final wrap up

I am home (where i belong as one friend aptly put it) and the tales of quickly falling back into the old way of life, as if nothing has changed, appear to resonate. However, the appearance it may be but something has changed. I am not the same person that i was one year ago, but hey, that's nothing special i never have been.

Is the time right? yes, yes it is. However, that does not make it good or bad to be home again. Travel is something special and when your away for long periods the bar continues to raise and some experiences begin to lose context. For example, i was talking to Dad this morning and saying how when beaver and i started our trip and had long bus journeys we wouldn't drink or eat for a long time beforehand, prepare head rests, clothing and generally plan and considered it a mission. However over the last couple months it all became common place, walking to the taxi stands and seeing where i can get, recently accepting a 35 hour bus with no previous intention. Just a minor example but indicative of the larger point.

New Zealand is a stunning country. Reverse culture shock I'm not sure, but perhaps reverse cultural intrigue. Smaller than i remembered, but more dense. A little of the general negativity and complaining among citizens, but that's just a function of lack of global perspective and distorted images portrayed by the media. Big people, but softly spoken. New Zealander's are patriotic, and more patriotic when they travel, and ultimately patriotic when they return.

I am just going through the process of finding a job. I've had some interviews and have more coming up. Things are looking positive but it will be a few weeks before i remove myself from the industrial reserve army.

To all the people that I met along the way, thanks a million, you're all wonderful. And to all those in NZ thanks for making the effort to keep in touch and if i haven't seen you in person yet i am making my way around and will no doubt run into you soon in this wonderful country of ours.

You know your in East Africa when...

1. you have a vehicle accident and after climbing out the windows the other (local) occupants congratulate the driver for only endangering their lives not actually claiming any. then the vehicle is righted and pushed out of a ditch, the exhaust system left to rust and the journey continues nothing more said.
2. the web of corruption is so vast with so many greedily out stretched hands that it becomes more cumbersome and expensive than taking the official route.
3. someone wakes you while trying to steal your pants (the ones you're wearing) on an train.
4. democratic elections incite a nationwide crime wave (collection of campaign funds).
5. the vehicle you are traveling in signals an oncoming vehicle to stop and requests the use of a window winder, only to be refused because they are also void of window winders.
6. your in a vehicle designed for at most half of its current occupants. my personal bests (people, not including cargo or children, because they don't count): Ute 32, car 12, van (low roof) 26.
7. you are referred to you by the colour of your skin and it is not racist.
8. you hear rumours like: people from the developed world (or the Global North for the PC freaks) are sponsored by their respective governments to travel; the same group are sitting on the cure to AIDS but preventing it from coming to Africa.
9. you're meeting travelers with business cards advertising themselves as travelers.
10. conversations end with a discussion about how one can emigrate from their respective countries to your country. And how they have long wanted to come to your, but i cant remember the name right now, country.
11. you're at concert and you see a policeman (in uniform) on duty swinging his semi automatic assault rifle over his back like it's a toy, sculling a beer and flirting with some local ladies. all this while clearly struggling to keep his own balance.

Dan's D.I.Y. safari dot com

Two days in Nairobi and i call it enough and decide after breakfast to stuff my money into an many different places as i can think of and hit the road on the next matatu (Toyota Hiace bus) and head for the mountains. I collect some food from the supermarket and pack my bag. I pack it light, there ain't going to be no porter helping me on this safari. The final words i hear as i leave are the pleas of the tour operator in my hostel telling me that i will be extorted if i do not book tours from Nairobi, it turns out to be blatantly untrue.

My impression of Kenya has been a contradictory one, on one side I have met many many nice people and have had many very good conversations, received many meals and other gifts. On the other hand there are some really bad people here, the poor girls that i met on the plane and shared a taxi with were hijacked at gun point within hours of being in Nairobbery being a prime, but not isolated example. The roads throughout the north are plagued with bandits and i have known of people being stopped and killed on the very roads i have had to use in the days before and after my journeys. Also the weather, we have had some good and some bad but each day itself seems to appreciate and value the sunset, accordingly the skies clear and the sun retreats directly over the horizon to my enjoyment. There are also many tourists here, but a distinct lack of travelers.

The safari has been running for about two weeks now, the closest that i got to a safari vehicle was sitting on top of a livestock truck straddling a 1.5 inch bar for 8 hours over the worst road that i have ever traveled. The road wasn't so bad in that it was impassible but that it was just good enough to encourage the driver to do a normal road speed, the casualty being the safety and limbs of all aboard. The feeling has yet to return to my bum and both palms are still glowing like a ripe apple due to the frequent and fearful white knuckle fever as i and the other Africans balanced ducking under thorn tree branches and held on during the brief periods of flight. Oh well at least the goats will break my fall.

All this while looking for the wildlife, snapping the occasional picture and ensuring my hat and glasses don't fly off to oblivion, the fate for two of my co pilots. Their hats were last seen being stamped on my zebra as we sailed into the distance, the metaphor holds quite correct as the truck is more like a large ocean going vessel as complaint of articles lost overboard will result in nothing, if not laughter.

For any adventurers (or those on a budget) looking to make a repeat journey, here are a couple of tips for what i like to think of as "the That Guy speed cooking equivalent safari":

• don't wear white
• bring a head mounted collision absorption appendage
  
• have your camera ready at all times and don't drop it
• don't eat the yellow snow

It's definitely a budget safari, there is no doubt. The comfort levels are low to non-existent, the safety is a lottery but the adventure and adrenaline levels reign supreme. I have met one other traveler, funnily enough he was an Electrical Engineer from the University of Auckland too, I cant help but think that we are both doing our part to spread the legend of the kiwi man one village further each day through our brazen roughness.

a day in the life...

I have had quite few people ask what i do each day, so here is a full description of one fairly typical but definitely long day.

Its 7am and a glowing disk has appeared in the sky. The temperatures are rising rapidly. Dissatisfied with the sleep i decide to slide my mattress further into the shade and sneak a few more hours. Again I wake, this time to the sensation of something happening at the other end of my body. I assume someone is playing a joke and decide to try and sleep through it. However, it persists and i take action, looking out from under my sack I see the culprit, a slimy little lizard as it runs off towards the stairs. The cheeky little prick.

I get up and squint, to avoid visual contact with the disk, my way through the sandpit to find the shower. The toilet / shower (literally combined, the swat toilet acts as the drain) wreaks of stale urine and should probably be condemned but i force jammed door open to find the light switch with exposed writing, but that's irrelevant because there's no electricity, i enter the shower and check for water, joy.

The next few hours are spent hopping through the village from shade to shade, looking at how the houses are made, the state of the infrastructure and chatting with Michel. We talk with some men at the camel market, low quality specimens means only 1000USD per unit. I am now suitably tired and satisfied that Tidjikdja has been explored and we decide to head back to the auberge (budget hotel / camping).

Walking back Michel and I decide it is high time to blow this joint and see if we can make it to Kiffa this afternoon, about 600 km away. I am happy with this as it is too hot and dead around here. The locals say it is just because of Ramadan (henceforth they are not eating or drinking during the daylight) but others ensure me that it is just the African way of life or their 'adaptation to the climate.' I decide to reserve judgement for a few months. Anyway back to the story, we get back to the auberge, collect our bags and head for the petrol station to attempt a hitch.

We wait about an hour in the shade of a fence when a local man calls us over from under a petrol tanker and invites us to join him (photo). We oblige and i quickly take advantage of the opportunity to embrace the African culture, I lay my mat and go to sleep leaving Michel to interrogate the incoming cars and navigate our African counterpart's pleas for help to acquire visas. Three hours pass and Mohamed rolls up in his beat up old Mercedes van, Michel organises a drop off at a midway junction and we are set to go as soon as the fuel delivered. But hey where is that pump jockey, he has decided that it's time for sleep and has locked the pumps and has gone home. We wait and wait, finally he arrives and we throw our bags into the wreck, i am expecting some begging from the man who invited us under the truck and sure enough just as i have one leg in he says "daniel, i don't have enough money for water, pointing towards the shop", i reach over and get my 1.5 litre bottle that i just brought and offer it to him. He declines and asks for the money, i shut the door and say 'good bye'.

The ride is sweet, we have the front seat with our bags in the back, leg room is ample. The only complaint could be the steaming hot air coming from the motor around my ankles. Constantly we are stopping picking up locals and jamming them into the back, often for rides of just a few kilometres. No payment is expected or taken for this service, Mohamed seems to be a genuine good guy.

We reach the town of Mohamed's home and it is nearing 7pm and time for him to break his daily fast, he asks us to be patient while he stops for ten minutes (Arabic time). Two hours (European time) later it is pitch dark and i am getting tired of fending off the local children's cries of cadeau (French for gift) while searching the town in vain for a place eat cooked food. Dinner ends up being a can of pineapple pieces and a piece of bread served on the step of a shop with water and the mandatory side dish of sand equally applied through all articles.

We reach the drop off point some hour or more later and i am beginning to get tired, some little kids are in front of me laughing and i don't know why, i consider kicking their ass but decide against it. A local family sees what shit heads they are being and invites us to take a pillow and sit under their tent while waiting for a ride on the final leg. I am thinking that we should just crash there for the night and make the rest of the journey in the morning but Michel is keen to keep going and i cant be bothered trying to communicate my feelings.

A filthy Mercedes sedan pulls up headed in our direction, we negotiate and take our place, four men across the back and three across the front and we are loaded and ready to go. Unfortunately i manage to get jammed into one of the middle seats, luckily i got in early and managed to muscle out the bloke beside me to lean against the back. Within ten minutes i am regretting having had the soft drink Michel got me at the stop, now i cant sleep and my legs are feeling restless. The next four hours are a constant challenge to subdue my internal Tourette's Syndrome and demand the car to halt.

We have no plan for Kiffa as we pass the police entry post at about 1am, i keep quite and let Michel run the show as i am tired and have a very short wick at this stage. I am slightly curious about where the sleeping will take place tonight. We arrive and Michel instructs the driver to leave us at a restaurant where we can sleep, the details seem very fuzzy, i think we should just hit the auberge and the taxi driver just wants us the hell out of his car. A massive argument breaks out (in French) between Michel and the driver, as i am walking away all i can understand is Michel's sarcastic comments of GENTIL (good man) repeatedly through the drivers window.

We start to walk and talk with the locals trying to sort out a place to lay our heads. We head out of town and are stopped by a 4 wheel drive police patrol, they ask a few questions and Michel explains. I assume Michel put on the sob story and they offered us to sleep at their post overnight, we climb onto the back. I felt that it was our own fault but i missed a lot of detail since i could not understand and keep quite. Upon arrival we fill out the regulatory paper work and it's 2.30am and time to take some sleep on the pavement on the opposite side of the road, i laugh with Michel about the adventurous day, good night...

on the track again...

The last week has seen the transformation from an African fence sitter, while both researching the coming trip and writing a paper for the summer school (it was about the electrical grid integration of wind farms if anyone cares), to an African traveller.

Having satisfactorily completed the requisite visa rigmarole it was time to hit the long road from Casablanca down to Nouahdibou. 70 hours of travel time later, not including the stops between vehicles i was sitting in a Saharan oasis admiring the day rolling by while drinking fresh water dripping from the heavens. The country is Mauritania, by GDP it sits at about 147 of the 181 recognised countries in the world so its pretty poor, the oasis is called Terjit and the temperature is hot, very hot.

The journey included riding what is reputedly the longest train in the world, and definitely the longest free train ride that i have ever seen. From one end (steel mill at the Atlantic coast town of Nouadhibou) to the other (mining village, Zouerate) it takes 18 hours to cover the 600 odd km's on the 500 piece, 3km long train. The carriages available for the free journey are the wagons used to transport the iron ore so they are filthy dirty. However, nothing could put me off doing the journey on the wagon as my to-do list has long included riding on the roof of a train, after being denied throughout Asia and Europe i wasn't going to let a little dirt and sand put me off.

Michel and I, Michel being a French bloke i met waiting for the train, spotted our opportunity to board, nay climb into, the perfect wagon, one being loaded by some local men with four big piles of foam. After helping them load we took shelter from the sun on one side and it began to dawn on me what i was install for as the first jolt crushed my spine against the inside wall and the first grains of sand started the process of saturating each and every pore of my body. However it turns out the sand storms and filth were not too bad, but the most difficult part being the previously mentioned jolts. The wagon couplings are not like the ones used for passenger carriages, they are rigid cargo spec joints with no damping so the soundtrack for the entire journey is the roaring thunder of steel on steel propagating down the line of carriages as they consantina at regular intervals. Definitely loud and forceful enough to wake each and every passenger and often adequate to add to the fill the underpants.

I did manage to make a bed on top of about 2 metres of foam which had me just under the top level of the wagon. Lying in the fetal position for the night with limbs tucked into my hoodie i was just high enough to be attacked by sand storms and fumes. The smile still couldn't be wiped off my face however, it was exhilarating seeing the changes through the desert and conversing with the local men drinking tea.

A word about the destination, Oasis Terjit, being my first Oasis it has absolutely blown my mind. The temperature difference between inside and outside is significant and severe, fresh dates litter the ground like hidden candies, fresh water drips from stalagmites and the bathing pool is beyond description.

thumbs up

The last week or so has seen a pretty mega adventure. i have been traveling overland from Denmark to Morocco. If your not too shit hot with European geography take my word for it, it's a fucking long way!

Almost all hitch hiking except the final leg across the Gibraltar strait into Morocco from the Southern tip of Spain and also a train to get out of Hamburg when i got stuck at the city limit. I ticked up about 30 different rides starting with a group of Danish Motor Cross riders and ending with three young Spaniards crammed into a small hatchback cruising along the motorways at 180kph.

A few of these rides deserve a special mention.

1. Reza the political refugee from Iran who had to flee his country seven years ago at the risk of his life because he opposed the ruling party. Very interesting guy, pulled up in a nice car smoking tobacco from a pipe, dressed in a smart suit and appeared to store a weeks supply of grease in his hair.
2. 2* Turkish truck drivers. I spoke to them in English, they spoke to me in a mixture of Turkish, German and French. It worked out splendidly, I didn't understand a thing in the 24 hours it took us to get from Munich to Lyon but it was fun. Interesting on that leg was spending a night in a truck stop beside the motorway watching the hussy's come by and the seedy truck drivers being sleazy beyond imagination.
3. And finally, the nameless Italian drifter who almost got us both arrested. See photo. The story goes that I asked this bloke for a ride at the petrol station; he said no problem. As we pull out i realised there was something strange as we had very little petrol (funny considering we were meant to be going about 300km.) 30km later we pull into the next station, rapidly douse about 5 litres into the tank and boost out of there. I thought I'd give it a bit and see what happens, then we arrived at a toll stop for the motorway crossing from France into Spain. From what i could understand he had no money, the line behind us started to bank up. Horns echoed through the valleys and tempers from the entrapped drivers behind were rising uncontrollably. The attendant took action and signaled us to go through and wait, once we stopped the customs officers were onto us and the drug dog started to rampage through the car. I handed over my passport while denying connection with the nameless Italian, removed my bags and snapped a sly photo. However the sly photo not being sly enough led to a confrontation with a guard and i am lucky to still have my camera. I don't know how this story ended for the other party but cheers for the lift mate...

To anyone else that might be reading this that gave me a lift at some point, cheers. I made it here safely and in pretty good time. The hitch hiking is now over, it was an absolute blast while it lasted...

walking, walking and more walking

Firstly, thanks for the emails recently and I apologise for the delay in repling but I will get back to you LANCE, patience is a virtue.

Since the Stockholm or Bust escapade (which ended in Bust if you hadn't guessed), I've been hiking in the north of Sweden, orginally with the intent of catching the midnight sun, but unfortunately I wasnt able to locate it so 11ish pm will have to do for now. I cant be bothered writing a good story about it so I compiled an efficient list of Highlights and Lowlights. I think you should get the idea.

Highlights

• picking and subsequently eating masses of wildfruits (mainly raspberries and blueberries)
  
• taking two bush shits
• spitting on and disposing of my German ex-military training shoes (for explanation see Lowlights and photos)

Lowlights

• My German ex-military training shoes blowing out after 27 of about 150 km
• The ensuing daily struggle between the combination of my wit (depleted), 2 metres of bailing twine, a butter knife, a navigational compass and 1 metre of medical tape to keep the German ex-military training shoes on and blisters off my feet.
• Mega lowlight, the life of any poor soul that shared cabins or walked in the vapour trail following me after such consumption of wildfruits as mentioned above.
  

6000 armed police raids in less than 3.5 years!

This is the substance behind the claim that the Moonfisher Cafe in Christiania, Copenhagen is the safest in the World. Over the past few days I have been squatting in Christiania, it is a ex-military barrack which was abandoned in 1971 only to be taken over by squatters who promtly declared it the free-town of Christiania with its own flag and laws. However the past few years have seen the Danish officials crack down on the open drugs trade of Pusher Street and the like. Fortunately the good spirit of the locals still reigns supreme, and there is an area beside one 'lake' which accepts campers pitching tents, a good method of saving money in the currency vacuum known as Denmark.

Well tomorrow I leave my little pot smoking oasis and embark on what could be a hell of a time dealing with broken bikes and shit weather or a wicked adventure through Sweden and Denmark. I was counting on getting a bike which belongs to Perry (the American guy from the Vineyard in Hungary) which was sitting at a friends house in Copenhagen, but due to my own lack of planning (more accurately, unwillingness to plan) i rang the friend of Perry to organise the redevous that night when he advised me that the bike was locked up and he a long way away, not to return for over a month. Well, this left me at an interesting conundrum, i didnt have the money to travel the area by public or organised transport, word of mouth indicates that hitching is difficult and I dont want to head south yet as i have a course starting at a Danish university in Arhus (Denmark) at the start of August... To use the words of Grant Dalton after a recent America's Cup loss, "it's the kind of situation when you just kick the cat".

Walking back to my tent after that conversation I think I could have been hit by a car and not even noticed, my mind was so far detached from my being, concentrating on the question, what the f#%k am I going to do now? The solution came within half an hour as I was dragging my feet through a disused park, in one corner i spotted a heap of broken and mangled bikes resembling a recently crushed car. Well, I thought "I'm an engineer, if I cant do something with this pile of shit then no one can", so i got out my pocket calculator, determined a few angles using sohcahtoa and pythagoras thereom, following this a couple of well placed kicks and we were underway. Within the next day having spent only NZ$30 (about the cost of a toothpick in Copenhagen) I had a lock and owned something resembling a bike!

One thing i can guarantee you, i'll be treating this bike much nicer than the ones in Cambodia. And if I'm getting any turning heads it wont be because i am different (like on the motorbike in Vietnam) but only due to the high pitched screeching coming from every moving part!

F#%king Strawberries

So in the past few weeks while I have been slack with the blogging and not even living up to my promise to post about reaching the half way point I have still managed to conquer one of life’s ultimate goals. I have attacked (see: furiously picked) one ton of ruby red, juicy, organic strawberries. I am living on a farm, strawberry farm I call it. It’s a bit of a joke of a place. Over-run with frogs and ruled with an iron fist by ‘the Don’, a cold-blooded Danish Viking.

The mornings, signified by my tent being shook to pieces, start at 4.30am. Luckily in this part of the world summer means the sun barely disappears overnight, still fairly light at midnight and again light by the ungodly hour in which I have to rise. However the days take an early end, by midday we are back at base camp eating, drinking or sleeping. The work is menial backbreaking labour fully exposed to the elements. Treated like true minorities having to work our asses off to make minimum wage on a piece-rate system. Fortunately however, minimum wage in Danmark is far in excess of what is available in other western countries.

The social aspect of attacking strawberries is surprising attractive. At first glimpse my island (Samso) seems unable and unwilling to open itself for parties. However the scummy pickers have circumvented this unease by taking over the loitering grounds outside the local supermarket. Each afternoon the chant “Let’s go, Netto” echo’s, Netto being the name of the supermarket and ends with drunken stories being shared in the kitchen and even the occasional Medieval Horn* is taken up to announce ones dissatisfaction with any situation. One night we took over a local café / bar, managed to get my crowd surf on with less than 10 people on the dance floor, made it home that night with one hour to spare before work. The supreme quality of the night was denoted by fact that the police came to strawberry farm looking for us the following day.

In other news, my camera has recently gone man-down, I hope to replace it soon so no drunken escapades go undocumented. On that fateful night the last photo was of me pretending to smoke a massive log over a fire like it was a joint, the details are hazy but all that matters is that I’m OK.

Story ends…

*def: Medieval Horn: noun. An instrument, can be actual or imaginary, used by a person (preferably drunk) to get their hola on in the act of venting frustration.

PS. The reason that I have not blogged about reaching half-time is that I wrote an extremely intelligent, insightful and witty account of my travels thus far on my computer and had it ready to post when ‘a serious error occurred’. I have since not been able to turn it on and feel too aggrieved to re-write. The gist of it was that I am having a good time, will come home when the money runs out and that I look forward to sharing a keg or two with you all when I do.

brown dog churns out europe

In true Westy fashion our original meeting plans went up in flames, however, this would not have been a surprise to those around the brown dog. Sitting in Spanish bar on the Tuesday morning as he began to open the flood gates of fury before boarding (in theory) his flight to Prague where i was eagerly awaiting the grand arrival, telling anyone with ears how my friend was arriving and we were going to teach this town a lesson it wouldn't soon forget. However, in Barcelona the thirst was only growing and the perception of time receding. Needless to say, 'there was a mix up with the airlines, long story, tell you later bro...' and two and a half days later, still sitting on one hand with a beer in the other brown dog arrives in Prague, 'BROWN DOG' gets holla'd across a 4 lane highway from the nearest bar and we're away.

His first night in Prague, i had us lined up a party to go to. The instructions read: Get a tram to Kobylisy, followed by a bus to Veltrusy. From the Vesltrusy stop, walk to the bridge over a canal and you will see a tent underneath with a party inside. Probably the second worst (for the record, Liam you own the worst) set of instruction i have ever had, however we managed to find the bus stop (one of three Veltrusy stops) and walked around for a couply hours until dark with no luck and retired back to the bus stop for a good catch up session while consuming our rations. The desired effect was had but a bit more of a mission in the making than each of us desired.

At the start of the second week the TDU-1 (Brown Dog and I) found itself camped at a friends place in Brno, Czech Rep. Brno has the distinction of having the most amazing and almost completely tranquilising open-air homo sapien wildlife reserve. The quality of the specimens is quite astonishing. Any man looking for some high quality tusks to mount above his fireplace combined with low quality local hunters is urged to visit the reserve. One fateful night the hunt ended with one member of the TDU-1 dancing with two high quality specimens only to return home empty handed, while the other much more concentrated on a single target ended the night with a glancing shot but also empty handed, and then as to rub salt in the wounds was unable to penetrate the living quarters and slept on a polystyrene block outside the front door.

Very short stops in Poland (Krakow and Zakopane) and Germany (Berlin) followed Czech Rep. However no matter how short a stop, the brown dog couldn't keep his nose out of the game. I came back after making dinner one night and he had made buddies with a middle aged gentleman sleeping in our dorm. The middle aged gentleman took a liking to the gypsy skinned Maori boy from NZ and let it be known the last night we were there, ha. Ask Matt for further details, if he even has to mention my name to finish the story I ensure you he is completely distorting the truth.

That's a taste of the journey we shared, let the good times roll. My hope of working in Denmark has all but totally evaporated, still considering a terrorist attack on the danish embassy just for good measure (joking!). All travel plans are in the air at them moment but as I am coming up the 6 month / half way point I will put up another general post soon.

Egészségedre (Cheers!)

Hungary has a very beautiful countryside, however most people are content with visiting the capital Budapest and nothing more. Well not me, having spent a good long weekend in Budapest and taking photos of all the castles, statues and architecture I went to one of the train stations and surveyed the board trying to decide where I would like to go, Nagykanizsa, yeah that sounded like good name and my guide book didn't have anything to say about it so it was on!

Well, I arrived in Nagzkanisya approaching dusk greeted by two plain clothed officers wanting to see my passport, they looked pretty shady so I was fairly rude and was asking him some questions (although they could not really understand) to make sure he was actually officer and then stood in front of the door while he had my passport. That turned out OK and then I looked to the information desk to find out about accommodation, she could not speak English but I managed to communicate that i wanted a hostel, she sent me walking in the direction of town with no more information than a pointed finger.

Very quickly I had the suspicion that Nagykanisza didn't attract too many tourists. And after two hours of walking around town it was confirmed, hostels didn't exist, the English language was never invented and it was getting dark so i began looking for a sheltered place to sleep while walking back to the train station in the hope of more information.

About a kilometer back from the train station I found an abandoned vintage train, i was certain that this was my fate but I continued back to the station anyway. As I approached I saw a girl playing hacky, she looked foreign so I asked if she spoke English. Fortunately she could and quickly she enquired with "what the fuck are you doing down here?" After talking for a few minutes and she realising my predicament offered me to stay at her brothers vineyard out of town in one of the small villages (Liszo). The following 5 days are history, a rather blurry and hazy history due to over consumption of home made wine...

Being philosophical, only thing i can say i learnt from it is don't use the 'next train leaving the station' method to dictate your travel plans. But then it all turned out well, so perhaps that is the ideal method. oh well i don't know I'm confused and tired.

my near religious experience

For the past three weeks or so I have been moving from bar to bar around London and a few selected towns in Ireland. Europe is fucking expensive, my record to date is NZ$60 for a single local phone call of duration 10 minutes to an embassy in London. However the highlight of London was on the first Sunday, I found an establishment called ‘The Church’, however at this church you wont be a finding many bibles. It is a pub/club that opens at about 1pm and features live entertainment (Freddy Mercury impersonators, Strippers and Boat races) reasonably priced drinks and a massive atmosphere. However its not all fun, I saw some scientific research being conducted as I walked through the dance floor (over empty cans of beer and Woodstock) I saw a group of guys trying to answer the age old question as to whether hman flatulence is combustible. Sundays too are a big day in London, The Church, was followed by live music and beers at a pub near my hostel. Summary – the only thing that would make me want to live in London is The Church, God bless it!

Arriving in Ireland a few days before St Patrick’s Day was the best thing I’ve done in ages. Dublin was a buzz with Irish spirit. I met and stayed with an Irish bloke that I met while travelling Thailand, this turned out wonderfully, we spent four nights out in town in a row, three of them in anger (on the Guinness not other people). I’ll put up some photos but the atmosphere in Dublin for the Saturday and Sunday were off the hook, almost indescribable. Streets lined with drunken people in good spirit and plenty of ladies. In the city about every second buiding is a pub and the best thing is that they are all full, Guinness flowing and traditional music bleating...

PS. It's pointless to ask me about the street parade, I was nicely tucked up inside a pub.

Myanmar

Thanks to those of you who took the time to email me over the past month and let me know that my blog has recently nose-dived. Well the reason for this are two fold, I have been slightly lazy with writing and I have been in Myanmar where the idiotic military government have placed massive restrictions on internet use, sustained access to most email and blog sites becomes a total pain after about 10 minutes of continually logging in.

Also there hasn’t been much to write about over the past three or so weeks. Recently I went out to a small town just slightly off the tourist trail and found a local (informal) guide to take myself and a Swiss girl hiking into some remote villages for four days. The guide I met at the bus station got my attention with a post card from NZ sent from some kiwis (from TE PUKE of all places) he met 7 years ago, the guide was a 40-year-old dude who knew more about the mountains and villages than anyone. He was part of the rebel Palaung tribes people who fought the Government in 1988 when they assumed control of Myanmar. They subsequently surrendered but all the people in the area (at least) resent the Government and are hoping for change.

The Swiss girl was nice, albeit violent. She didn’t really like the way I would frequently answer NO WAY! When the villagers asked if we were married. Another wicked thing about these villages is that you can just turn up and go directly to the Chairman’s (similar to a Mayor) house to eat and sleep, and not only is this OK but it shows respect. I will put up a photo of the first Chairman that we met; he was only 29 and the youngest one our guide had ever met.

On the final morning of the trip we had stayed at a very rich (by local standards) Chairman’s house and he invited us to come with him on his jeep to the top of a local mountain to see the progress of renovations on a Buddhist pagoda, this was cool, saw heaps of locals cutting down trees with machetes but we spent too long and missed the bus out of the village. We decided just to start walking and hitch-hike, luckily after about two hours we caught ride with a truck, I got to sit on the roof of the cab for the 4 hour ride while Silvia had to sit down the back with the cargo because it is not acceptable for woman to sit above men (i.e. the ones in the cab.)

Motorcycle diaries

I hired a motorbike, it was Russian and it called a Minsk, they have a bit of a cult following amongst overland travellers I understand. They ain't the most reliable machines in the world but when you hire them the shop knows this and they give you a bag of spare parts, some tools and a quick tutorial on how to change each one and how to diagnose common problems. The aim of this excursion was too get a good experience of solo travelling after seeing Matt depart for NZ on 01/02, I wanted to get off the well beaten track and see some of the 'real Vietnam'. I have been thinking about it and I think I have succeeded, I list the reasons as follows:

1. I didn't see another western tourist for the entire time I was away (6 days).
2. I haven't had an English conversation or seen a menu featuring English in all this time.
3. Riding the Minsk through the village roads (where the term road is used loosely to mean any surface made up of mud, gravel, land-slides, tar seal and streams where motorbikes, cars and trucks share a single lane, and no section of 'road' is straight for more than 100m) it feels like I just won the tour de France and I am doing a victory lap with children running out of houses yelling hello and waving. Generally they hear the Minsk coming as it sounds like a tractor.
4. As riding into the first town one man (middle aged) with a very young (~2yo) passenger on his lap was riding into town beside me and so surprised to see me there tried to start a conversation at about 40kph. Well it ended shortly after that with him slamming into the back of a woman on her motorbike, after impact he glanced in my direction and I swerved to avoid him and he just clipped my back wheel, however luckily we both managed to stay upright, the same could not be said about the poor lady.

The Minsk has actually performed fairly well considering the treatment I have been dealing it. We have done over 1,300km taking 36hours of riding (for those of you non-engineering folk without a pocket calculator handy, this is really slow an average of about 36km/h and that is not because of my riding, trust me no-one was passing me that's just how bad the roads are!).

However, the following recommendations are made to Minsk (aka: stuff I broke):

• stronger clutch cables (the locals had a good old time gathering around right behind me to watch me change this)
• more durable clutch handles

That is all.

PS: bufty was the best striker in the team!

Bicycles

We made the first enemies (that we know of) of our trip while in Siem Reap, Cambodia innocently attempting to explore the Angkor temples. The guest house we found offered free bicycles, these bicycles are the idea means of exploring Angkor Temples which are about 5km from town.

The carnage started about 2km from town when I gave the power house a brake check (apply heavy brakes while someone is following too closely behind, common amongst boi-racers in cars), to ensure, for his own safety that his bike was in good working order. Unfortunately his brakes weren't optimal and his concentration less so and he ploughed into the back of my stationary bike. After 10mins of head scratching, standing on rims and bending mud guards beyond recognition produced a bike which was again ridable, however the front wheel had a sizable buckle and was still getting intimate with one side of the forks on each rotation.

If this was the end of it all would be fine and I would not be writing this post. But it was not, because the power house's bike was such a dog to ride, him and I were taking turns. We were navigating around the perimeter wall of one large temple and I was on the damaged bike and came to a down hill section (which I should have walked down), I was one tree root from the bottom when the buckled front wheel was clipped and I was thrown over the handle bars landing in pain with my shoulder meeting the road. I opened my eyes to see a group of Cambodian woman sitting on the deck of their hut pointing and laughing. This continued for about 5 minutes, at which time I had reassessed the bike, my injuries and devised a story to tell the owner of the bike. The ladies came over with some tiger balm to rub on my shoulder and into my grazes (in the photo).

For me the funnies started here, I promptly returned the bike (now completely unridable) to The Power House. He was forced to carry it over his shoulders for about 2km with everyone laughing in his face and turning and steering and pointing, assuming he was just a donut that gave up and could not be bothered riding back to town. If this wasn't enough he engaged a motorbike rider to take him back to town while he straddled the bicycle in one hand and the motorbike in the other.

The traffic was bad so Matt and I arrived back to the rental store as The Power House was trying to break through the language barrier and explain that he was riding a flat track when the front wheel hit the root of a tree and disintegrated around him (all in sign language), I don't know if they understood but when we turned our backs and walked away I think they got the idea that we took no responsibility for the untimely failure of their pathetic bike.

Seasons Greetings

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all! I hope you all have some wicked parties lined up to take advantage of the break. Take heaps of photos of you all in your messed up states and send some through to give me some entertainment.

Adventures of The Power House

We are just chilling out with the guy formerly referred to as Nick or Skidder but now exclusively known as Power House or more formally as The Power House. So yeah he is now at night four and each night has brought a new adventure.

Night 1, a couple of beers down and I decided to put myself to bed (~2km away) after telling matt and power house that I was just going toilet. They caught me a few hundred meters down the road getting a feed. That aside back to the adventures of power house, some time in the middle of the night he made a trip to the toilet and locked himself out of our cave, so he proceeded (in vain) to wake us up by yelling, climbing the wall and breaking the mosquito screens to the windows about 2.5m off the ground. At this point he accepted his fate (at the advice of the unhappy neighbours) and went to sleep in the hallway.

Night 2, power house got drunk and again woke up to piss in the middle of the night; however this time he learnt his lesson from the previous night and didn’t leave the room.

Night 3 and power house made a bed for him on the beach while we were drinking, then on my advice made a stagger for home. Later that night he was man down again due to his inability to balance himself on a double bed (while lying).

Night 4 and power house is down, I repeat its 7pm and power house is down. Cause: overdeveloped boy syndrome, effect: full system failure, prognosis: hassle, torment and abuse for the next two weeks.

Northwest Thailand

Over the past four days I have done two four hour van journeys followed by a four hour local bus and yesterday a six hour Sawngthaew (on the back of a Ute) trip. We have travelled south along the western Thai boarder with Burma (Myanmar). The scenery has been amazing, it is an elevated area with high mountains, hot days and very cool nights. Heading into the area the bus was searched by a machine gun clad officer verifying the Thai’s documentation (thank god he didn’t check my body board bag!) In-case they were attempting to join the conflict at the Thai-Burmese boarder. Yesterday we were checked again into and out of the Mali refugee camp just before coming into Mae Sot. Today we hired some 125cc motorbikes and adventured around the city, after about an hour Matt was sick of his bike misfiring and stalling so he took it back and demanded a replacement, the guys at the shop just laughed at him when they discovered he had been riding it around with full choke on all morning. Tomorrow we are back to Bangkok on an 8 hour bus ride to meet my brother, then heading south to the beach for some R&R.
My favourite place of this little trip has been Mae Hong Son. It provided dirt cheap, lake front accommodation. Shortly after dropping our bags we were off to one of the many local watering holes, after our first beer we made friends with the local police officer who then escorted us to a near by club. Three large Chang’s down and one of my travelling companions was making himself known (intimately) with some of the local wildlife, while I was doing my best job convincing a pommy bird that trying to haul into me in front of her boyfriend and father is not conducive with a happy family holiday.

PS. I wrote this two days ago, since then we have met skidder and been on the hammer pretty hard. One good funny to report back, on the trip from Mae Sot down we (Me and Matt) went through at least 5 armed check points heading back for Bangers. At one of the check points an armed officer found it necessary to give matt and inside thigh rub on the way past then a cheeky little hug on his way out while matt sat there in disbelief. Shortly after this some glue sniffing old prick got on the bus and proceeded to abuse matt in Thai for the following 20 minutes until the bus driver pulled over at the police station and kicked him off!

Bus Bangkok to Chiang Mai

More issues… We decided to leave BK and travel north to Chiang Mai to trek through the jungle and meet some local tribes. Arriving at the travel agent at 5pm I almost gave our knob of a taxi driver a heart attack when I opened the passenger door into traffic and narrowly missed having it taken off my a Mercedes Benz. I don’t know what he was worried about, there were millimetres to spare (don’t forget engineers are very precise people). We were then whisked to the ‘bus station’ (read: side of the road), our “VIP” [I suspect “Very Important Prisoner”] bus arrived 3.5 hours later and we were away on our ‘dinner included 12 hour – over night journey’.

About an hour into it while we were still excited about the whole bus thing, the biggest storm I have ever witnesses began approaching over the horizon. We had an hour of constant thunder and lightning bolts, trees blowing over on the motorway, torrential rain and massive winds blowing the bus over the road (lucky the lane markings have little relevance in Thailand!). We later found out that the storm killed over 100 people in the Philippines. At hour four we arrived at our destination for dinner, I had a cramp I was so hungry, that is until I saw the shit on our plates. Fried sizzler type sausages sliced into strips that I could seen through and probably used and a lubricant in an engine, rice soaked in water and Bok Choi. I slanted away from the sausages in favour of the BC but within seconds was seriously questioning if I had just finished my first mouthful of dog meat. Needless to say their plan worked and I brought dinner from the solitary nearby store. An hour later and the fully laden “VIP” bus was approaching the mountain ranges of North Thailand, with this came a severe chill in the passenger compartment. Apparently stopping four times to refuel the radiator and running the air conditioning at full blast (~15degreesC) and freezing the passengers for hours to prevent engine overheating is appropriate “VIP” service in Thailand. Being the fresh naive traveller I was left unaware of this policy, the only things that kept me going over the last three to four hours were:

1. My Bay of Plenty rugby jersey with my arms tucked well inside,
2. The curtain from the window that I wrapped around my head and upper torso, and
3. The fact that Matt desperately needed a piss, he was within seconds of filling two 350ml bottles while sitting in his seat when the “VIP” bus took another water stop, to my disgust and extreme disappointment.
   

On arrival I was in disbelief (possibly shock), very cold but some how excited to get to Chiang Mai at 7am being greeted by a taxi driver holding “Matthew Wallace” upside down ready for a day to explore the town.

PS. I am having an absolutely awesome time, I have just chosen to share stories of my misery as I know it is funny for everyone else involved.

DAY4&5 (Bangkok, Thailand)

Arriving in BK around midnight (with no accom sorted) and getting dropped off in one of the main travellers streets was like diving into a 100mm deep pool head first. I would be lying if I said I wasnt slightly concerned about everyone around me. Not to mention the piece of shit stock-car that took us from the airport (pic's to come). The two days were mainly spent drinking 50B ($2NZ) big bots, eating from the street vendors for between 25B and 75B and staying a converted prison cell at 210B (~$nz4 each) a night for me and matt.

The first night we ended up getting rather intoxicated at which turned out to be one of the cheapest bars in town, when we decided to leave matt had the idea that it would be brilliant for us to get into some bugs. We ended up just munchuing a couple grass-hoppers while some other western tourists were asking us if we were on 'fear factor' or just plain crazy all the while taking photos.