right phrasing for such a review all I know is that it will contain the words "bad-mannered" and "arse".
What I am referring to are the "Easy Riders" of Dalat in Vietnam. Dalat is a sizable town up in the Central Highlands. The surrounding area is full of delightful mountains, waterfalls and many minority villages. The service the Easy Riders offer is unique in that they take you on a guided tour of the area on the back of a motorbike. The idea is that you can have a more personal tour and see more of the country with someone who knows about it.
When we first arrived in Dalat we were approached by a Mr Phuc and a Mr Thien who encouraged us to take their tour. After they'd followed us to our hotel and waited outside we felt we should hear them out. We saw that they did a three day tour to Nha Trang (our next destination) that took us to many exciting places along the way and the opportunity to stay overnight in one of the villages. They were both very enthusiastic about the trip and convinced us that the three day tour was our best option.
We handed over a deposit and agreed to start the trip the very next day. Although we'd only just arrived the initial part of the tour took us around the vicinity of Dalat and then beyond.
Although we had happily agreed to the tour we still had concerns; I had never been on the back of a motorbike before and worried about falling off; Lizzie worried it wouldn't be fun; I worried we'd be raped and murdered; Lizzie worried she'd burn her leg on the exhaust; I began worrying I'd burn my leg on the exhaust. But the Easy Riders had been recommended by guides and other travelers alike so we spent the night in Dalat convincing ourselves all would be well.
When Mr Phuc and Mr Thien met us at our hotel it seemed I would ride on the back of Mr Thien's bike and Lizzie would ride with Mr Phuc. There seemed no problem with this as both had seemed perfectly nice the previous evening and I was comforted by the fact that Mr Thien's English was slightly better.
It was clear after the first few hours that our guides were very different.
Now that we had handed over our money Mr Thien saw no need in making small talk or in fact talking to me at all. The only times when he would speak were to explain a point we'd stopped at or berate my choice of clothing. During that first day Mr Thien huffed every time I climbed on the bike because I was wearing jeans and this meant I had to stand on the foot rest to throw my legs over meaning that the bike would tip every time I did this. I tried to explain it wasn't the jeans but the fact I was too short. He ignored this and said I should wear something more appropriate tomorrow.
By comparison, when Lizzie rode with the smiley Mr. Phuc his phone went off. The ringtone was Barbie Girl by Aqua and he then proceeded to sing along. He also said that in his next life he would like to be a pig. Lizzie understandably asked why to which he replied, "All they do is get fed by women and sleep. I think it would be nice". Mr. Phuc was both adorably sweet and unknowingly funny. Mr. Thien was neither.
On our first day we visited the "Crazy House"- a hotel designed to look something like Alice in Wonderland meets a Dali painting- the Dragon temple, the Elephant waterfall, a flower farm and many villages. Despite the unfriendly nature of my guide both men were very good at explaining each visited spot and the importance in Vietnamese culture.
Over the three days we kept stopping in villages inhabited by Vietnamese minorities. Although interesting it was exceptionally awkward. Mr. Thien would lead us around showing us the differing designs of the houses and the farmland they owned. This was fine. It became uncomfortable when we went into a few people's houses and while it was amazing to see how differently people lived we couldn't help feeling we were looking at these people and their lives like animals in a zoo. It didn't help that Mr. Thien encouraged us to take pictures saying, "They don't mind they happy". This was empahsised when Mr Thien showed us a Ho Chi Minh trail bike which could carry an 300kg. He dressed Lizzie up in a conical hat and made us both pretend to push it. We felt like we were violating the culture somehow.
By the end of a brilliant but very long first day we were offered the opportunity to do a homestay in one of the villages. By "homestay" we had understood that we would be staying in a family's house. We were lead to a cabin on stilts where, inside, was an empty room of about 20m by 8m except for two mattresses with mosquito nets and electric fans. This was our room for the night. Rather surprised, and a little confused, we quickly fell asleep and only woke the next morning to the sound of tractors, cows and the constant crowing of the cockerel.
I started our second day with renewed enthusiasm thinking that maybe Mr. Thien had just been having an off day before. He hadn't. He was still rude and still unfriendly.
We stopped at various places again along the way but most memorably another waterfall surrounded by jungle where we swam for a few hours.
It was a really stunning spot with crystal clear water that we welcomed after the intense heat of the morning. The only thing that worried me was when Mr Phuc (who had just done an over-zealous butterfly stroke across to reach us) said that an Easy Rider Driver had died here a few years before. Dumbstruck with horror Lizzie tentatively asked how. Mr Phuc went on to explain, laughing as he did so, that the guide had gotten cramp and the tourists that were with him didn't understand what was going on until it was too late. We tried to express our condolences but Mr. Phuc just seemed to find it funny. We couldn't begrudge him though- maybe he thought his friend was now happier as a pig?
After "gracefully clambering" as Lizzie put it, back up the path to the bikes we carried on with our journey.
We stopped at a few more villages and several spots where the effects of Agent Orange were most prevalent.
Mr. Thien explained how the Americans had sprayed the chemical to kill off all the plants and crops of their enemy. What we didn't realise was that more than thirty years later the land would still be effected by it. It looked like patches of the hillsides were bald where things still couldn't be cultivated. More importantly it means that the small villages surrounding it are even poorer than the ones we had previously seen because they can't grow food to feed their families. I was just happy that the Vietnam War was one that Britain had decided to stay out of.
That evening, we were glad to be staying in a little hotel that both guides proudly told us had 2 stars. We were surprised by the level of luxury it gave us; it had a TV, a bath (granted no plug but I still sat in it) and air conditioning. We felt very taken care of. We all once again ate together at a restaurant and Mr Phuc made good company where as Mr. Thien went and sat at a different table once he'd finished.
We quite happily passed out in our huge beds and were a little sad at the prospect of spending our last day with Mr. Phuc and wondering if I could casually push Mr. Thien off the bike. Not so he seriously hurt himself just a scratch or two maybe.
On our final day we had a lot of ground to cover to get to Nha Trang and so a majority of the day was spent on the bike. We still managed to stop at a small basket market, a rubber tree forest, a cocoa plantation, a pepper plantation and a brick factory. These may not sound the most exciting things but we had never seen cocoa pods growing or peppercorns on a tree or even see people make bricks and so it was interesting if anything just to see a little more of the country and the work people do.
Even with these stops we still spent a lot of time on the bike and after a while my bum lost all feeling. Mr Thien seemed even less happy when I tried to shift my weight, as I had done before, and managed to make the bike almost veer off the road. Our relationship was never going to recover after that.
By mid-afternoon we arrived in the beautiful seaside resort of Nha Trang and were sad to say goodbye. Despite Mr. Thien's continual rudeness we had really enjoyed ourselves and definitely seen more of the country we could have ever of otherwise hoped for.
Lizzie wrote a stellar review for Phuc in his comment book. I was more reserved with my opinion. Mr. Thien reminded me three times to write a review for him online. He even said that he would be going on the next day to check and "Hoped he would see my review on there". I have yet to compose exactly the right phrasing for such a review all I know is that it will contain the words "bad-mannered" and "arse".
Week 10: Round Up
Unsurprisingly I am once again behind on the blogging front so I will have to give you a brief surmise of where we have been since we arrived in Vietnam. I think the picture above just about makes up for it but please keep reading to understand how we got to that point.
We first went to the Island of Phu Quoc which is at the very southern tip of Vietnam. It was a beautiful place to spend time on the beach and we even did some squid fishing. The only thing was that because it was the low season it was really quiet. Almost eerily so.
After a few days there we headed up to the madness that is Ho Chi Minh City. Althought we have heard a few people complaining about the fast paced style of the city we really enjoyed it. It was a beautiful place to wander around, visit markets, museums and the nightlife was pretty good too.
It was here in old Saigon that we agreed to play a little game called the "Ten Dollar Challenge". Basically, each person is given ten dollars and had to buy an outift for the other person. We gave ourselves forty-five minutes in the biggest market in the city to the find the most ridiculous outfit for the other. Hence the above picture. I am wearing an England football shirt and a B-Boy cap to look like an English yob whereas I chose a more lady of the night look for Lizzie who wore a silk dressing gown, a bamboo explorers hat and, although you can't see it in the photo, a tie with the Australian flag on. Lizzie then chose to spend most of the night with the tie round her head.
Yes my friends we actually went out in public like this. With the aid of much rum we even enjoyed ourselves and were told by one boy in a club we went to (rather oddly called "Apocalypse Now") that our hats had collectively made his night.
After our successes in Saigon we headed to Mui Ne which is again on the coast. This was a lovely little beach town that was nicely chilled out and spent more time lying in the sun. Well I lay under an umbrella; two months on and I've barely changed colour.
Sunday 25 April 2010
Week 9: Days Trips
The day trip/excursion is a popular backpacker pass time with tour operators vying for your attention with offers of "free water" or additionally useless gestures. They will advertise a trip to some lovely idyllic place that shows the best bits of the country and you only have to pay "x" much to experience it. I have come to be a little skeptical of said trips since they rarely are what they appear to be. I have two examples on offer- one day of snorkeling and one trekking through a national park. I have to say the result of my snorkeling endeavor was completely self inflicted but the trekking was a little different from the advert.
After we left Phnom Penh we headed to the coast and Sihanoukville which is a little backpacker haven with a lovely stretch of beach, bars and restaurants. Self-indulgent perhaps but it was really too hot to care.
There are a few smaller islands around Sihanoukville which boast excellent diving spots. Of course for those who cannot dive there is always the option of snorkeling. There were numerous places that offered days trips and I was keen to explore.
Lizzie on the other hand preferred to stay on dry land so off I went on my own into the unknown waters.
When I arrived at the meeting point early in the morning it appeared that it would just be me and a middle aged Japanese man on the tour. We were later joined by a Frenchman and his eight year old son, a young Swiss man and many Khmer diving instructors. It turned out that I would be bobbing on the surface alone while the others did their dives. This made little difference to me since I realised that while snorkeling is hardly a social activity anyway.
The boat took about two hours to reach the first spot where we would have an hour and then lunch then another hour of snorkeling before heading back. The first "snorkel" was lovely. There were a lot of incredible coral formations, anemones and fish to admire.
We had a simple lunch on one of the islands and then headed out for our second dive. When I got in the water a second time I realised that my legs were beginning to sting a little. I thought it must just be the salt but then in a horrible moment of recognition the burning pain down the back of each pale leg was a little too familiar. I retreated back to the boat and dabbed my legs with lotion and tried not think about the pain for the two hour journey back.
When I got back to the room I examined the damage in the mirror; it looked as if someone had taken paint rollers to the back of my legs because now there was nothing to see but burnt red flesh. I spent the rest of the evening face down on my bed unable to put any weight on the delicate skin.
The next few days were a little difficult when it came to sitting down but with the aid of a lot of after-sun the skin finally healed. Well peeled then healed.
Just as I made this recovery we went off to Kampot which is a small but pretty town the main attraction being the nearby Bokor National Park. The park houses monkeys, tigers, pangolin and wild pigs. Safe to say the most we saw was some lizards but then again I think it's probably best we didn't bump into a tiger.
The trip was advertised as a "trek" so we did the responsible thing and asked just how strenuous this "trek" was. I don't know if I have mentioned this but I am not what you would call athletic. The guide warned us that the first part of the two and a half hour trek up was quite hard and then got easier. Full of confidence at our walking abilities (it wasn't as if we were getting in a boat or anything) we went back to our hostel excited about the following day.
We met our minibus with a young German couple and already inside were a French couple with their daughter who couldn't have been much older than five. I joked that she would probably find it the easiest while I would be sweating up the mountain but was comforted by the fact a child was allowed on the trip at all. It couldn't be that hard if the guides let a young child on the trek could it? We were also joined by an American girl our own age and an older German gentleman who seemed to be traveling alone.
The bus drove up the newly developed roads for the first ten minutes and then along with an English speaking guide and a ranger from the park (who had a rifle) we walked from the road into the trees and began up the mountain.
After the first few minutes I realised that this was going to be a little harder than I had previously thought. The first clue was the practically vertical slope in front of me and the second was the lack of things to hold onto while I attempted to do so. We were the last ones in the line (the little girl was having to be carried alternately by her parents) but we soon had to overtake the young German couple and the young American girl who looked seriously worried about the difficulty of the climb. We stopped in a clearing to admire the view and it seemed that the three we overtook had given up and returned to the truck.
As we kept walking the single German man asked us where the three had gone. "They had to go back" we replied. "Oh that couple were far too fat anyway" he commented, "I think the lady said she had asthma" Lizzie interjected, "They could do with the exercise" he carried on unperturbed by the potential danger the young German woman now faced. Now worried that my own size was being unknowingly commented on I tried to keep up as best I could. It was a hard climb but it wasn't nearly as bad as the bruises or scratches that I seemed to incur on the way due to my own clumsiness. It also didn't help that my walking boots we tearing my heels to shreds. We stopped again while the kind French lady offered me plasters for my blisters. The ranger with the rifle, who spoke no English, kept mock pretending to be out of breath while he easily bounded up the mountain in flip-flops. At first I smiled politely but when the impressions did not stop I began to wonder how quickly he might be able to run up the mountain if I had his rifle. His flip-flops would be of little use then.
Of course as a wise person once said, "What goes up must come down". We were to come down the mountain the way we had climbed up. I was not confident that I wouldn't just trip and quite literally roll all the way home.
We trekked for a further two hours and then the truck met us to take us to the very top.
Before the site was a National Park the top of the mountain had been a small village created by the French with a casino, hotel, post office and Church. The French colonialists had used the high altitude to escape the heat of the town. In the course of the many wars and internal conflicts in Cambodia the town was abandoned and all that remains are the empty buildings. It is oddly eery up there as we went through the casino, imagining a scene from the 1930s unfolding around us, we noticed the bullet holes in the walls from when the Khmer Rouge occupied the area.
The views from the top were incredible and it made the arduous trek worthwhile.
When it came to climb down the French couple couldn't carry their daughter and so asked if there was alternative transport. Lizzie and I also requested that we share what truck etc was provided, not trusting ourselves and knowing that gravity is a far stronger force than our balancing abilities. The insulting German didn't want to climb down alone with the armed ranger so he opted to join us too.
We waited at the spot we'd been dropped off at and up pulled a small hatch back. It had five seats. There were six of us on the tour and the tour guide, a driver and her son were already in the car. That made nine. Surely were weren't all going to fit? Like the sketch of clowns fitting into a mini we all squashed in with four in the back and five in the front- the guide and the woman shared the front seat while her son sat on her lap. The German was holding the young French girl and the four of us left were all sitting at odd angles in order to squeeze in the back.
It was exciting to say the least. We were glad that we had done it, in a sort of masochistic way, and the top had been extraordinary. It might just have been nice if they had told us that it was that hard. We still would have done it but then we could have felt stupid at our own fitness levels rather than deceived.
The snorkeling outcome was no ones fault but my own but I am still tempted to write to a certain sun-tan-lotion manufacturer to complain about their products water resistance levels.
After these strenuous outings we retreated to Kep and the tropical Rabbit Island where we lay in hammocks for two days and ate fresh seafood every night. I like to think we try to achieve some sort of balance on our travels.
After we left Phnom Penh we headed to the coast and Sihanoukville which is a little backpacker haven with a lovely stretch of beach, bars and restaurants. Self-indulgent perhaps but it was really too hot to care.
There are a few smaller islands around Sihanoukville which boast excellent diving spots. Of course for those who cannot dive there is always the option of snorkeling. There were numerous places that offered days trips and I was keen to explore.
Lizzie on the other hand preferred to stay on dry land so off I went on my own into the unknown waters.
When I arrived at the meeting point early in the morning it appeared that it would just be me and a middle aged Japanese man on the tour. We were later joined by a Frenchman and his eight year old son, a young Swiss man and many Khmer diving instructors. It turned out that I would be bobbing on the surface alone while the others did their dives. This made little difference to me since I realised that while snorkeling is hardly a social activity anyway.
The boat took about two hours to reach the first spot where we would have an hour and then lunch then another hour of snorkeling before heading back. The first "snorkel" was lovely. There were a lot of incredible coral formations, anemones and fish to admire.
We had a simple lunch on one of the islands and then headed out for our second dive. When I got in the water a second time I realised that my legs were beginning to sting a little. I thought it must just be the salt but then in a horrible moment of recognition the burning pain down the back of each pale leg was a little too familiar. I retreated back to the boat and dabbed my legs with lotion and tried not think about the pain for the two hour journey back.
When I got back to the room I examined the damage in the mirror; it looked as if someone had taken paint rollers to the back of my legs because now there was nothing to see but burnt red flesh. I spent the rest of the evening face down on my bed unable to put any weight on the delicate skin.
The next few days were a little difficult when it came to sitting down but with the aid of a lot of after-sun the skin finally healed. Well peeled then healed.
Just as I made this recovery we went off to Kampot which is a small but pretty town the main attraction being the nearby Bokor National Park. The park houses monkeys, tigers, pangolin and wild pigs. Safe to say the most we saw was some lizards but then again I think it's probably best we didn't bump into a tiger.
The trip was advertised as a "trek" so we did the responsible thing and asked just how strenuous this "trek" was. I don't know if I have mentioned this but I am not what you would call athletic. The guide warned us that the first part of the two and a half hour trek up was quite hard and then got easier. Full of confidence at our walking abilities (it wasn't as if we were getting in a boat or anything) we went back to our hostel excited about the following day.
We met our minibus with a young German couple and already inside were a French couple with their daughter who couldn't have been much older than five. I joked that she would probably find it the easiest while I would be sweating up the mountain but was comforted by the fact a child was allowed on the trip at all. It couldn't be that hard if the guides let a young child on the trek could it? We were also joined by an American girl our own age and an older German gentleman who seemed to be traveling alone.
The bus drove up the newly developed roads for the first ten minutes and then along with an English speaking guide and a ranger from the park (who had a rifle) we walked from the road into the trees and began up the mountain.
After the first few minutes I realised that this was going to be a little harder than I had previously thought. The first clue was the practically vertical slope in front of me and the second was the lack of things to hold onto while I attempted to do so. We were the last ones in the line (the little girl was having to be carried alternately by her parents) but we soon had to overtake the young German couple and the young American girl who looked seriously worried about the difficulty of the climb. We stopped in a clearing to admire the view and it seemed that the three we overtook had given up and returned to the truck.
As we kept walking the single German man asked us where the three had gone. "They had to go back" we replied. "Oh that couple were far too fat anyway" he commented, "I think the lady said she had asthma" Lizzie interjected, "They could do with the exercise" he carried on unperturbed by the potential danger the young German woman now faced. Now worried that my own size was being unknowingly commented on I tried to keep up as best I could. It was a hard climb but it wasn't nearly as bad as the bruises or scratches that I seemed to incur on the way due to my own clumsiness. It also didn't help that my walking boots we tearing my heels to shreds. We stopped again while the kind French lady offered me plasters for my blisters. The ranger with the rifle, who spoke no English, kept mock pretending to be out of breath while he easily bounded up the mountain in flip-flops. At first I smiled politely but when the impressions did not stop I began to wonder how quickly he might be able to run up the mountain if I had his rifle. His flip-flops would be of little use then.
Of course as a wise person once said, "What goes up must come down". We were to come down the mountain the way we had climbed up. I was not confident that I wouldn't just trip and quite literally roll all the way home.
We trekked for a further two hours and then the truck met us to take us to the very top.
Before the site was a National Park the top of the mountain had been a small village created by the French with a casino, hotel, post office and Church. The French colonialists had used the high altitude to escape the heat of the town. In the course of the many wars and internal conflicts in Cambodia the town was abandoned and all that remains are the empty buildings. It is oddly eery up there as we went through the casino, imagining a scene from the 1930s unfolding around us, we noticed the bullet holes in the walls from when the Khmer Rouge occupied the area.
The views from the top were incredible and it made the arduous trek worthwhile.
When it came to climb down the French couple couldn't carry their daughter and so asked if there was alternative transport. Lizzie and I also requested that we share what truck etc was provided, not trusting ourselves and knowing that gravity is a far stronger force than our balancing abilities. The insulting German didn't want to climb down alone with the armed ranger so he opted to join us too.
We waited at the spot we'd been dropped off at and up pulled a small hatch back. It had five seats. There were six of us on the tour and the tour guide, a driver and her son were already in the car. That made nine. Surely were weren't all going to fit? Like the sketch of clowns fitting into a mini we all squashed in with four in the back and five in the front- the guide and the woman shared the front seat while her son sat on her lap. The German was holding the young French girl and the four of us left were all sitting at odd angles in order to squeeze in the back.
It was exciting to say the least. We were glad that we had done it, in a sort of masochistic way, and the top had been extraordinary. It might just have been nice if they had told us that it was that hard. We still would have done it but then we could have felt stupid at our own fitness levels rather than deceived.
The snorkeling outcome was no ones fault but my own but I am still tempted to write to a certain sun-tan-lotion manufacturer to complain about their products water resistance levels.
After these strenuous outings we retreated to Kep and the tropical Rabbit Island where we lay in hammocks for two days and ate fresh seafood every night. I like to think we try to achieve some sort of balance on our travels.
Friday 23 April 2010
Week 8: New Year
Cambodia, Laos and Thailand all share an alternative New Year to the West which is normally celebrated in mid-April. Each country has its own traditions but generally speaking it is a family time. They clean their houses and wash the temples to have a fresh start for the new year. In the spirit of cleanliness young people have water fights and plaster one another in talc as an extension of the more religious traditions.
We were excited to be in Cambodia for this national celebration and planned to be in the capital, Phnom Penh, for the three day event. First however, we were going to spend two nights in Battambang before heading further south.
We left Siem Reap to take a delightful boat trip along the Tonle Sap on one of the most scenic pieces of river in the country. It was advertised to take 4-5 hours. It took 9.
Battambang is a small Khmer town that, due to the French colonial buildings lining the riverbank, is quite beautiful. We spent our time wandering around and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
On one of these wanderings we passed a Wat and I was keen to have a look in the hope that one of the monks could explain to me a little more about the New Year celebrations.
I went in and sure enough a young temple boy took me round. The various statues surrounding the temple were decorated in coloured streamers and ribbon in preparation for the following few days.
The young boy also explained to me about basic Buddhist beliefs and stories. One story was depicted by a few statues and it couldn't help but catch the eye. It was the story of an Indian Prince who had never seen any unhappiness in his life because he had never left his palace. Buddha takes him outside to show him the real world including the old, the ill, the dead and also a monk none of which the Prince has seen before. When he sees the monk he vows to dedicate his life to Buddhism. The story I had no problem with the statues depicting it on the other hand were a little disturbing. More specifically the depiction of the dead man was really odd. They were all new statues, almost cartoon-esque, and painted in bright colours. The dead man was a man lying on the floor with a green face and a hole gouged out of his stomach where a statue of a bird was perched now eating his insides. For such a peaceful religion this seemed a little grotesque.
That evening Lizzie and I ventured to the only club in Battambang that was advertised as playing Khmer love ballads and house music. The intrigue was too great to resist.
Inside the "Sky Disco" we were unsurprised to find ourselves the only Westerners. The evening was evidently a special club night for the New Year. The only reason we knew this was because every now and again between remixes of American and Khmer rap, the DJ shouted "Happy New Year!" Also, there seemed to be some kind of special raffle where someone won an electric fan. We didn't get it but the winner seemed happy.
The following day we carried on to Phnom Penh. When we arrived at our hostel we asked the owner about any special celebrations going on for the holiday, "Not really", he replied, "Most people go out to the country to be with their families". We noticed that evening walking around the town that, for a capital city, it seemed quite quiet. We were hoping for huge water fights in the street when in fact we were lucky that things had stayed open at all.
The next day we saw some lights and heard music coming from a nearby Wat and went to investigate. The Wat served as a kind of roundabout and on this huge green space was a stage with a live band and families gathered to eat and dance.
We grabbed ourselves a drink and stood back from the crowd to watch the band. Soon we attracted the attention of a few young Khmer boys who were inviting us to dance with them. I say boys; Lizzie was asked to dance by a boy about our age who seemed genuinely friendly and meant no harm. I was asked to dance by a man in his late thirties with his front teeth missing. We both politely declined and retreated further back. We were just swaying and bobbing where we were when a small round woman, who was with the afore mentioned group of men, came up to us and indicated we should dance. We smiled and shook our heads. She then grabbed Lizzie's arm and dragged her towards the dance floor. Lizzie grabbed my opposite arm sending me spinning round before being dragged along behind. We found ourselves in the middle of group and could do nothing but dance. While dancing a few youths ran passed patting our faces with talc leaving hand prints across our faces.
All in all it was not what we had expected of the new year but we saw some celebrations and were invited to join in. I thought the dance must be the Khmer equivalent of singing Auld Lang Syne but without the organised handholding or everyone being too drunk to remember the words. Mybe the Khmer have it right.
We were excited to be in Cambodia for this national celebration and planned to be in the capital, Phnom Penh, for the three day event. First however, we were going to spend two nights in Battambang before heading further south.
We left Siem Reap to take a delightful boat trip along the Tonle Sap on one of the most scenic pieces of river in the country. It was advertised to take 4-5 hours. It took 9.
Battambang is a small Khmer town that, due to the French colonial buildings lining the riverbank, is quite beautiful. We spent our time wandering around and generally enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
On one of these wanderings we passed a Wat and I was keen to have a look in the hope that one of the monks could explain to me a little more about the New Year celebrations.
I went in and sure enough a young temple boy took me round. The various statues surrounding the temple were decorated in coloured streamers and ribbon in preparation for the following few days.
The young boy also explained to me about basic Buddhist beliefs and stories. One story was depicted by a few statues and it couldn't help but catch the eye. It was the story of an Indian Prince who had never seen any unhappiness in his life because he had never left his palace. Buddha takes him outside to show him the real world including the old, the ill, the dead and also a monk none of which the Prince has seen before. When he sees the monk he vows to dedicate his life to Buddhism. The story I had no problem with the statues depicting it on the other hand were a little disturbing. More specifically the depiction of the dead man was really odd. They were all new statues, almost cartoon-esque, and painted in bright colours. The dead man was a man lying on the floor with a green face and a hole gouged out of his stomach where a statue of a bird was perched now eating his insides. For such a peaceful religion this seemed a little grotesque.
That evening Lizzie and I ventured to the only club in Battambang that was advertised as playing Khmer love ballads and house music. The intrigue was too great to resist.
Inside the "Sky Disco" we were unsurprised to find ourselves the only Westerners. The evening was evidently a special club night for the New Year. The only reason we knew this was because every now and again between remixes of American and Khmer rap, the DJ shouted "Happy New Year!" Also, there seemed to be some kind of special raffle where someone won an electric fan. We didn't get it but the winner seemed happy.
The following day we carried on to Phnom Penh. When we arrived at our hostel we asked the owner about any special celebrations going on for the holiday, "Not really", he replied, "Most people go out to the country to be with their families". We noticed that evening walking around the town that, for a capital city, it seemed quite quiet. We were hoping for huge water fights in the street when in fact we were lucky that things had stayed open at all.
The next day we saw some lights and heard music coming from a nearby Wat and went to investigate. The Wat served as a kind of roundabout and on this huge green space was a stage with a live band and families gathered to eat and dance.
We grabbed ourselves a drink and stood back from the crowd to watch the band. Soon we attracted the attention of a few young Khmer boys who were inviting us to dance with them. I say boys; Lizzie was asked to dance by a boy about our age who seemed genuinely friendly and meant no harm. I was asked to dance by a man in his late thirties with his front teeth missing. We both politely declined and retreated further back. We were just swaying and bobbing where we were when a small round woman, who was with the afore mentioned group of men, came up to us and indicated we should dance. We smiled and shook our heads. She then grabbed Lizzie's arm and dragged her towards the dance floor. Lizzie grabbed my opposite arm sending me spinning round before being dragged along behind. We found ourselves in the middle of group and could do nothing but dance. While dancing a few youths ran passed patting our faces with talc leaving hand prints across our faces.
All in all it was not what we had expected of the new year but we saw some celebrations and were invited to join in. I thought the dance must be the Khmer equivalent of singing Auld Lang Syne but without the organised handholding or everyone being too drunk to remember the words. Mybe the Khmer have it right.
Wednesday 14 April 2010
Week 7: Children
I am not a naturally child-friendly person. I have no patience and I can't deal with snot making it difficult for me to be around these small people. Nevertheless it is difficult not to feel some obligation to protect them and shield them from harms way. In Siem Reap this was somewhat tested.
When we arrived in Siem Reap in Northern Cambodia after leaving Si Phan Don (Laos) one of the most obvious differences between the countries was the amount of beggar children. When we had breakfast at a street cafe on our first morning, at least three children approached us trying to sell books or postcards. Many were landmine victims themselves or had lost their families to landmines. I am ashamed to say how quickly we became immune to these horriffic stories; after that first day we would smile but politely and firmly decline the wares on offer.
It was our first day in the city, and my birthday, and not feeling quite up to the temples yet we wandered around the market and then, when it was too hot at almost 38oC, we headed to a nearby pool which had a little bar and restaurant attached.
The pool's entrance was almost hidden behind palm trees and when we entered the bar it seemed like a small oasis outside the bustling heat of the town.
We ordered ourselves two local beers and headed to the poolside.
The pool was absolutely full to bursting with children, screaming and playing with various inflatable toys. It was terrifying. One of the barmaids told us that it was an afterschool club for kids to keep them off the street and generally help them get a better life. I couldn't begrudge them that. I swiftly got into the pool, despite being gawped at by the children, to cool down.
Soon, I began to throw a beachball back and forth with one of the young girls and, to my surprise, had fun.
I turned around to see Lizzie surrounded by at least six young girls all shouting questions at her. The eldest couldn't have been more than twelve but their English was incrediblyy good. From what I could make out they were asking things like "Where are you from?", "How old are you?", "What's your name?". The standard questions.
It was only after these questions had been exhausted that they moved onto "Do you have a boyfriend?" to which Lizzie replied "No", to which they answered "But you old!" Apparently being single anywhere in the world carries a certain social stigma.
It was then that things got a little confusing. The children had already begun to climb over us and pinch us (inappropriately to say the least) but then asked Lizzie, "Where is your baby?" Lizzie was obviously even more confused, "Ï don't have a baby". Lizzie looked over to me for help but for once I was just glad to not be the focus of embarrassment. At this point a harmless young German man walked past and the children began pointing, "Does he have your baby?" The poor German looked even more confused than we did. "What? No!" Lizzie said while I just tried to shrug at the poor fellow to show we had no more idea than we did.
The German guy looked very confused and went back to sit by his girlfriend. She didn't look too happy.
Thankfully, the children were all retrieved from the pool and went home. It was a lot quieter after that. We are British and therefore have certain rules about personal space. These children managed to violate all of said social protocol.
In the evening when we went out on the road back to the hotel children were being sent out by their parents to beg. They would grab hold of your arms and beg to be bought food. There is no way to justify your reaction to this. If you ignore them you are being cruel but if you buy them some food will they not be hungry tomorrow?
Not knowing how to deal with this I walked quickly ahead only to turn around and see a child of about 5ft 3in climbing up Lizzie like she was a climbing frame. I gently tried to pry the child off her before quickly heading back to the guesthouse.
On another evening Lizzie refused to give money to a child and he smacked her bum really hard and then mine just for good measure. We did pity and try and empathise with these children but we did seem to attract a lot of (what we deemed unnecessary) physical abuse from them.
This I will admit is probably the blog that, so far, has been the least amusing. The way these children acted was funny only because they made us feel so uncomfortable and we were so stunned by their actions but if they were starving or relying on begging as an income I suppose they would try anything.
Saying that the children from the pool didn't really have this excuse. They just seemed to really like Lizzie.
When we arrived in Siem Reap in Northern Cambodia after leaving Si Phan Don (Laos) one of the most obvious differences between the countries was the amount of beggar children. When we had breakfast at a street cafe on our first morning, at least three children approached us trying to sell books or postcards. Many were landmine victims themselves or had lost their families to landmines. I am ashamed to say how quickly we became immune to these horriffic stories; after that first day we would smile but politely and firmly decline the wares on offer.
It was our first day in the city, and my birthday, and not feeling quite up to the temples yet we wandered around the market and then, when it was too hot at almost 38oC, we headed to a nearby pool which had a little bar and restaurant attached.
The pool's entrance was almost hidden behind palm trees and when we entered the bar it seemed like a small oasis outside the bustling heat of the town.
We ordered ourselves two local beers and headed to the poolside.
The pool was absolutely full to bursting with children, screaming and playing with various inflatable toys. It was terrifying. One of the barmaids told us that it was an afterschool club for kids to keep them off the street and generally help them get a better life. I couldn't begrudge them that. I swiftly got into the pool, despite being gawped at by the children, to cool down.
Soon, I began to throw a beachball back and forth with one of the young girls and, to my surprise, had fun.
I turned around to see Lizzie surrounded by at least six young girls all shouting questions at her. The eldest couldn't have been more than twelve but their English was incrediblyy good. From what I could make out they were asking things like "Where are you from?", "How old are you?", "What's your name?". The standard questions.
It was only after these questions had been exhausted that they moved onto "Do you have a boyfriend?" to which Lizzie replied "No", to which they answered "But you old!" Apparently being single anywhere in the world carries a certain social stigma.
It was then that things got a little confusing. The children had already begun to climb over us and pinch us (inappropriately to say the least) but then asked Lizzie, "Where is your baby?" Lizzie was obviously even more confused, "Ï don't have a baby". Lizzie looked over to me for help but for once I was just glad to not be the focus of embarrassment. At this point a harmless young German man walked past and the children began pointing, "Does he have your baby?" The poor German looked even more confused than we did. "What? No!" Lizzie said while I just tried to shrug at the poor fellow to show we had no more idea than we did.
The German guy looked very confused and went back to sit by his girlfriend. She didn't look too happy.
Thankfully, the children were all retrieved from the pool and went home. It was a lot quieter after that. We are British and therefore have certain rules about personal space. These children managed to violate all of said social protocol.
In the evening when we went out on the road back to the hotel children were being sent out by their parents to beg. They would grab hold of your arms and beg to be bought food. There is no way to justify your reaction to this. If you ignore them you are being cruel but if you buy them some food will they not be hungry tomorrow?
Not knowing how to deal with this I walked quickly ahead only to turn around and see a child of about 5ft 3in climbing up Lizzie like she was a climbing frame. I gently tried to pry the child off her before quickly heading back to the guesthouse.
On another evening Lizzie refused to give money to a child and he smacked her bum really hard and then mine just for good measure. We did pity and try and empathise with these children but we did seem to attract a lot of (what we deemed unnecessary) physical abuse from them.
This I will admit is probably the blog that, so far, has been the least amusing. The way these children acted was funny only because they made us feel so uncomfortable and we were so stunned by their actions but if they were starving or relying on begging as an income I suppose they would try anything.
Saying that the children from the pool didn't really have this excuse. They just seemed to really like Lizzie.
Friday 9 April 2010
Week 6: Health
I mentioned in the previous blog that Lizzie was unwell and this is no understatement. The poor thing was bed bound for 4 days. Eventually, we enlisted the help of a doctor (with some help from our guesthouse receptionist as translator) and, after prescribing various medicines, Lizzie began to get better. This all occurred in Pakse. We ventured on to Si Phan Don (the four thousand islands) but by the time we got there (a few hours in a mini bus) Lizzie needed to return to her bed.
Thankfully Si Phan Don is a collection of beautifully laid back islands where travelers come to do not very much at all. It has been described as a backpacker's mecca; it has good food (including an Australian baker), sun, and every night after the bars close (all close by 11pm) all the tourists go down to the beach and have a bonfire.
After a day of laying in bed again Lizzie could venture down to the beach with me and generally felt a lot better.
In this time my body had defied all rules of logic and I got a cold. Unexpectedly, I had also severely sunburned my forearms and the back of my hands. On a serious note should you ever get sunburned anywhere do not, I repeat, do not get tiger balm on it. It does not feel good.
For those who can prize themselves off the beach, off the Island of Don Khon one can glimpse the rare Irrawaddy Dolphins. The done thing is to rent bikes and stop at a waterfall on the way to the Dolphins to cool down and refresh. Lizzie said she was feeling up to it so, on her first day of restored health, we set out.
We had been warned by other travelers that the path is a little rocky and so it is better to get a mountain bike. We had too very professional looking mountain bikes and it still was so bumpy it hurt. As far as our health is now concerned I'm not sure whether Lizzie or myself will ever be able to have children.
We crossed the old railway bridge and followed the path down to the waterfall. By the time we got there Lizzie was feeling a little worse for wear again and I was just really hot. We swam in a little alcove on a deserted beach next to the waterfall and cooled down. We then retreated back to the makeshift restaurants that lined the road to the waterfall. Lizzie almost instantly fell asleep in a hammock and I spent the following two hours reapplying sun-tan lotion to my arms.
When Lizzie woke up it was getting into the late afternoon. The perfect time to see the dolphins because it's cooler and the dolphins begin to surface.
We cycled down yet another bumpy path, so much so that we actually had to get off our bikes and push them, and to the dock.
We were guided into a long-tail boat (a long shallow boat something like a punt with with more pointed ends) and a young girl took us out of the rocky cove and into the even rockier waters.
Once we had overcome our fear of the boat capsizing or it sinking (the girl kept emptying it with a small bucket) we could enjoy the fantastic sunset behind us. The sun began to glow bright red before sinking right down behind the mountains. Truly amazing.
In this time we still had not seen the dolphins and we needed to cycle back before it got dark. Lizzie thinks she saw a tail emerge from the water but we think it might have just been a big fish.
We returned to the shore just as twilight was setting in. We rushed our bikes down the dirt track again but unfortunately the same problems occurred as before and we had to push our bikes for part of the way. The path on the way to the dolphins had been a rocky but shaded path through a small forest which, in the heat, was a welcome relief. Now as it was getting dark it was terrifying. It didn't help that we couldn't remember the way we'd come and that I have the direction of a goldfish.
It was at this point that I decided to venture the notion, "Doesn't this remind you of a horror film? Two girls stranded in the forest?" I can quite honestly say that this is the stupidest thing to say in that situation. Should you ever be cycling through an empty wood at night sing crappy pop songs at the top of your voice (lizzie's method of coping) do not compare your situation to a horror film.
We just managed to get back to the railway bridge as it was really dark and the path along the river was full of bumps and rickety bamboo bridges. We also still had about another three kilometers to go. Reluctantly, we got off our bikes and pushed them. We arrived back at the guesthouse about 2 1/2 hours later and collapsed on our beds. We were both exhausted and hurt everywhere. My arms also still felt like they were on fire.
While it was undoubtedly a beautiful day you really needed to be in full health to cope in the heat. And the horrifically bumpy roads. We were not and seemed to suffer for it. The next day we lay on the beach which we could see from our room. Well, we wouldn't want to over do it would we?
Thankfully Si Phan Don is a collection of beautifully laid back islands where travelers come to do not very much at all. It has been described as a backpacker's mecca; it has good food (including an Australian baker), sun, and every night after the bars close (all close by 11pm) all the tourists go down to the beach and have a bonfire.
After a day of laying in bed again Lizzie could venture down to the beach with me and generally felt a lot better.
In this time my body had defied all rules of logic and I got a cold. Unexpectedly, I had also severely sunburned my forearms and the back of my hands. On a serious note should you ever get sunburned anywhere do not, I repeat, do not get tiger balm on it. It does not feel good.
For those who can prize themselves off the beach, off the Island of Don Khon one can glimpse the rare Irrawaddy Dolphins. The done thing is to rent bikes and stop at a waterfall on the way to the Dolphins to cool down and refresh. Lizzie said she was feeling up to it so, on her first day of restored health, we set out.
We had been warned by other travelers that the path is a little rocky and so it is better to get a mountain bike. We had too very professional looking mountain bikes and it still was so bumpy it hurt. As far as our health is now concerned I'm not sure whether Lizzie or myself will ever be able to have children.
We crossed the old railway bridge and followed the path down to the waterfall. By the time we got there Lizzie was feeling a little worse for wear again and I was just really hot. We swam in a little alcove on a deserted beach next to the waterfall and cooled down. We then retreated back to the makeshift restaurants that lined the road to the waterfall. Lizzie almost instantly fell asleep in a hammock and I spent the following two hours reapplying sun-tan lotion to my arms.
When Lizzie woke up it was getting into the late afternoon. The perfect time to see the dolphins because it's cooler and the dolphins begin to surface.
We cycled down yet another bumpy path, so much so that we actually had to get off our bikes and push them, and to the dock.
We were guided into a long-tail boat (a long shallow boat something like a punt with with more pointed ends) and a young girl took us out of the rocky cove and into the even rockier waters.
Once we had overcome our fear of the boat capsizing or it sinking (the girl kept emptying it with a small bucket) we could enjoy the fantastic sunset behind us. The sun began to glow bright red before sinking right down behind the mountains. Truly amazing.
In this time we still had not seen the dolphins and we needed to cycle back before it got dark. Lizzie thinks she saw a tail emerge from the water but we think it might have just been a big fish.
We returned to the shore just as twilight was setting in. We rushed our bikes down the dirt track again but unfortunately the same problems occurred as before and we had to push our bikes for part of the way. The path on the way to the dolphins had been a rocky but shaded path through a small forest which, in the heat, was a welcome relief. Now as it was getting dark it was terrifying. It didn't help that we couldn't remember the way we'd come and that I have the direction of a goldfish.
It was at this point that I decided to venture the notion, "Doesn't this remind you of a horror film? Two girls stranded in the forest?" I can quite honestly say that this is the stupidest thing to say in that situation. Should you ever be cycling through an empty wood at night sing crappy pop songs at the top of your voice (lizzie's method of coping) do not compare your situation to a horror film.
We just managed to get back to the railway bridge as it was really dark and the path along the river was full of bumps and rickety bamboo bridges. We also still had about another three kilometers to go. Reluctantly, we got off our bikes and pushed them. We arrived back at the guesthouse about 2 1/2 hours later and collapsed on our beds. We were both exhausted and hurt everywhere. My arms also still felt like they were on fire.
While it was undoubtedly a beautiful day you really needed to be in full health to cope in the heat. And the horrifically bumpy roads. We were not and seemed to suffer for it. The next day we lay on the beach which we could see from our room. Well, we wouldn't want to over do it would we?
Thursday 1 April 2010
Week 5: Translation
In our short time travelling we have discovered that there are a few universal signals for things. For example, to order the bill you pretend to write on your hand; if you don't understand something you smile and nod; or if you want to indicate a visa you stamp you punch your palm with your opposing fist. Well the final example may not be universal but we certainly found it useful.
When we arrived in Vientiane we had not known what to expect. Various other travellers we met either recommended not to go or bypassed it due to its lack of entertainment. We on the other hand found it quite pleasant.
There is not a whole host of things to do considering it is the capital but it is interesting for that fact alone. We spent our first evening at a bar on the bank of the Mekong drinking Beer Lao under the stars and getting bitten to death by bugs. Excluding the bugs, it was a wonderful sight.
One of the main reasons I had wanted to go to Vientiane was because there was a Cambodian consulate there and no matter how many times I looked through the guide books or checked online I couldn't seem to find a definitive "Yes" or "No" as to whether it was possible to buy a Cambodian visa at the border.
Since we were in the city anyway we thought we may as well check it out and then spend the day going to the markets and perhaps a Wat or two.
We hailed down a tuk-tuk and explained where we wanted to go and pointed to our map. After a few minutes the driver seemed to understand. He smiled and we got in. Already seated in the tuk-tuk was a middle-aged Cambodian woman and a monk listening to his ipod.
The driver half explained that we would need to drop the monk off first. We stopped outside a Wat and the monk jumped out and ran towards the temple. We waited for about ten minutes at which point the monk returned and we continued up the road. We hadn't really understood why this had happened but we were moving again so we thought it best not to question it.
My only worry was that the driver thought we might want to go to the Thai embassy. My reason for this was because every time I said "Cambodian embassy" he would nod and say something sounding like "Thai".
We kept driving further and further out of the city but we had no way to try and ask the driver where we were going. We just had to be patient.
After another twenty minutes we seemed to arrive at a large car park behind that was a big sign, "Thai Border Crossing". "No, no, no!" I shouted while waving my arms. I thought that, for the second time on our trip, we'd get stuck on the wrong side of the border. The driver simply laughed and pointed to the monk who was getting his things together, paid the driver and walked towards the border. After that we headed back into the city.
We stopped again just so the driver could double check our map and then set off. We arrived outside an official looking building with many other Western tourists crowding around outside. Trying not to appear too skeptical I quickly checked the sign outside to check we were at the right place. The sign read, "Thai Embassy". "No", I repeated. "Cambodian". Much more pointing and map twisting occurred before we set off again in what looked to be the right direction. The taxi driver then dropped us about 3km from where he picked us up. Almost an hour and a half after he'd picked us up.
Still smiling the driver let us off and just shrugged. We paid the nice man and Lizzie pointed out it wasn't his fault and he was just trying to help us. I felt quite guilty in the end considering the goose chase we'd accidentally sent him on.
The guard at the Cambodian consulate told us, from behind locked gates, that it was closed for lunch and would reopen in an hour and a half. Too hot to care we sat at a roadside cafe in the shade until we could speak to someone.
So a swift hour and a half later we passed through the gates to the Cambodian consulate which just looked like a big colonial house. We were then directed to a window where a small man in glasses sat behind a sign saying "Visas".
We asked him if he knew if we could buy a visa at the Laos-Cambodian border. He didn't know. Could he tell us who we might contact who would know? No. He told us the best thing to do would be to come back the following morning where we could get a visa to pick up that afternoon. Slightly deflated we thanked the man and decided to head for a nearby pool to relax and cool down and then return tomorrow.
We hailed down another tuk-tuk to go back into the city centre. In the back of our new tuk-tuk sat two American girls. We chatted and when we said about our visas they said, "Oh yeah you can get them at the border. We've just come from Laos and they issued visas at both sides." Success, even if it had taken most of the day.
The next day we travelled on to Savannakhet which is quite possibly the weirdest place we've been. It was a perfectly nice looking town there was just no one there. It was a ghost town. It seems a shame to say nothing about it but there really wasn't anything there. The people were nice and there was nice restaurants but apart from that very little to do.
More confused that anything else we travelled on to Pakse where we only intended to spend one night before going to Si Phan Don (the Four Thousand Islands). Unfortunately Lizzie developed a really bad stomach bug which kept her bed bound for a few days and so we stayed in Pakse for a few days.
Near our guesthouse was a hairdressers and one afternoon when Lizzie was asleep I thought I would be brave and get my haircut. I went in and asked how much it would cost to which I was answered with a blank stare. I made a motion with my hands as if I was cutting hair and then rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to signify money. The girl just began laughing and turned and said something to her friend who just looked angry. The laughing girl just waved me away saying "No". I repeated the gesture thinking that they hadn't understood but she just laughed more and said more emphatically "No". Why was this the moment that the Laos people decided to give definitive answers?
I didn't end up getting my haircut because knowing my luck I would have accidentally told them to shave half my head and I just don't have enough sun-tan lotion to pull that off.
When we arrived in Vientiane we had not known what to expect. Various other travellers we met either recommended not to go or bypassed it due to its lack of entertainment. We on the other hand found it quite pleasant.
There is not a whole host of things to do considering it is the capital but it is interesting for that fact alone. We spent our first evening at a bar on the bank of the Mekong drinking Beer Lao under the stars and getting bitten to death by bugs. Excluding the bugs, it was a wonderful sight.
One of the main reasons I had wanted to go to Vientiane was because there was a Cambodian consulate there and no matter how many times I looked through the guide books or checked online I couldn't seem to find a definitive "Yes" or "No" as to whether it was possible to buy a Cambodian visa at the border.
Since we were in the city anyway we thought we may as well check it out and then spend the day going to the markets and perhaps a Wat or two.
We hailed down a tuk-tuk and explained where we wanted to go and pointed to our map. After a few minutes the driver seemed to understand. He smiled and we got in. Already seated in the tuk-tuk was a middle-aged Cambodian woman and a monk listening to his ipod.
The driver half explained that we would need to drop the monk off first. We stopped outside a Wat and the monk jumped out and ran towards the temple. We waited for about ten minutes at which point the monk returned and we continued up the road. We hadn't really understood why this had happened but we were moving again so we thought it best not to question it.
My only worry was that the driver thought we might want to go to the Thai embassy. My reason for this was because every time I said "Cambodian embassy" he would nod and say something sounding like "Thai".
We kept driving further and further out of the city but we had no way to try and ask the driver where we were going. We just had to be patient.
After another twenty minutes we seemed to arrive at a large car park behind that was a big sign, "Thai Border Crossing". "No, no, no!" I shouted while waving my arms. I thought that, for the second time on our trip, we'd get stuck on the wrong side of the border. The driver simply laughed and pointed to the monk who was getting his things together, paid the driver and walked towards the border. After that we headed back into the city.
We stopped again just so the driver could double check our map and then set off. We arrived outside an official looking building with many other Western tourists crowding around outside. Trying not to appear too skeptical I quickly checked the sign outside to check we were at the right place. The sign read, "Thai Embassy". "No", I repeated. "Cambodian". Much more pointing and map twisting occurred before we set off again in what looked to be the right direction. The taxi driver then dropped us about 3km from where he picked us up. Almost an hour and a half after he'd picked us up.
Still smiling the driver let us off and just shrugged. We paid the nice man and Lizzie pointed out it wasn't his fault and he was just trying to help us. I felt quite guilty in the end considering the goose chase we'd accidentally sent him on.
The guard at the Cambodian consulate told us, from behind locked gates, that it was closed for lunch and would reopen in an hour and a half. Too hot to care we sat at a roadside cafe in the shade until we could speak to someone.
So a swift hour and a half later we passed through the gates to the Cambodian consulate which just looked like a big colonial house. We were then directed to a window where a small man in glasses sat behind a sign saying "Visas".
We asked him if he knew if we could buy a visa at the Laos-Cambodian border. He didn't know. Could he tell us who we might contact who would know? No. He told us the best thing to do would be to come back the following morning where we could get a visa to pick up that afternoon. Slightly deflated we thanked the man and decided to head for a nearby pool to relax and cool down and then return tomorrow.
We hailed down another tuk-tuk to go back into the city centre. In the back of our new tuk-tuk sat two American girls. We chatted and when we said about our visas they said, "Oh yeah you can get them at the border. We've just come from Laos and they issued visas at both sides." Success, even if it had taken most of the day.
The next day we travelled on to Savannakhet which is quite possibly the weirdest place we've been. It was a perfectly nice looking town there was just no one there. It was a ghost town. It seems a shame to say nothing about it but there really wasn't anything there. The people were nice and there was nice restaurants but apart from that very little to do.
More confused that anything else we travelled on to Pakse where we only intended to spend one night before going to Si Phan Don (the Four Thousand Islands). Unfortunately Lizzie developed a really bad stomach bug which kept her bed bound for a few days and so we stayed in Pakse for a few days.
Near our guesthouse was a hairdressers and one afternoon when Lizzie was asleep I thought I would be brave and get my haircut. I went in and asked how much it would cost to which I was answered with a blank stare. I made a motion with my hands as if I was cutting hair and then rubbed my thumb and forefinger together to signify money. The girl just began laughing and turned and said something to her friend who just looked angry. The laughing girl just waved me away saying "No". I repeated the gesture thinking that they hadn't understood but she just laughed more and said more emphatically "No". Why was this the moment that the Laos people decided to give definitive answers?
I didn't end up getting my haircut because knowing my luck I would have accidentally told them to shave half my head and I just don't have enough sun-tan lotion to pull that off.
Tuesday 23 March 2010
Week 4: Water Sports
Before I start on this week's topic I need to clarify a few things. What I aimed to do with this blog was to create the anti-travel guide i.e. a guide of what not to do. My dear companion Elizabeth notified me that it sounds like I'm whining which I never do. I can happily tell you that although our trip has not always been smooth sailing we have gotten past any problems and, for the most part, been able to laugh our way through it. I would like to think that this would give hope to other potential travellers; if I can do it, by God, so can you.
Now, back to the subject at hand. Ah yes, Watersports.
For anyone who has ever met me this title will produce humour in itself. I am not what you would call a naturally atheletic person in the way I detest any form of physcial exertion. So, when I say that we decided to go kayaking you can only imagine the laughter that is now eminating from my friends' and familys' lips.
It started as all well meant things do with trying to please someone else. Lizzie said, and I quote, that she "liked" kayaking.
We were in Luang Prabang in Laos and had spent a few days there seeing the Wats and the markets and sitting in Cafes in the sunshine. Nearly every other shop in Luang Prabang offered treks or excursions of some sort and we saw that a few combined Kayaking with an elephant ride. Lizzie said that kayaking might be fun. Not wanting to dampen her spirits I said that I also thought it sounded like fun and simply tried to block out previous experiences I had of boats. I thought that plenty of tourists must do this with next to no experience so we signed up.
The day was supposed to start with kayaking up the Nam Khan river before stopping for a ride on an elephant. We then would carry on canoeing and stop for lunch with a visit to a small village just outside Luang Prabang and then continue kayaking for about another two hours. In total that would be about three to three and a half hours of kayaking. Surely it wouldn't be that hard would it?
It was only that evening at a lovely dinner that Lizzie and I began to worry about our kayaking abilities. "I haven't actually kayaked before," Lizzie confessed.
"Then why the hell are we going?"
"I thought it would be fun and you said it would be too".
"Because I thought it was some hobby of yours you hadn't told me about before".
We convinced ourselves it would be fine. It would have to be now we'd handed over our money and wanted at least to see an elephant. Our other worry was the American couple who had signed up for the same trip earlier that day. We feared that they would be really sporty athletic types who would race off ahead of us while we failed to launch ourselves off the bank.
By the time we arrived at the excursions office the next day we were nervously giggling while trying to take deep, calming breaths. We were guided to a tuk-tuk our guide and two young preppy Americans got in too. Preppy we could handle.
We were introduced to our guide and our fellow day trippers. The couple were just in Laos for a week and seemed very nice. What was bad is that when the guy talked about Laos I couldn't shake the image of the colonel in Apocalypse Now with a cigar hanging out his mouth. Not that i'm one for stereotyping.
Our guide was a very sweet young man from Luang Prabang who did day trips with tourists during the day and then went to the University in the evening to study English and Tourism. He also informed us that in the days prior to our trip he had been in hospital because he had collapsed and had to be put on a drip for three days. Sweet he may have been but he was hardly filling us with confidence.
We arrived at the starting point and loaded the boats, oars, helmets and life jackets off the tuk-tuk and climbed aboard. The life jackets were all a little too large which meant that when you sat down in them they pushed up as if you had no shoulders or neck and made it incredibly difficult to move.
Our guide pushed Lizzie and me, in our double kayak, off the shore and down stream. For the first few seconds we seemed to be going straight. Then we began to paddle. To reach the elephants took perhaps double the time it should have done because we couldn't keep a straight line and kept veering off towards either bank.
The elephant ride lasted about an hour and was blissful. We had a slightly stubborn elephant; he kept wandering off to grab food before trundling on. I felt we had a bond. They were such gorgeous creatures but we didn't have time to admire them for too long before we bundled back into the kayak and tried again. It did not get better. The Americans and our guide had to keep waiting for us which was embarassing in itself. More so because our boat kept sinking which turned out was not our fault (there was a leak in the kayak and it kept filling with water) but it did mean we had to keep emptying it on the bank.
After what seemed like years the guide began gesturing to us to stop for lunch. "Yes!" I thought. We crashed into the bank and I leapt up so happy to once again be able to walk on dry land. I stepped out with my right foot and was happily about to place my left on the shore when I tripped over my oar and fell into the shallows. Lizzie was hysterical. The guide rushed over, "Are you hurt?",
"Only my pride", I mumbled.
Our lunch was practically eaten in silence. It was after this that we walked up to a nearby village and saw the few houses and the Wat (temple) and our guide explained to us about the importance of Buddhism in Laos. It was really interesting and along with the elephants made the whole Kayaking ordeal worthhile. He explained that almost every young Laos male becomes a monk at some point or you are not viewed as being "whole" but you are free to leave whenever you want. I coudn't imagine such a laid back view to monkhood in the Catholic Church.
When we returned to the boats our guide suggested that me or Lizzie take his single boat and he ride with the other in our boat. Lizzie went with the guide while I rowed on alone.
Weirdly enough the afternoon picked up from there. I was still going at a snail's pace with blisters emerging on both hands, but it was easier to navigate and it really was a fantastic way to see the river an surrounding area; beautiful palm trees,mountains, some minor rapids...as well as people washing and fishing in the river waving and smiling and we floated passed.
After another two hours we'd finished and with aching arms and blistering hands I felt like we had achieved something. Lizzie too had enjoyed her afternoon but had a slight eye opener when chatting to the guide.
It turned out that Lizzie had asked our guide what it was like to live in Laos. He replied, "What do you think it's like to live here?"
"I imagine very chilled and laid back" ventured Lizzie.
The guide went on to inform Lizzie about the poverty of the Laos people and even said that no one really liked the current government because of the corruption and that the rich could get away with anything.
When talking about his family the guide revealed he's had ten brothers and sisters but two died. One of his brothers died of dissentry and he'd had to carry his dying brother to the hospital.
I am not even going to pretend we could begin to understand life in Laos but it made us view the smiling face of Luang Prabang to tourists a little differently.
We left Luang Prabang a few days later fully rested and ready to take on everything we'd heard about the bizarre town of Vang Vieng.
The main attraction to Vang Vieng is tubing. For those who have yet to experience this phenomenon- tubing is getting a big rubber ring and floating down the river while stopping off at bars along the way to get drunk. About one person dies a month in Vang Vieng from this activity.
We ventured down to the riverside bars a little apprehensive and a little intrigued. It did not disappoint. While we failed to go tubing we stayed at the bars on the riverside and drank while occassionally taking a dip to cool off. Other people seemed to really go for it drinking buckets of Laos Laos whiskey (the local spirit and deadly) and Coke before taking to a 20 ft zip wire above the river and letting go.
We were there for two nights and it was fun while it lasted but it was just such a bizarre place. There were a few Buddhist monks walking around the town next to the drunken westerner while Friends was playing on screens in most of the restaurants.
The next day, slightly groggy we were on a bus to Vientianne with 30 others who all looked equally bad.
I'd managed to have a good wholesome day out in the open air Kayaking and then ruin it all with Tubing (without the tube). Ah well.
Now, back to the subject at hand. Ah yes, Watersports.
For anyone who has ever met me this title will produce humour in itself. I am not what you would call a naturally atheletic person in the way I detest any form of physcial exertion. So, when I say that we decided to go kayaking you can only imagine the laughter that is now eminating from my friends' and familys' lips.
It started as all well meant things do with trying to please someone else. Lizzie said, and I quote, that she "liked" kayaking.
We were in Luang Prabang in Laos and had spent a few days there seeing the Wats and the markets and sitting in Cafes in the sunshine. Nearly every other shop in Luang Prabang offered treks or excursions of some sort and we saw that a few combined Kayaking with an elephant ride. Lizzie said that kayaking might be fun. Not wanting to dampen her spirits I said that I also thought it sounded like fun and simply tried to block out previous experiences I had of boats. I thought that plenty of tourists must do this with next to no experience so we signed up.
The day was supposed to start with kayaking up the Nam Khan river before stopping for a ride on an elephant. We then would carry on canoeing and stop for lunch with a visit to a small village just outside Luang Prabang and then continue kayaking for about another two hours. In total that would be about three to three and a half hours of kayaking. Surely it wouldn't be that hard would it?
It was only that evening at a lovely dinner that Lizzie and I began to worry about our kayaking abilities. "I haven't actually kayaked before," Lizzie confessed.
"Then why the hell are we going?"
"I thought it would be fun and you said it would be too".
"Because I thought it was some hobby of yours you hadn't told me about before".
We convinced ourselves it would be fine. It would have to be now we'd handed over our money and wanted at least to see an elephant. Our other worry was the American couple who had signed up for the same trip earlier that day. We feared that they would be really sporty athletic types who would race off ahead of us while we failed to launch ourselves off the bank.
By the time we arrived at the excursions office the next day we were nervously giggling while trying to take deep, calming breaths. We were guided to a tuk-tuk our guide and two young preppy Americans got in too. Preppy we could handle.
We were introduced to our guide and our fellow day trippers. The couple were just in Laos for a week and seemed very nice. What was bad is that when the guy talked about Laos I couldn't shake the image of the colonel in Apocalypse Now with a cigar hanging out his mouth. Not that i'm one for stereotyping.
Our guide was a very sweet young man from Luang Prabang who did day trips with tourists during the day and then went to the University in the evening to study English and Tourism. He also informed us that in the days prior to our trip he had been in hospital because he had collapsed and had to be put on a drip for three days. Sweet he may have been but he was hardly filling us with confidence.
We arrived at the starting point and loaded the boats, oars, helmets and life jackets off the tuk-tuk and climbed aboard. The life jackets were all a little too large which meant that when you sat down in them they pushed up as if you had no shoulders or neck and made it incredibly difficult to move.
Our guide pushed Lizzie and me, in our double kayak, off the shore and down stream. For the first few seconds we seemed to be going straight. Then we began to paddle. To reach the elephants took perhaps double the time it should have done because we couldn't keep a straight line and kept veering off towards either bank.
The elephant ride lasted about an hour and was blissful. We had a slightly stubborn elephant; he kept wandering off to grab food before trundling on. I felt we had a bond. They were such gorgeous creatures but we didn't have time to admire them for too long before we bundled back into the kayak and tried again. It did not get better. The Americans and our guide had to keep waiting for us which was embarassing in itself. More so because our boat kept sinking which turned out was not our fault (there was a leak in the kayak and it kept filling with water) but it did mean we had to keep emptying it on the bank.
After what seemed like years the guide began gesturing to us to stop for lunch. "Yes!" I thought. We crashed into the bank and I leapt up so happy to once again be able to walk on dry land. I stepped out with my right foot and was happily about to place my left on the shore when I tripped over my oar and fell into the shallows. Lizzie was hysterical. The guide rushed over, "Are you hurt?",
"Only my pride", I mumbled.
Our lunch was practically eaten in silence. It was after this that we walked up to a nearby village and saw the few houses and the Wat (temple) and our guide explained to us about the importance of Buddhism in Laos. It was really interesting and along with the elephants made the whole Kayaking ordeal worthhile. He explained that almost every young Laos male becomes a monk at some point or you are not viewed as being "whole" but you are free to leave whenever you want. I coudn't imagine such a laid back view to monkhood in the Catholic Church.
When we returned to the boats our guide suggested that me or Lizzie take his single boat and he ride with the other in our boat. Lizzie went with the guide while I rowed on alone.
Weirdly enough the afternoon picked up from there. I was still going at a snail's pace with blisters emerging on both hands, but it was easier to navigate and it really was a fantastic way to see the river an surrounding area; beautiful palm trees,mountains, some minor rapids...as well as people washing and fishing in the river waving and smiling and we floated passed.
After another two hours we'd finished and with aching arms and blistering hands I felt like we had achieved something. Lizzie too had enjoyed her afternoon but had a slight eye opener when chatting to the guide.
It turned out that Lizzie had asked our guide what it was like to live in Laos. He replied, "What do you think it's like to live here?"
"I imagine very chilled and laid back" ventured Lizzie.
The guide went on to inform Lizzie about the poverty of the Laos people and even said that no one really liked the current government because of the corruption and that the rich could get away with anything.
When talking about his family the guide revealed he's had ten brothers and sisters but two died. One of his brothers died of dissentry and he'd had to carry his dying brother to the hospital.
I am not even going to pretend we could begin to understand life in Laos but it made us view the smiling face of Luang Prabang to tourists a little differently.
We left Luang Prabang a few days later fully rested and ready to take on everything we'd heard about the bizarre town of Vang Vieng.
The main attraction to Vang Vieng is tubing. For those who have yet to experience this phenomenon- tubing is getting a big rubber ring and floating down the river while stopping off at bars along the way to get drunk. About one person dies a month in Vang Vieng from this activity.
We ventured down to the riverside bars a little apprehensive and a little intrigued. It did not disappoint. While we failed to go tubing we stayed at the bars on the riverside and drank while occassionally taking a dip to cool off. Other people seemed to really go for it drinking buckets of Laos Laos whiskey (the local spirit and deadly) and Coke before taking to a 20 ft zip wire above the river and letting go.
We were there for two nights and it was fun while it lasted but it was just such a bizarre place. There were a few Buddhist monks walking around the town next to the drunken westerner while Friends was playing on screens in most of the restaurants.
The next day, slightly groggy we were on a bus to Vientianne with 30 others who all looked equally bad.
I'd managed to have a good wholesome day out in the open air Kayaking and then ruin it all with Tubing (without the tube). Ah well.
Friday 19 March 2010
Week 3 and a half: Transport
Every year since I was born I was taken up on long (often arduous) car journeys to Scotland to visit relatives etc. These on would often take between 7-8 hours depending on traffic, vomiting siblings or the unpredictable weather that hits as soon as you get to the Midlands. This I felt had made me quite good at the act of travelling by giving me the required patience such journeys. I obviously wasn't expecting to travel to China and Southeast Asia in my lifetime.
It had started so well when we decided to leave Xingping, a small town we visited outside of Yangshuo, to get onto Kunming. We were to get back to Guilin by bus and then a train onto Kunming which our guide told us was an eight hour trip. We would be there by 11.30pm and therefore thought it was pointless to pay more for a sleeper carriage and went for the cheap "hard" seats.
We thought since we were getting in so late at night that we should book a hostel in advance. I called our chosen hostel and said that we were coming from Guilin and would be with them that evening. On the other end of the phone the girl sounded a little confused, "You want to book tonight? Are you on the train?"
"No we're just about to get on it but yes we'd like to book two beds for this evening".
"I think you will be arriving tomorrow"
"No the journey only takes eight hours we will be there at 11.30 tonight so could we book for tonight"
"If you're coming from Guilin it will take 18 hours I think"
"18 hours!"
I suddenly had a horrible flashback to buying the tickets at the station a few days before when the man pointed to the screen at the arrival time "11.30" not "23.30". I came off the phone and explained to Lizzie our current situation. She was unamused. But at this point we could do little else but plough on hoping that no one else would be stupid enough to book hard seats for such a long journey and our carriage would be empty.
Despite leaving plenty of time for the bus we still managed to be running for our train and found that our carriage heaving with people and also that a mother and her young children were in our seats. We couldn't ask them to move so we found some spare seats and sat tight.
About two hours into the journey a man walked up to us and began pointing at his tickets and the seat number. We had to move because we were in his seat. With no other seats now available and still 16 hours to go on the train we had to ask the family to move. We could feel the rest of the carriage turn against us.
Sleep was near impossible. There was nothing to lean against and my neck pillow was little help. I tried to lie face down on it on my lap like on a masseur's bed but this left my back hurting and lines on my face.
It was 3am Lizzie and I had had about 3 hours sleep between us and were becoming tetchy. The only thing to placate us was a few women, all with very small babies, who were irresistibly cute sitting around us. They kept us thoroughly entertained for at least a few hours. I soon lost interest though when the mother sitting next to me with her baby half on my lap quickly lifted him up and squatted him over a bin in the aisle.
*Quick cultural note: Small children in China wear hundreds of layers but have a slit all the way through their trousers so that they can be held over drains in the street (or bins on a train) by their parents and do their business.*
Being sleep deprived I was not immediately sure what had happened. It was only when the mother began wiping the yellowy-brown stain on her trousers that I realised the child had shat itself. The only small mercy was that it wasn't on me. Or not that I noticed.
By the time we got into Kunming I was ready to never get on a train again but I thought buses were still safe.
It was after a few days in the laid back city of Kunming with it's shopping, cool nightlife and beautiful parks that we decided to head to the renowned YuanYuang rice terraces for a night.
The journey started fine. There were two women in front of us wearing brightly coloured, patterned clothing and beautiful bits of material swathed around their heads. We guessed these were Hani women who lived in more rural areas of the Yunan province. The Hani people are a small ethnic group who originated from Tibet and now occupy smaller villages and towns in South West China.
Their allure was somewhat diminished when they began being violently sick into plastic bags less than an hour into the journey and didn't seem to stop for the subsequent 7 hours.
Prone to heaving myself I was relieved when the bus arrived in Xinjie in the Yuanyuang area. We managed to then buy bus tickets back to Kunming for the next evening and settle down for the night in our hostel.
To see the gorgeous rice fields in one day it is imperative to get up before dawn head over to the top of the valley and watch the sun rise over the famous terraces. Or so a tour operator told us. We rose at 5.30am to get a tuk-tuk, that smelt of petrol and was incredibly bumpy, over to a viewing point. It was worth it though and made what happened over the rest of the day worthwhile to have seen this sight if only briefly.
By the time the sun had fully risen and we had taken all the pictures we wanted it was only 8.30am and we were ready to go. On the way down the driver kept stopping and suggesting more sites for photo opportunities. This was thoughtful on the part of the driver but we stopped almost twelve times and it was hot and we were hungry and we no longer cared that what we were seeing was practically a masterpiece in irrigation. Two hours later we were returned to our hostel.
Later in the afternoon we decided to go and see a small Hani Village it was quite hot by now so we thought we'd treat ourselves to a tuk-tuk up the mountain slope.
While it may have treated my feet the journey did not treat my arse so kindly. Lizzie, being tall, could wedge herself between the benches lining either side. Being short, I could not. I was thrown all over the place and very nearly fell out the back. It didn't help that I had my camera in one hand that I foolishly thought I could take scenic pictures as we were ascending up the hill. The fact that I was holding on one handed and didn't fall out the back was quite an achievement in retrospect. It didn't help when, to turn a corner, the driver had to reverse towards the cliff edge. By this point I thought death by falling off a cliff might be preferable to the rest of the journey. Lizzie however had already informed me how to escape from a vehicle that is careering off the side of a cliff. Who knows what gems of information are held in that head.
When we reached the top we were battered and bruised but still had time to admire the beautiful views and see a few farmyard animals running around before descending (by foot) to catch our bus.
To top off our the day we hadn't noticed that the lady at the bus station had given us tickets for a bus that morning not the one in the evening as we'd asked. Much more finger pointing, raised voices and the like ensued but resulted in us having to buy new tickets.
After these few days of travelling disasters a 26 hour bus journey from Kunming to Luang Prabang in Laos was really not that bad. This includes dealing with Chinese officials, getting across the border, getting a new visa and remaining sane.
I am now in Luang Prabang and think that opening a nice little cafe here might be quite nice if it meant I never had to ride a train, bus, car, tuk-tuk ever, ever again.
It had started so well when we decided to leave Xingping, a small town we visited outside of Yangshuo, to get onto Kunming. We were to get back to Guilin by bus and then a train onto Kunming which our guide told us was an eight hour trip. We would be there by 11.30pm and therefore thought it was pointless to pay more for a sleeper carriage and went for the cheap "hard" seats.
We thought since we were getting in so late at night that we should book a hostel in advance. I called our chosen hostel and said that we were coming from Guilin and would be with them that evening. On the other end of the phone the girl sounded a little confused, "You want to book tonight? Are you on the train?"
"No we're just about to get on it but yes we'd like to book two beds for this evening".
"I think you will be arriving tomorrow"
"No the journey only takes eight hours we will be there at 11.30 tonight so could we book for tonight"
"If you're coming from Guilin it will take 18 hours I think"
"18 hours!"
I suddenly had a horrible flashback to buying the tickets at the station a few days before when the man pointed to the screen at the arrival time "11.30" not "23.30". I came off the phone and explained to Lizzie our current situation. She was unamused. But at this point we could do little else but plough on hoping that no one else would be stupid enough to book hard seats for such a long journey and our carriage would be empty.
Despite leaving plenty of time for the bus we still managed to be running for our train and found that our carriage heaving with people and also that a mother and her young children were in our seats. We couldn't ask them to move so we found some spare seats and sat tight.
About two hours into the journey a man walked up to us and began pointing at his tickets and the seat number. We had to move because we were in his seat. With no other seats now available and still 16 hours to go on the train we had to ask the family to move. We could feel the rest of the carriage turn against us.
Sleep was near impossible. There was nothing to lean against and my neck pillow was little help. I tried to lie face down on it on my lap like on a masseur's bed but this left my back hurting and lines on my face.
It was 3am Lizzie and I had had about 3 hours sleep between us and were becoming tetchy. The only thing to placate us was a few women, all with very small babies, who were irresistibly cute sitting around us. They kept us thoroughly entertained for at least a few hours. I soon lost interest though when the mother sitting next to me with her baby half on my lap quickly lifted him up and squatted him over a bin in the aisle.
*Quick cultural note: Small children in China wear hundreds of layers but have a slit all the way through their trousers so that they can be held over drains in the street (or bins on a train) by their parents and do their business.*
Being sleep deprived I was not immediately sure what had happened. It was only when the mother began wiping the yellowy-brown stain on her trousers that I realised the child had shat itself. The only small mercy was that it wasn't on me. Or not that I noticed.
By the time we got into Kunming I was ready to never get on a train again but I thought buses were still safe.
It was after a few days in the laid back city of Kunming with it's shopping, cool nightlife and beautiful parks that we decided to head to the renowned YuanYuang rice terraces for a night.
The journey started fine. There were two women in front of us wearing brightly coloured, patterned clothing and beautiful bits of material swathed around their heads. We guessed these were Hani women who lived in more rural areas of the Yunan province. The Hani people are a small ethnic group who originated from Tibet and now occupy smaller villages and towns in South West China.
Their allure was somewhat diminished when they began being violently sick into plastic bags less than an hour into the journey and didn't seem to stop for the subsequent 7 hours.
Prone to heaving myself I was relieved when the bus arrived in Xinjie in the Yuanyuang area. We managed to then buy bus tickets back to Kunming for the next evening and settle down for the night in our hostel.
To see the gorgeous rice fields in one day it is imperative to get up before dawn head over to the top of the valley and watch the sun rise over the famous terraces. Or so a tour operator told us. We rose at 5.30am to get a tuk-tuk, that smelt of petrol and was incredibly bumpy, over to a viewing point. It was worth it though and made what happened over the rest of the day worthwhile to have seen this sight if only briefly.
By the time the sun had fully risen and we had taken all the pictures we wanted it was only 8.30am and we were ready to go. On the way down the driver kept stopping and suggesting more sites for photo opportunities. This was thoughtful on the part of the driver but we stopped almost twelve times and it was hot and we were hungry and we no longer cared that what we were seeing was practically a masterpiece in irrigation. Two hours later we were returned to our hostel.
Later in the afternoon we decided to go and see a small Hani Village it was quite hot by now so we thought we'd treat ourselves to a tuk-tuk up the mountain slope.
While it may have treated my feet the journey did not treat my arse so kindly. Lizzie, being tall, could wedge herself between the benches lining either side. Being short, I could not. I was thrown all over the place and very nearly fell out the back. It didn't help that I had my camera in one hand that I foolishly thought I could take scenic pictures as we were ascending up the hill. The fact that I was holding on one handed and didn't fall out the back was quite an achievement in retrospect. It didn't help when, to turn a corner, the driver had to reverse towards the cliff edge. By this point I thought death by falling off a cliff might be preferable to the rest of the journey. Lizzie however had already informed me how to escape from a vehicle that is careering off the side of a cliff. Who knows what gems of information are held in that head.
When we reached the top we were battered and bruised but still had time to admire the beautiful views and see a few farmyard animals running around before descending (by foot) to catch our bus.
To top off our the day we hadn't noticed that the lady at the bus station had given us tickets for a bus that morning not the one in the evening as we'd asked. Much more finger pointing, raised voices and the like ensued but resulted in us having to buy new tickets.
After these few days of travelling disasters a 26 hour bus journey from Kunming to Luang Prabang in Laos was really not that bad. This includes dealing with Chinese officials, getting across the border, getting a new visa and remaining sane.
I am now in Luang Prabang and think that opening a nice little cafe here might be quite nice if it meant I never had to ride a train, bus, car, tuk-tuk ever, ever again.
Wednesday 17 March 2010
Week 3: Tourism
In our early attempts at planning our travels we visited a certain reputable travel agent who, when we suggested that China be part of our itinerary, strongly advised against it. "They don't need your tourism and so will make little or no effort to help you", we were told.
This is pretty much the opposite of what we have experienced in China. If anything we were a novelty for most people and this meant that people were often keen to practise their english and help us. There is thriving tourist industry in China but rather than revolving around Westerners a larger part of it accommodates Chinese tourists. We witnessed both sides of this when we visited Guilin and Yangshuo.
We arrived in Guilin having been told that it was quite a small and beautiful city. In fact it seemed almost as industrial as Shenzehn but with the odd peak making a break between the buildings. But we thought we should make the most of the dramatic peaks surrounding the city and would rent some bicycles in order to see more of it. Cycling was one of those things that every tourist winds up doing in Guilin and we were not about to become an exception to the rule. Our guide book suggested a relaxing trip to some small ancient village about two hours out of the city. Perfect.
So after repeatedly singing Katie Melua's classic "There are nine million bicycles in Beijing" we rented bikes and set out. The first problem with this plan was the weather. It was very cold again. Cold enough that we needed gloves but for the life of us couldn't find any. It was then Lizzie's genius idea to wear our socks on our hands (we were each wearing two pairs on our feet at that point). So that is what we did.
We thought it best not the to tackle the main roads at first because neither of us had been on a bike in some time and Chinese traffic is crazy. So we walked our bikes about half a mile up the pavement, getting slightly odd looks from locals, but this could have been the make-shoft gloves, before consulting the map and settig off.
Lets just say that the guide's directions were bad and be done with it. After much anger and pointing at the map we gave up trying to find the picturesque little village and just thought we'd cycle north out of the town until we got bored and then turn around and come back.
It actually turned out quite well. The terrain was relatively easy and it wasn't too cold when we were cycling and we soon saw the peaks and fields and it was really quite stunning. We stopped briefly to admire the scenery and then decided to go back to the hostel.
I was so relaxed and confident with my cycling skills that when we re-entered the city I didn't see the problem with tackling the main roads. There is something that is worth mentioning here and that is that not only were these roads akin to the big main roads in London but also the Chinese have a slightly odd order when it comes to crossroads; at traffic lights there is the standard procedure of stopping at red, going at green but not when it comes to turning left or right. Apparently that part of driving is a free for all.
So by the time we were in a hoard or electric bikes and motorcycles at a massive junction all going different ways it was too late to hop off and wheel onto the pavement. I thought Lizzie was trying to call to me before I realised that it was just a succession of screams as she avoided oncoming traffic.
We came away unscathed and decided the following day to head to Yangshuo. A smaller and more picturesque town about an hour away.
We had been warned that Yangshuo was extremely touristy but that it shouldn't put us off. The best way to describe it would be a Chinese take on a Spanish seaside town. By this I mean that it had loads of signs in English and all offering happy hours and western food. Saying this it was a very beautiful place with even more mountainous terrain surrounding us.
After a day of soaking up the sights we felt we should reward ourselves with a night on the town. Plenty of bars and clubs lined the road where we were staying so after having a happy hour cocktail at our own hostel (which was to have a beer pong championship later that evening. Sigh) we trundled along and found a bar called "Marco Polo". It seemed to be quite busy and look like good fun. So, in we went.
Here is where the confusion began. Yangshuo as I have mentioned was very touristy with both Chinese and Western tourists. We were no longer the white novelty we had been in Beijing or even Guilin. However we were the only white people in Marco Polo and this was enough to draw attention to ourselves. We were approached by both Chinese businessmen wanting us to dance with them and young Chinese guys who bought us flowers, drinks and bar snacks. We found out later that it was Women's Day in China and that is why people bought us flowers. The drink-buying I think was a bonus to us but perhaps not the best way to celebrate our own sex.
Eventually the two young Chinese guys joined us and although they didn't speak a word of English took photos of us constantly on their phones. After a pole dancer came out and then one of the Chinese businessmen tried to climb the pole in his vest we knew it was time to leave.
We tried to thank our new friends before swiftly departing but they just looked ocnfused. And by departing I mean running back to our hostel before they could figure out where we had gone.
We felt visiting Yangshuo was somewhat cheating on the ideal of backpackers "to really see the country" but then again we had seen the Chinese tourist industry at it's height and that was a sight in itself.
This is pretty much the opposite of what we have experienced in China. If anything we were a novelty for most people and this meant that people were often keen to practise their english and help us. There is thriving tourist industry in China but rather than revolving around Westerners a larger part of it accommodates Chinese tourists. We witnessed both sides of this when we visited Guilin and Yangshuo.
We arrived in Guilin having been told that it was quite a small and beautiful city. In fact it seemed almost as industrial as Shenzehn but with the odd peak making a break between the buildings. But we thought we should make the most of the dramatic peaks surrounding the city and would rent some bicycles in order to see more of it. Cycling was one of those things that every tourist winds up doing in Guilin and we were not about to become an exception to the rule. Our guide book suggested a relaxing trip to some small ancient village about two hours out of the city. Perfect.
So after repeatedly singing Katie Melua's classic "There are nine million bicycles in Beijing" we rented bikes and set out. The first problem with this plan was the weather. It was very cold again. Cold enough that we needed gloves but for the life of us couldn't find any. It was then Lizzie's genius idea to wear our socks on our hands (we were each wearing two pairs on our feet at that point). So that is what we did.
We thought it best not the to tackle the main roads at first because neither of us had been on a bike in some time and Chinese traffic is crazy. So we walked our bikes about half a mile up the pavement, getting slightly odd looks from locals, but this could have been the make-shoft gloves, before consulting the map and settig off.
Lets just say that the guide's directions were bad and be done with it. After much anger and pointing at the map we gave up trying to find the picturesque little village and just thought we'd cycle north out of the town until we got bored and then turn around and come back.
It actually turned out quite well. The terrain was relatively easy and it wasn't too cold when we were cycling and we soon saw the peaks and fields and it was really quite stunning. We stopped briefly to admire the scenery and then decided to go back to the hostel.
I was so relaxed and confident with my cycling skills that when we re-entered the city I didn't see the problem with tackling the main roads. There is something that is worth mentioning here and that is that not only were these roads akin to the big main roads in London but also the Chinese have a slightly odd order when it comes to crossroads; at traffic lights there is the standard procedure of stopping at red, going at green but not when it comes to turning left or right. Apparently that part of driving is a free for all.
So by the time we were in a hoard or electric bikes and motorcycles at a massive junction all going different ways it was too late to hop off and wheel onto the pavement. I thought Lizzie was trying to call to me before I realised that it was just a succession of screams as she avoided oncoming traffic.
We came away unscathed and decided the following day to head to Yangshuo. A smaller and more picturesque town about an hour away.
We had been warned that Yangshuo was extremely touristy but that it shouldn't put us off. The best way to describe it would be a Chinese take on a Spanish seaside town. By this I mean that it had loads of signs in English and all offering happy hours and western food. Saying this it was a very beautiful place with even more mountainous terrain surrounding us.
After a day of soaking up the sights we felt we should reward ourselves with a night on the town. Plenty of bars and clubs lined the road where we were staying so after having a happy hour cocktail at our own hostel (which was to have a beer pong championship later that evening. Sigh) we trundled along and found a bar called "Marco Polo". It seemed to be quite busy and look like good fun. So, in we went.
Here is where the confusion began. Yangshuo as I have mentioned was very touristy with both Chinese and Western tourists. We were no longer the white novelty we had been in Beijing or even Guilin. However we were the only white people in Marco Polo and this was enough to draw attention to ourselves. We were approached by both Chinese businessmen wanting us to dance with them and young Chinese guys who bought us flowers, drinks and bar snacks. We found out later that it was Women's Day in China and that is why people bought us flowers. The drink-buying I think was a bonus to us but perhaps not the best way to celebrate our own sex.
Eventually the two young Chinese guys joined us and although they didn't speak a word of English took photos of us constantly on their phones. After a pole dancer came out and then one of the Chinese businessmen tried to climb the pole in his vest we knew it was time to leave.
We tried to thank our new friends before swiftly departing but they just looked ocnfused. And by departing I mean running back to our hostel before they could figure out where we had gone.
We felt visiting Yangshuo was somewhat cheating on the ideal of backpackers "to really see the country" but then again we had seen the Chinese tourist industry at it's height and that was a sight in itself.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
Week 2: Immigration
At the beginning of this blog I said death was possibly the worst outcome of my trip. It turns out deportation is a pretty close second. Or being in a separate country from the person you are travelling with. But let us not get ahead of ourselves.
In the second week of our trip we ventured to Hong Kong which although is now part of China is it still considered separate to the "mainland". Entering Hong Kong resembled airport immigration with a health check and another stamp in the passport.
Hong Kong itself seems to be a conglomeration of immigrants from the various Chinese ethnic groups to African, Middle Eastern and a whole host of European expats. All have landed on these tiny islands and been forced to practically live on top of one another. This was no more evident than in our accommodation. The "Paris Guesthouse" looked very nice and clean on the website with free tea and coffee available. The latter alone convinced me. Unfortunately this "guesthouse" was housed in the infamous Chungking Mansions. Anyone who has tried to stay in Hong Kong on a budget will have heard of this apartment blocks and will either look at you with disgust or fear. We experienced both. The massive apartment block is home to mostly curry houses and mobile phone vendors on the ground floor and then hostels and flats reaching 14 floors. We found the reception with the help of a tout who worked there and directed us to our room.
To describe the room... It had two beds and a window and air-conditioning. It also had stains (they resembled blood) splashed over one wall, a questionable stain on the sheets and a communal bathroom that I feared held endless ecoli. Oh yes, and a meat cleaver under the bed. I dropped my purse went to pick it up and facing me was a 10 inch long meat knife. For the rest of our stay (unbelievably we stayed) I checked to see if it was still there. I didn't know whether it being there made me feel safer or not but I knew it's disappearance would definitely cause panic.
The only benefit to these hideous lodgings was that we had no inclination to stay in our rooms longer than necessary. The city itself was spectacular and bizarre fusing all that was recognisable in the west (there were countless Starbucks, H&Ms, Pizza Expresses, a Marks and Spencer and everyone spoke good english) with Chinese culture. It did seem though that Hong Kong was far more inclined to hold on to its western roots than embrace the motherland. The Cantonese culture was there but it seemed overshadowed by the rest of the city.
We enjoyed our time in Hong Kong but were looking forward to getting out of the city and onto the greener, smaller city of Guilin. This meant travelling to the economic centre Shenzhen just outside the Hong Kong district to catch a bus onto Guilin. We left plenty of time and had at least two hours when we arrived at Shenzhen train station before we had to get our bus.
We once again went through the rigorous Chinese customs. In hindsight it was a blessing that Lizzie went through customs first or goodness knows what we would have done. Lizzie handed over her passport, the woman flicked through it and handed it back saying she needs to go to the visa office. But we have visas? "One entry" the woman replies. I look at mine and it says next to the box "Entries""2". Lizzie's reads "Entries: 1". Despite being part of China once more entering Hong Kong means leaving mainland China (where our visa was valid) and despite using the same visa company and filling out identical forms, Lizzie could not return to the "mainland" with her current visa. The shit had hit the fan. We were forced into a visa office and the people there didn't really speak english but from what we could make out Lizzie could buy a visa today for the bargain price of fifty pounds but this would only be valid for Shenzhen. She had to come back the following day to get a passport for the rest of China. Safe to say we didn't get our bus to Guilin that day. We stayed in a delightful youth hostel in the art district of Shenzhen and vowed to rise early the next morning to return to the visa office to make Lizzie a legal citizen again.
That didn't happen. We arrived back at the train station and were told we couldn't enter the train station without a ticket. We tried to explain that we didn't want to go anywhere but to get to the visa office to which we were answered only with blank stares. I will admit that we did the truly awful foreigner abroad thing where when someone doesn't understand you you point more emphatically and say it louder. After almost an hour of being passed on from one official to another we found a passerby who spoke english. He explained our situation to a guard and they explained we couldn't go in because we'd be crossing the border. We finally understood that the visa office was on the Hong Kong side and we couldn't cross it. When the visa office had said come back tomorrow they had either presumed we would return to Hong Kong or they were just trying to get rid of us. The english speaking chinese man directed us up some stairs and said to find a help desk for travel. We went up the stairs and found no such desk. Eventually we came across an airline desk and begged for their help. A nice man called "Tim" said to return the following day at nine am where Lizzie could be taken to Hong Kong to renew her visa for a further one hundred pounds.
Now those more astute readers among you may have noticed a fundamental flaw in our plan. Lizzie could go back through to Hong Kong because she was getting a new visa to re-enter China anyway, I had already used the two entries on my visa. Contrary to everything we had promised our family and friends before our trip we were going to have to spend the day apart. In different countries.
The following morning's journey to the train station was a little tense to say the least. These were the list of things that I had begun to worry about-
1. Lizzie would not be able to get a new visa.
2. She would be forced to fly back to the UK and I would be alone in China.
3. With both our backpacks.
4. That "Tim" would not be there and the other travel agents would have no idea what we were talking about.
5. That when we returned to the travel desk it would have disappeared with just a small, old chinese man in its place.
Thankfully Lizzie crossed the border with little difficulty and returned to our hostel nine hours later with a new visa valid for a further three months.
We finally left Shenzhen and although it had been a nice area being forced to stay anywhere against your will will always mar one's view of a place.
In the second week of our trip we ventured to Hong Kong which although is now part of China is it still considered separate to the "mainland". Entering Hong Kong resembled airport immigration with a health check and another stamp in the passport.
Hong Kong itself seems to be a conglomeration of immigrants from the various Chinese ethnic groups to African, Middle Eastern and a whole host of European expats. All have landed on these tiny islands and been forced to practically live on top of one another. This was no more evident than in our accommodation. The "Paris Guesthouse" looked very nice and clean on the website with free tea and coffee available. The latter alone convinced me. Unfortunately this "guesthouse" was housed in the infamous Chungking Mansions. Anyone who has tried to stay in Hong Kong on a budget will have heard of this apartment blocks and will either look at you with disgust or fear. We experienced both. The massive apartment block is home to mostly curry houses and mobile phone vendors on the ground floor and then hostels and flats reaching 14 floors. We found the reception with the help of a tout who worked there and directed us to our room.
To describe the room... It had two beds and a window and air-conditioning. It also had stains (they resembled blood) splashed over one wall, a questionable stain on the sheets and a communal bathroom that I feared held endless ecoli. Oh yes, and a meat cleaver under the bed. I dropped my purse went to pick it up and facing me was a 10 inch long meat knife. For the rest of our stay (unbelievably we stayed) I checked to see if it was still there. I didn't know whether it being there made me feel safer or not but I knew it's disappearance would definitely cause panic.
The only benefit to these hideous lodgings was that we had no inclination to stay in our rooms longer than necessary. The city itself was spectacular and bizarre fusing all that was recognisable in the west (there were countless Starbucks, H&Ms, Pizza Expresses, a Marks and Spencer and everyone spoke good english) with Chinese culture. It did seem though that Hong Kong was far more inclined to hold on to its western roots than embrace the motherland. The Cantonese culture was there but it seemed overshadowed by the rest of the city.
We enjoyed our time in Hong Kong but were looking forward to getting out of the city and onto the greener, smaller city of Guilin. This meant travelling to the economic centre Shenzhen just outside the Hong Kong district to catch a bus onto Guilin. We left plenty of time and had at least two hours when we arrived at Shenzhen train station before we had to get our bus.
We once again went through the rigorous Chinese customs. In hindsight it was a blessing that Lizzie went through customs first or goodness knows what we would have done. Lizzie handed over her passport, the woman flicked through it and handed it back saying she needs to go to the visa office. But we have visas? "One entry" the woman replies. I look at mine and it says next to the box "Entries""2". Lizzie's reads "Entries: 1". Despite being part of China once more entering Hong Kong means leaving mainland China (where our visa was valid) and despite using the same visa company and filling out identical forms, Lizzie could not return to the "mainland" with her current visa. The shit had hit the fan. We were forced into a visa office and the people there didn't really speak english but from what we could make out Lizzie could buy a visa today for the bargain price of fifty pounds but this would only be valid for Shenzhen. She had to come back the following day to get a passport for the rest of China. Safe to say we didn't get our bus to Guilin that day. We stayed in a delightful youth hostel in the art district of Shenzhen and vowed to rise early the next morning to return to the visa office to make Lizzie a legal citizen again.
That didn't happen. We arrived back at the train station and were told we couldn't enter the train station without a ticket. We tried to explain that we didn't want to go anywhere but to get to the visa office to which we were answered only with blank stares. I will admit that we did the truly awful foreigner abroad thing where when someone doesn't understand you you point more emphatically and say it louder. After almost an hour of being passed on from one official to another we found a passerby who spoke english. He explained our situation to a guard and they explained we couldn't go in because we'd be crossing the border. We finally understood that the visa office was on the Hong Kong side and we couldn't cross it. When the visa office had said come back tomorrow they had either presumed we would return to Hong Kong or they were just trying to get rid of us. The english speaking chinese man directed us up some stairs and said to find a help desk for travel. We went up the stairs and found no such desk. Eventually we came across an airline desk and begged for their help. A nice man called "Tim" said to return the following day at nine am where Lizzie could be taken to Hong Kong to renew her visa for a further one hundred pounds.
Now those more astute readers among you may have noticed a fundamental flaw in our plan. Lizzie could go back through to Hong Kong because she was getting a new visa to re-enter China anyway, I had already used the two entries on my visa. Contrary to everything we had promised our family and friends before our trip we were going to have to spend the day apart. In different countries.
The following morning's journey to the train station was a little tense to say the least. These were the list of things that I had begun to worry about-
1. Lizzie would not be able to get a new visa.
2. She would be forced to fly back to the UK and I would be alone in China.
3. With both our backpacks.
4. That "Tim" would not be there and the other travel agents would have no idea what we were talking about.
5. That when we returned to the travel desk it would have disappeared with just a small, old chinese man in its place.
Thankfully Lizzie crossed the border with little difficulty and returned to our hostel nine hours later with a new visa valid for a further three months.
We finally left Shenzhen and although it had been a nice area being forced to stay anywhere against your will will always mar one's view of a place.
Saturday 6 March 2010
Week 1 - Eating
I would say I am an accomplished eater. Some would even call it a forte. It certainly did not strike me as being in a problem in China where there would be noodles, dumplings and odd looking meat for as far as the eye could see.
Unfortunately this was not the reality when we arrived in Beijing. After checking into hostel we decided to explore and get something to eat. The hostel was located in a set of hutongs in the north of the city. The hutongs are small alleyways leading into courtyards around which shops, houses and restaurants are based. It seems that with all the redevlopment in Beijing there is a desire to hold onto these streets as a connection to an older way of life.
So we set off blearey eyed and hungry and eventually stopped at a place that seemed to look nice enough and had a menu with pictures. We have three words of Chinese between us so the pointing method was to be our saviour. We were seated by a stern looking hostess in the middle of the restaurant. There was a lot of staring. People generally stared a lot at us in Beijing and took photos of us with and without our consent. We flicked through the menu cautiously and when the waitress came over we pointed to what looked like a meat dish some noodles and some pak choi. The waitress then began asking us questions. We kept smiling and just made a motion as if to drink and pointed to something on what we hoped was the drinks menu. They brought us two cokes. Good start.
In the middle of our table was a gas ring that other tables seemed to be using for their main dishes. While waiting for our dish we were brought two small china plates, two metal dishes and two pairs of chopsticks (thank god for grandparents who thought it was cultural to be made to use chopsticks for a takeaway when I was 8). A huge dish of dark meat was soon brought out (what I later learned to be a "hot pot" and a traditional dish) and placed on the gas ring with the veg and dried noodles on the side. The whole restaurant was now staring at us and waiting for our first cultural faux pas. We did not disappoint. I, trying to take the lead, clumsily picked up the slippery meat successviely guided it to the metal dish then tried to take a bite. It was cold. The hostess came rushing over and barked something at me while pointing at the main dish. Caught like a rabbit in the headlights and still with the meat clutched between my chopsticks I stared blankly back. I realised she meant I should return my half mawled meal back to the pot to heat up. It also turned out that the metal dish was for the bones. I was kind of eating out of a dog bowl. When heated and with the noodles and pak choi added to the broth it was delicious. We convinced ourselves that the meat was lamb although there was a wing in there. We thought it best not to dwell on the creatures origins and continued picking away at the meat. We managed to pay the bill and leave so ended our first cultural outing in Beijing.
For the next few days we managed to stay in our hostel for breakfast, get snacks for lunch and choose restaurants where the menus were in english or had lots of pictures. That is until the day we decided to visit the Great Wall of China. It was freezing cold and the city had been covered in smog since we got there but we thought out of the city we would see beautiful countryside (it turns out that the fog was thicker out by the Great Wall and we could only see about 100 yards in front of us). We went on an organised day trip which included transport, entry to the wall and a lunch.
We stopped about an hour into our trip and a jade factory. Anyone who has been to Beijing can tell you that all the tours like to take you to a jade factory or something similar where you can spend your money on ugly green dragon figurines. Lizzie and myself declined this chance to shop and went to sit in the cafe to wait for lunch. We sat at large round tables for about ten people and it was only as people began to join our table that it struck us; we were going to have to eat in front of these people. With no idea of chinese table manners all we could do was smile and hope for the best. Each table was brought a large bowl of rice which was passed round, a whole fish on the bone, some spare rib pieces, some cauliflour in an orange sauce, tofu in orange sauce, celery and ham in broth and unidentifiable veg plate (possibly marrow but looked a bit like melon). We waited to see what would happen and contrary to everything I had been taught as a child people began leaning accross the table to reach plates, using their licked chopstocks in communal dishes and, most impressively, an old woman sitting across from us had taken most of the fish and was proceeding to spit out all the bones on the tablecloth. We simply kept to the plates near us taking modest amounts of food until the old spitting lady picked up a few plates and passed them over for us to try. It seemed we had been accepted into ther group and we began to relax and enjoy the meal all of which tasted lovely. However a mere ten minutes later we looked up from our bowls to find not only our table but the entire adjacent table peering at us. We sighed into our rice. We were still outsiders.
My final tale of the week didn't happen while we were eating but in the vicinity of a popular coffee house. We decided to take the time to wander some shopping streets we had yet to visit and popped into a Starbucks yo use the toilet (we were not going to come all this way to get a Latte but Chinese toilets take some practise and these practises are not suitable for a blog about food). It was the first time in a week that we had been surrounded by white people. It was a little strange but quite amusing to see that everyone would nod and smile at one another just because for the first time we were all a minority banded together by an intenationally recognisable coffee chain. In the queue for the toilets some Amereican students who were studying in Beijing began chatting to us and when we had exchanged where we were from one said, "Yeah for the first few months here every time I saw another white person I thought 'there's another American'. It's hard to believe there are countries outside of America." At least there was one person in Beijing guranteed to be more culturally ignorant than us.
Unfortunately this was not the reality when we arrived in Beijing. After checking into hostel we decided to explore and get something to eat. The hostel was located in a set of hutongs in the north of the city. The hutongs are small alleyways leading into courtyards around which shops, houses and restaurants are based. It seems that with all the redevlopment in Beijing there is a desire to hold onto these streets as a connection to an older way of life.
So we set off blearey eyed and hungry and eventually stopped at a place that seemed to look nice enough and had a menu with pictures. We have three words of Chinese between us so the pointing method was to be our saviour. We were seated by a stern looking hostess in the middle of the restaurant. There was a lot of staring. People generally stared a lot at us in Beijing and took photos of us with and without our consent. We flicked through the menu cautiously and when the waitress came over we pointed to what looked like a meat dish some noodles and some pak choi. The waitress then began asking us questions. We kept smiling and just made a motion as if to drink and pointed to something on what we hoped was the drinks menu. They brought us two cokes. Good start.
In the middle of our table was a gas ring that other tables seemed to be using for their main dishes. While waiting for our dish we were brought two small china plates, two metal dishes and two pairs of chopsticks (thank god for grandparents who thought it was cultural to be made to use chopsticks for a takeaway when I was 8). A huge dish of dark meat was soon brought out (what I later learned to be a "hot pot" and a traditional dish) and placed on the gas ring with the veg and dried noodles on the side. The whole restaurant was now staring at us and waiting for our first cultural faux pas. We did not disappoint. I, trying to take the lead, clumsily picked up the slippery meat successviely guided it to the metal dish then tried to take a bite. It was cold. The hostess came rushing over and barked something at me while pointing at the main dish. Caught like a rabbit in the headlights and still with the meat clutched between my chopsticks I stared blankly back. I realised she meant I should return my half mawled meal back to the pot to heat up. It also turned out that the metal dish was for the bones. I was kind of eating out of a dog bowl. When heated and with the noodles and pak choi added to the broth it was delicious. We convinced ourselves that the meat was lamb although there was a wing in there. We thought it best not to dwell on the creatures origins and continued picking away at the meat. We managed to pay the bill and leave so ended our first cultural outing in Beijing.
For the next few days we managed to stay in our hostel for breakfast, get snacks for lunch and choose restaurants where the menus were in english or had lots of pictures. That is until the day we decided to visit the Great Wall of China. It was freezing cold and the city had been covered in smog since we got there but we thought out of the city we would see beautiful countryside (it turns out that the fog was thicker out by the Great Wall and we could only see about 100 yards in front of us). We went on an organised day trip which included transport, entry to the wall and a lunch.
We stopped about an hour into our trip and a jade factory. Anyone who has been to Beijing can tell you that all the tours like to take you to a jade factory or something similar where you can spend your money on ugly green dragon figurines. Lizzie and myself declined this chance to shop and went to sit in the cafe to wait for lunch. We sat at large round tables for about ten people and it was only as people began to join our table that it struck us; we were going to have to eat in front of these people. With no idea of chinese table manners all we could do was smile and hope for the best. Each table was brought a large bowl of rice which was passed round, a whole fish on the bone, some spare rib pieces, some cauliflour in an orange sauce, tofu in orange sauce, celery and ham in broth and unidentifiable veg plate (possibly marrow but looked a bit like melon). We waited to see what would happen and contrary to everything I had been taught as a child people began leaning accross the table to reach plates, using their licked chopstocks in communal dishes and, most impressively, an old woman sitting across from us had taken most of the fish and was proceeding to spit out all the bones on the tablecloth. We simply kept to the plates near us taking modest amounts of food until the old spitting lady picked up a few plates and passed them over for us to try. It seemed we had been accepted into ther group and we began to relax and enjoy the meal all of which tasted lovely. However a mere ten minutes later we looked up from our bowls to find not only our table but the entire adjacent table peering at us. We sighed into our rice. We were still outsiders.
My final tale of the week didn't happen while we were eating but in the vicinity of a popular coffee house. We decided to take the time to wander some shopping streets we had yet to visit and popped into a Starbucks yo use the toilet (we were not going to come all this way to get a Latte but Chinese toilets take some practise and these practises are not suitable for a blog about food). It was the first time in a week that we had been surrounded by white people. It was a little strange but quite amusing to see that everyone would nod and smile at one another just because for the first time we were all a minority banded together by an intenationally recognisable coffee chain. In the queue for the toilets some Amereican students who were studying in Beijing began chatting to us and when we had exchanged where we were from one said, "Yeah for the first few months here every time I saw another white person I thought 'there's another American'. It's hard to believe there are countries outside of America." At least there was one person in Beijing guranteed to be more culturally ignorant than us.
Saturday 20 February 2010
Tempting fate and other ill advice while travelling abroad
The title of this blog refers to a comment made by my father when we were discussing my upcoming trip to China, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam and Australia. I was voicing my nerves over the trip and he said, quite matter-of-factly, “Well the worst thing that can happen is that you die”. I then told my friend this over a drink a week later and she pointed out, “No the worst thing surely is that you die painfully”. It is with these thoughts in my mind that I embark on what is surely to be an enlightening yet ridiculous experience half way across the globe.
Having not actually left yet I can only give you an insight into my preparation and what the far east is about to experience.
Firstly, I have already lost my travel cash card without leaving my house. It has disappeared into the underbelly of my bedroom along where I can only imagine all my socks and earrings now keep it company. This was of course frustrating in itself but what was more embarrassing than this was calling up the cash card’s help line to report it lost. The man on the end of the phone was sympathetic but a little confused at my request to keep the card active in case it reappeared,
“Miss Bradley, we must cancel the card in case someone else finds it and tries to use it.”
“No, no. It’s in my house somewhere I’m just not very sure where and I have looked for it quite thoroughly but I can’t find it.”
“So you want to order a new card?”
“Yes.”
“ But keep the other one open.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s lost.”
“That’s right.”
And so it goes on.
Another highlight of my preparation was my TB jab. Now, no one I know seems to have had the same TB injection as me; it was not the 5 needle injection in one or a BCG or any of that it was just one needle. Unfortunately you have to undergo a skin test first. I may be naive but when I was told I needed a skin test I assumed they kind of swabbed your skin and it would go green or show a smiley face or something. So, I am happily sitting in the very nice waiting room of this private travel clinic with free tea and coffee available, when I get called in. I sit down with the nurse and she confirms I want the TB skin test then will return in three days for the injection provided I have no reaction today. I agree and say that is what I’m here for. The nurse then begins preparing a needle. What? “Is this an injection?” I ask, “No it’s the skin test”, the nurse begins tapping bubbles out of the glass tube, “Basically what we do is inject you about here,” she points to a point on the inside of my left arm near all the veins, “Just under the skin and you feel something a bit like a wasp sting and then a bubble appears on your arm and if that goes down we know you’re not allergic.” Panic. I have never before been afraid of needles but now confronted with this needle near my veins I am filled with horror, fear and violent nausea. It does feel like a bloody wasp sting. I then have to wait another three delightful days before the actual injection which, I am now dreading an overwhelming amount. But, sure enough, three days later I am sitting again in the very nice waiting room drinking some complimentary coffee. A girl and her boyfriend go in before me and as I am thinking of all the lovely things I will do when I’m away I hear a scream come from the surgery. I look around and no one else seems to even flinch. This is surely a sign. Could I run away, screaming and flailing my limbs? Would that seem odd? My name gets called and the nurse asks how I am today, “Was the girl before me screaming?” is all I can answer, she senses the will to run and flail, “Oh yes but before we even got near her. She was so jumpy some people are just like that”. So I have the injection (not actually so bad) and pay £50 for the privilege.
I know no one cares that I will see the Great Wall of China or Angor Wat or the Sydney Opera House. What you want to know is when I get chatted up by a Thai lady-boy or accidentally eat monkey brains. I for one am all for giving the people what they want. So here it is; four and a half months of things that you shouldn't’t do while travelling but will inevitably happen to me.
Having not actually left yet I can only give you an insight into my preparation and what the far east is about to experience.
Firstly, I have already lost my travel cash card without leaving my house. It has disappeared into the underbelly of my bedroom along where I can only imagine all my socks and earrings now keep it company. This was of course frustrating in itself but what was more embarrassing than this was calling up the cash card’s help line to report it lost. The man on the end of the phone was sympathetic but a little confused at my request to keep the card active in case it reappeared,
“Miss Bradley, we must cancel the card in case someone else finds it and tries to use it.”
“No, no. It’s in my house somewhere I’m just not very sure where and I have looked for it quite thoroughly but I can’t find it.”
“So you want to order a new card?”
“Yes.”
“ But keep the other one open.”
“Yes.”
“But that’s lost.”
“That’s right.”
And so it goes on.
Another highlight of my preparation was my TB jab. Now, no one I know seems to have had the same TB injection as me; it was not the 5 needle injection in one or a BCG or any of that it was just one needle. Unfortunately you have to undergo a skin test first. I may be naive but when I was told I needed a skin test I assumed they kind of swabbed your skin and it would go green or show a smiley face or something. So, I am happily sitting in the very nice waiting room of this private travel clinic with free tea and coffee available, when I get called in. I sit down with the nurse and she confirms I want the TB skin test then will return in three days for the injection provided I have no reaction today. I agree and say that is what I’m here for. The nurse then begins preparing a needle. What? “Is this an injection?” I ask, “No it’s the skin test”, the nurse begins tapping bubbles out of the glass tube, “Basically what we do is inject you about here,” she points to a point on the inside of my left arm near all the veins, “Just under the skin and you feel something a bit like a wasp sting and then a bubble appears on your arm and if that goes down we know you’re not allergic.” Panic. I have never before been afraid of needles but now confronted with this needle near my veins I am filled with horror, fear and violent nausea. It does feel like a bloody wasp sting. I then have to wait another three delightful days before the actual injection which, I am now dreading an overwhelming amount. But, sure enough, three days later I am sitting again in the very nice waiting room drinking some complimentary coffee. A girl and her boyfriend go in before me and as I am thinking of all the lovely things I will do when I’m away I hear a scream come from the surgery. I look around and no one else seems to even flinch. This is surely a sign. Could I run away, screaming and flailing my limbs? Would that seem odd? My name gets called and the nurse asks how I am today, “Was the girl before me screaming?” is all I can answer, she senses the will to run and flail, “Oh yes but before we even got near her. She was so jumpy some people are just like that”. So I have the injection (not actually so bad) and pay £50 for the privilege.
I know no one cares that I will see the Great Wall of China or Angor Wat or the Sydney Opera House. What you want to know is when I get chatted up by a Thai lady-boy or accidentally eat monkey brains. I for one am all for giving the people what they want. So here it is; four and a half months of things that you shouldn't’t do while travelling but will inevitably happen to me.
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