Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Final Comments
We have reached the end of this epic journey around the world. For now, at least.
Did I come back...different? Stronger? Wiser? Better?
I'd have to let you be the judge of that.
On a side note, I would like to apologise for the drop-off in blog posts in recent months; a combination of factors has caused this - lack of time, tiredness, and, sometimes, a lack of inspiration. Asia fires my writing in a way that the Western world can't. And South America is wonderful, yes, but on a budget like mine you are very limited in what you can do, and without adequate Spanish you are completely screwed.
I am frequently asked which place was my favourite. Each time, I have to respond with '...in what way?'
For fun...Thailand. For scenery...New Zealand. For happiness...Nepal. For personal growth...India. The list goes on. If you have any questions about my travels or general travelling, I'd be more than happy to answer them. Leave me a comment or send me an email.
Each country is unique and holds a different type of memory, a different kind of story. It is the people that make the country what it is. My friends and adversaries have defined each space; it is that which has taught me more about who I am, more than any sunset or mountain vista. That said, the landscape of a country can speak to you in a way that people cannot. With time to stare I felt, not as though I was gazing at a landscape, but that the landscape was gazing back at me.
As most of you will know by now, the delay in my most recent blog posts has been caused because my stay in South America was abruptly terminated by the inevitable certainty of life beyond taxes. But a journey is not defined by location. I've learnt more in the past month than I learnt in a year around the world.
The end of every journey is the beginning.
Did I come back...different? Stronger? Wiser? Better?
I'd have to let you be the judge of that.
On a side note, I would like to apologise for the drop-off in blog posts in recent months; a combination of factors has caused this - lack of time, tiredness, and, sometimes, a lack of inspiration. Asia fires my writing in a way that the Western world can't. And South America is wonderful, yes, but on a budget like mine you are very limited in what you can do, and without adequate Spanish you are completely screwed.
I am frequently asked which place was my favourite. Each time, I have to respond with '...in what way?'
For fun...Thailand. For scenery...New Zealand. For happiness...Nepal. For personal growth...India. The list goes on. If you have any questions about my travels or general travelling, I'd be more than happy to answer them. Leave me a comment or send me an email.
Each country is unique and holds a different type of memory, a different kind of story. It is the people that make the country what it is. My friends and adversaries have defined each space; it is that which has taught me more about who I am, more than any sunset or mountain vista. That said, the landscape of a country can speak to you in a way that people cannot. With time to stare I felt, not as though I was gazing at a landscape, but that the landscape was gazing back at me.
As most of you will know by now, the delay in my most recent blog posts has been caused because my stay in South America was abruptly terminated by the inevitable certainty of life beyond taxes. But a journey is not defined by location. I've learnt more in the past month than I learnt in a year around the world.
The end of every journey is the beginning.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Measure.
The body, like a book that you have borrowed,
Is something to respect and then return.
For those left behind, for the family and friends
What will become of a life at its end?
What will be the measure of my days, my weeks, my years?
What will be the value of my happiness and fears?
What will people think of me, what’s left of me to give,
What will be the measure of a life well lived?
Not how much I gained, but that I would not ask for more
Not what I believed, but the things that I stood up for,
Not the things I bought, but the things I gave for free
And not the things I learnt, but what people learnt from me.
Not my memories faded, but that people know I cared,
And not the things we lose, but the things that are still there.
Not the way I looked, but the smile upon my face
In our memories together, and in love’s saving grace.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Machu Picchu
The tour guide had finished. ´Right guys, you go exploring now´.
Sweet. I´m free! I can never absorb anything from tour guides. Their dulcet tones wash over me, lulling me into that non-absorbent state called Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Wandered around the main areas for a bit....nice....lots of empty brick buildings, amazing views...but somehow something is missing. Where´s the REAL Machu Picchu? I don´t want signs telling me where to go. Screw this.
Abandoning the signposts, I decide to follow lizards and butterflies instead. Seems as good a sign as any - they probably know where all the cool bits are.
I descend to the abandoned areas where no restoration has taken place...the mysterious areas where no tourist goes...and I find...the mythical....Area Where the Gardening Equipment is Stored.
Okay, well, at least it made me chuckle. We wander on, the lizards and I, with the butterflies dancing about in the distance. The ruins are properly ruined here. Down we go, down, down...and then...CAVES!
Ooo, caves. Cavey McCaversens. Right. In we go....eurgh....yeah. In we go. Come on feet. ´Nooooo´say my feet, ´it´s dark and damp and cramped and there might be snakes and spiders and ewwwwwww.´ To placate them, I start whistling loudly. To scare off snakes.
The echoey whistling somehow makes me feel like I´m in the middle of a horror movie, so I stop. This is not a horror movie. It is a Cave. I crawl in. It´s pretty much as my feet imagined. Somehow I´m quite relieved when it becomes too dark to see and I have to turn back...not much point getting lost in the dark, I figure. It´s not likely I´ll be found any time soon if I do.
I start climbing back up to the touristy ruins. Predictably, there are a tour group and a tour guide. ´And the caves down there, where that girl is...´ the tour guide looks at me a little uncertainly, ´...an archeological dig in 2003 uncovered two very well preserved corpses...´
Whoo. I´m Lara Croft, 6 years too late.
This time.
Sweet. I´m free! I can never absorb anything from tour guides. Their dulcet tones wash over me, lulling me into that non-absorbent state called Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Wandered around the main areas for a bit....nice....lots of empty brick buildings, amazing views...but somehow something is missing. Where´s the REAL Machu Picchu? I don´t want signs telling me where to go. Screw this.
Abandoning the signposts, I decide to follow lizards and butterflies instead. Seems as good a sign as any - they probably know where all the cool bits are.
I descend to the abandoned areas where no restoration has taken place...the mysterious areas where no tourist goes...and I find...the mythical....Area Where the Gardening Equipment is Stored.
Okay, well, at least it made me chuckle. We wander on, the lizards and I, with the butterflies dancing about in the distance. The ruins are properly ruined here. Down we go, down, down...and then...CAVES!
Ooo, caves. Cavey McCaversens. Right. In we go....eurgh....yeah. In we go. Come on feet. ´Nooooo´say my feet, ´it´s dark and damp and cramped and there might be snakes and spiders and ewwwwwww.´ To placate them, I start whistling loudly. To scare off snakes.
The echoey whistling somehow makes me feel like I´m in the middle of a horror movie, so I stop. This is not a horror movie. It is a Cave. I crawl in. It´s pretty much as my feet imagined. Somehow I´m quite relieved when it becomes too dark to see and I have to turn back...not much point getting lost in the dark, I figure. It´s not likely I´ll be found any time soon if I do.
I start climbing back up to the touristy ruins. Predictably, there are a tour group and a tour guide. ´And the caves down there, where that girl is...´ the tour guide looks at me a little uncertainly, ´...an archeological dig in 2003 uncovered two very well preserved corpses...´
Whoo. I´m Lara Croft, 6 years too late.
This time.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Potosi Mines
After the desert bumpage we rested for a day in Uyuni and then headed to Potosi to see, what was once, the richest town in the world. The fortune was made by mining silver, a process that still continues today. You can hire a guide to take you down the mines and see what goes on. So that´s what we did.
There was a warning on the tour agencies sign: ´NOT FOR WIMPS OR WOOSIES´(and yes that´s how it was spelled!).
They were certainly right. First, we pick up our equipment. Wellingtons, waterproof jacket and trousers, stylish helmet and headlamp. Verrrry niiiiice. Already I am roasting under this equipment alongside my own clothes, but there you go. Then we go to a miners market (in our ´I´m a gullible tourist, exploit me´outfits) to buy some gifts for the workers and ourselves: water, soft drinks, coca leaves, cigarettes and dynamite. Yes, you can buy dynamite, off the street. For about a quid. What a bargain! We buy some for the miners and some for ourselves. I´m chewing away at the coca leaves (same stuff that cocaine is made from, but nowhere near as concentrated) but it feels like chewing on a green tea teabag and it´s pretty gross. My cheek goes a bit numb and my tongue is all tingly but that´s it. After about 45 minutes of dribbling green goo on myself I give up and spit it all out. My teeth have gone greenish yellowy grey. Niiiiiiiice.
We see the refinery and get some silver paste on our cheeks. Then we go to the mine itself. There are miners outside, drunk and smoking, coughing and spitting, laughing and talking. Some of them seriously look like they haven´t got long to live; the average lifespan of a miner is 45 years. Many of them die, starved of breath, coughing up blood, the black lung; incurable silicosis they pick up from inhaling the dust from the mine. Some workers start in the mines at as young as 12 years old. Male workers only; women bring bad luck.
The entrance tunnel is black with sticky dried llama blood, a sacrifice to Tio, the God of the Mine (otherwise known as Satan). It´s very cold and dark in the entrance, and incredibly dusty. It smells quite weird and I´m concerned about the high pressure air pipes hissing about my ears, like they might explode at any moment. We trudge along the muddy floor, slipping every so often, until every last photon of light has lost the will to go on and we´re left with the dull glow of headlamps in the dusty mire. The heat starts to build up once the wind from outside can´t reach us. Everything is muffled and quiet; it´s not unlike a warm tomb. We come across a statue of Tio, complete with offerings from the miners: cigarettes, 96% pure alcohol (which burns the throat like acid I can tell you now), pictures of naked women...everybody is finding it hard to breathe and our eyes are burning. We descend to the second level, 20 metres below the first. It´s dusty and slippery and my glasses are coated with dust. I can´t see a thing so they have to be put in a bag, without their case unfortunately (I have the dusty scratches to prove it). At least I can see now, so long as I blink every 2 seconds. We are crawling on our hands and knees through the dust; the stench thickens. The rocks are coated with yellow and green, stalactites drip gooey fluid onto my hands and head. ´Oh, don´t put your hands on the white powder on the walls please, it´s arsenic´, our guide kindly informs us, after I´ve been practically bathing in the stuff. We continue down this narrow shute , down, down, down...I know it´s only technically 20 metres but it´s winding and steep and it feels like a lot more. There are narrow paths where there´s nothing but a log wedged in the rocks between you and a 60 metre fall. The wellingtons have no grip whatsoever and for one scary moment I´m slipping down the shute, unable to catch a foot-hold or grab anything with my hands. The path levels out and I gain my balance again, checking that my hands aren´t bleeding, hoping that the guide was joking about the arsenic.
On the second level we see the miners working, carry rock, digging, loading, winching, pushing 2 tonne carriages full of minerals to other parts of the mine. It´s backbreaking work. They all seem very grateful for the gifts and desperate to ask the guide the time, to get some sense of where they are in the day and how long they have to spend down in this hell. Nobody eats in the mine, they only drink and chew coca leaves, sometimes working for 12 hours straight without a break at the surface.
Down we go, once again. If the dust and smell were bad before, they exponentially increase as you descend. We go to the lowest level of the mine, the fourth, 80 meters below the surface. Most of this descent is on ladders (some with very wobbly rungs) but it´s a little easier, less claustrophobic, and there´s something comforting about the repetitive action of that foot down, this foot down.
You cannot stand anywhere on the fourth level except whilst climbing off the ladder. We creep, crawl, slide, wriggle our way through the tunnels, desperately fighting for breath. Here we find Martine, a 38 year old miner who´s been working here all his life. Hunched up against the rock, he´s chipping out a path of dynamite holes to release the mineral vein he´s found. Every so often he chips a little of the mineral vein off by mistake, picks it up, examines it, breaks it with his hammer to examine the contents. There´s something very apelike about the hunched stance and the intuitive ease with which he handles these rocks and tools. He´s been doing this for 9 hours by the time we see him, intends to continue for another 3, when he´ll blow the hole and come collect his prize in the morning (as the dust has to clear overnight). ´Do you like your job? ´ John asks. ´I like it because I have no choice ´is his reply. The longer we sit with him, the more comfortable I feel. You could almost call it cozy. We leave him with a generous bag of coca leaves, cigarettes and soft drinks. Pretty lonely this far down the mine.
Our ascent is almost as difficult as the descent, as we´re exhausted from the scrambling and inability to breathe. However, I feel much safer going up towards the surface than I did going down; it doesn´t seem as steep and I know that the reward at the end will be cooler temperatures and increased oxygen. The foot-holds and hand-holds are easier to see as well. Once back at the surface I gulp in the fresh air and relish the feel of the wind on my face. The sunlight is still strong despite it being evening now. Invigorated, we finish our trip with a couple of sticks of dynamite. Bolivian dynamite is green and soft, and I roll it into a ball like dry play-doh. There are little bits of polystyrene in it, but I don´t know why. To give the dynamite some extra whoomph, we add a bag of ammonium nitrate for good measure. We stick the fuses in, get quick photos with us all holding lit dynamite, then the tour guide sprints about 40 metres away, half buries the dynamite in the ground, then sprints back. We wait. The tour guides shout to warn the miners. Then silence, apart from the hissing of the fuse. John shouts 3, 2, 1...and miraculously he´s timed it perfectly. A massive BOOM resounds around the valley, all we can see is a big cloud of dust. We see the hole our dynamite has made; it´s deep enough for me to crouch in twice over.
BOOM!
There was a warning on the tour agencies sign: ´NOT FOR WIMPS OR WOOSIES´(and yes that´s how it was spelled!).
They were certainly right. First, we pick up our equipment. Wellingtons, waterproof jacket and trousers, stylish helmet and headlamp. Verrrry niiiiice. Already I am roasting under this equipment alongside my own clothes, but there you go. Then we go to a miners market (in our ´I´m a gullible tourist, exploit me´outfits) to buy some gifts for the workers and ourselves: water, soft drinks, coca leaves, cigarettes and dynamite. Yes, you can buy dynamite, off the street. For about a quid. What a bargain! We buy some for the miners and some for ourselves. I´m chewing away at the coca leaves (same stuff that cocaine is made from, but nowhere near as concentrated) but it feels like chewing on a green tea teabag and it´s pretty gross. My cheek goes a bit numb and my tongue is all tingly but that´s it. After about 45 minutes of dribbling green goo on myself I give up and spit it all out. My teeth have gone greenish yellowy grey. Niiiiiiiice.
We see the refinery and get some silver paste on our cheeks. Then we go to the mine itself. There are miners outside, drunk and smoking, coughing and spitting, laughing and talking. Some of them seriously look like they haven´t got long to live; the average lifespan of a miner is 45 years. Many of them die, starved of breath, coughing up blood, the black lung; incurable silicosis they pick up from inhaling the dust from the mine. Some workers start in the mines at as young as 12 years old. Male workers only; women bring bad luck.
The entrance tunnel is black with sticky dried llama blood, a sacrifice to Tio, the God of the Mine (otherwise known as Satan). It´s very cold and dark in the entrance, and incredibly dusty. It smells quite weird and I´m concerned about the high pressure air pipes hissing about my ears, like they might explode at any moment. We trudge along the muddy floor, slipping every so often, until every last photon of light has lost the will to go on and we´re left with the dull glow of headlamps in the dusty mire. The heat starts to build up once the wind from outside can´t reach us. Everything is muffled and quiet; it´s not unlike a warm tomb. We come across a statue of Tio, complete with offerings from the miners: cigarettes, 96% pure alcohol (which burns the throat like acid I can tell you now), pictures of naked women...everybody is finding it hard to breathe and our eyes are burning. We descend to the second level, 20 metres below the first. It´s dusty and slippery and my glasses are coated with dust. I can´t see a thing so they have to be put in a bag, without their case unfortunately (I have the dusty scratches to prove it). At least I can see now, so long as I blink every 2 seconds. We are crawling on our hands and knees through the dust; the stench thickens. The rocks are coated with yellow and green, stalactites drip gooey fluid onto my hands and head. ´Oh, don´t put your hands on the white powder on the walls please, it´s arsenic´, our guide kindly informs us, after I´ve been practically bathing in the stuff. We continue down this narrow shute , down, down, down...I know it´s only technically 20 metres but it´s winding and steep and it feels like a lot more. There are narrow paths where there´s nothing but a log wedged in the rocks between you and a 60 metre fall. The wellingtons have no grip whatsoever and for one scary moment I´m slipping down the shute, unable to catch a foot-hold or grab anything with my hands. The path levels out and I gain my balance again, checking that my hands aren´t bleeding, hoping that the guide was joking about the arsenic.
On the second level we see the miners working, carry rock, digging, loading, winching, pushing 2 tonne carriages full of minerals to other parts of the mine. It´s backbreaking work. They all seem very grateful for the gifts and desperate to ask the guide the time, to get some sense of where they are in the day and how long they have to spend down in this hell. Nobody eats in the mine, they only drink and chew coca leaves, sometimes working for 12 hours straight without a break at the surface.
Down we go, once again. If the dust and smell were bad before, they exponentially increase as you descend. We go to the lowest level of the mine, the fourth, 80 meters below the surface. Most of this descent is on ladders (some with very wobbly rungs) but it´s a little easier, less claustrophobic, and there´s something comforting about the repetitive action of that foot down, this foot down.
You cannot stand anywhere on the fourth level except whilst climbing off the ladder. We creep, crawl, slide, wriggle our way through the tunnels, desperately fighting for breath. Here we find Martine, a 38 year old miner who´s been working here all his life. Hunched up against the rock, he´s chipping out a path of dynamite holes to release the mineral vein he´s found. Every so often he chips a little of the mineral vein off by mistake, picks it up, examines it, breaks it with his hammer to examine the contents. There´s something very apelike about the hunched stance and the intuitive ease with which he handles these rocks and tools. He´s been doing this for 9 hours by the time we see him, intends to continue for another 3, when he´ll blow the hole and come collect his prize in the morning (as the dust has to clear overnight). ´Do you like your job? ´ John asks. ´I like it because I have no choice ´is his reply. The longer we sit with him, the more comfortable I feel. You could almost call it cozy. We leave him with a generous bag of coca leaves, cigarettes and soft drinks. Pretty lonely this far down the mine.
Our ascent is almost as difficult as the descent, as we´re exhausted from the scrambling and inability to breathe. However, I feel much safer going up towards the surface than I did going down; it doesn´t seem as steep and I know that the reward at the end will be cooler temperatures and increased oxygen. The foot-holds and hand-holds are easier to see as well. Once back at the surface I gulp in the fresh air and relish the feel of the wind on my face. The sunlight is still strong despite it being evening now. Invigorated, we finish our trip with a couple of sticks of dynamite. Bolivian dynamite is green and soft, and I roll it into a ball like dry play-doh. There are little bits of polystyrene in it, but I don´t know why. To give the dynamite some extra whoomph, we add a bag of ammonium nitrate for good measure. We stick the fuses in, get quick photos with us all holding lit dynamite, then the tour guide sprints about 40 metres away, half buries the dynamite in the ground, then sprints back. We wait. The tour guides shout to warn the miners. Then silence, apart from the hissing of the fuse. John shouts 3, 2, 1...and miraculously he´s timed it perfectly. A massive BOOM resounds around the valley, all we can see is a big cloud of dust. We see the hole our dynamite has made; it´s deep enough for me to crouch in twice over.
BOOM!
Atacama Desert and Salar de Uyuni
We decided to take a tour to get into Bolivia (way more interesting than just taking the bus, right?). So, we made our way to San Pedro de Atacama, to take a 3 day drive across the desert and salt flats to make our introduction to Bolivia something truly special.
As soon as we entered the tour bus, a split became apparent...the Spanish speakers and the English speakers. Luckily, this worked out quite nicely into one group of 5 and one group of 6 (as a maximum of 6 people could fit into one landrover). So, Joe, Megan, Deirdre, John and I took the bus to the desert border crossing into Bolivia where we had breakfast and moved into the 4WDs. The border control was hilarious - literally just a shack in the middle of the desert. The Bolivian flag was half missing, worn ragged by the desert winds. That said, it was also one of the most painless and speedy borders I have ever done. During our breakfast (think white bread and sugar, sugar, and more sugar, and you´re about right) we spotted some seagulls. We wondered if they were a bit lost. Also, we saw a fox, prowling around for scraps and, possibly, seagulls.
Jumping into our landrover (once called a Toyota, now an oyot) we bumped our way across the sands. And, man, do I mean bumped (I still have bruises on the outside and probably also on the inside). Our guide/driver spoke no English and we spoke little Spanish which made for some interesting miming. Drove past some pretty lagoons and flamingoes, resting at some hot springs. Luckily for us the car decided to conk out at this point so we got an extra long bathing session in the spring. It was all going, oh, I don´t know, one could say, swimmingly - until the wind blew my towel into the spa. Doh! The sun and the strong wind speeded up the drying process.
I haven´t mentioned how cold it is in the desert! The wind was ferocious, ripping through layers of clothing like they just weren´t there. I truly wished I was wearing 3 layers of trousers. But as it was, I had only one pair on and we had to make do. Our next stop was some stinky sulphurous geysers - no safety barriers this time! Ha, take that, New Zealand! We wandered around for a bit, watching the bubbling mud and steam. I briefly considered making myself another impromptu mud facepack, but there wasn´t anywhere safe to scoop. Plus I remembered the trouble I had washing it all off last time.
The higher we got, the worse the headaches got. I was extremely tired as well so unfortunately I missed some of the scenery by nodding off. I was grateful to arrive at the hostel for lunch and some recuperation. Slept for an hour or two, woke up with the thumping headache still knocking around on the inside of my skull. A combination of aspirin, neck massage and cinnamon tea did wonders (apparently aspirin is the best for high altitude, because it thins the blood and all). The English speakers went out to climb a hill to watch the sunset - true to form, with beers. The beer was extra fizzy owing to the high altitude which made for a novel experience (personally I preferred it this way). Slightly drunk and high on aspirins, tea, altitude, oxygen deprivation, I giggled my way down the hill and decided to hang out with some llamas. They made the most wonderful cooing noise, very cute. Didn´t seem to afraid of me so I crouched my way closer. Tried to get some good pictures but unfortunately it was too dark. Went back inside to read and eat dinner, did a quick 10 minutes of stargazing (no light pollution, gorgeous) and was in bed by 9pm!!
I had the responsibility of setting the alarm for the following morning. This I did, most dutifully. However, I had forgotten one tiny detail. In crossing the Bolivian border we had moved forward in time by one hour. Whoops. So, everybody was up an hour early, which I thought was a most excellent excuse for a brisk stroll to watch the sunrise. The others didn´t seem to agree.
Spurned by my group, I set out alone, the intrepid llama hunter in a desert wilderness. As it was, I didn´t really get very far, as sunrise came pretty fast, and I was very achy and out of breath. I did get some cool pictures though. The whole area is so beautiful and alien, it was very hard to not waste my camera battery and memory every 2 seconds (no electricity or internet in the hostels, surprisingly enough). Once again, a sugar overload left me jittery and didn´t really help the headache. Felt quite sick. Vowed never to eat caramel for breakfast again.
Jumped into oyot at 7am to jostle our way to the Red Lagoon. Red water, blue sky, hundreds of flamingoes! There were 3 different species, apparently, not that I could tell the difference. Poor oyot kept breaking down and overheating, but our trusty driver Ishad kept hopping out and fixing her up. We probably had 8 break downs over 3 days, but luckily none of them required more than 15 minutes of maintainence. I´m not suprised that we had breakdowns; massive dust storms, gusts of wind (even small tornadoes), sand and incredibly bumpy terrain do not a happy car make. The tornadoes were a little disconcerting - you´d hear this whirring noise and then you´d see this small but still very powerful looking tornado dancing about in front of the car. ´Er, is that okay?´ I ask Ishad. He nods and looks pretty relaxed so I try to follow suit. It´s the whirring noise that kept getting to me. That and the unpredictable weaving around that the tornadoes seemed to like.
We continued, bombing across the gravelly desert, Ishads favourite Bolivian tunes blarring in the background (I believe we only had one CD for the entire trip). We stopped to climb some cool rock formations, very Dali-esque, but I was feeling quite headachy once again so didn´t climb as high as I would have liked. For lunch, we stopped at another lagoon full of flamingoes. These ones were really close and not at all bothered by the strange pink monkeys on the beach so we sat peacefully in the reeds watching them feed. It was quite sheltered and sunny so I even managed to feel warm for a few minutes before heading once again into the icy blasts of dustwind. The rest of the day was spent zooming across the desert and being bounced around like a bean in a beanbag, although we did stop to take pictures of a smoking volcano and to fix the car a couple of times.
Gradually, the landscape changed, became softer, and the mountains gained multicoloured stripes, reds, oranges, greens. We were heading towards the salt plains. Eventually we neared a village. We could see our hostel, its salt bricks glinting tantalisingly in the distance.
Louise: ´Why have we stopped?´
Ishad: (pointing) ´Urgle lurgle murgle flurgle Baños murgle lurgle´
Louise: ´Toilets? But there are toilets at the hostel and we can see it! Why would we pay to use toilets when we have free ones 5 minutes away?´
-confusion ensues in two languages-
Ishad: (laughing) ´Baños y museo!! Museo!!´
Louise: ´Museum??´
It didn´t look like a museum...there was a stone wall and some kind of garden with a few piles of rocks in it. And toilets of course. But, as it was only 5 Bolivianos, we thought we´d take a look. I seriously thought we´d been scammed into paying to see a rock garden until Joe shouted ´Hey guys, look at this!!´. You could tell it was something really interesting so we hurried over, wrapped up against the wind.
Joe: ´Look in there!´
Louise: (looks in hole) ´Aurrgheeeeee!!´
It was a human skeleton, hunched up and moodily eyeing us up with it´s sockety sockets. He didn´t look too impressed by this white chick squealing at him in a most undignified fashion. We looked for more holes; found more skeletons. One still had hair. Another still had an ear and most of it´s skin. Another one had been a bit unfortunate and his head had fallen off, leaving the pelvis and spine sitting in the original pose. We found rope, pots, hats and child skulls. Hadn´t the foggiest what this was all meant to mean, as the English boards weren´t very informative, but we managed to deduce that this was an ancient graveyard for desert kings, or something. Either way, gross and unexpected but also very cool.
We made our way to the salt hotel (which, perhaps unsurprisingly, was made of salt). I´d been imagining some tiny ice palace like the one in Narnia (but, you know, smaller), but it looked pretty much like a normal building, except salty (mmm). It was surprisingly cosy, with rug hangings on the walls and a free bottle of wine to keep us warm. Hot showers were available but my headache kicked in once again so unfortunately had to depart to bed. Wouldn´t have been much point in a shower anyway - as soon as you stepped outside you were dusty up to the eyelids. The 4am start the next day was another factor convincing me that early bed was a good idea.
So, off we went, still dark, very cold, twilight stars. Sunrise on the salt flats. Ishad was driving incredibly quickly, but professionally - it felt safe. After about an hour and a half of bumpy punishment we got to the plains - a vast, flat, white crystalline mass. The salt had formed hexagonal shaped slabs and you could see where the landrovers had been driving across, flattening the pattern. The sunrise was euphoric. Pink Floyd would have approved. We continued over the salty desert, stopping to take weird perspective pictures in the crazy landscape. We stopped for breakfast at Isla de Pescado (which, I believe, means Fish Island - odd because there are no fish and it´s covered in cactuses). The locals keep a rhea as a pet. The cactuses were huge - it takes 100 years for this species to grow 1 metre so you can imagine some of them, 12 metres plus, were pretty old. As we reached the edge of the desert we saw a salt processing factory and a small village where we could buy some cheap souvenirs. Our final stop was at a ´train graveyard´, where lots of old trains had been discarded and left to rot. We climbed on a few of them to take pictures and graffiti our mark. Someone else had decided to leave their mark by doing a crap in one of the engines!!
I could hear that now familiar whirring sound, and sure enough, there were a couple of baby tornadoes lurking about in the distance. I was glad to get back to the hostel; the town felt safer somehow!
As soon as we entered the tour bus, a split became apparent...the Spanish speakers and the English speakers. Luckily, this worked out quite nicely into one group of 5 and one group of 6 (as a maximum of 6 people could fit into one landrover). So, Joe, Megan, Deirdre, John and I took the bus to the desert border crossing into Bolivia where we had breakfast and moved into the 4WDs. The border control was hilarious - literally just a shack in the middle of the desert. The Bolivian flag was half missing, worn ragged by the desert winds. That said, it was also one of the most painless and speedy borders I have ever done. During our breakfast (think white bread and sugar, sugar, and more sugar, and you´re about right) we spotted some seagulls. We wondered if they were a bit lost. Also, we saw a fox, prowling around for scraps and, possibly, seagulls.
Jumping into our landrover (once called a Toyota, now an oyot) we bumped our way across the sands. And, man, do I mean bumped (I still have bruises on the outside and probably also on the inside). Our guide/driver spoke no English and we spoke little Spanish which made for some interesting miming. Drove past some pretty lagoons and flamingoes, resting at some hot springs. Luckily for us the car decided to conk out at this point so we got an extra long bathing session in the spring. It was all going, oh, I don´t know, one could say, swimmingly - until the wind blew my towel into the spa. Doh! The sun and the strong wind speeded up the drying process.
I haven´t mentioned how cold it is in the desert! The wind was ferocious, ripping through layers of clothing like they just weren´t there. I truly wished I was wearing 3 layers of trousers. But as it was, I had only one pair on and we had to make do. Our next stop was some stinky sulphurous geysers - no safety barriers this time! Ha, take that, New Zealand! We wandered around for a bit, watching the bubbling mud and steam. I briefly considered making myself another impromptu mud facepack, but there wasn´t anywhere safe to scoop. Plus I remembered the trouble I had washing it all off last time.
The higher we got, the worse the headaches got. I was extremely tired as well so unfortunately I missed some of the scenery by nodding off. I was grateful to arrive at the hostel for lunch and some recuperation. Slept for an hour or two, woke up with the thumping headache still knocking around on the inside of my skull. A combination of aspirin, neck massage and cinnamon tea did wonders (apparently aspirin is the best for high altitude, because it thins the blood and all). The English speakers went out to climb a hill to watch the sunset - true to form, with beers. The beer was extra fizzy owing to the high altitude which made for a novel experience (personally I preferred it this way). Slightly drunk and high on aspirins, tea, altitude, oxygen deprivation, I giggled my way down the hill and decided to hang out with some llamas. They made the most wonderful cooing noise, very cute. Didn´t seem to afraid of me so I crouched my way closer. Tried to get some good pictures but unfortunately it was too dark. Went back inside to read and eat dinner, did a quick 10 minutes of stargazing (no light pollution, gorgeous) and was in bed by 9pm!!
I had the responsibility of setting the alarm for the following morning. This I did, most dutifully. However, I had forgotten one tiny detail. In crossing the Bolivian border we had moved forward in time by one hour. Whoops. So, everybody was up an hour early, which I thought was a most excellent excuse for a brisk stroll to watch the sunrise. The others didn´t seem to agree.
Spurned by my group, I set out alone, the intrepid llama hunter in a desert wilderness. As it was, I didn´t really get very far, as sunrise came pretty fast, and I was very achy and out of breath. I did get some cool pictures though. The whole area is so beautiful and alien, it was very hard to not waste my camera battery and memory every 2 seconds (no electricity or internet in the hostels, surprisingly enough). Once again, a sugar overload left me jittery and didn´t really help the headache. Felt quite sick. Vowed never to eat caramel for breakfast again.
Jumped into oyot at 7am to jostle our way to the Red Lagoon. Red water, blue sky, hundreds of flamingoes! There were 3 different species, apparently, not that I could tell the difference. Poor oyot kept breaking down and overheating, but our trusty driver Ishad kept hopping out and fixing her up. We probably had 8 break downs over 3 days, but luckily none of them required more than 15 minutes of maintainence. I´m not suprised that we had breakdowns; massive dust storms, gusts of wind (even small tornadoes), sand and incredibly bumpy terrain do not a happy car make. The tornadoes were a little disconcerting - you´d hear this whirring noise and then you´d see this small but still very powerful looking tornado dancing about in front of the car. ´Er, is that okay?´ I ask Ishad. He nods and looks pretty relaxed so I try to follow suit. It´s the whirring noise that kept getting to me. That and the unpredictable weaving around that the tornadoes seemed to like.
We continued, bombing across the gravelly desert, Ishads favourite Bolivian tunes blarring in the background (I believe we only had one CD for the entire trip). We stopped to climb some cool rock formations, very Dali-esque, but I was feeling quite headachy once again so didn´t climb as high as I would have liked. For lunch, we stopped at another lagoon full of flamingoes. These ones were really close and not at all bothered by the strange pink monkeys on the beach so we sat peacefully in the reeds watching them feed. It was quite sheltered and sunny so I even managed to feel warm for a few minutes before heading once again into the icy blasts of dustwind. The rest of the day was spent zooming across the desert and being bounced around like a bean in a beanbag, although we did stop to take pictures of a smoking volcano and to fix the car a couple of times.
Gradually, the landscape changed, became softer, and the mountains gained multicoloured stripes, reds, oranges, greens. We were heading towards the salt plains. Eventually we neared a village. We could see our hostel, its salt bricks glinting tantalisingly in the distance.
Louise: ´Why have we stopped?´
Ishad: (pointing) ´Urgle lurgle murgle flurgle Baños murgle lurgle´
Louise: ´Toilets? But there are toilets at the hostel and we can see it! Why would we pay to use toilets when we have free ones 5 minutes away?´
-confusion ensues in two languages-
Ishad: (laughing) ´Baños y museo!! Museo!!´
Louise: ´Museum??´
It didn´t look like a museum...there was a stone wall and some kind of garden with a few piles of rocks in it. And toilets of course. But, as it was only 5 Bolivianos, we thought we´d take a look. I seriously thought we´d been scammed into paying to see a rock garden until Joe shouted ´Hey guys, look at this!!´. You could tell it was something really interesting so we hurried over, wrapped up against the wind.
Joe: ´Look in there!´
Louise: (looks in hole) ´Aurrgheeeeee!!´
It was a human skeleton, hunched up and moodily eyeing us up with it´s sockety sockets. He didn´t look too impressed by this white chick squealing at him in a most undignified fashion. We looked for more holes; found more skeletons. One still had hair. Another still had an ear and most of it´s skin. Another one had been a bit unfortunate and his head had fallen off, leaving the pelvis and spine sitting in the original pose. We found rope, pots, hats and child skulls. Hadn´t the foggiest what this was all meant to mean, as the English boards weren´t very informative, but we managed to deduce that this was an ancient graveyard for desert kings, or something. Either way, gross and unexpected but also very cool.
We made our way to the salt hotel (which, perhaps unsurprisingly, was made of salt). I´d been imagining some tiny ice palace like the one in Narnia (but, you know, smaller), but it looked pretty much like a normal building, except salty (mmm). It was surprisingly cosy, with rug hangings on the walls and a free bottle of wine to keep us warm. Hot showers were available but my headache kicked in once again so unfortunately had to depart to bed. Wouldn´t have been much point in a shower anyway - as soon as you stepped outside you were dusty up to the eyelids. The 4am start the next day was another factor convincing me that early bed was a good idea.
So, off we went, still dark, very cold, twilight stars. Sunrise on the salt flats. Ishad was driving incredibly quickly, but professionally - it felt safe. After about an hour and a half of bumpy punishment we got to the plains - a vast, flat, white crystalline mass. The salt had formed hexagonal shaped slabs and you could see where the landrovers had been driving across, flattening the pattern. The sunrise was euphoric. Pink Floyd would have approved. We continued over the salty desert, stopping to take weird perspective pictures in the crazy landscape. We stopped for breakfast at Isla de Pescado (which, I believe, means Fish Island - odd because there are no fish and it´s covered in cactuses). The locals keep a rhea as a pet. The cactuses were huge - it takes 100 years for this species to grow 1 metre so you can imagine some of them, 12 metres plus, were pretty old. As we reached the edge of the desert we saw a salt processing factory and a small village where we could buy some cheap souvenirs. Our final stop was at a ´train graveyard´, where lots of old trains had been discarded and left to rot. We climbed on a few of them to take pictures and graffiti our mark. Someone else had decided to leave their mark by doing a crap in one of the engines!!
I could hear that now familiar whirring sound, and sure enough, there were a couple of baby tornadoes lurking about in the distance. I was glad to get back to the hostel; the town felt safer somehow!
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
The Navimag boat!
I´m so sorry guys, I´ve been really lax on the blog front. We´ve had a mad few days. I´ll try and fill you in.
So. We´d been hanging about in a little town called Pucon, trying to climb an active volcano, but the weather was too bad. So, we were sat inside, cursing the rain, and wondering what to do next on our journey.
Then we hear the word ´Navimag´. It´s a ferry apparently, and it takes cargo (and a few tourists) up and down the coast of Chile. Ooo, a boat. Haven´t done that before. My spider senses are tingling.
Off we pop to the Navimag shop, grab a page full of information, and promise to let her know what we want to book. The boats only go once a week (one northbound, one southbound). We don´t have time to catch the southbound one, as it leaves the next day. However, the northbound one leaves at the end of the week. But we´d have to get to the south to do it.
For me, this was like some kind of omen. I´d really wanted to see the Perito Moreno glacier...but we´d decided it was too far south to get to in our timeframe. But, if we had to go south anyway...it was just next door. Kind of. Close enough to get a bus to anyway.
But how to get south? We scan the internet for bus timetables. And then flights. Turns out there´s a flight leaving for the town next to the glaciers in two days time , and it´s only 130 quid. Not bad. But....but....I´m desperately torn between the budget and the value for money. The costs are piling up...but it´s the cheapest we´d ever be able to do it, and we´d get to see some absolutely amazing things along the way. And the fact that I don´t want to sit on my ass in the rain.
Argh!!
Louise: "Oh, fuck it. Let´s do it."
John: "Really?"
Louise: "...Yeah."
We grab some money and run to the Navimag shop. Run! RUN!!
Louise: (slows down) "...Wait, are we actually doing this?"
John: "...er...Yeah?"
Louise: "...Yeah....Yeah!"
It felt right.
So, the mad rush to book the boat, the buses, the flight, and the accommodation ensues. Eeep! Everything is going swimmingly. Booked, booked, booked. Tick, tick, tick.
That very day we head to Barriloche to have a look round and catch our flight on the day after tomorrow. We get there and check our emails. Crap. ´Problem with the flight booking´is never a good start to an email...apparently they need a scan of the debit card and a passport....er...no! No scanners, and no sending your private details out to random people in Barcelona. So, we spend several hours begging for translators to help us sort the problem out, and running between internet cafes, phones and airline offices. Thankfully, everything seems to be fine, although edreams (who we booked the flight with) were very unhelpful and did not clarify the problem or explain why they needed random information over the internet or what the problem was or ANYTHING. So they´re officially on my black list. But, anyway, for whatever reason, the flight was booked and sorted and everything was fine and off we flew. Whee!!
Louise: "..:The Alps are amazing aren´t they John?"
John: "Andes, Louise, Andes."
Louise: (not missing a beat) "So, the Andes are amazing aren´t they John?"
And amazing they were. We saw the sun set over the Andes, and it wasn´t even a specialist tour flight. The lakes and snow were glowing gold.
We landed in El Calafate and booked our tour to the glacier for the following day. We grabbed food and fell into bed.
The Perito Moreno glacier is AMAZING. Gorgeous. Stunning. Vast. Chilly.
We got on a boat and got up close and intimate with Mr Glacier. It´s very easy to lose persepctive on the scale in the photos. It´s as high as a fifteen story building (60 metres). There were people hiking on the glacier in a couple of the pictures, but you can hardly see them. They looked like ants.
Every so often you would hear a massive roar. It was huges chunks of ice sharding off, randomly, periodically, plunging into the water, sending huges waves flowing under the ice. Unfortunately the roar came after the fall so you wouldn´t see much if you just looked for the sound. But keeping your eyes peeled meant you were pretty likely to see a few ´calvings´ of the ice. Impressive.
Right, off we run to the overnight bus. Off to the boat!!
Owing to confusion about time zone changes and general bus inflexibility we then spent most of the next day sitting around. On the bus we travelled for miles along a dirt track across large estancias (farm ranches), laughing at the rheas. They were terrified of the bus and when it got close, they ran away, looking like prudish Victorians lifting up their petticoats to flee from this terrifying monster.
There wasn´t much to do at the dock (we checked in at about 3pm and boarded at 9pm) so we spent most of our time wandering about and climbing on statues. John was reluctant to have his picture taken with a big metal bear thing. We saw black headed swans though. By about 8pm the check in lounge was filling up - and everybody was doing that thing where they discreetly assess their fellow cabin mates for sanity and annoyingness level . John and I were testing each other on world geography so we probably came across as pretty weird. Unfortunately, on the first night, no dinner was provided, so we imaginatively improvised with jam and bread (these being the only two edible options available in the supermarket). Our tour guide for the journey was immediately nicknamed Borat, owing to his accent and very stylish moustache.
We were woken at 5.30am by the engine starting (for 5 minutes I thought it was John shivering on the bottom bunk), so we went to the deck to see the sunrise. It was absolutely freezing and very pretty. The rest of the day was spent getting to know a few of our cabin mates: Richard and Eliza, Sydney lawyers turned travellers, Thomas, a stylish, down to earth Belgian fellow, and Joe, a spacey, hippiesque philosopher with a very colourful coat. (Why, why, I did not start calling him Joseph with the technicolor dreamcoat I do not know. Next time). We visited the bridge and played with the machines, played lots of cards, and ate LOTS of food. It was great to just sit around and laugh, sleep and rest, read and play guitar.
The next day I spent mostly in bed trying to keep my breakfast down (which I failed to do. Miserably. 5 times). The bathroom was decidedly fragrant. This probably didn´t help Eliza when she ran up to the bathroom as a safety precaution, only to see and smell my redecoration efforts. Needless to say she decided to contribute to the artwork. The staff were very helpful and not at all squeamish, which made me feel slightly less awful about the whole affair. But yeah, not fun. Never been seasick before. Well, I´ve felt sick, but never actually been sick. Whoo. There´s another experience to tick off the list. On top of that, Borat comes over the tannoy "On zee right side of zee bot, peeple, yuu can see whales!!". So, not only was I throwing up, I missed the whale sighting . Still, it was probably the most fun I´ve had whilst feeling ill though...just sat on the bunk sharing stories with Eliza.
John didn´t feel too bad and even ate lunch (which only 3 people managed to do apparently). By the evening everyone was feeling much better. And hungry. We ate and drank the night away, then got the guitar out and sang into the early hours.
On the final day I tried to lie in, but in the end got up for breakfast (mmm tasty nom nom nom). More card games, reading and guitar ensued. In the evening, we found out that a horse a had given birth on the boat!! We christened the foal Eden (after the boat name), got mildly drunk, played hide and seek, and crashed the DJ booth to play tunes in celebration.
The staff came down and switched off the music. Boo!! Then they opened the bar for 5 minutes. Hurrah!! We stocked up for a crazy night of Borat jokes, improvisation, bread sculptures, and science experiments about attempting to slip on banana skins. Not as easy as it looks in the movies, you know.
Mmm, bread sculptures. Nom nom nom.
So. We´d been hanging about in a little town called Pucon, trying to climb an active volcano, but the weather was too bad. So, we were sat inside, cursing the rain, and wondering what to do next on our journey.
Then we hear the word ´Navimag´. It´s a ferry apparently, and it takes cargo (and a few tourists) up and down the coast of Chile. Ooo, a boat. Haven´t done that before. My spider senses are tingling.
Off we pop to the Navimag shop, grab a page full of information, and promise to let her know what we want to book. The boats only go once a week (one northbound, one southbound). We don´t have time to catch the southbound one, as it leaves the next day. However, the northbound one leaves at the end of the week. But we´d have to get to the south to do it.
For me, this was like some kind of omen. I´d really wanted to see the Perito Moreno glacier...but we´d decided it was too far south to get to in our timeframe. But, if we had to go south anyway...it was just next door. Kind of. Close enough to get a bus to anyway.
But how to get south? We scan the internet for bus timetables. And then flights. Turns out there´s a flight leaving for the town next to the glaciers in two days time , and it´s only 130 quid. Not bad. But....but....I´m desperately torn between the budget and the value for money. The costs are piling up...but it´s the cheapest we´d ever be able to do it, and we´d get to see some absolutely amazing things along the way. And the fact that I don´t want to sit on my ass in the rain.
Argh!!
Louise: "Oh, fuck it. Let´s do it."
John: "Really?"
Louise: "...Yeah."
We grab some money and run to the Navimag shop. Run! RUN!!
Louise: (slows down) "...Wait, are we actually doing this?"
John: "...er...Yeah?"
Louise: "...Yeah....Yeah!"
It felt right.
So, the mad rush to book the boat, the buses, the flight, and the accommodation ensues. Eeep! Everything is going swimmingly. Booked, booked, booked. Tick, tick, tick.
That very day we head to Barriloche to have a look round and catch our flight on the day after tomorrow. We get there and check our emails. Crap. ´Problem with the flight booking´is never a good start to an email...apparently they need a scan of the debit card and a passport....er...no! No scanners, and no sending your private details out to random people in Barcelona. So, we spend several hours begging for translators to help us sort the problem out, and running between internet cafes, phones and airline offices. Thankfully, everything seems to be fine, although edreams (who we booked the flight with) were very unhelpful and did not clarify the problem or explain why they needed random information over the internet or what the problem was or ANYTHING. So they´re officially on my black list. But, anyway, for whatever reason, the flight was booked and sorted and everything was fine and off we flew. Whee!!
Louise: "..:The Alps are amazing aren´t they John?"
John: "Andes, Louise, Andes."
Louise: (not missing a beat) "So, the Andes are amazing aren´t they John?"
And amazing they were. We saw the sun set over the Andes, and it wasn´t even a specialist tour flight. The lakes and snow were glowing gold.
We landed in El Calafate and booked our tour to the glacier for the following day. We grabbed food and fell into bed.
The Perito Moreno glacier is AMAZING. Gorgeous. Stunning. Vast. Chilly.
We got on a boat and got up close and intimate with Mr Glacier. It´s very easy to lose persepctive on the scale in the photos. It´s as high as a fifteen story building (60 metres). There were people hiking on the glacier in a couple of the pictures, but you can hardly see them. They looked like ants.
Every so often you would hear a massive roar. It was huges chunks of ice sharding off, randomly, periodically, plunging into the water, sending huges waves flowing under the ice. Unfortunately the roar came after the fall so you wouldn´t see much if you just looked for the sound. But keeping your eyes peeled meant you were pretty likely to see a few ´calvings´ of the ice. Impressive.
Right, off we run to the overnight bus. Off to the boat!!
Owing to confusion about time zone changes and general bus inflexibility we then spent most of the next day sitting around. On the bus we travelled for miles along a dirt track across large estancias (farm ranches), laughing at the rheas. They were terrified of the bus and when it got close, they ran away, looking like prudish Victorians lifting up their petticoats to flee from this terrifying monster.
There wasn´t much to do at the dock (we checked in at about 3pm and boarded at 9pm) so we spent most of our time wandering about and climbing on statues. John was reluctant to have his picture taken with a big metal bear thing. We saw black headed swans though. By about 8pm the check in lounge was filling up - and everybody was doing that thing where they discreetly assess their fellow cabin mates for sanity and annoyingness level . John and I were testing each other on world geography so we probably came across as pretty weird. Unfortunately, on the first night, no dinner was provided, so we imaginatively improvised with jam and bread (these being the only two edible options available in the supermarket). Our tour guide for the journey was immediately nicknamed Borat, owing to his accent and very stylish moustache.
We were woken at 5.30am by the engine starting (for 5 minutes I thought it was John shivering on the bottom bunk), so we went to the deck to see the sunrise. It was absolutely freezing and very pretty. The rest of the day was spent getting to know a few of our cabin mates: Richard and Eliza, Sydney lawyers turned travellers, Thomas, a stylish, down to earth Belgian fellow, and Joe, a spacey, hippiesque philosopher with a very colourful coat. (Why, why, I did not start calling him Joseph with the technicolor dreamcoat I do not know. Next time). We visited the bridge and played with the machines, played lots of cards, and ate LOTS of food. It was great to just sit around and laugh, sleep and rest, read and play guitar.
The next day I spent mostly in bed trying to keep my breakfast down (which I failed to do. Miserably. 5 times). The bathroom was decidedly fragrant. This probably didn´t help Eliza when she ran up to the bathroom as a safety precaution, only to see and smell my redecoration efforts. Needless to say she decided to contribute to the artwork. The staff were very helpful and not at all squeamish, which made me feel slightly less awful about the whole affair. But yeah, not fun. Never been seasick before. Well, I´ve felt sick, but never actually been sick. Whoo. There´s another experience to tick off the list. On top of that, Borat comes over the tannoy "On zee right side of zee bot, peeple, yuu can see whales!!". So, not only was I throwing up, I missed the whale sighting . Still, it was probably the most fun I´ve had whilst feeling ill though...just sat on the bunk sharing stories with Eliza.
John didn´t feel too bad and even ate lunch (which only 3 people managed to do apparently). By the evening everyone was feeling much better. And hungry. We ate and drank the night away, then got the guitar out and sang into the early hours.
On the final day I tried to lie in, but in the end got up for breakfast (mmm tasty nom nom nom). More card games, reading and guitar ensued. In the evening, we found out that a horse a had given birth on the boat!! We christened the foal Eden (after the boat name), got mildly drunk, played hide and seek, and crashed the DJ booth to play tunes in celebration.
The staff came down and switched off the music. Boo!! Then they opened the bar for 5 minutes. Hurrah!! We stocked up for a crazy night of Borat jokes, improvisation, bread sculptures, and science experiments about attempting to slip on banana skins. Not as easy as it looks in the movies, you know.
Mmm, bread sculptures. Nom nom nom.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tongariro Alpine Crossing
Sorry I haven´t written in a while. It´s been a bit of a whirlwind the past few weeks and not been that easy to get on the internet. But anyway. Here I am. Although now in South America, I´ll try and do things chronologically.
So, where were we? Ah yes, nearly killing myself in New Zealand. Twice. Well, I think you´ll be pleased to hear that there haven´t been anymore near-death experiences as far as I know. Although I´m thinking of climbing an active volcano in a day or two. But the smoke coming out the top looks very friendly, so I think we´ll be okay.
But anyway, moving back to New Zealand. We did the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, which is meant to be a pretty hard one day trek where you basically climb over MOUNT DOOM. (Go on, let me hear you say ´oooo!´). That´s the mountain from the Lord of the Rings movies to the uninitiated, although if you managed to miss the LOTR craze, God help you. Even if there´s an apocalypse you won´t know.
Mount Doom, or Mount Ngauruhoe to his friends, looks a lot friendlier without the charred landscape and evil fiery smoke. He was quite shy and hiding behind lots of clouds. Hence, quite hard to see, but when there were gaps in the cloud he was very nice.
We booked our trek and piled onto the tour bus (filled to the seams with middle aged Germans with LOTS of equipment) to be patronised for the half an hour drive to the start track.
Annoying preppy tour guide: ´Now have you got suncream?´
Louise: PER-LEASE! If you forget that, you deserve to fry. Besides, some people dig that leathery crocodile skin look.
Louise (out loud): ´Yes thank you.´
For the first hour we thought we had been ripped off, walking along nice little boardwalks with public toilets every 3km. We trotted up the ´Devils Staircase´with relative ease. ´Was that it?!´ I believe was the phrase. But pride always comes before a fall...after that things got a little tougher. We were going a lot faster than most of the group, so we reached the highest points when the weather was still a little wobbly. We literally walked up through clouds (which is chilly and doesn´t lend itself well to taking pictures or making cameras obedient, it seems), up to a plateau where you walk through the volcanoes. Awesome. It was all very peaceful and huge and awe inspiring and I felt like quoting some poetry until SQUELCH! Feet went straight through the snow, through the ice, and suddenly you´re calf deep in a shallow muddy lake. One of our co-walkers was so surprised that he tried to jump out of the hole he´d made, only to create another one on impact when he trip-landed, splattering the snow with mud. Hee hee.
The signs directed us straight through the middle of the lake. Not that we knew this at the time; all we could see was pretty white snow and markers clearly pointing out our path. Needless to say we all got a bit wet (once again, hurrah for waterproof socks). But the worst was yet to come. A steep, slippery climb up the side of the mountain to the peak, with gale force winds trying to blast us off the edge. It was freezing!! I had to cover my face with my gloves to stop my nostrils icing over. I don´t think I´ve ever been so cold in all my life. But, mercifully, it wasn´t for long. After about an hour in the wind, half-crawling up the mountain, we reached the peak! Cue big smiles and a very quick photo stop (´Look! We´re higher than the clouds!´). The downhill slope was mostly out of the wind but much more slippery. I was freaking out a bit as it all seemed a bit too familiar to the conditions where I nearly sledged off the edge last time. We took it as slowly and carefully as we could and luckily, this time, there were no mishaps.
The descent back to ground level was very scenic and warm, and a bit smelly with sulphurous steam rising out of the rocks. Mostly I was just relieved to be off the top and basically ran down the mountain in the desire to be the first female to finish. Once we got to the bottom it turned out one girl had gotten ahead of us at some point :( but never mind. I was savouring the fact that we had finished, whilst imagining those Germans all still wading through the lake at the top. We had to wait 3 hours for the rest of the tour group to catch up so we could all go home (kinda wished I´d brought a book!).
So there you go. I´d definitely reccommend doing it. Maybe on a slightly less windy day.
So, where were we? Ah yes, nearly killing myself in New Zealand. Twice. Well, I think you´ll be pleased to hear that there haven´t been anymore near-death experiences as far as I know. Although I´m thinking of climbing an active volcano in a day or two. But the smoke coming out the top looks very friendly, so I think we´ll be okay.
But anyway, moving back to New Zealand. We did the Tongariro Alpine Crossing, which is meant to be a pretty hard one day trek where you basically climb over MOUNT DOOM. (Go on, let me hear you say ´oooo!´). That´s the mountain from the Lord of the Rings movies to the uninitiated, although if you managed to miss the LOTR craze, God help you. Even if there´s an apocalypse you won´t know.
Mount Doom, or Mount Ngauruhoe to his friends, looks a lot friendlier without the charred landscape and evil fiery smoke. He was quite shy and hiding behind lots of clouds. Hence, quite hard to see, but when there were gaps in the cloud he was very nice.
We booked our trek and piled onto the tour bus (filled to the seams with middle aged Germans with LOTS of equipment) to be patronised for the half an hour drive to the start track.
Annoying preppy tour guide: ´Now have you got suncream?´
Louise: PER-LEASE! If you forget that, you deserve to fry. Besides, some people dig that leathery crocodile skin look.
Louise (out loud): ´Yes thank you.´
For the first hour we thought we had been ripped off, walking along nice little boardwalks with public toilets every 3km. We trotted up the ´Devils Staircase´with relative ease. ´Was that it?!´ I believe was the phrase. But pride always comes before a fall...after that things got a little tougher. We were going a lot faster than most of the group, so we reached the highest points when the weather was still a little wobbly. We literally walked up through clouds (which is chilly and doesn´t lend itself well to taking pictures or making cameras obedient, it seems), up to a plateau where you walk through the volcanoes. Awesome. It was all very peaceful and huge and awe inspiring and I felt like quoting some poetry until SQUELCH! Feet went straight through the snow, through the ice, and suddenly you´re calf deep in a shallow muddy lake. One of our co-walkers was so surprised that he tried to jump out of the hole he´d made, only to create another one on impact when he trip-landed, splattering the snow with mud. Hee hee.
The signs directed us straight through the middle of the lake. Not that we knew this at the time; all we could see was pretty white snow and markers clearly pointing out our path. Needless to say we all got a bit wet (once again, hurrah for waterproof socks). But the worst was yet to come. A steep, slippery climb up the side of the mountain to the peak, with gale force winds trying to blast us off the edge. It was freezing!! I had to cover my face with my gloves to stop my nostrils icing over. I don´t think I´ve ever been so cold in all my life. But, mercifully, it wasn´t for long. After about an hour in the wind, half-crawling up the mountain, we reached the peak! Cue big smiles and a very quick photo stop (´Look! We´re higher than the clouds!´). The downhill slope was mostly out of the wind but much more slippery. I was freaking out a bit as it all seemed a bit too familiar to the conditions where I nearly sledged off the edge last time. We took it as slowly and carefully as we could and luckily, this time, there were no mishaps.
The descent back to ground level was very scenic and warm, and a bit smelly with sulphurous steam rising out of the rocks. Mostly I was just relieved to be off the top and basically ran down the mountain in the desire to be the first female to finish. Once we got to the bottom it turned out one girl had gotten ahead of us at some point :( but never mind. I was savouring the fact that we had finished, whilst imagining those Germans all still wading through the lake at the top. We had to wait 3 hours for the rest of the tour group to catch up so we could all go home (kinda wished I´d brought a book!).
So there you go. I´d definitely reccommend doing it. Maybe on a slightly less windy day.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Death by fire; death by snow?
Never mind death by dodgy cooking appliances; I've got a whole new story to tell you. Mum, you won't like it.
We stayed in snow the other night (which, by the way, is not as good at freezing ice packs as you might think). Mount Cook is the highest mountain in New Zealand, and the corresponding village is also at high altitude. Despite this, it actually felt a lot warmer during the day and I didn't end up shivering all night (compared to the night before when I had, I kid you not, six layers of clothing on). We decided to climb the Sealy Tarns route up the mountain to some small glacial lakes and good views of Mount Cook; supposedly for 'beginners'. All well and good. After walking past a WARNING AVALANCHE AREA: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK I looked a little confused, at shrubbery and mud...and continued.
The steps were steep; well, pretty steep, but not ridiculously steep (ahem as in not Table Mountain, you old devil). But the steps were quite slippery. I was finding it pretty hard going and certainly would not consider the route 'for a beginner' (and certainly not a route for trainers which were unfortunately my footwear of choice). We climbed for about and hour and a half, up to the snowline. Nice views. Click click click goes the camera. But where are the lakes?
No lakes. The few, old footprints there are in the ground head up. The lakes must be higher up. So on we climb, up into the snow. Soft, annoying, maiden snow. We are clinging onto spiky bushes and tough grasses for leverage as we heave ourselves over the rocks. Then there are no more rocks. Just snow. We continue, still scouring the horizon for these lakes, looking back to see if we'd missed them. Great views. No lakes.
We are half-wading through snow (cue grateful me for waterproof socks, trousers and gloves), clambering on all fours. The sun is getting hotter. We climb higher. 'Maybe we should turn back' I think. But John is going faster than me; he basically at the peak of the mountain. He shakes his head; still no lakes.
So; we turn back. I am sitting in the snow waiting for John to come back down from the peak, admiring the view. Takes him a lot longer than expected; he climbed it in about 15 minutes. I look around and see him, digging his feet into the snow, one at a time, then sliding down the snow on his bum. With no gloves on or waterproof trousers. Slow going. 'It's slippery!' he shouts. And he's right. Looking at the view, I've been ignoring the snow at my feet. The sun has melted it into a semi-slush top layer. And it looks A LOT steeper on the way down compared to climbing up.
It was the best sledging slope you ever saw; except for menacingly sharp rocks and the empty nothingness of a cliff edge at the bottom.
Aw. Crap. Avalanche warnings flash in my head like police sirens. John has reached my height now, so we start slushing down the mountain together, digging the feet in and short slides. We're in trainers; we're hideously unequipped; it's slow and the sun is getting higher and we have to be patient and try not to slip. It's hard. No crampons, no poles.
I am as careful as I possibly can be; unfortunately, my foothold of snow comes loose at the critical moment and I lose control. 'Shit shit shit shit SHIT!' I am sliding down the mountain, faster and faster, completely out of control and seriously panicked. The cliff edge gashes at me, a hideous, cruel grin; the rocks, rushing towards me, drops of saliva. Luckily, instinct kicks in and I dig my arm into the snow as deep as I can, slowing my progress sufficiently to grab hold of some bushes.
'Well, that's one way to get down a mountain.' I mutter to myself. I'm alive! The problem is now I am marooned on a small tuft of bush surrounded by unstable, virgin, avalanche-prone snow. My path down to the bush islet is littered with hollow gaps where the snow was barely thick enough to support my fall, and caved in under my weight after I flew past. Sometimes there is bush underneath; sometimes rocks. Russian roulette sledging. Nice.
'Are you alright?!' John shouts, shuffling his way down as quickly and carefully as he can. 'Yeah, I'm good!' I pant, a little breathlessly. 'Kinda screwed now though...' I try kicking my way across to the original snow track, but it's no good; the snow crumbles under my feet and I'm sending mini avalanches down the mountain. On top of that, the bush I'm clinging to is fighting with me tooth and nail to make me let go, catching my clothing in all the wrong places to hinder my progress, whilst also being suprisingly slippery to grip. Savage little life-saving bitch. After a few minutes of attempted side tracking back to the original path, I give up. It's no use.
You're gonna have to sledge again, Louise.
I'll try not to shout swearwords this time. It's not very dignified.
John gets to the stable area, to scout a decent sledging path for me (i.e. avoiding rocks and edges, please). After about 10 minutes of repositioning (i.e. as far away from rocks and edges as possible, please) we're ready to go.
I look at the view. Was it worth it?
I smile.
I'm still here, and still in one piece, so I'm guessing you can imagine the rest of the story.
Never found those bloody lakes. Sorry Mum! :) xx
We stayed in snow the other night (which, by the way, is not as good at freezing ice packs as you might think). Mount Cook is the highest mountain in New Zealand, and the corresponding village is also at high altitude. Despite this, it actually felt a lot warmer during the day and I didn't end up shivering all night (compared to the night before when I had, I kid you not, six layers of clothing on). We decided to climb the Sealy Tarns route up the mountain to some small glacial lakes and good views of Mount Cook; supposedly for 'beginners'. All well and good. After walking past a WARNING AVALANCHE AREA: ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK I looked a little confused, at shrubbery and mud...and continued.
The steps were steep; well, pretty steep, but not ridiculously steep (ahem as in not Table Mountain, you old devil). But the steps were quite slippery. I was finding it pretty hard going and certainly would not consider the route 'for a beginner' (and certainly not a route for trainers which were unfortunately my footwear of choice). We climbed for about and hour and a half, up to the snowline. Nice views. Click click click goes the camera. But where are the lakes?
No lakes. The few, old footprints there are in the ground head up. The lakes must be higher up. So on we climb, up into the snow. Soft, annoying, maiden snow. We are clinging onto spiky bushes and tough grasses for leverage as we heave ourselves over the rocks. Then there are no more rocks. Just snow. We continue, still scouring the horizon for these lakes, looking back to see if we'd missed them. Great views. No lakes.
We are half-wading through snow (cue grateful me for waterproof socks, trousers and gloves), clambering on all fours. The sun is getting hotter. We climb higher. 'Maybe we should turn back' I think. But John is going faster than me; he basically at the peak of the mountain. He shakes his head; still no lakes.
So; we turn back. I am sitting in the snow waiting for John to come back down from the peak, admiring the view. Takes him a lot longer than expected; he climbed it in about 15 minutes. I look around and see him, digging his feet into the snow, one at a time, then sliding down the snow on his bum. With no gloves on or waterproof trousers. Slow going. 'It's slippery!' he shouts. And he's right. Looking at the view, I've been ignoring the snow at my feet. The sun has melted it into a semi-slush top layer. And it looks A LOT steeper on the way down compared to climbing up.
It was the best sledging slope you ever saw; except for menacingly sharp rocks and the empty nothingness of a cliff edge at the bottom.
Aw. Crap. Avalanche warnings flash in my head like police sirens. John has reached my height now, so we start slushing down the mountain together, digging the feet in and short slides. We're in trainers; we're hideously unequipped; it's slow and the sun is getting higher and we have to be patient and try not to slip. It's hard. No crampons, no poles.
I am as careful as I possibly can be; unfortunately, my foothold of snow comes loose at the critical moment and I lose control. 'Shit shit shit shit SHIT!' I am sliding down the mountain, faster and faster, completely out of control and seriously panicked. The cliff edge gashes at me, a hideous, cruel grin; the rocks, rushing towards me, drops of saliva. Luckily, instinct kicks in and I dig my arm into the snow as deep as I can, slowing my progress sufficiently to grab hold of some bushes.
'Well, that's one way to get down a mountain.' I mutter to myself. I'm alive! The problem is now I am marooned on a small tuft of bush surrounded by unstable, virgin, avalanche-prone snow. My path down to the bush islet is littered with hollow gaps where the snow was barely thick enough to support my fall, and caved in under my weight after I flew past. Sometimes there is bush underneath; sometimes rocks. Russian roulette sledging. Nice.
'Are you alright?!' John shouts, shuffling his way down as quickly and carefully as he can. 'Yeah, I'm good!' I pant, a little breathlessly. 'Kinda screwed now though...' I try kicking my way across to the original snow track, but it's no good; the snow crumbles under my feet and I'm sending mini avalanches down the mountain. On top of that, the bush I'm clinging to is fighting with me tooth and nail to make me let go, catching my clothing in all the wrong places to hinder my progress, whilst also being suprisingly slippery to grip. Savage little life-saving bitch. After a few minutes of attempted side tracking back to the original path, I give up. It's no use.
You're gonna have to sledge again, Louise.
I'll try not to shout swearwords this time. It's not very dignified.
John gets to the stable area, to scout a decent sledging path for me (i.e. avoiding rocks and edges, please). After about 10 minutes of repositioning (i.e. as far away from rocks and edges as possible, please) we're ready to go.
I look at the view. Was it worth it?
I smile.
I'm still here, and still in one piece, so I'm guessing you can imagine the rest of the story.
Never found those bloody lakes. Sorry Mum! :) xx
Friday, September 4, 2009
Roadtrip in New Zealand
Right; onward and upward. I've been told off by my sister for making the blog too morose (fair comment) so let's lighten it up with a whirl around New Zealand in a campervan! And what better way to make this journey even better than by jazzing up the outside of the campervan with the work of a local Kiwi grafitti artist? Our campervan has an artistic impression of top surfer Kelly Slater ruling the waves along its side. Very stylish.
The inside of the campervan, however, is not quite so stylish. Well; it has style...just not very good style. Kinda gawky teenager-esque style. Like, do you remember that time when you though you could pull off a gothic look - with acne? Yeah. Like that kinda style.
But, hey, you can't really complain for $15 each a day now can you? And there's plenty of storage space (all of which is impossible to get to, hehe). My only real concern has been our gas cooker, which tried to blow us up yesterday. Everything was going swimmingly (-perhaps a bad place for a water pun?), then suddenly it all burst aflame. Cue action style slow motion, Bond theme in the background, running for our lives, waiting for the multi-million dollar BOOM to knock us into the air, so we could end up in the dirt with rakish grazes on our brows and artistically placed mud stains on our otherwise curiously undirtied suits/ cocktail dresses. As it was, there was a bit of running, a bit of silence (interrupted by a bit of panting and swearing on my part), and then I turned around to see that the strong wind had mercifully put the fire out. In thanks I have turned my loud mental complaining at bitter cold wind into quiet grumpy mental mutterings. Anyway, we have the gas cooker fixed again now, so we can go back to warmish tuna, pasta and tomato sauce every night. Erm...yay?
When hungry, pasta looks tasty.
The scenery here is amazing, and the roads are very scenic (albeit very bendy). It's sort of like Wales with palm trees.
Yesterday we went Whakarewarewa (no I can't pronounce it either) Thermal Village - bubbling mud pools, geysers, the worlds first (natural) steam cookers, cooking eggs and sweetcorn in a massive crystal blue pool of boiling water. Really nice people, a couple of nice walks and our guide was very informative. The only downside was that the whole place stank of sulphur. Guess that's why they can eat so many eggs...nobody could tell if you farted even if you wanted them to know...maybe I should consider sending my Dad there...
Right, have run out of time!! Will try to write again soon!!
The inside of the campervan, however, is not quite so stylish. Well; it has style...just not very good style. Kinda gawky teenager-esque style. Like, do you remember that time when you though you could pull off a gothic look - with acne? Yeah. Like that kinda style.
But, hey, you can't really complain for $15 each a day now can you? And there's plenty of storage space (all of which is impossible to get to, hehe). My only real concern has been our gas cooker, which tried to blow us up yesterday. Everything was going swimmingly (-perhaps a bad place for a water pun?), then suddenly it all burst aflame. Cue action style slow motion, Bond theme in the background, running for our lives, waiting for the multi-million dollar BOOM to knock us into the air, so we could end up in the dirt with rakish grazes on our brows and artistically placed mud stains on our otherwise curiously undirtied suits/ cocktail dresses. As it was, there was a bit of running, a bit of silence (interrupted by a bit of panting and swearing on my part), and then I turned around to see that the strong wind had mercifully put the fire out. In thanks I have turned my loud mental complaining at bitter cold wind into quiet grumpy mental mutterings. Anyway, we have the gas cooker fixed again now, so we can go back to warmish tuna, pasta and tomato sauce every night. Erm...yay?
When hungry, pasta looks tasty.
The scenery here is amazing, and the roads are very scenic (albeit very bendy). It's sort of like Wales with palm trees.
Yesterday we went Whakarewarewa (no I can't pronounce it either) Thermal Village - bubbling mud pools, geysers, the worlds first (natural) steam cookers, cooking eggs and sweetcorn in a massive crystal blue pool of boiling water. Really nice people, a couple of nice walks and our guide was very informative. The only downside was that the whole place stank of sulphur. Guess that's why they can eat so many eggs...nobody could tell if you farted even if you wanted them to know...maybe I should consider sending my Dad there...
Right, have run out of time!! Will try to write again soon!!
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Absence, Atheism and Michael Jackson
I don't think I have anything to write about today...we are now on the 40th post. Perhaps I should save this epic milestone for something significant to say. Guess maybe I should have saved my essay on love for this one, huh?
But that does not answer the question of what one would fill the void with. What would Blog Excerpt 39 be?
Well, perhaps it should be that life has gone on without me at home. I have been away just over a year now. I suppose being virtually non-contactable for that time is somewhat like being a bit, you know...dead....or something...at first, people rail against the Fates, bemoaning your departure, missing you like crazy, how will we ever cope etc. etc. And, then, slowly, softly, time moves on. People move on. Memories lie abandoned on the beach, and the winds of time swiftly drift in, and sand fills in the gaps. New memories, new jobs, new friends. New lives.
We are all replaceable. Not perhaps, as individuals; but everything we are, when taken apart, can be replaced by someone or something else.
Do you ever wonder, what the odds would be?
Either way, we are all incredibly lucky to be here, don't you think? Think of all the spectacular levels of probability against existence. Every ancestor, every environment, every choice had to be made at just the right time to result in this. In us.
But, ultimately (sigh), it is only Chance. It's quite hard to feel grateful towards abstract statistics that couldn't care less about whether you existed or not. There they sit, quietly in the corner, tallying away, punctiliously tapping away at the numbers, as unemotional and efficient in erasing your life as in creating it. Oblivious to the screams and grime and tears. It's a grimy lot, life is. A grim and grimy lot. Yet, I suppose, we'd rather be with it than without.
I imagine a few of my Christian friends are shaking their heads softly with that sad smile on their faces. Well, good luck, guys. Enjoy. :)
In our living room we have a little booklet called The Introduction to Jehovah's Witnesses for Children. There are some lovely pictures of paradise (apparently we get to live alongside tigers and hippos in perfect harmony and we all dress like we live in the fifties).
Some equally interesting pictures of the Day of Judgment. A lady carries a bleeding girl in her arms. A toddler reaching for her fathers hand as a flood engulfs.
Oh, and by the way, the Going to Hell list includes alcoholics, wife beaters and Mexicans.
A group of Asians were standing on soapboxes (and yes, I do mean literal soapboxes) in the street the other day: 'Jesus loves you, God gave his only son to save you...' does anyone else feel awkward about these people? I'm always like, "Dude, keep it at home, okay? Or rant about it on your blog. Except nobody reads your blog because, you know, quite frankly, it's dull. And we all have access to a copy of it every time we check into Travelodge."
Maybe next time I'll start lecturing them on the finer points of Satanism and see what happens.
Where are all the atheists these days? Atheism needs structure.
//We shall build atheist churches, from which to worship and indoctrinate the young with moral philosophy and logic. Let great statues be built in the likeness of Sartre, Nietzsche and Bertrand Russell. And everyone shall have a 'fish with legs' bumper sticker. Thus it is decreed.//
So sayeth the Book of Lou, chapter 3 verse 10.
I suppose it's a little oxymoronic (or just plain moronic) to refer to them as Atheist Churches. Ah well...I guess 'University' would do just as well.
Additionally, speaking of death, absence and afterlives, permission to grind my gears on Michael Jackson, or MJ, as everyone seems to so affectionately know him by these days. Obviously this is not directed at the genuine fans of Mr Jackson, but Other People, if you loved the guy so much, maybe you shoulda let the world know whilst he was still alive and therefore have used your respect properly, as opposed to driveling on about how simply marvelous his music was and what an iconic singer he is and isn't it such a tragedy he's gone and so on and so forth, just as soon as you would've spit in his face and called him a pedophile when he was alive.
Okay, got that one outta the way.
-considers blog a useful anger management tool-
Over and out.
But that does not answer the question of what one would fill the void with. What would Blog Excerpt 39 be?
Well, perhaps it should be that life has gone on without me at home. I have been away just over a year now. I suppose being virtually non-contactable for that time is somewhat like being a bit, you know...dead....or something...at first, people rail against the Fates, bemoaning your departure, missing you like crazy, how will we ever cope etc. etc. And, then, slowly, softly, time moves on. People move on. Memories lie abandoned on the beach, and the winds of time swiftly drift in, and sand fills in the gaps. New memories, new jobs, new friends. New lives.
We are all replaceable. Not perhaps, as individuals; but everything we are, when taken apart, can be replaced by someone or something else.
Do you ever wonder, what the odds would be?
Either way, we are all incredibly lucky to be here, don't you think? Think of all the spectacular levels of probability against existence. Every ancestor, every environment, every choice had to be made at just the right time to result in this. In us.
But, ultimately (sigh), it is only Chance. It's quite hard to feel grateful towards abstract statistics that couldn't care less about whether you existed or not. There they sit, quietly in the corner, tallying away, punctiliously tapping away at the numbers, as unemotional and efficient in erasing your life as in creating it. Oblivious to the screams and grime and tears. It's a grimy lot, life is. A grim and grimy lot. Yet, I suppose, we'd rather be with it than without.
I imagine a few of my Christian friends are shaking their heads softly with that sad smile on their faces. Well, good luck, guys. Enjoy. :)
In our living room we have a little booklet called The Introduction to Jehovah's Witnesses for Children. There are some lovely pictures of paradise (apparently we get to live alongside tigers and hippos in perfect harmony and we all dress like we live in the fifties).
Some equally interesting pictures of the Day of Judgment. A lady carries a bleeding girl in her arms. A toddler reaching for her fathers hand as a flood engulfs.
Oh, and by the way, the Going to Hell list includes alcoholics, wife beaters and Mexicans.
A group of Asians were standing on soapboxes (and yes, I do mean literal soapboxes) in the street the other day: 'Jesus loves you, God gave his only son to save you...' does anyone else feel awkward about these people? I'm always like, "Dude, keep it at home, okay? Or rant about it on your blog. Except nobody reads your blog because, you know, quite frankly, it's dull. And we all have access to a copy of it every time we check into Travelodge."
Maybe next time I'll start lecturing them on the finer points of Satanism and see what happens.
Where are all the atheists these days? Atheism needs structure.
//We shall build atheist churches, from which to worship and indoctrinate the young with moral philosophy and logic. Let great statues be built in the likeness of Sartre, Nietzsche and Bertrand Russell. And everyone shall have a 'fish with legs' bumper sticker. Thus it is decreed.//
So sayeth the Book of Lou, chapter 3 verse 10.
I suppose it's a little oxymoronic (or just plain moronic) to refer to them as Atheist Churches. Ah well...I guess 'University' would do just as well.
Additionally, speaking of death, absence and afterlives, permission to grind my gears on Michael Jackson, or MJ, as everyone seems to so affectionately know him by these days. Obviously this is not directed at the genuine fans of Mr Jackson, but Other People, if you loved the guy so much, maybe you shoulda let the world know whilst he was still alive and therefore have used your respect properly, as opposed to driveling on about how simply marvelous his music was and what an iconic singer he is and isn't it such a tragedy he's gone and so on and so forth, just as soon as you would've spit in his face and called him a pedophile when he was alive.
Okay, got that one outta the way.
-considers blog a useful anger management tool-
Over and out.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
On the subject of love.
Soo. This isn't really a post about Sydney. It's actually a recent discussion with a friend with girlfriend troubles. I'd be interested to know what you think of it.
Soo. Here's my awkward shuffling of an introduction to the subject of LOVE. That elusive and annoying Thing that everybody seems to get so worked up about these days.
I don't know anything about relationships, just for the record. Mine have all been spectacularly unsuccessful. Therefore I am definitely not the person to be agreeing or disagreeing here but I am desperate to know what to do to Make It Work next time round.
My friend implied that love was like a co-operation and tolerance....is this that? Co-operation implies a mutual business agreement of some sort to me, like you sign some sort of contract in which Person A does X, Y and Z, and Person B does X, Y and Z in return. This kind of commitment feels a bit...well, like a contract. Which is the kind of thing that would make most people feel trapped if Person A couldn't meet requirements X, Y and Z or if Person B wasn't doing their X, Y and Zs to Person A's satisfaction. Probably not the recipe for a good relationship (though I'm sure it works just swell for businesses).
This is what I think so far (and feel free to correct me on my inevitable errors):
The fundamentals...so, yeah, you have to be attracted to the person. Pretty important. But of course, you kinda have to know what you're attracted to about them as well, and whether those traits are durable. And whether or not they're sensible things to be attracted to.
That may sound a little clinical but I'm certain it's absolutely key to a successful relationship. It's all well and good being attracted to a person because they have lovely Xs or a great Y but of course generally these things don't last a lifetime (regrettably). Of course, people think they've got past the whole 'attracted to looks' thing these days, but I think your body tells you things your brain doesn't like to hear and that, deep down, somewhere in there, we are all a bit like that. It's not the be all and end all but it is a vital thing to be sexually attracted to the gal (or guy). I guess you'd hope that it would be something that would improve with age, like a great smile or kind eyes, and things that told you about their lifestyle habits, like cleanliness and physical fitness. But of course it isn't always like that.
Having said that, I know times where I've definitely had people become attractive or unattractive based on their personality. Admittedly sexy, but also shallow or stupid - these guys are just not a turn on however pretty they might be to look at. And guys who I've thought 'hm, no' at first glance have changed my mind with intelligence and by making me laugh.
Sometimes people are attracted to things which are absolutely not good for relationships (I know for example, a fellow who finds a girl crying very attractive; and several girls who likes guys who treat them like crap). I don't know if these things can be helped, but if one has any of these turn ons its certainly something to be aware of and monitor...probably wouldn't lead to decent relationship dynamics.Or at least, not very harmonious ones...I'm sure it's all very rollercoaster-esque. But probably not good for long term emotional stability really. You'd just end up like one of those snivelling wrecks I know far too many of, who weep ten times a day because they've broken up with their boyfriend for the third time this month.
I really, really hate those girls. I am so unsympathetic. It seems like such a vacuous existence and it's horrid that they've let that person develop such a hold over them, like some weird parasitic creeping vine. YUCK.
Most of this probably seems absolutely pointless if we assume that love isn't rational. I think love can be rational; I think that's the way we love our best friends. They're not perfect or anything like that but the love has developed over time and for good reasons (namely that you make each other laugh, support each other through times of hardship, and help each other learn new things). The love we have for our families is the 'irrational' kind; that deep down loyalty to the person so that, no matter what happens, no matter how much you fight, no matter how much you annoy each other, you're stuck together and that's that. I think we need a little bit of that in a relationship too.
I worry for men; they spend far too much time with other men and nowhere near enough time with women. And vice versa. And we all spend far too much time on The Sims. Well, I do.
An excerpt from the blog:
"I see lots of lovely glossy advertisements with shiny white smiles glinting with What Men Want and How To Get It. This invariably involves spending money, some manipulation and of course, a couple of compromising sexual positions. And the worst thing is, most of the men have actually fallen for it. They think that this "pretty, brainless, expensive-to-run whore" is going to make them happy. And the women dutifully follow suit."
I hate myself a little bit every single time I put on makeup. But I still do it. I have to avoid magazines like the plague.. Magazines are probably the worlds expert on how to make people attracted to you. But they have no idea how to make someone love you. I guess that's a little bit of an oxymoron...can you force love onto somebody? People assume not...I wonder if you can...maybe it's like attraction...pushing the right buttons. But I suppose at the end of the day button pushing you isn't real you therefore it can't be Real Love.
Human Traces by Sebastian Faulks is a good book on all of this. And let's get a hint from good ol' Peter:
Love is patient; love is kind
and envies no one.
Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude;
never selfish, not quick to take offence.
There is nothing love cannot face;
there is no limit to its faith,
its hope, its endurance.
In a word, there are three things
that last forever: faith, hope, and love;
but the greatest of them all is love.
So what I read into this is..
Love requires discipline and forbearance. It means you have to be understanding and to also have the humility to accept that you can't always understand...Love loves everything. Even the incredibly annoying bits. It doesn't actively go out of its way to cause pain to anyone or anything.... True love is not possessive, or greedy, or jealous. It doesn't demand attention, or time, favours, help or love in return for love. It doesn't demand anything. It simply is. So; love is respectful to others and humble within itself...Never selfish nor quick to take offence...I guess we go back to humility and patience here...There is nothing love cannot face...Love is beyond strength. It, once again, simply is. It has no limit.
Religious love...family love...relationship love...
I guess love requires resilience and flexibility too. Ultimately, people change over time, circumstances change over time (and generally, unfortunately, not for the better) and love has to change over time too.
Ultimately, in the end, life is bloody shit. It fucks your brain up, your body up, and all your bloody plans. We all end up weak, frail, and powerless. The illusion is that we were ever strong, powerful and would live forever. True love carries you through all that.
At least, I think.
DISCUSS. Preferably with quotes so that we can all sound like lofty philosophers. :D
Soo. Here's my awkward shuffling of an introduction to the subject of LOVE. That elusive and annoying Thing that everybody seems to get so worked up about these days.
I don't know anything about relationships, just for the record. Mine have all been spectacularly unsuccessful. Therefore I am definitely not the person to be agreeing or disagreeing here but I am desperate to know what to do to Make It Work next time round.
My friend implied that love was like a co-operation and tolerance....is this that? Co-operation implies a mutual business agreement of some sort to me, like you sign some sort of contract in which Person A does X, Y and Z, and Person B does X, Y and Z in return. This kind of commitment feels a bit...well, like a contract. Which is the kind of thing that would make most people feel trapped if Person A couldn't meet requirements X, Y and Z or if Person B wasn't doing their X, Y and Zs to Person A's satisfaction. Probably not the recipe for a good relationship (though I'm sure it works just swell for businesses).
This is what I think so far (and feel free to correct me on my inevitable errors):
The fundamentals...so, yeah, you have to be attracted to the person. Pretty important. But of course, you kinda have to know what you're attracted to about them as well, and whether those traits are durable. And whether or not they're sensible things to be attracted to.
That may sound a little clinical but I'm certain it's absolutely key to a successful relationship. It's all well and good being attracted to a person because they have lovely Xs or a great Y but of course generally these things don't last a lifetime (regrettably). Of course, people think they've got past the whole 'attracted to looks' thing these days, but I think your body tells you things your brain doesn't like to hear and that, deep down, somewhere in there, we are all a bit like that. It's not the be all and end all but it is a vital thing to be sexually attracted to the gal (or guy). I guess you'd hope that it would be something that would improve with age, like a great smile or kind eyes, and things that told you about their lifestyle habits, like cleanliness and physical fitness. But of course it isn't always like that.
Having said that, I know times where I've definitely had people become attractive or unattractive based on their personality. Admittedly sexy, but also shallow or stupid - these guys are just not a turn on however pretty they might be to look at. And guys who I've thought 'hm, no' at first glance have changed my mind with intelligence and by making me laugh.
Sometimes people are attracted to things which are absolutely not good for relationships (I know for example, a fellow who finds a girl crying very attractive; and several girls who likes guys who treat them like crap). I don't know if these things can be helped, but if one has any of these turn ons its certainly something to be aware of and monitor...probably wouldn't lead to decent relationship dynamics.Or at least, not very harmonious ones...I'm sure it's all very rollercoaster-esque. But probably not good for long term emotional stability really. You'd just end up like one of those snivelling wrecks I know far too many of, who weep ten times a day because they've broken up with their boyfriend for the third time this month.
I really, really hate those girls. I am so unsympathetic. It seems like such a vacuous existence and it's horrid that they've let that person develop such a hold over them, like some weird parasitic creeping vine. YUCK.
Most of this probably seems absolutely pointless if we assume that love isn't rational. I think love can be rational; I think that's the way we love our best friends. They're not perfect or anything like that but the love has developed over time and for good reasons (namely that you make each other laugh, support each other through times of hardship, and help each other learn new things). The love we have for our families is the 'irrational' kind; that deep down loyalty to the person so that, no matter what happens, no matter how much you fight, no matter how much you annoy each other, you're stuck together and that's that. I think we need a little bit of that in a relationship too.
I worry for men; they spend far too much time with other men and nowhere near enough time with women. And vice versa. And we all spend far too much time on The Sims. Well, I do.
An excerpt from the blog:
"I see lots of lovely glossy advertisements with shiny white smiles glinting with What Men Want and How To Get It. This invariably involves spending money, some manipulation and of course, a couple of compromising sexual positions. And the worst thing is, most of the men have actually fallen for it. They think that this "pretty, brainless, expensive-to-run whore" is going to make them happy. And the women dutifully follow suit."
I hate myself a little bit every single time I put on makeup. But I still do it. I have to avoid magazines like the plague.. Magazines are probably the worlds expert on how to make people attracted to you. But they have no idea how to make someone love you. I guess that's a little bit of an oxymoron...can you force love onto somebody? People assume not...I wonder if you can...maybe it's like attraction...pushing the right buttons. But I suppose at the end of the day button pushing you isn't real you therefore it can't be Real Love.
Human Traces by Sebastian Faulks is a good book on all of this. And let's get a hint from good ol' Peter:
Love is patient; love is kind
and envies no one.
Love is never boastful, nor conceited, nor rude;
never selfish, not quick to take offence.
There is nothing love cannot face;
there is no limit to its faith,
its hope, its endurance.
In a word, there are three things
that last forever: faith, hope, and love;
but the greatest of them all is love.
So what I read into this is..
Love requires discipline and forbearance. It means you have to be understanding and to also have the humility to accept that you can't always understand...Love loves everything. Even the incredibly annoying bits. It doesn't actively go out of its way to cause pain to anyone or anything.... True love is not possessive, or greedy, or jealous. It doesn't demand attention, or time, favours, help or love in return for love. It doesn't demand anything. It simply is. So; love is respectful to others and humble within itself...Never selfish nor quick to take offence...I guess we go back to humility and patience here...There is nothing love cannot face...Love is beyond strength. It, once again, simply is. It has no limit.
Religious love...family love...relationship love...
I guess love requires resilience and flexibility too. Ultimately, people change over time, circumstances change over time (and generally, unfortunately, not for the better) and love has to change over time too.
Ultimately, in the end, life is bloody shit. It fucks your brain up, your body up, and all your bloody plans. We all end up weak, frail, and powerless. The illusion is that we were ever strong, powerful and would live forever. True love carries you through all that.
At least, I think.
DISCUSS. Preferably with quotes so that we can all sound like lofty philosophers. :D
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The City and Tramptics
I often walk alone now. Walk through the crowds, through the streets, through the park. Watch people.
I miss forests and rivers and mountains and the ocean and being near the things that put me in perspective.
For this reason, I don't like the parks. They tease me in a variety of ways. They hold the promise of greenery and seclusion, but then, by their very nature, are sterile, manicured versions of the original. Parks have coffee and newspapers. They have tramps who hassle you for 2 dollars 'for the bus', and swarming oozes of happy couples.
I can't be myself here. With people watching all the time. They'd think I was crazy. I want to run my hands over the bark of trees, to walk for miles without seeing anybody. To sit and watch the birds, and have the birds watch me, without being watched myself.
I often get an urge to run, just run, run as fast and far as I can until I can finally find some place where I am alone. But then I get the impression that it might take a little more running than my legs could take. You're never alone in the city. And the more you want to be alone, the more people seem to stare at you.
Is it frightfully odd, to be lonely and yet to desire to be alone?
I am currently a little lonely, owing to an event which has led to other events which have led to several of my supposed friends not speaking to me when I have done absolutely nothing wrong. What happened?! I can hear several of you cry (in my lonely imagination, with its auditory hallucinations). Well. This is a family-friendly blog (barring my ranting sessions, where I probably should start putting in CENSORED signs for every other word), so I can't go into too much detail on here, but needless to say, I am basically being scapegoated. Anyone with a slightly raised eyebrow and a 'what, Louise the innocent victim' look on their face can jolly well bugger off (or, you know, ask me what happened and I'll tell you. Just not on the blog).
ANYWAY. It's entirely unjustified but completely understandable and unfortunately I am taking the brunt of the blame for the matter. But yes. It is hardly palatable to me that emotions have got in the way of rationality and friendship. But there we go. Guess they weren't very good friends after all.
It is very hard to make friends. I have never been very good at it. Might sound a bit strange, as I'm sure most of you see me as the extroverted gregarious type. Okay, probably ALL of you see me as the extroverted gregarious type. But, nevertheless, gregariously extroverted as I may appear, it is still frustratingly difficult to make friends.
It's probably my own fault really. I'm naturally a little suspicious of small talk...innocuous behaviour in general. But of course, generally, people don't tend to dive into topics like philosophy, psychology and ethics at bus stops and water coolers. And even when I have managed to talk to interesting people, they are naturally solitary creatures or already so well established in their own cliques that they don't generally take the initiative on making new friends. And you can only try and arrange social activities so many times before you start looking like a complete loser instead of just desperate. I'd hope that I am neither of these things but there we go. Thus the Law of The City speaks.
Of course, there are people who want to 'make friends'. They are invariably male, invariably dull, and invariably after something other than friendship, if the last four are anything to go by.
When did my life become so pathetic? I never realised how much my friends give my life meaning. How easy it is to doubt who you are when nobody sees you, or cares to try. I miss proper laughter, that really good laughter with friends where you laugh at nothing at all.
Neither of my closest friends read this blog. I wonder what this signifies. If they are my closest friends surely they would be interested in reading about my life and thoughts beyond sending me the obligatory 'How are you? What's happening?' every 2 months or so. Or perhaps because they are my closest friends they don't have to. Still, I feel like I'd read their blogs if either of them disappeared for a year traveling. They both have lives and boyfriends now. Haven't spoken to one of them properly for four years. Perhaps we have grown apart. People inevitably do when one of the friends gets a boyfriend, gets a job, settles down, gets married, has kids, and whoomph the next 20 years have passed and one wonders what happened to all that time you planned to spend with friends X, Y and Z. Seems like it's pretty much over once people move in with their partners. Until of course they leave their partners and then they come running to your doorstep for that long overdue late night chat. But heck, that's what friends are for right?
I'll get the horrible feeling that when I get back, everyone will have gone on without me. Not entirely unexpected. But it smarts to think that the fabric of my existence is so easily unraveled by a few loose threads. And I'll have to start all over again. Or finally, finally, get used to being alone.
Okay, this is all getting far too depressing once again, so here's a pick-me-up of a Variety of Interesting Encounters between Louise and Hobos.
Ever since my first lone journeys on public transport I have come to believe that I have a Tramp Magnet somewhere mysteriously hidden upon my person without my knowledge. Perhaps it's that vacant smile, the general air of openness, or the naive looking face. Either way, they come.
In Sydney, I have seen:
- One incoherent mutterer.
- Two bag ladies.
- Three bin scroungers.
- Four 'Have you got any change for the bus' askers (who never look like tramps and probably aren't but still make it onto the list anyway). One asker followed me down a whole street after I said no. I held onto my handbag very tightly.
- Been shouted at three times by schizophrenic tramps.
- Seen a tramp eating raw bacon (yes, raw).
- Seen a scruffy smelly old tramp combing and stroking his beard in a highly vain fashion. I wonder if the length of the beard is a mark of hierarchy in the tramp world, alongside the scruffiness of the coat and the quality of footwear. I imagine the smell is also a mark of superiority in ones general Trampiness Rating.
Okay, so its more of a list than a story but there we go. There was a tramp I met on a subway once (or rather, I had the unfortunate combination of painful high heels and only one available seat left on the platform - next to aforementioned tramp - so I foolishly thought that sitting down would be a harmless act). Up he gets, eyeing me up in a most suspicious fashion.
Tramp: 'Whatsyurname?'
Louise: 'Er....Louise.'
Tramp (triumphant): 'No it not!'
I didn't really know what to say to this, so I just sat there, quietly looking into middle distance and trying to be as invisible as possible.
Tramp (muttering): 'Noitsnot...no...noitsnot....'
Louise: -trying very hard to stare vacantly with a placid smile on face-
Tramp (shouts to himself): 'No! No it's not!!' (resumes muttering)
I was unfortunately unable to find out what name this gentleman had assigned for me as my train swept in and I quickly swept myself into it and down into the next carriage where I hid very convincingly behind a newspaper.
On the subject of tramps on trains, have you ever had the ones that come onto your carriage and give you a speech about their sorry destitute lives and then begs at every specific person in the carriage. I find that style most unsettling. Sometimes I wish I was a tramp. It's a freedom, of a sort.
What do tramps do in their spare time?
Tramp 'To-Do' List:
6am to 10am Beg.
10am to 11.30am Collect rubbish from bins.
11.30 to 12.00pm Mutter at passing strangers.
12.00pm to 1pm Mutter at imaginary friends.
1pm to 3pm Beg.
3pm to 6pm Ride the trains, stare at people weirdly and ask them if they'd like to see you manuscript for a book you're writing/to repent and be forgiven for their sins/ to give you some change for the bus.
6pm to 7pm Beg (hard work all this begging).
7pm to 8pm Buy drugs, cigarettes, booze, food, tea and imaginary bus tickets. In that order.
8pm Find a park bench.
8.30pm to 9pm Defend territory around park bench from weaker, more feeble tramps.
9pm- 11pm Try to sleep on park bench (that has evidently been designed to discourage such behaviour).
11pm Get hassled by police so have to abandon bench anyway. Feeble tramps rejoice.
11pm - 2am Beg from drunks.
2am to 6am ???? (-mystery witching hours of tramps-)
Rightyo. Cheered myself up. Off we trot. Toodle pip. Tally ho. Etc etc.
I miss forests and rivers and mountains and the ocean and being near the things that put me in perspective.
For this reason, I don't like the parks. They tease me in a variety of ways. They hold the promise of greenery and seclusion, but then, by their very nature, are sterile, manicured versions of the original. Parks have coffee and newspapers. They have tramps who hassle you for 2 dollars 'for the bus', and swarming oozes of happy couples.
I can't be myself here. With people watching all the time. They'd think I was crazy. I want to run my hands over the bark of trees, to walk for miles without seeing anybody. To sit and watch the birds, and have the birds watch me, without being watched myself.
I often get an urge to run, just run, run as fast and far as I can until I can finally find some place where I am alone. But then I get the impression that it might take a little more running than my legs could take. You're never alone in the city. And the more you want to be alone, the more people seem to stare at you.
Is it frightfully odd, to be lonely and yet to desire to be alone?
I am currently a little lonely, owing to an event which has led to other events which have led to several of my supposed friends not speaking to me when I have done absolutely nothing wrong. What happened?! I can hear several of you cry (in my lonely imagination, with its auditory hallucinations). Well. This is a family-friendly blog (barring my ranting sessions, where I probably should start putting in CENSORED signs for every other word), so I can't go into too much detail on here, but needless to say, I am basically being scapegoated. Anyone with a slightly raised eyebrow and a 'what, Louise the innocent victim' look on their face can jolly well bugger off (or, you know, ask me what happened and I'll tell you. Just not on the blog).
ANYWAY. It's entirely unjustified but completely understandable and unfortunately I am taking the brunt of the blame for the matter. But yes. It is hardly palatable to me that emotions have got in the way of rationality and friendship. But there we go. Guess they weren't very good friends after all.
It is very hard to make friends. I have never been very good at it. Might sound a bit strange, as I'm sure most of you see me as the extroverted gregarious type. Okay, probably ALL of you see me as the extroverted gregarious type. But, nevertheless, gregariously extroverted as I may appear, it is still frustratingly difficult to make friends.
It's probably my own fault really. I'm naturally a little suspicious of small talk...innocuous behaviour in general. But of course, generally, people don't tend to dive into topics like philosophy, psychology and ethics at bus stops and water coolers. And even when I have managed to talk to interesting people, they are naturally solitary creatures or already so well established in their own cliques that they don't generally take the initiative on making new friends. And you can only try and arrange social activities so many times before you start looking like a complete loser instead of just desperate. I'd hope that I am neither of these things but there we go. Thus the Law of The City speaks.
Of course, there are people who want to 'make friends'. They are invariably male, invariably dull, and invariably after something other than friendship, if the last four are anything to go by.
When did my life become so pathetic? I never realised how much my friends give my life meaning. How easy it is to doubt who you are when nobody sees you, or cares to try. I miss proper laughter, that really good laughter with friends where you laugh at nothing at all.
Neither of my closest friends read this blog. I wonder what this signifies. If they are my closest friends surely they would be interested in reading about my life and thoughts beyond sending me the obligatory 'How are you? What's happening?' every 2 months or so. Or perhaps because they are my closest friends they don't have to. Still, I feel like I'd read their blogs if either of them disappeared for a year traveling. They both have lives and boyfriends now. Haven't spoken to one of them properly for four years. Perhaps we have grown apart. People inevitably do when one of the friends gets a boyfriend, gets a job, settles down, gets married, has kids, and whoomph the next 20 years have passed and one wonders what happened to all that time you planned to spend with friends X, Y and Z. Seems like it's pretty much over once people move in with their partners. Until of course they leave their partners and then they come running to your doorstep for that long overdue late night chat. But heck, that's what friends are for right?
I'll get the horrible feeling that when I get back, everyone will have gone on without me. Not entirely unexpected. But it smarts to think that the fabric of my existence is so easily unraveled by a few loose threads. And I'll have to start all over again. Or finally, finally, get used to being alone.
Okay, this is all getting far too depressing once again, so here's a pick-me-up of a Variety of Interesting Encounters between Louise and Hobos.
Ever since my first lone journeys on public transport I have come to believe that I have a Tramp Magnet somewhere mysteriously hidden upon my person without my knowledge. Perhaps it's that vacant smile, the general air of openness, or the naive looking face. Either way, they come.
In Sydney, I have seen:
- One incoherent mutterer.
- Two bag ladies.
- Three bin scroungers.
- Four 'Have you got any change for the bus' askers (who never look like tramps and probably aren't but still make it onto the list anyway). One asker followed me down a whole street after I said no. I held onto my handbag very tightly.
- Been shouted at three times by schizophrenic tramps.
- Seen a tramp eating raw bacon (yes, raw).
- Seen a scruffy smelly old tramp combing and stroking his beard in a highly vain fashion. I wonder if the length of the beard is a mark of hierarchy in the tramp world, alongside the scruffiness of the coat and the quality of footwear. I imagine the smell is also a mark of superiority in ones general Trampiness Rating.
Okay, so its more of a list than a story but there we go. There was a tramp I met on a subway once (or rather, I had the unfortunate combination of painful high heels and only one available seat left on the platform - next to aforementioned tramp - so I foolishly thought that sitting down would be a harmless act). Up he gets, eyeing me up in a most suspicious fashion.
Tramp: 'Whatsyurname?'
Louise: 'Er....Louise.'
Tramp (triumphant): 'No it not!'
I didn't really know what to say to this, so I just sat there, quietly looking into middle distance and trying to be as invisible as possible.
Tramp (muttering): 'Noitsnot...no...noitsnot....'
Louise: -trying very hard to stare vacantly with a placid smile on face-
Tramp (shouts to himself): 'No! No it's not!!' (resumes muttering)
I was unfortunately unable to find out what name this gentleman had assigned for me as my train swept in and I quickly swept myself into it and down into the next carriage where I hid very convincingly behind a newspaper.
On the subject of tramps on trains, have you ever had the ones that come onto your carriage and give you a speech about their sorry destitute lives and then begs at every specific person in the carriage. I find that style most unsettling. Sometimes I wish I was a tramp. It's a freedom, of a sort.
What do tramps do in their spare time?
Tramp 'To-Do' List:
6am to 10am Beg.
10am to 11.30am Collect rubbish from bins.
11.30 to 12.00pm Mutter at passing strangers.
12.00pm to 1pm Mutter at imaginary friends.
1pm to 3pm Beg.
3pm to 6pm Ride the trains, stare at people weirdly and ask them if they'd like to see you manuscript for a book you're writing/to repent and be forgiven for their sins/ to give you some change for the bus.
6pm to 7pm Beg (hard work all this begging).
7pm to 8pm Buy drugs, cigarettes, booze, food, tea and imaginary bus tickets. In that order.
8pm Find a park bench.
8.30pm to 9pm Defend territory around park bench from weaker, more feeble tramps.
9pm- 11pm Try to sleep on park bench (that has evidently been designed to discourage such behaviour).
11pm Get hassled by police so have to abandon bench anyway. Feeble tramps rejoice.
11pm - 2am Beg from drunks.
2am to 6am ???? (-mystery witching hours of tramps-)
Rightyo. Cheered myself up. Off we trot. Toodle pip. Tally ho. Etc etc.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sydney Update
It is perhaps, quite ironic, that I have less access to internet here in Sydney than I did in India. The main problem is that I that the internet cafes here are not particularly private and I don't really like writing about my private thoughts in a public place (which again, seems quite ironic as I am quite happy to advertise them to the world in this blog).
Another problem is that, of course, the subject material is a little less palatable or stimulating, and I have some serious issues with talking about the people here as of course, they are my friends, and although you don't know who they are, they obviously do. For this reason I think I will have to edit my previous blog entry; it doesn't seem very fair on my friends and I wouldn't want them to do the same about me...but this does leave me with a conundrum. What can I talk about? I can rage at the state for a while but this is ultimately a futile enterprise that will wear itself out soon enough.
I still have some leech teeth in my foot. It's not a particularly pleasant reminder but it is a connection to Thailand which is better than nothing. My tan lines are fading fast (as are my sun-induced wrinkles, thankfully!). I have been sick for the past two weeks so I haven't been able to exercise much and I feel very unfit. I am still enjoying the work but look forward to the feeling of freedom that Friday night brings, which indicates that I must feel somewhat tied down and trapped by the schedule (although admittedly it's much more flexible than most jobs). I am looking forward to New Zealand and South America, only wish that I had more time in each of the countries. I think I have stopped learning here. I have realised that it is quite easy to make money. I have realised I drink far too much when given the opportunity. I have realised that true friendships take years and years to acquire. And I realise that I need to generate passive income to support myself in the manner I wish, which is probably the essential thing I needed to realise on this trip. Maybe I should use my savings from here to change my last two flights to give me more time (and freedom). November is silly time to go home. I should go home for Christmas (except I also had a plan to be in Nepal for Christmas although I don't think I have the money for that now :( - but then, if I work here for another six weks perhaps I shall have the money to do that).
John has had a promotion at work. He is doing very well. I am doing well enough to get by, even though I believe I am probably a bit more passionate about the work than he is. It is frustrating to see yourself effortlessly outdone time and time again, but that is nothing new and one should always surround oneself with people who are more intelligent than oneself. I thought I was jealous, but I see now that the more senior the person is the more enslaved they become in to the inside of the machine. I was always too much of a commitment-phobe for the responsibilities of these things; perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. It was quite funny really; he didn't really want the promotion but he didn't really have a choice. Hopefully I will be more lucky.
I have also moved into a flat now, which is nice but decidedly dull. There is a lovely Asian girl here who speaks excellent English but is still finding it very hard to find a job...a bit of a reminder that I should try to be grateful that I have found employment and can support myself financially. I often forget how privileged I am to be a white girl from Great Britain. As much as it has it's flaws, you could hardly be safer, financially or by education and reputation - unless I was a man of course.
I did a brief stint to Hunter Valley last weekend for some wine tasting, it was all very civilized and I have now discovered Verdelho, which is quite pleasant. But yes, beyond that, I'm afraid I am quietly stagnating, which unfortunately does not make for very stimulating blog entries. But at least I am writing it down; half the realisation is in the explanation.
Another problem is that, of course, the subject material is a little less palatable or stimulating, and I have some serious issues with talking about the people here as of course, they are my friends, and although you don't know who they are, they obviously do. For this reason I think I will have to edit my previous blog entry; it doesn't seem very fair on my friends and I wouldn't want them to do the same about me...but this does leave me with a conundrum. What can I talk about? I can rage at the state for a while but this is ultimately a futile enterprise that will wear itself out soon enough.
I still have some leech teeth in my foot. It's not a particularly pleasant reminder but it is a connection to Thailand which is better than nothing. My tan lines are fading fast (as are my sun-induced wrinkles, thankfully!). I have been sick for the past two weeks so I haven't been able to exercise much and I feel very unfit. I am still enjoying the work but look forward to the feeling of freedom that Friday night brings, which indicates that I must feel somewhat tied down and trapped by the schedule (although admittedly it's much more flexible than most jobs). I am looking forward to New Zealand and South America, only wish that I had more time in each of the countries. I think I have stopped learning here. I have realised that it is quite easy to make money. I have realised I drink far too much when given the opportunity. I have realised that true friendships take years and years to acquire. And I realise that I need to generate passive income to support myself in the manner I wish, which is probably the essential thing I needed to realise on this trip. Maybe I should use my savings from here to change my last two flights to give me more time (and freedom). November is silly time to go home. I should go home for Christmas (except I also had a plan to be in Nepal for Christmas although I don't think I have the money for that now :( - but then, if I work here for another six weks perhaps I shall have the money to do that).
John has had a promotion at work. He is doing very well. I am doing well enough to get by, even though I believe I am probably a bit more passionate about the work than he is. It is frustrating to see yourself effortlessly outdone time and time again, but that is nothing new and one should always surround oneself with people who are more intelligent than oneself. I thought I was jealous, but I see now that the more senior the person is the more enslaved they become in to the inside of the machine. I was always too much of a commitment-phobe for the responsibilities of these things; perhaps it is a blessing in disguise. It was quite funny really; he didn't really want the promotion but he didn't really have a choice. Hopefully I will be more lucky.
I have also moved into a flat now, which is nice but decidedly dull. There is a lovely Asian girl here who speaks excellent English but is still finding it very hard to find a job...a bit of a reminder that I should try to be grateful that I have found employment and can support myself financially. I often forget how privileged I am to be a white girl from Great Britain. As much as it has it's flaws, you could hardly be safer, financially or by education and reputation - unless I was a man of course.
I did a brief stint to Hunter Valley last weekend for some wine tasting, it was all very civilized and I have now discovered Verdelho, which is quite pleasant. But yes, beyond that, I'm afraid I am quietly stagnating, which unfortunately does not make for very stimulating blog entries. But at least I am writing it down; half the realisation is in the explanation.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Please mind the gap. [WARNING: ADULT CONTENT]
Fabulous. Everything is working once again.
Well, my travels have taken a rather different turn. No longer am I absorbed into something new and shocking every day. Realisations are slower now, seeping through the skin into my bones. Working their way into the subconscious before I've even had a chance to choose my thoughts.
PS. Please forgive the swearing and if any of you would prefer a non-swearing version I can email you one when I've calmed down. You have been warned.
I have been working for about 3 weeks now. I can't help feeling there is something amiss in all this. I am supposed to be paid $18 an hour; when you take off the tax it's about $15...I imagine this is still less tax than I have to pay on an English income (and I do at least get my tax back here - but not in America, oh no, those cunning kniggets). Plus of course I have to pay all the hidden taxes...turns out money doesn't go anywhere near as far as advertised. Surprise surprise.
Did you know that once, there were no taxes? Then people got all Robin Hood on the world and decided to tax the rich. THEN the government decided it liked having all that income a little bit too much and soon everybody was being taxed. Well done guys. Well done. The rich find ways around it anyway. They're rich enough to have that flexibility.
I don't think I like working like this. Don't get me wrong; I'm enjoying the job. It feels ethical and it has a point. I'm honing my persuasive skills to diamond cutting sharp and I'm getting used to rejection. But I can't help feeling this is all a bit...well, I feel like a hamster. In a wheel. Generating electricity for somebody elses hamster-run-generator. If you see what I mean. It's not really what I had in mind for my life. I don't want to be a cog. I want to own the watches. In fact, I want to own the man who owns the watches.
I walk through the crowds here and I see people with Normal Lives. They have husbands and wives and mistresses and probably a few kids thrown into the mix somewhere. They own TVs and cars and credit cards. They eat Macdonalds and discuss where the best coffee is to be found. And I go into work every day and tell them how there are millions of people dying in warzones and every other person says 'ah, well, yeah, you see...-insert excuse here-'.
And, to be fair, at 50%, I'm doing well. The expected conversion rate is much lower.
I'm not trying to lord it over the other hamsters here. I'm a hamster too, for the time being. But I can't seem to have a proper conversation with anyone. And when I do start talking about stuff that I'm interested in they tend to get all shifty and change the subject.
Climate change? Nope. Politics? Nope. Obesity? Nope. Ethics, philosophy, and the general meaning of life? Nope, nope and no-fuckin-siree.
It doesn't seem to be that they're not interested; it's just that they don't know anything about it and they don't seem to want to know anything about it because, let's face it, it's a hell of a lot easier to exist in this world if you don't think.
Another thing that people do is say 'Oh, that's really interesting'; so you start to tell them a bit more about it and then they cut you off because they weren't actually listening to you. What the hell happened to the world? Where's the connection gone?
Oh yeah, I forgot, we all hang out with the tv and computers now. We've got governments and celebrities to tell us what to do and how to think.
Everybody who I have actually managed to get to talk (and you know me; I'm pretty good at this) has shown panic in some form or another. I believe that I am gradually being fringed to the world of social outcast here. I mean, that's okay, you know; I don't really mind it. But it is a pretty lonely place.
A train station advertisement; a man sitting on a bench with briefcase:
'It takes a lot to make a forgettable journey.'
A lot of time and money has gone into making every day blend here. Seamless convenient mind-numbing oblivion. God forbid the train should be one minute late, there are at least three people who catch my train who would have a nervous breakdown if that happened. I don't want my life to be forgettable. Do these people?
We have an automated woman who tells us what to do:
Please do not run for closing train doors.
Please take extreme caution when walking; surfaces may be slippery when wet.
Please mind the gap.
I particularly hate mind the gap. You mind the fucking gap. Who's minding the gap between existence and reality here?
You don't see graffiti in Asia.
I see lots of lovely glossy advertisements with shiny white smiles glinting with What Men Want and How To Get It. This invariably involves spending money, some manipulation and of course, a couple of compromising sexual positions. And the worst thing is, most of the men have actually fallen for it. They think that this "pretty, brainless, expensive-to-run whore" is going to make them happy. And the women dutifully follow suit.
I have been absorbing myself in the male yuppie section of Western society (seeing them as the less scary alternative of the two sexes). But to be honest, the way things are here, it's not that much different to elsewhere... entirely unaccountable for their actions. After all, they're just men. What can you expect? They're all 'hormones' and 'masculine urges'. Boys will be boys.
It's an ugly world on the other side of the mirror, ladies. This is another type of gap we have to mind; the gap between the sexes. Men don't seem to know anything about women and women don't seem to know anything about men. They don't teach each other anything. They get together, they fuck for a while, both get fucked up, tell each other to fuck off and then go off to fuck somebody else.
So yeah, that's how it is.
Well, my travels have taken a rather different turn. No longer am I absorbed into something new and shocking every day. Realisations are slower now, seeping through the skin into my bones. Working their way into the subconscious before I've even had a chance to choose my thoughts.
PS. Please forgive the swearing and if any of you would prefer a non-swearing version I can email you one when I've calmed down. You have been warned.
I have been working for about 3 weeks now. I can't help feeling there is something amiss in all this. I am supposed to be paid $18 an hour; when you take off the tax it's about $15...I imagine this is still less tax than I have to pay on an English income (and I do at least get my tax back here - but not in America, oh no, those cunning kniggets). Plus of course I have to pay all the hidden taxes...turns out money doesn't go anywhere near as far as advertised. Surprise surprise.
Did you know that once, there were no taxes? Then people got all Robin Hood on the world and decided to tax the rich. THEN the government decided it liked having all that income a little bit too much and soon everybody was being taxed. Well done guys. Well done. The rich find ways around it anyway. They're rich enough to have that flexibility.
I don't think I like working like this. Don't get me wrong; I'm enjoying the job. It feels ethical and it has a point. I'm honing my persuasive skills to diamond cutting sharp and I'm getting used to rejection. But I can't help feeling this is all a bit...well, I feel like a hamster. In a wheel. Generating electricity for somebody elses hamster-run-generator. If you see what I mean. It's not really what I had in mind for my life. I don't want to be a cog. I want to own the watches. In fact, I want to own the man who owns the watches.
I walk through the crowds here and I see people with Normal Lives. They have husbands and wives and mistresses and probably a few kids thrown into the mix somewhere. They own TVs and cars and credit cards. They eat Macdonalds and discuss where the best coffee is to be found. And I go into work every day and tell them how there are millions of people dying in warzones and every other person says 'ah, well, yeah, you see...-insert excuse here-'.
And, to be fair, at 50%, I'm doing well. The expected conversion rate is much lower.
I'm not trying to lord it over the other hamsters here. I'm a hamster too, for the time being. But I can't seem to have a proper conversation with anyone. And when I do start talking about stuff that I'm interested in they tend to get all shifty and change the subject.
Climate change? Nope. Politics? Nope. Obesity? Nope. Ethics, philosophy, and the general meaning of life? Nope, nope and no-fuckin-siree.
It doesn't seem to be that they're not interested; it's just that they don't know anything about it and they don't seem to want to know anything about it because, let's face it, it's a hell of a lot easier to exist in this world if you don't think.
Another thing that people do is say 'Oh, that's really interesting'; so you start to tell them a bit more about it and then they cut you off because they weren't actually listening to you. What the hell happened to the world? Where's the connection gone?
Oh yeah, I forgot, we all hang out with the tv and computers now. We've got governments and celebrities to tell us what to do and how to think.
Everybody who I have actually managed to get to talk (and you know me; I'm pretty good at this) has shown panic in some form or another. I believe that I am gradually being fringed to the world of social outcast here. I mean, that's okay, you know; I don't really mind it. But it is a pretty lonely place.
A train station advertisement; a man sitting on a bench with briefcase:
'It takes a lot to make a forgettable journey.'
A lot of time and money has gone into making every day blend here. Seamless convenient mind-numbing oblivion. God forbid the train should be one minute late, there are at least three people who catch my train who would have a nervous breakdown if that happened. I don't want my life to be forgettable. Do these people?
We have an automated woman who tells us what to do:
Please do not run for closing train doors.
Please take extreme caution when walking; surfaces may be slippery when wet.
Please mind the gap.
I particularly hate mind the gap. You mind the fucking gap. Who's minding the gap between existence and reality here?
You don't see graffiti in Asia.
I see lots of lovely glossy advertisements with shiny white smiles glinting with What Men Want and How To Get It. This invariably involves spending money, some manipulation and of course, a couple of compromising sexual positions. And the worst thing is, most of the men have actually fallen for it. They think that this "pretty, brainless, expensive-to-run whore" is going to make them happy. And the women dutifully follow suit.
I have been absorbing myself in the male yuppie section of Western society (seeing them as the less scary alternative of the two sexes). But to be honest, the way things are here, it's not that much different to elsewhere... entirely unaccountable for their actions. After all, they're just men. What can you expect? They're all 'hormones' and 'masculine urges'. Boys will be boys.
It's an ugly world on the other side of the mirror, ladies. This is another type of gap we have to mind; the gap between the sexes. Men don't seem to know anything about women and women don't seem to know anything about men. They don't teach each other anything. They get together, they fuck for a while, both get fucked up, tell each other to fuck off and then go off to fuck somebody else.
So yeah, that's how it is.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Problem solved...I think...
Right, I think I know what I did wrong now (beyond pissing off a whole country)...my offensive new layout did not have my tracking data within the walls of its lovely html jargon and as such nothing was getting through (honestly it's almost as much hassle as redecorating!)...right well I'll check that everything's coming through as it should be and then things *should* continue as normal...
...watch this spaaace...
...watch this spaaace...
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Sydney - Sic man! -
Well, a few interesting things to report; firstly, google analytics or my blog has died, as my statistics have completely stopped...I guess I'll type an experimental post and see what response I get! Or perhaps you're all objecting to the new layout and my use of pink?
Secondly; the I am proud to report that China has decided to block my blog for being a little bit too revolutionary!! I imagine this is bad news for the blog-followers in China, although hopefully they come back into democracy in a very short while now so it's not too bad.
I want to tell y'all about some of my hilarious call centre quotes:
'Hello? Ah, sorry, you've got the wrong number! ...you sound nice though...want to talk?'
'I'm sorry, I'm in the middle of cooking the baby'
'I'll send you $20 a month to defend human rights, but I still think we should nuke the bastards'
Right; sorry it's so short but seeing as I'm not sure you're going to be able to read it I don't want to write too much! Will check in a couple of days and see what the computer says...
Secondly; the I am proud to report that China has decided to block my blog for being a little bit too revolutionary!! I imagine this is bad news for the blog-followers in China, although hopefully they come back into democracy in a very short while now so it's not too bad.
I want to tell y'all about some of my hilarious call centre quotes:
'Hello? Ah, sorry, you've got the wrong number! ...you sound nice though...want to talk?'
'I'm sorry, I'm in the middle of cooking the baby'
'I'll send you $20 a month to defend human rights, but I still think we should nuke the bastards'
Right; sorry it's so short but seeing as I'm not sure you're going to be able to read it I don't want to write too much! Will check in a couple of days and see what the computer says...
Monday, June 8, 2009
Australia: Initial impressions...
After 10 days in australia and one nerve wracking interview, I now have a job! I am working in a call centre (which sounds bad) but it's warm calls for fundraising on behalf of charity (which is good). I'm so glad I managed to get a job that's pretty well paid, pretty good hours, and doesn't make me feel like I'm entirely wasting my time. It's pretty hard to get to know the people you work with though, you spend all your time talking on the phone!
I haven't done much in the way of touristy Sydney stuff (beyond the obligatory opera house and sydney harbour pictures)...it's been really nice to just be 'normal' for a change. I have been exploring sydney nightlife in some detail, and am also becoming well acquainted with several restaurants in the area.
The highlights so far have been the Comedy Store and the We Love Sounds music festival. At the comedy store we saw Steve Hughes, hilarious guy, he's so anarchic, I think Dad would have liked him! Hughes thinks there's some kind of Evil Masterplan guiding governments into leading us all towards the 'nanny state creche mentality'...and I can totally understand what he's saying but at the same time, I find it hard to see how the Evil Masterplan exists in a quasi-literal or at least a conscious sense...but yeah, he does make some very valid points about freedom of choice vs. health propaganda...it's very, very, VERY anti-smoking here!! And I mean, yeah, I don't smoke and I don't like it when people do but at the same time there's no need to make people feel like second-class citizens for choosing to smoke, so long as they only let it affect themselves not others...the advertisements make it look like every other smoker is a tramp who hasn't brushed his teeth in years, on the operating table without anasthetic, mid-stroke with cancerous bronchioles and arteries full of mashed potato! It's pretty ridiculous.
There's one advertisement where they've staged an 'operation' and got this woman with throat cancer on the operating table. They're sticking one of those internal cameras down her throat; she wretches, in pain, and they all ignore her like she doesn't exist.
-shudder-
In some ways it's pretty frightening to be back in a western world...when you tell people you've been to Nepal they look at you with this mix of awe and fear, like you survived a plane crash and lived in the jungle with monkeys for 20 years or something...and almost everybody goes 'Wow, that's cool, I'd really like to do something like that, but...' and then they trail off because they can't think of a good reason. And then they move onto to another topic that makes them feel less uncomfortable, like movies or restaurants or the relative merits of marmite vs. vegemite.
The weird thing is that Sydney feels less like England than Malaysia did...here, I'll be running through the park, thinking 'Hmm, smells like England...' and then I'll see a parrot fighting with a cockateil over a banana and suddenly I'm back in Aus. One rainy day the bell tolled at Town Hall and I took my earphones out and pretended it was Big Ben. It's strange that it's only when you actually see or smell something that's reminiscent of England that you miss home...for that split second when your brain thinks you -are- in England...first thoughts in my head are 'sweet, I'm only 2 hours drive away from -insert loved ones name here-'. But I guess all that shows me is that it's people that make a place; I don't miss England, I miss being able to be close to my friends. But I'm making more and more friends here every day now, and it's really nice to know I'll be able to get to know somebody for more than a day before moving on. Although of course that means having to deal with the consequences of my actions as well...-sigh-...
I haven't done much in the way of touristy Sydney stuff (beyond the obligatory opera house and sydney harbour pictures)...it's been really nice to just be 'normal' for a change. I have been exploring sydney nightlife in some detail, and am also becoming well acquainted with several restaurants in the area.
The highlights so far have been the Comedy Store and the We Love Sounds music festival. At the comedy store we saw Steve Hughes, hilarious guy, he's so anarchic, I think Dad would have liked him! Hughes thinks there's some kind of Evil Masterplan guiding governments into leading us all towards the 'nanny state creche mentality'...and I can totally understand what he's saying but at the same time, I find it hard to see how the Evil Masterplan exists in a quasi-literal or at least a conscious sense...but yeah, he does make some very valid points about freedom of choice vs. health propaganda...it's very, very, VERY anti-smoking here!! And I mean, yeah, I don't smoke and I don't like it when people do but at the same time there's no need to make people feel like second-class citizens for choosing to smoke, so long as they only let it affect themselves not others...the advertisements make it look like every other smoker is a tramp who hasn't brushed his teeth in years, on the operating table without anasthetic, mid-stroke with cancerous bronchioles and arteries full of mashed potato! It's pretty ridiculous.
There's one advertisement where they've staged an 'operation' and got this woman with throat cancer on the operating table. They're sticking one of those internal cameras down her throat; she wretches, in pain, and they all ignore her like she doesn't exist.
-shudder-
In some ways it's pretty frightening to be back in a western world...when you tell people you've been to Nepal they look at you with this mix of awe and fear, like you survived a plane crash and lived in the jungle with monkeys for 20 years or something...and almost everybody goes 'Wow, that's cool, I'd really like to do something like that, but...' and then they trail off because they can't think of a good reason. And then they move onto to another topic that makes them feel less uncomfortable, like movies or restaurants or the relative merits of marmite vs. vegemite.
The weird thing is that Sydney feels less like England than Malaysia did...here, I'll be running through the park, thinking 'Hmm, smells like England...' and then I'll see a parrot fighting with a cockateil over a banana and suddenly I'm back in Aus. One rainy day the bell tolled at Town Hall and I took my earphones out and pretended it was Big Ben. It's strange that it's only when you actually see or smell something that's reminiscent of England that you miss home...for that split second when your brain thinks you -are- in England...first thoughts in my head are 'sweet, I'm only 2 hours drive away from -insert loved ones name here-'. But I guess all that shows me is that it's people that make a place; I don't miss England, I miss being able to be close to my friends. But I'm making more and more friends here every day now, and it's really nice to know I'll be able to get to know somebody for more than a day before moving on. Although of course that means having to deal with the consequences of my actions as well...-sigh-...
Friday, May 15, 2009
Guns, rape, dead monks, explosions...
Now how's THAT for a hook of a title?
Well! It's been a while! I am now job-hunting in Australia. Sounds far less glamourous than my previous opening statements doesn't it? Well, I don't care. I'm loving it here.
I will recount my Malaysian and Singaporean highlights before moving onto my first week in Australia:
To be honest, both Malaysia and Singapore were a bit 'been there, done that' - and as transition phases they meant that I didn't really feel the full force of being back in Western society as I thought I would (although I did get very excited when I saw iced coffee, cheap sushi and John Freida Frizz Ease all within 5 minutes of one another).
No, I wasn't quite sure how we got from a strappy t-shirt to blaming the poor girl for rape, either. The thing that worried me most was that I was talking to a female Malaysian. It reminds me very much of Russell Peters 'hairiness' sketch...logic loopholes abound.
Rewind to last day in Thailand and we find ourselves looking at the corpse of a monk. No, I'm afraid I didn't finally snap and go on that psychopathic monk-killing episode you've been thinking I might go on for some time. This fellow's been dead for about 50 years. A mummified monk.
He's sitting in a glass case, lotus position, wearing the usual orange robe. Looking very solemn. To counteract the seriousness of the whole affair he has a ludicrously huge pair of sunglasses on. After aome investigation, it's not hard to see why; if you wander around to the side to take a sneaky side-peek, behind the glasses you can see some very freakish gaping holes where eyes should be. I'm not sure what would be worse; mummified eyes or gaping holes? His eyelids and lips have dehydrated away to almost nothing; his skin is grayish-white and flaking a bit. Overall the effect is suitably and hilariously macabre.
There are no less than five Thais praying to this dead guy in a glass case.
Speaking of rape and corpses, did I tell you about the rapist corpses I saw in Bangkok?
We went to a pathology museum at one of the local hospitals. I can tell you I will never walk through wet grass with no shoes on ever again! Parasites abound...some lovely close-up pictures and examples of their effects. The elephantitis models were suitably gross; look up elephantitis on google pictures and you'll see exactly which body region I'm talking about. It reminded me of one of the beggars we saw in India, with the same condition. Kinda wish I'd given him some money now.
There was also a display depicting childbirth; a rural home setting, with woman semi-crouching, leaning backwards and holding onto a piece of cloth hanging from the ceiling. The midwife was gaping directly at the exit point, crouched as though ready for a high speed rugby ball right in the face. To complete the crew, there was another woman in the background with a bloodied towel who looked entirely nonchalant.
I felt twice as awkward looking at the scene when I found two monks muttering to one another behind me, curious frowns on their faces.
The highlight of the exhibition was the dissection area; lots of dead foetuses in wombs (and I mean LOTS of them), some showing healthy progression, some showing malformations (and one with an awful lot of hair). Some people had left little tokens on the glass cases, toys and incense and the like. There was a white guy with blonde hair looking very shocked, his skull halved into two cases so we could study the brain inside (my first corpus callosum!). And then, of course, the fully mummifed, fully naked corpses of two rapists standing in their glass boxes. Well, I say standing; their bodies seemed to have been frozen in a standing stance but without being strapped to the case, they had each slumped onto the pane, leaving smeary marks on the inside. There were fingerprints on the door handle.
-shudder-
Anyway, back to Malaysia; we went to a very cool science museum there. There was a F1 car racing simulator and a hurricane simulator and a helicopter ride simulator. Lots of other simulators... There was also a section with lots of interactive tests for your body, measuring your power to weight ratio and how fast you could throw a ball and stuff like that. I got mesmerised by a cool exhibit that showed a series of slow motion sequences: a gun firing, a rocket launch, a few car crash simulations, an explosion and a plane crash simulation. I am never not wearing my seatbelt again, especially if the car has airbags. Prime neck snapping material, those fluffy white pillows of doom. The best thing about the exhibit was that you could control the speed at which everything moved, from super super freeze frame slow to crazy light speed fast. Totally awesome.
Singapore was expensive and pretty dull. I was expecting Tokyo and I got Malaysia with a better transport system.
I shall update you on Australia forthwith (although I must admit, it might seem quite dull after a title like this...).
Well! It's been a while! I am now job-hunting in Australia. Sounds far less glamourous than my previous opening statements doesn't it? Well, I don't care. I'm loving it here.
I will recount my Malaysian and Singaporean highlights before moving onto my first week in Australia:
To be honest, both Malaysia and Singapore were a bit 'been there, done that' - and as transition phases they meant that I didn't really feel the full force of being back in Western society as I thought I would (although I did get very excited when I saw iced coffee, cheap sushi and John Freida Frizz Ease all within 5 minutes of one another).
In a conversation with a Malaysian the other day, we came onto the dress code.
Louise (sees Western girl): 'It's a shame that some tourists don't respect the local culture.'Malaysian (looks grave): 'Yes, it's very bad really, all these men, Malaysian men, they see the Western women, and then, and then they get all...'horny'. And then they take it out on local women....by raping them.'
Louise: '...right.'No, I wasn't quite sure how we got from a strappy t-shirt to blaming the poor girl for rape, either. The thing that worried me most was that I was talking to a female Malaysian. It reminds me very much of Russell Peters 'hairiness' sketch...logic loopholes abound.
Rewind to last day in Thailand and we find ourselves looking at the corpse of a monk. No, I'm afraid I didn't finally snap and go on that psychopathic monk-killing episode you've been thinking I might go on for some time. This fellow's been dead for about 50 years. A mummified monk.
He's sitting in a glass case, lotus position, wearing the usual orange robe. Looking very solemn. To counteract the seriousness of the whole affair he has a ludicrously huge pair of sunglasses on. After aome investigation, it's not hard to see why; if you wander around to the side to take a sneaky side-peek, behind the glasses you can see some very freakish gaping holes where eyes should be. I'm not sure what would be worse; mummified eyes or gaping holes? His eyelids and lips have dehydrated away to almost nothing; his skin is grayish-white and flaking a bit. Overall the effect is suitably and hilariously macabre.
There are no less than five Thais praying to this dead guy in a glass case.
Speaking of rape and corpses, did I tell you about the rapist corpses I saw in Bangkok?
We went to a pathology museum at one of the local hospitals. I can tell you I will never walk through wet grass with no shoes on ever again! Parasites abound...some lovely close-up pictures and examples of their effects. The elephantitis models were suitably gross; look up elephantitis on google pictures and you'll see exactly which body region I'm talking about. It reminded me of one of the beggars we saw in India, with the same condition. Kinda wish I'd given him some money now.
There was also a display depicting childbirth; a rural home setting, with woman semi-crouching, leaning backwards and holding onto a piece of cloth hanging from the ceiling. The midwife was gaping directly at the exit point, crouched as though ready for a high speed rugby ball right in the face. To complete the crew, there was another woman in the background with a bloodied towel who looked entirely nonchalant.
I felt twice as awkward looking at the scene when I found two monks muttering to one another behind me, curious frowns on their faces.
The highlight of the exhibition was the dissection area; lots of dead foetuses in wombs (and I mean LOTS of them), some showing healthy progression, some showing malformations (and one with an awful lot of hair). Some people had left little tokens on the glass cases, toys and incense and the like. There was a white guy with blonde hair looking very shocked, his skull halved into two cases so we could study the brain inside (my first corpus callosum!). And then, of course, the fully mummifed, fully naked corpses of two rapists standing in their glass boxes. Well, I say standing; their bodies seemed to have been frozen in a standing stance but without being strapped to the case, they had each slumped onto the pane, leaving smeary marks on the inside. There were fingerprints on the door handle.
-shudder-
Anyway, back to Malaysia; we went to a very cool science museum there. There was a F1 car racing simulator and a hurricane simulator and a helicopter ride simulator. Lots of other simulators... There was also a section with lots of interactive tests for your body, measuring your power to weight ratio and how fast you could throw a ball and stuff like that. I got mesmerised by a cool exhibit that showed a series of slow motion sequences: a gun firing, a rocket launch, a few car crash simulations, an explosion and a plane crash simulation. I am never not wearing my seatbelt again, especially if the car has airbags. Prime neck snapping material, those fluffy white pillows of doom. The best thing about the exhibit was that you could control the speed at which everything moved, from super super freeze frame slow to crazy light speed fast. Totally awesome.
Singapore was expensive and pretty dull. I was expecting Tokyo and I got Malaysia with a better transport system.
I shall update you on Australia forthwith (although I must admit, it might seem quite dull after a title like this...).
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Full Moon Party on Koh Pha-Ngan
I am now in Malaysia! 24 hours of travelling, urrrgh. Not good on the sleeping patterns. Also, it's heavy and hot and has rained a lot here. Not good for the sightseeing. Aigh.
Our hotel is possibly the most impossible hotel in existence...stinks of cigarettes and you know what else, our room is the tiniest we have seen. We are staying for 3 days (they know that) and had paid for the first day...at 1am a staff member knocked on our door and tried to make us pay for the other 2 days. Yet, bizarrely, we have what is quite possibly the nicest bathroom I've seen in a long time...the shower is -perfect-...it's like a thousand tiny masseuses pummeling your skin with expert precision. I think can explain this contadiction to you now...the owner is Indian.
We came to Malaysia on a night boat then a bus. The night boat runs from 10pm to 6am. It has two tiers, each around 4 foot high, with flat foam matresses lining the floor (eighty beds on each level). You semi-scramble along, berating the intelligence of whoever decided to put two different numbers on the tickets (which could both plausibly be a bed number). Then you settle down next to complete strangers and sleep. I can't say I had an incredibly night but it was quite relaxing to lie on the rolling waves listening to the rumble of thunder in the distance.
Our hotel is possibly the most impossible hotel in existence...stinks of cigarettes and you know what else, our room is the tiniest we have seen. We are staying for 3 days (they know that) and had paid for the first day...at 1am a staff member knocked on our door and tried to make us pay for the other 2 days. Yet, bizarrely, we have what is quite possibly the nicest bathroom I've seen in a long time...the shower is -perfect-...it's like a thousand tiny masseuses pummeling your skin with expert precision. I think can explain this contadiction to you now...the owner is Indian.
We came to Malaysia on a night boat then a bus. The night boat runs from 10pm to 6am. It has two tiers, each around 4 foot high, with flat foam matresses lining the floor (eighty beds on each level). You semi-scramble along, berating the intelligence of whoever decided to put two different numbers on the tickets (which could both plausibly be a bed number). Then you settle down next to complete strangers and sleep. I can't say I had an incredibly night but it was quite relaxing to lie on the rolling waves listening to the rumble of thunder in the distance.
In the final days of my Thailand adventure, I wanted to finally get round to several things I hadn't had opportunity to do. After the unfortunate leech incident, I have now finally managed to go swimming in a waterfall. I enjoyed it but it was bloody cold. Also, too many Thai men around (including one who decided to go skinny dipping despite already wearing a pair of speedos). I'll have to go looking for a less well known waterfall next time...although I'm getting the feeling there aren't any left. I think Thailand has had it for travellers. It's for tourists now.
I have also been snorkelling - spent four hours in absolute awe, mesmerised by shoals of fish, and stalking the colourful loners...although how stealthy one can be whilst wearing bright blue fins I'm not really sure. Anyway, it was soon the turn of the fish to get their own back. A particularly large and colourful shoal kept swimming around nearby, gradually getting closer and closer. Nice stripey ones. I swam over to meet them. Hi, nice stripey fish. They took to swimming around me, letting me follow them, then turning round and swimming straight at me, eyeing me up with beady, somewhat intelligent looking eyes. This continued for maybe ten minutes or so? (It's hard to tell, time passes weirdly down there). Then, I felt a pinch on my leg. Then a pinch on my arm. A little confused, I brushed whatever the pinching thing was off me, thinking it was some of the debris floating on the surface of the water, a twig or something. Then, a beady eye swims up to me...and promptly jabs at my finger! I was being nibbled on by fish! Reluctant to become their next meal, I swam away pretty sharpish. Sneaky beggars.
Also managed to get to the legendary Full Moon Party, which was pretty amazing. Lots of fire dancing (including a giant skipping rope of fire). Buckets of alcohol for 3 pounds (with 8 shots of Smirnoff in each) - so you're suitably slaughtered after spending less than a tenner. Lots of music, dancing...a pool party also...music, dancing...with a pool of course....I recall neon paint. Also, a burger and Family Guy. But of course, most of the night is blissfully hazy...I'm sure we all had a jolly good time.Friday, May 1, 2009
Koh Lanta
After a few more days of sun, sea and sand, my tan lines are now so dark that I have acquired an lovely white anti-bikini. Which looks pretty ridiculous I must admit but, luckily, only I can see it. Although now of course, you all know about it so I expect merciless teasing from some of you.
John has been deaf, on and off, for the past few days, so we decided it was time to get that sorted out and headed to Koh Lanta Hospital...if you can call it that. It was, ahem, 'open plan'...no outside doors. Pretty primitive - grimy, spiders on the walls, cats running through the place, no privacy. Rat droppings on the soap dish in the toilet. The X-Ray unit is separated from the wards by only a sliding wooden door (no metal lining as far as I could see anyway). Not much in the way of walls really...heard a kid yelling out in pain as his blood was taken , sharply reprimanded by his Dad. They weigh parcels and babies on the same set of scales.
Having said this, this is nowhere near as primitive as the hospital in Pokhara, Nepal...the grime is you have to buy your own sterile equipment, including the doctors gloves (if you can afford it of course; otherwise you just have to make do with what's going). Bed bugs on the hospital sheets. Post-operative care consists of being unceremoniously dumped off the surgery table into the hands of relatives, should you be lucky enough to have relatives to help you out - otherwise, elderly, frail, post-surgery, you're at the mercy of passers-by. In the maternity ward, newborns line the floors for lack of cots. Horrendous. 'I'll never complain about the NHS again' says Ann, whose profession was once that of a nurse.
So yeah, not as bad as that, but you wouldn't want to be seriously sick here. Luckily it turns out that John's ear only needed syringing and he can now hear perfectly. Phew.
Have been to a couple of parties, one of which turned into a spontaneous jamming session when the power went out. I was rather inebriated at the time and, as the guitarist was playing flamenco, decided I'd improvise a song or two with him. A couple of my new friends came up, in awe, 'Wow, Louise, you speak Spanish?!' I smiled enigmatically; I hadn't the heart to tell them that I was not only improvising the tune but also the words.
Today, I saw a bird. It definitely wasn't a parrot. It looked somewhat like a big blackbird with fluffy, floppy yellow ears hanging on the back of its head. Anyway, it wasn't a parrot. I liked this bird, and playfully 'Sawadee-kaa'ed it (hello in Thai). To my consternation, I received a 'Sawadee-kaa' in return! I wondered if I had passively inhaled the exotic scents that were circulating the bar the night before. But no. The bird, in fact, had a whole repertoire of Thai phrases, could whistle, and was intelligent enough to realise that John is a fellow worth laughing at on occasion. Hilarious.
On random pets: went to a fish farm a few days ago, and the Australian owner was keeping a tiny turtle in a fish bowl as a pet! Genius! I asked her if it had grown at all in the 3 years she'd kept it; apparently not. She'd been keeping it in the fish tank with a companion, who unfortunately met his demise in a tête-à-tête with the filter. Now,the survivor lives in solitude but safety. I might have to get myself a tiny turtle and a parrot-cum-blackbird-thing when I get back. Alongside a cat named Oscar of course. Maybe I'll have a whole menagerie of weird and wonderful creatures. How sinfully Victorian of me.
Muahaha.
John has been deaf, on and off, for the past few days, so we decided it was time to get that sorted out and headed to Koh Lanta Hospital...if you can call it that. It was, ahem, 'open plan'...no outside doors. Pretty primitive - grimy, spiders on the walls, cats running through the place, no privacy. Rat droppings on the soap dish in the toilet. The X-Ray unit is separated from the wards by only a sliding wooden door (no metal lining as far as I could see anyway). Not much in the way of walls really...heard a kid yelling out in pain as his blood was taken , sharply reprimanded by his Dad. They weigh parcels and babies on the same set of scales.
Having said this, this is nowhere near as primitive as the hospital in Pokhara, Nepal...the grime is you have to buy your own sterile equipment, including the doctors gloves (if you can afford it of course; otherwise you just have to make do with what's going). Bed bugs on the hospital sheets. Post-operative care consists of being unceremoniously dumped off the surgery table into the hands of relatives, should you be lucky enough to have relatives to help you out - otherwise, elderly, frail, post-surgery, you're at the mercy of passers-by. In the maternity ward, newborns line the floors for lack of cots. Horrendous. 'I'll never complain about the NHS again' says Ann, whose profession was once that of a nurse.
So yeah, not as bad as that, but you wouldn't want to be seriously sick here. Luckily it turns out that John's ear only needed syringing and he can now hear perfectly. Phew.
Have been to a couple of parties, one of which turned into a spontaneous jamming session when the power went out. I was rather inebriated at the time and, as the guitarist was playing flamenco, decided I'd improvise a song or two with him. A couple of my new friends came up, in awe, 'Wow, Louise, you speak Spanish?!' I smiled enigmatically; I hadn't the heart to tell them that I was not only improvising the tune but also the words.
Today, I saw a bird. It definitely wasn't a parrot. It looked somewhat like a big blackbird with fluffy, floppy yellow ears hanging on the back of its head. Anyway, it wasn't a parrot. I liked this bird, and playfully 'Sawadee-kaa'ed it (hello in Thai). To my consternation, I received a 'Sawadee-kaa' in return! I wondered if I had passively inhaled the exotic scents that were circulating the bar the night before. But no. The bird, in fact, had a whole repertoire of Thai phrases, could whistle, and was intelligent enough to realise that John is a fellow worth laughing at on occasion. Hilarious.
On random pets: went to a fish farm a few days ago, and the Australian owner was keeping a tiny turtle in a fish bowl as a pet! Genius! I asked her if it had grown at all in the 3 years she'd kept it; apparently not. She'd been keeping it in the fish tank with a companion, who unfortunately met his demise in a tête-à-tête with the filter. Now,the survivor lives in solitude but safety. I might have to get myself a tiny turtle and a parrot-cum-blackbird-thing when I get back. Alongside a cat named Oscar of course. Maybe I'll have a whole menagerie of weird and wonderful creatures. How sinfully Victorian of me.
Muahaha.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Rai Leh and THE TRAIL OF DEATH
Reading through our Lonely Planet, we came across Rai Leh West, described as 'the best beach in Thailand'. Holy guacamole! The best beach in Thailand? Having loved the beaches on Ko Payam, naturally we were very excited to see this beach.
2 hours in an uncomfortable long tail (a type of boat driven only by inconsiderate psychopaths), we arrive in Rai Leh. The boat either cannot or does not take us right to the shore (rather than shallow waters, I believe that we were made to wade because our longtail driver was a cock). Backpacks on, we wade through the murkiest water and gloopiest mud I have ever seen. John lost a flip flop to the mire, the poor soul. Luckily this was the only victim. In the silty sludge I could make out some strange looking worms with spiky mouths that I had no intention of going anywhere near (not that I could have gotten away had one decided to approach me, the mud was so thick) - luckily, they were more scared of me than I was of them.
I wasn't very impressed with our mud-laden, oil-polluted, longtail-psychopath-infested beach. Rai Leh West wasn't much better; full of European families paying ridiculous prices for everything (more than you'd pay at home most of the time). LP describes Rai Leh sunsets as 'orgasmic' - the soggy, pitiful display was an anti-climatic end in every possible sense, a feeling compounded by the hundreds of people sitting on the beach cooing at the view and running around taking pictures. If only they could see the skies of Ko Payam at night, a deserted beach 6 times as long as Rai Leh West, just you and the symphony in the sky.
Bitterly disappointed, we left sharpish before our wallets and our tempers took any more damage.
Having said that, the sea kayaking in the area was very good (see previous post), and we saw the finals of a 'fire contest' (if you dance and you can do it with fire, you're in). That was highly cool.
On a side note, the other day, we decided to go on a waterfall hunt at the local national park. Dressed for swimming, I was seriously unequipped for the walk to the waterfall, romantically named: 'THE TRAIL OF DEATH'. Wearing flip flops, I got bitten by a leech, on my foot. Ewww. We were about 40 minutes walk from the nearest salt, alcohol or flame (required to remove the leech without leaving it's teeth stuck in you), on a very difficult path covered in leaves and spiders and giant ants. Gravity wasn't being very helpful here, as the slopes were very steep, and the leech had attached itself right to the bottom of my foot - the bigger it got, the more in danger it was of being squashed by me as I slipped down the slopes. Dead leeches don't let go. This left me somewhat panicked and really grossed out. In the end, John was required to save the day by going on without me whilst I got well acquainted with my leech and various other creepy crawlies that decided to take an interest in me that day. It was a gourmet buffet for them, I'm sure. Eventually, the leech came off of it's own accord. I was furious with it. As punishment, I kept it in solitary confinement for 48 hours (in a plastic bottle) before I felt justice had been done and released it back into the wild, to attack the next unsuspecting flip-flop foot that wanders by. Apologies to whoever that is...
We have now reached my 30th post. Anybody bored yet? ;)
2 hours in an uncomfortable long tail (a type of boat driven only by inconsiderate psychopaths), we arrive in Rai Leh. The boat either cannot or does not take us right to the shore (rather than shallow waters, I believe that we were made to wade because our longtail driver was a cock). Backpacks on, we wade through the murkiest water and gloopiest mud I have ever seen. John lost a flip flop to the mire, the poor soul. Luckily this was the only victim. In the silty sludge I could make out some strange looking worms with spiky mouths that I had no intention of going anywhere near (not that I could have gotten away had one decided to approach me, the mud was so thick) - luckily, they were more scared of me than I was of them.
I wasn't very impressed with our mud-laden, oil-polluted, longtail-psychopath-infested beach. Rai Leh West wasn't much better; full of European families paying ridiculous prices for everything (more than you'd pay at home most of the time). LP describes Rai Leh sunsets as 'orgasmic' - the soggy, pitiful display was an anti-climatic end in every possible sense, a feeling compounded by the hundreds of people sitting on the beach cooing at the view and running around taking pictures. If only they could see the skies of Ko Payam at night, a deserted beach 6 times as long as Rai Leh West, just you and the symphony in the sky.
Bitterly disappointed, we left sharpish before our wallets and our tempers took any more damage.
Having said that, the sea kayaking in the area was very good (see previous post), and we saw the finals of a 'fire contest' (if you dance and you can do it with fire, you're in). That was highly cool.
On a side note, the other day, we decided to go on a waterfall hunt at the local national park. Dressed for swimming, I was seriously unequipped for the walk to the waterfall, romantically named: 'THE TRAIL OF DEATH'. Wearing flip flops, I got bitten by a leech, on my foot. Ewww. We were about 40 minutes walk from the nearest salt, alcohol or flame (required to remove the leech without leaving it's teeth stuck in you), on a very difficult path covered in leaves and spiders and giant ants. Gravity wasn't being very helpful here, as the slopes were very steep, and the leech had attached itself right to the bottom of my foot - the bigger it got, the more in danger it was of being squashed by me as I slipped down the slopes. Dead leeches don't let go. This left me somewhat panicked and really grossed out. In the end, John was required to save the day by going on without me whilst I got well acquainted with my leech and various other creepy crawlies that decided to take an interest in me that day. It was a gourmet buffet for them, I'm sure. Eventually, the leech came off of it's own accord. I was furious with it. As punishment, I kept it in solitary confinement for 48 hours (in a plastic bottle) before I felt justice had been done and released it back into the wild, to attack the next unsuspecting flip-flop foot that wanders by. Apologies to whoever that is...
We have now reached my 30th post. Anybody bored yet? ;)
Friday, April 17, 2009
Songkran celebrations
As you may or may not have heard, there were a series of riots in Bangkok over the Songkran festival - two opposing political parties, the red shirts and the yellow shirts, basically having it out with one another in the streets of Bangkok. One of the Prime Ministers decoy cars was broken into whilst driving down the street - presumably an assassination attempt. Another important official was shot in the head whilst in his car the other day - there were bullet marks all over the front bonnet - he's recovering in hospital at the moment. Rioters set fire to buses and drove them into one another on major highways. There was a tank on Soh Khan road (the main tourist section of Bangkok). Locals and rioters clashed when the locals tried to protect their homes from the random fires that rioters were setting off around the city - two of the local people are now dead and several others severely beaten. Apparently.
I, luckily, was sitting on a tiny little island 500km away reading about it all in the (extremely biased) Bangkok Post.
Needless to say, I was pretty glad that we had missed all of this (we had been in Bangkok only 2 days earlier). However, the tourists I have spoken to have nothing to report - it seems that either there were relatively isolated attacks or that tourists were relatively isolated from the attacks.
To put the riots into perspective - two people were killed in the riots. 136 were killed because of Songkran.
Now don't get me wrong. Songkran is meant to be a joyous event. It is the Thai equivalent of New Year. Families gather and pour scented water over each other to show their love and mutual respect. It is a holiday where families get together to share food and time and to celebrate (which seems to be a pretty rare occurrence here - they work A LOT).
But, of course, this celebration escalates into a massive country-wide water fight. Which is great. So long as you're prepared for it. My preparation was correct clothing (i.e. bikini) and sunglasses (for the full frontal face assaults). Gotta be careful not to get the water in your eyes - it can be full of all sorts of weird and exciting tropical fungus. The deaths are normally caused by a combination of slippery roads and gung-ho attitudes to motorbike helmets and, you know, holding onto the motorbike whilst it's moving (instead of, for example, holding your groceries, carrying your pets/ children, and texting your mates - no joke. I have seen all of these things.).
So, that's riots and Songkran for you. My Songkran experience was pretty low key - the local children roamed around with buckets of water - I roamed around with my water pistol. One short water fight with a French tourist but generally it was more of a passive soakage event - very pleasant in the heat. I got a lot of yoghurt paste on my face - no one has explained to me what this has to do with Songkran but it was all very endearing just the same.
One night on Ko Phayam, we went out looking for a party. It's a pretty quiet little island - I was hoping for a bit more party-action to be honest - and cheaper cocktails - but all the same, there were plenty of young backpackery types around, so where was the party? After an hour of hunting, we got a tip-off - 'the Hippy Hut is where it's at tonight, guys' - and then couldn't find a taxi to take us there. Disaster. Anyway, about an hour later, we managed to get a couple of motorbikes to shuttle us to the Hippy Hut. Motorbike taxis and island roads work quite well together; they can weave around the potholes and make it along the dirt tracks to the beach. However, when you have 3 people on a motorbike, 2 females and one male (the male being the driver) can lead to some unavoidably closer-than-comfortable positions. I spent the entire 40 minute journey trying to compensate for my overly friendly crotch pressing by arching the rest of my body away from the driver in this weird C-shaped position that no spine should ever have to achieve. Probably doing wonders for my abs though.
The party was decidedly Hip as opposed to Hippy - although there was a lot of weed going round, and cheapish cocktails. Also, a hippy-ish French girl, totally out of it, swinging her full length hair round and round in time to the music. But it was more Bohemian-slash-Rasta than hippy. I spent most of the evening in deep philosophicals, instead of completing my intended 'humiliate my nation with drunken dancing' routine. Aw well. Sometimes even the best laid plans must give way to chaos.
Having done a little sea-kayaking in South Africa. I was keen to go out and try it again (although this time without the whale watching :( boo). My first attempt failed miserably as I, very publicly, made an ass out of myself. Approaching the oncoming wave at a dodgy angle , I tipped out the kayak. Very unceremoniously. I scratched both my knees up. As you now know, there are a lot of weird and exciting fungal diseases you can catch in these tropical waters, so I deemed it unwise to get in the water for a day or two until the scratches had healed over (cue Louise putting alcoholic hand sanitizer on her grazes and nearly biting her own lips off in agony).
Second attempt: much better. Less waves on the shore (although choppier out on the ocean), John and I kayaked around some tiny little islands just offshore. We saw a rope tied to an overhanging cliff on one of these islands. I looked at it. It dangled tantalisingly at me. And then those fatal words escaped my lips 'Hey, John, wouldn't it make a cool photo if...'. How many stupid and half-baked actions in peoples lives have been preceded by that sentence?! So, about 5 minutes later, after some careful manouvering, I hung on a rope surrounded by ocean. John took pictures. I grimace-smiled - as 5 minutes is actually quite a long time to dangle for, you know.
What the rope was doing hanging off a cliff in the middle of the ocean I could not say. It is quite possible that someone was kayaking around, saw the appropriate cliff face, saw the appropriate rope, put two and two together and before they knew it they were saying 'Hey, guys, wouldn't it make a cool photo if...'.
I, luckily, was sitting on a tiny little island 500km away reading about it all in the (extremely biased) Bangkok Post.
Needless to say, I was pretty glad that we had missed all of this (we had been in Bangkok only 2 days earlier). However, the tourists I have spoken to have nothing to report - it seems that either there were relatively isolated attacks or that tourists were relatively isolated from the attacks.
To put the riots into perspective - two people were killed in the riots. 136 were killed because of Songkran.
Now don't get me wrong. Songkran is meant to be a joyous event. It is the Thai equivalent of New Year. Families gather and pour scented water over each other to show their love and mutual respect. It is a holiday where families get together to share food and time and to celebrate (which seems to be a pretty rare occurrence here - they work A LOT).
But, of course, this celebration escalates into a massive country-wide water fight. Which is great. So long as you're prepared for it. My preparation was correct clothing (i.e. bikini) and sunglasses (for the full frontal face assaults). Gotta be careful not to get the water in your eyes - it can be full of all sorts of weird and exciting tropical fungus. The deaths are normally caused by a combination of slippery roads and gung-ho attitudes to motorbike helmets and, you know, holding onto the motorbike whilst it's moving (instead of, for example, holding your groceries, carrying your pets/ children, and texting your mates - no joke. I have seen all of these things.).
So, that's riots and Songkran for you. My Songkran experience was pretty low key - the local children roamed around with buckets of water - I roamed around with my water pistol. One short water fight with a French tourist but generally it was more of a passive soakage event - very pleasant in the heat. I got a lot of yoghurt paste on my face - no one has explained to me what this has to do with Songkran but it was all very endearing just the same.
One night on Ko Phayam, we went out looking for a party. It's a pretty quiet little island - I was hoping for a bit more party-action to be honest - and cheaper cocktails - but all the same, there were plenty of young backpackery types around, so where was the party? After an hour of hunting, we got a tip-off - 'the Hippy Hut is where it's at tonight, guys' - and then couldn't find a taxi to take us there. Disaster. Anyway, about an hour later, we managed to get a couple of motorbikes to shuttle us to the Hippy Hut. Motorbike taxis and island roads work quite well together; they can weave around the potholes and make it along the dirt tracks to the beach. However, when you have 3 people on a motorbike, 2 females and one male (the male being the driver) can lead to some unavoidably closer-than-comfortable positions. I spent the entire 40 minute journey trying to compensate for my overly friendly crotch pressing by arching the rest of my body away from the driver in this weird C-shaped position that no spine should ever have to achieve. Probably doing wonders for my abs though.
The party was decidedly Hip as opposed to Hippy - although there was a lot of weed going round, and cheapish cocktails. Also, a hippy-ish French girl, totally out of it, swinging her full length hair round and round in time to the music. But it was more Bohemian-slash-Rasta than hippy. I spent most of the evening in deep philosophicals, instead of completing my intended 'humiliate my nation with drunken dancing' routine. Aw well. Sometimes even the best laid plans must give way to chaos.
Having done a little sea-kayaking in South Africa. I was keen to go out and try it again (although this time without the whale watching :( boo). My first attempt failed miserably as I, very publicly, made an ass out of myself. Approaching the oncoming wave at a dodgy angle , I tipped out the kayak. Very unceremoniously. I scratched both my knees up. As you now know, there are a lot of weird and exciting fungal diseases you can catch in these tropical waters, so I deemed it unwise to get in the water for a day or two until the scratches had healed over (cue Louise putting alcoholic hand sanitizer on her grazes and nearly biting her own lips off in agony).
Second attempt: much better. Less waves on the shore (although choppier out on the ocean), John and I kayaked around some tiny little islands just offshore. We saw a rope tied to an overhanging cliff on one of these islands. I looked at it. It dangled tantalisingly at me. And then those fatal words escaped my lips 'Hey, John, wouldn't it make a cool photo if...'. How many stupid and half-baked actions in peoples lives have been preceded by that sentence?! So, about 5 minutes later, after some careful manouvering, I hung on a rope surrounded by ocean. John took pictures. I grimace-smiled - as 5 minutes is actually quite a long time to dangle for, you know.
What the rope was doing hanging off a cliff in the middle of the ocean I could not say. It is quite possible that someone was kayaking around, saw the appropriate cliff face, saw the appropriate rope, put two and two together and before they knew it they were saying 'Hey, guys, wouldn't it make a cool photo if...'.
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