Travel Blog

Getting to Rishikesh

eoghancito — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 05:39:00 GMT

4 am starts are never fun, but I was very thankful that I had had the foresight to hire a porter to hawk my bag back down to the bus stand for me. The stand was packed and completely incomprehensible as usual but I asked someone who pointed out the right bus. And so the journey began.

It wasn't even semi deluxe – just ordinary, which means a 2 plus 3 layout rather than 2 plus 2. I had a window seat and initially the bus was quite empty so I was able to get a bit of shut eye but soon enough people started piling on and the bus was way beyond its capacity. It's very common for way more than one to a seat so I wasn't surprised to have 3 generations of a family sitting beside me (on one seat) at one point in the journey. The mountain going was pretty but very slow and bumpy. The hours passed and by 11am I was the only one except for the driver who was still there. Even the conductor had changed!

I thought the journey was supposed to take 10 hours but when we pulled up a dirt track sometime near midday I knew we were not going to be in Haridwar by 3pm. The bus reached a type of garage and everyone was asked to get off. During the hour's wait the bus had a new alternator and a front left tyre fitted. Good job too as the bus had only started with a push all morning and the tyre was bald as a coot.

We finally reached Haridwar at about 5pm and I was able to catch my first few glimpses of the Ganges river.

Haridwar is supposed to be one of the oldest cities in the world but I had no desire to stay for more than minutes. It looks like it's ancient, but not in the way Rome or Athens might. Thankfully the bus to Rishikesh left only minutes after I arrived. A short trip crossing back over the Ganges and I was in Rishikesh.

Finally. I had been looking forward to this part of the journey in India since I arrived – Rishikesh was where I would stay at an ashram, in peace and solace and away from the noise and pollution. As such I had been kind of expecting a mellow place, along the lines of Macleod Ganj. I couldn't have been more wrong.

The centre of town is smoggy and smelly, the drivers are even more noisy and aggressive than usual and the rickshaw wallahs overcharge at will. After bargaining one quickly down to half his asking price I made for my hotel. I actually had a reservation this time at the Ishan hotel, overlooking the Ganges at Laksman Jhula. Sadhus and beggars lined the streets with hands outstretched as I made way to the hotel.

I think my tiredness has a massive effect on the first impressions of a place. After a cold shower I had a quick look around and found a slightly magical place. Pilgrims bathing and performing candlelit rights in the river, spanned by an attractive suspension bridge for pedestrians. The sounds of mantras wafting in the warm air.

I felt even better after having eaten. The restaurant underneath the hotel is brilliant. They even had apple crumble and custard. I ate way too much but not even the pain in my stomach could prevent me from sleeping.

I hadn't written the blog since Macleod ganj and was still behind so I wrote that in the morning. After lunch I took a walk across to the other side of the river with its tall temples and bathing ghats.

I plied the streets and finally went down a long track. It didn't lead to the other bridge, as I suspected so I turned back, giving the Sadhus I had ignored on the way down, a second chance to beg for alms.

The whole point of the walk had been to visit an adventure outfit called Red Chili adventures. I wanted to arrange a rafting trip for after I come out of the ashram. I took a more direct route and found them and made some plans.

Rishikesh is a funny old place – on one hand it's clearly a very spiritual place but on the other is the commercial side of spiritualism. There are gazillions of ashrams and it was incredibly difficult to research remotely. There is one “ashram” beside the hotel which is a hotel with a glasshouse on the top – people's yogic and spiritual journeys are made for everyone to see and very much within earshot of the beeping and the touting.

Tomorrow I go into the ashram I have chosen. I hope that I've made a good choice but I have only one way to tell. And I'll write about that when I come out!

Little Lhasa to Little Britain: Shimla

eoghancito — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 12:50:00 GMT

The night bus to Shimla was “semi-deluxe”, which should be read as completely ordinary. It was however uneventful and I managed to snatch a few minutes sleep in between potholes and hairpin bends. It arrived literally at the crack of dawn – just past 5am and the usual slew of touts came to peddle rooms. I was in the market for a porter though. Good old Footprint had suggested that a few rupees to get someone to take your heavy rucksack up the streets to where the hotels are might just be the best money you ever spend in your life.

It was brilliant advice – the alleys are really steep – I was out of breath with only my small bag. My porter took a few breaks along the way and was glad of the water I offered him. I felt a little bad that he was 75 years old (and proud) while this thirty something was letting his wallet do the heavy lifting. But he's a porter – this is what he does and I was happy to help “stimulate the local economy”. Plus he knew the way and I had read the map completely wrong. The streets were still quiet and almost empty, except for a few gamboling monkeys.

After looking at a few hotels that were over my budget I was finally led to Hotel Amar Palace which was clean, well equipped, had great views and was anything between half to a sixth of the price of some of the others. Although it did look a little like they sold out to the mobile phone companies and had made the hotel into a phone mast that you can sleep in!

I woke up later ravenous, and went to feed my hunger back in town. Shimla has an interesting history which helps explain its current make-up. It was a quiet hill town for many years until the British “discovered” it. Its cool mountain air was seen as so beneficial that the entire government used to decamp here from 1865 to 1939. The whole mechanics of the colonial government moved, all ministries and their associated bureaucracies and filing cabinets. And of course the government would need its support and creature comforts - the main street is called the Mall and much of the architecture is in colonial British style. Above the mall is an open area called the Ridge. It's dominated by Christchurch in one corner and has a bandstand and a mock tudor library. You could be in Cardiff (or maybe Edinburgh, it's hillier).

So I walked down towards the ridge and took in the pleasant air and views. It was all very nice but man can't live on air and views alone. I gorged on an excellent paneer tikka masala with rice AND a butter garlic naan before trying to see how to make the next leg of the journey. It seemed callous to be seeking an exit before even having a look around but I needed to get to Rishikesh in time as I was booked in to an ashram a few days later.

The tourist travel shops didn't come up with the goods – the only option was to take a local bus to Haridwar and another from there. I went back down to the bus stand (it really is a long way!) and bought a ticket. My choices were to leave at 5pm and arrive at 3am or leave at 5am and arrive at 3pm. Never liking to arrive somewhere new at night, I went for the early start. I was happy to relax for the evening – especially having travelled all night. The room had a TV which had BBC News and a few movie channels so the evening was spent catching the amazing sunset from the window and watching TV.

I got quite into the Guru TV programme, where a yogi shows a live audience of thousands his stomach rolling and stretching moves. Big celebrity over here. It's in Hindi but I don't think I'd enjoy it any more even if it was in English.

In the morning I went for a small hike to the Hanuman temple, up Jakhu hill which dominates the eastern end of the town. Just a tiny bit of religion: the temple is dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god. Hanuman helped Shiva out in his efforts to recover his wife Parvati after she was taken hostage. It is most fitting then that Jakhu hill is the home of many many Rhesus monkeys.

At the start of the trek there is a plaque telling people how fit they are based on age and time taken to complete it.

I wasn't going to happy with less than 30 minutes as I was unwiling to accept being lumped into the 30 to 50 year old demographic. Walking sticks are rented out from shops at the bottom, primarily to fend off the monkeys. However the little fellers tend to leave you alone as long as you don't have any food on display. One lady had an ice-cream grabbed off her in a millisecond by one of them – they are cheeky but if you drop and feign picking up and throwing a stone they scarper easily enough.

The walk is quite strenuous but thankfully I made it under my target time, and was befriended by a few local guys on the way. I think they're equally confused and fascinated by a westerner with a seriously unkempt beard who can say my name is Eoghan in Hindi (that's about it but my accent is quite good they say). At the top the temple was surrounded by some lovely peaceful gardens and a pine forest.

The temple itself though was somewhat anticlimactic – I found the monkeys more of a draw than the monkey deity. Lovely views though.

One the way back down I found a collection of monkeys who were just having the craic jumping about 10 metres from a tree into a pool of water on a roof. I wonder how they discovered this game but it certainly made a lot of sense in the heat – the sun had risen and was beating down.

After lunch I walked west out of town, along the mall. I passed the communications tower which for a second made me think we live in a binary solar system.

After a good 3km I made it to the Indian Institute of Advanced Studies. The building which it occupies was originally built as the Viceregal lodge and it still goes by that name. It's an impressive structure built in Victorian style and wouldn't be at all out of place in the Scottish highlands. The grounds are spectacular and there is a guided tour of a few of the rooms still open to the public.

It's amazing to think that for many years one fifth of the population of the world was governed from this building. In fact Shimla has been the capital of India for longer than Calcutta or Delhi. Although the most ostentatious parts (the ballroom and dining room) now have less lofty purposes, having been incorporated into the library, the building remains much as it was originally constructed and decorated with fine teak panelling.

There was also an interesting photo exhibition which gave details on some of the major decisions made there. Ghandi, Nehru and the Vice Roy at the time had conferences to discuss Indian independence and the plans for partition and the creation of the Pakistani state were put into action in the conference room which still has its original carpet and wall fabrics.

After all that exercise I didn't want to venture too far in the evening for dinner so I made for the Lakkar Bazaar which the hotel overlooked. Ignoring the rats scurrying about I had a cheap as chips but seriously tasty thali in a local place and a wander. The people were friendlier than many other places. Maybe there's a correlation between mean temperature and friendliness in India. Time for bed – early start in the morning.

Am I in Tibet or India? Macleod Ganj

eoghancito — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 11:58:00 GMT

As I waited for the train to leave the platform a tall Sikh with a large sword sat opposite me and promptly lay down to sleep. I'm no expert but it didn't look like the deadliest or most ostentatious of swords although, along with his clothes and turban, seemed to be the sum extent of his worldly possessions.

The remainder of the journey, to Pathankot, the closest broad guage rail head to Daramshala, was uneventful. Pathankot seems to be an Air Force town – as I waited in the bus stand a myriad of jets tore up the sky above, ignored by the locals. The three hour bus ride through the foothills of the Himalayas was pleasant – the difference in temperature was noticeable. The last leg of the journey was a steep 30 minute bus ride from Daramshala to Macloed Ganj nestling 500m in the mists above it at 1768m, during which I met Eric and Julie, a friendly couple from France.

Yet again I was reservationless but headed towards the Green Hotel which Footprint has recommended. I checked into a decent room, had a deliciously hot shower before heading back to the reception area.

The friendly Tibetan manager introduced me to Elizabeth, a girl from Walkinstown who had been travelling in the Middle East and Austraila. She was meeting people in a bar later and asked me to join her. Well all this was pretty encouraging I had to say. There were people. There was a bar! (not that I had been craving a beer, more that it was nice to be in a place where there is an established market for socialising!) Elizabeth's friends never showed up but we had an interesting conversation while the band covered Nirvana and the Doors. Elizabeth was about to start a Masters in Conflict Studies but was taking a special interest in the gender aspects of conflict. So far Macleod Ganj had exceeded expectations – there were people, the air was clear and clean and there was a distinct atmosphere that made it feel like a different country. I hadn't even seen it during the day yet!

Macleod Ganj woke up in a cloud, as it often does and I took the opportunity to catch up on the internet in the cafe.

I could even use my laptop as they had wireless! People breezed in and out of the rain and chatted to strangers while having lunch. This felt more like a hostel in South America than anywhere I had seen in India. I had arranged to meet Eric and Julie for dinner so we went back to McLlo's where I had been the previous night. There was no music this time but we made our own entertainment and laughed a lot.

The following day, after two nights in the town I decided it was high time I went out and explored a little. The town was established by the British in the 19^th century (hence the Scottish sounding name) and remained a quiet hill station until the Chinese settlement of Tibet in 1959 during which the Tibetan spiritual leader, Tenzin Gyatso, His Holiness, the fourteenth Dalai Lama fled here and over time established the Tibetan government in exile. Since then the proportion of the Tibetan population has been increasing gradually and changing the general feel of the place as they increase in number.

Obviously there is a visible racial difference but the behaviour of the Tibetans is quite distinct – many, especially the elderly, walk with prayer beads and prayer wheels. There's an air of politeness and respect that is just absent in India at large. People will wait and let you pass sometimes. Monks in their deep red robes solemnly contemplate as they walk by.

I was really starting to like this place and could understand when Footprint said that some people stay for weeks among the prayer flags and wheels.

Although the Dalai Lama was not in town at the time I made the monastery he established, Namgyal, my first port of call. It's a pleasant walk down a narrow street lined with Tibetans selling handicrafts. After a quite strict security check I went into the temple area. Understandably it looked quite new in a sixties kind of way.

Offerings of biscuits were laid out in front of a Buddha image.

All around the temple, prayer wheels.

Around a corner was another temple which didn't have any signs pointing to it but for me was one of the most amazing places I have ever been, Kalachakra Temple Unfortunately photography was not permitted so I can't share the images I still have in my head with you. The temple itself was simple enough, Buddha at one end, a little shrine to the Dalai Lama nearby. What impressed me so much were the mandalas painted, mural style around the altar. I have a rudimentary appreciation of art but have never found anything so intricately impressive as these mandalas. They depict, in the most amazing detail, the various deities of the Buddhist pantheon (I didn't even know there was a Buddhist pantheon!) along with messages of peace and various mantras. Equally impressive to me was the statue of two deities together, Kalachakra and Visvamata. The God (Goddess?) has two heads, each with many terrible, grimacing faces, all with three eyes. From the torso spread out a myriad, perhaps 200 hands, each holding an object of significance – a lotus flower, a sword, a mace. It took me about 10 minutes of staring at it to work out what I was looking at. Another statue, of many faced and headed Avalokiteshvana, the Boddhistva of compassion, completes the collection. Tibetans believe the Dalai Lama is the incarnation of Avalokiteshvana.

The calm atmosphere was punctuated by Indian tourists coming in and noisily taking photos only to be chased around by an elderly monk who looked like he would have preferred to have been assigned another duty.

By the time I had finished my look around the temple I could hear a ruckus downstairs. It sounded like people fighting. Surely not here, of all places! On descending the stairs I discovered, to my surprise, tens of monks shouting, laughing and, to my great surprise, making ninja-style moves as if to make their points.

This is the School of Dialetics, also known as Little Lhasa, where monks come to debate. I'm not sure of the origin of the debating “moves”, or what were the topics but the flourish and clap at the end seems an effectivedebating technique. Plus they looked like they were enjoying themselves. Some had very stylised forms, others more subtle and functional.

Nearby is the Tibetan Museum with some well displayed information on the Chinese invasion and the ensuing struggles. Tibet has been a distinct culture from China through the ages and the systematic destruction of that culture alongside the transplantation of millions of ethnic Chinese into Tibet to reduce the ethnic majority to a minority is disgusting.

Some of the images were unsettling – for a Tibetan family made to dress Chairman Mao style or a Chinese construction worker grinning beside the remains of a recently destroyed temple.

There was also an interesting documentary on the Dalai Lama's receipt of the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989.

People advertise the various yoga/meditation/reiki/cooking classes and anything else which needs participants or volunteers in Macleod Ganj with the use of flyers stuck to a few walls around town.

This was how I found out about LIT, Learning and Ideas for Tibet, a charity which raises awareness of the Tibetan plight, arranges language classes for former prisoners and also puts on movies and food of an evening. So I went to the Tibetan movie and pizza night. The Cry of the Snow Lion was the name of the movie. To set this in context, the Tibetan flag, although you won't find it in an atlas, consists of the famous Mount Kailash before which two mythical beasts, snow lions, fight for a flaming gem.

It was a very well made eye opener on the atrocities of the Chinese and the the steadfastness of the Tibetans, most notably the Dalai Lama. The more I learnt about the Tibetan situation the more I became convinced that this is yet another case of cultural genocide which is being swept underneath the international carpet...

In the morning I wanted to stretch my legs so I made for Bhagsu, a little town a few km along the ridge. It was August 15^th and I had completely forgotten (being in Tibetan frame of mind) that it was Indian independence day. This meant of course that the Indians were out in force, and the obvious consequence ensued – a massive traffic jam blocking the way for trucks, taxis and rickshaws as well as pedestrians.

Happy Independence Day and all that but is it soooo necessary to beep so much and never give way? It took about an hour to walk a kilomoetre, exchanging pleasantries (of frustration) with a monk on the way. It's a strange little town, an Indian resort – big shabby hotels and an open air swimming pool beside the temple.

The main attraction, though is the waterfall. I bumped into the monk again and we walked towards it together. Tashi was his name and he had come to India a few years previously and had become a monk. He was only learning English though so I wasn't quite clear on the details.

No matter though he was nice enough company and compared to the Indians who were whooping and cavorting in the waterfall he was like my BFF.

Once again I was asked to pose in countless photos with strangers...

On the way back into town Tashi asked me if I wanted to see his house. He had only arrived in Macleod Ganj three days previously (as had I) and he wanted to show someone his home (he was very proud and kept telling me how much new stuff he had bought for it). Why not I said and he showed me his abode, complete with TV and a nice little shrine made of sea shells surrounded by money. He offered me a coke and we chatted but were a little limited. The questions I was asking about being a monk, about Tibet, about his faith, were too hard for Tashi's English. He was content to discuss the things he wanted to buy (which I thought a little strange for a monk but hey). He asked me of I wanted to move in with him (after asking how much I was paying for my room) I declined, not really in the mood for living with a monk. My little hotel room was just fine. Eventually I made my excuses, but not before Tashi presented me with a small woven mandala, a little battered, and a book by the Dalai Lama. What a nice gesture. In an attempt to reciprocate I invited him to a Sitar concert I was going to in the evening.

After this I went to my first yoga class since New Zealand. It was hatha yoga and a lot more relaxing to the bikram I was used to but enjoyable nonetheless despite my having great difficulty remembering the asanas.

Tashi was dead on time and as a result we were too early for the concert when we got there so we went to the Tibetan beer bar for something to eat. Had I just invited a Tibetan Buddhist monk on a date? Now I had not eaten meat since I was in Mumbai, over a month earlier and was not about to start now. So I ordered a plate of vegetarian momos, Tibetan dumplings and a lemon soda. Tashi ordered a massive plate of chicken on the bone the majority of which he ate with his hands. I ordered some bread which Tashi comandeered. I attempted to engage him in conversation but it wasn't easy as he was stuffing his face most of the time. When he did talk it was mostly about the new consumer goods purchases he wished to make. My expectations of what a Tibetan monk should be (vegetarian, non-materialistic) were quickly being challenged. He told me about a mysterious Canadian man he had met a few years ago who gave him C$10 a month in two bi-annual chunks. I tried to understand why he didn't live at the monastery, like the other monks, or what the daily life of a monk actually was but the language barrier was too great.

Before too long though it was time to get to the concert. It was in a hall with people sitting cross legged on the floor and a lady sang some beautiful (but very long) ghazals accompanied by the tabla first.

I think the tabla is an amazing instrument (two drums of different pitches played only with the hands).The frequent power cuts throughout the concert added greatly to the atmosphere. When the main event was ready to come on stage there was a pause – one of the tablas had broken and another had to be sourced before they could begin. I had been waiting for a long time to hear Sitar music live so I was really looking forward to it when the Jesus like figure started to play his fourteen stringed instrument.

It was very pleasant music but his first song went on for about an hour. By this stage about half the crowd left (some didn't even wait for it to finish), presumably to recover some feeling in their arses. There were only about 10 people left at the end – a shame really as he played two encores and the concert ended a lot better than it had began.

Tashi seemed to enjoy it too but admitted that his bum was sore also. As we walked back up the streets he seemed to not have any more conversation in him and I had run out of questions. I said goodbye without making arrangements to meet him again. It was all a bit strange to perpetuate.

Macleod Ganj is certainly a place where you can lose track of time. Misty days drift into one another in a peaceful, unassuming manner. I kept going to my yoga class, somehow never managing to get up in time for the more dynamic vinyasa class in the morning, preferring hatha at 4pm. I did start to feel that the teacher didn't really correct his class though. I had time to think and walk and relax. Looking at the date one day I realised I had a month left to go before heading home. I started trying to arrange meetings in London for the week I am back. I went back to the monastery for another look at the mandalas and statues. I tried and failed to take photos of the mist rolling in over the streets. I went back to LIT for Tibetan movie and momos night – this time it was Seven years in Tibet, which was much better than I had remembered it. Perhaps I had better context this time round.

I had made friends with a Danish girl, Marie, in the yoga class. One day we took a walk down in the rain to another monastery down on the side of the mountain. It was pretty but as if by magic the clouds lifted while were there. The sky and the view opened up – it felt like a new world – I could see for miles.

There were mountains above us that I didn't even know existed! In the evening I chose a restaurant called Carpe Diem for dinner. It was a bit of a surprise to see Tashi sitting there with a plate of chicken bones and a full beer in front of him. When I had met him before he at least looked a bit like a a monk, with robes on. This time he was wearing jeans and a smart shirt. The enigma grew in my mind. He had been at English class and was practicing reading.

As we were chatting someone I vaguely recognised sat down with a few peolple at the low table beside Tashi. “I'm sorry but is your name Emma”, I asked. “Yes...” came back the reply, very reasonably expecting some sort if explanation for my line of inquiry. I really had not thought about what to say next, so I went for the truth. “I used to have a crush on you when I was in primary school.” The whole restaurant went expectantly quiet, waiting for her response. I hadn't meant to embarrass her but it seems I had. She sat down and had a chat about school – she didn't remember me, but why should she, I think it was an 11 year old crush – one that you maintain from afar rather than act on. We did have, however, a pleasant conversation – she was spending a year in India volunteering and had been living all over the world. A group of Aussies who had been denied entry into the UK turned up soon afterwards and I stayed on with them swapping stories long after Tashi and Emma left. It was the third random small world encounter of the trip – Denise on a horse in Cusco, John in a street food place in Chiang Mai and Emma in Macleod Ganj.

I also did a cooking class. It was on Tibetan momos. I had had some fabulous chocolate momos at LIT and was keen to develop the ability to make these little doughy pockets of happiness myself.

Lhamo, the teacher, was perfect – great fun, a little bit of a perfectionist and happy to answer all questions – related or not to cooking as they were. In fact we learnt the basics of momos – how to make the dough, three different fillings and the way to wrap and decorate the dough so you can tell which is which when you are serving.

We made veg, spinach and cheese and sweet sesame seed but the same basics can be expanded to make them with meat and chocolate. The class was good fun and the momos were really good. I'll be making them when I get home for sure.

After over a week in Macleod Ganj the time started to weigh a bit heavy – I would have to leave at some point or decide to just stay and knit woolly jumpers for a living. So I bought a ticket on the night bus to Shimla. It really had felt like I was in Tibet rather than India – maybe that's why I liked it so much, or perhaps it was because most people I met were quite friendly. Or maybe just because I had actually met people. Whatever the reason, I was a bit sad to be leaving the first place in India I had truly become comfortable. Even the dpgs were more chilled out than usual.

Of course, when we are in our comfort zone we stop learning, so time to move again.

A fight, a family, a delay and a doctor

eoghancito — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 07:41:00 GMT

I knew it was going to an interesting journey when the fight developed as the crowd on the platform pushed forward, preventing those on the train from getting off. Nowhere seems to be immune from this phenomenon. And in India there's no point in waiting - you just have to push through or else you may never get on!

When I found my way to my berth there was a crowd of people noisily hanging around. They started telling me to do this and that which I didn't understand – “I have a ticket for this seat and all I need to do is sit down here”, I said to myself. During all this a tall policeman came along, looked at my ticket and told the crowd to leave me alone. So I could sit!

In fact the noisy group was a sending off party party for a smiley maternal type, her daughter who was studying medicine and had great English and her sister-in-law with new baby in tow. Once I had a translator they were actually good fun but I was relieved when one guy, who had taken a bit too much of a shine to me for my comfort, had to get off before the train departed. Only the ladies of the family were making the trip. It was a very friendly journey – the plump grandmother kept passing around sickly sweet but tasty treats. I took out my Hindi notes from my lesson to finally gather them into a set of notes and dictionary. One of the guys looking over my shoulder helped me out with my grammar.

Eventually I climbed up to the top bunk and read. I was surprised to sleep with the noise of the buskers, hawkers and crying babies but it's always a paranoid sleep on a train. The worst thing about it is you have no way to tell if you are on time or delayed and there is no list of stations. From the top bunk you can't see out the window anyway. The only solution is to get ready at the time your ticket says and if you happen to be on time, good for you!

In the case of this journey it was an hour late arriving into Ambala Cannt. No sweat for me as my connecting train was not for another few hours at 7am. I toyed with the idea of getting a retiring room – a basic room in the station but told myself to stop being such a wuss and deal with it. It always takes a while to find the platform anyway. The only indicator I could find seemed to be mistaken, saying that my train to Amritsar would arrive at 14.00. To my dismay on asking the information desk they confirmed that the train was indeed running seven hours late. SEVEN HOURS! Two hours killing time in a station is ok. Nine is not. Anyone official I asked told me there was nothing I could do apart from wait. There were no retiring rooms left. Any hotels were miles away in a rickshaw. Pissed off with the lack of alternatives I plonked myself down in the dingy waiting room and locked my rucksack to a chair and hoped to maybe get some sleep. Impossible with the usual shouting and the stench from the toilet.

A beggar came over to me, avoiding all the Indians, coming straight for the whitey. He said he was from Tibet. I know there are problems in Tibet but I wasn't about to hand over a wad so I apologised and he went off. A well dressed man opposite me smiled and asked where I was from.

This coverstation starter with (Maj.) Dr. Rahul Arora proved highly instrumental in my ability to get to Amritsar. After exchanging pleasantries he asked an interesting question (I was telling me about my trip). “What are the financial implication of this journey?” “Well”, I replied, “I have a lot less money now than I did a year ago!” He was on the 9.45 train to Amritsar. I wondered if I could get on it somehow and shave off 5 hours of wait time. The grandly titled Chief Ticket Inspector had told me that he had no quota left... Rahul was confident that I could not only get a new ticket for his train but get a full refund as my train was over six hours late. And he was dead right. It took me a good 90 minutes to do so and a whole lot of queuing/jostling in front of various counters but I got a new ticket and a refund.

As we waited on the platform Rahul and I chatted about anything and everything. He had lots of good advice about Amritsar, where he had taken over his father's private hospital after serving in the Indian Army. The new train ticket had been quite a bit more expensive but when the train pulled in I realised why. It was a Shatabdi Express train which means that its all AC, seated (no sleepers), has newspapers and most wondrous of all a little man comes along with a pot of tea and a biscuit. It felt like being on the 07.25 from Paddington to Gloucester. And bliss to have AC for a few hours. After we had been through both the Times of India and the Hindustani Times (which are both decent reads) Rahul and I continued our chat. I told him about my experience with the doctors in Jalgoan. He thought it interesting that I had seen two very real sides of the coin in quick succession. He charges 100 rupees for a consultation in his hospital – rich or poor, foreigner or Indian everyone pays the same. Rahul gave plenty of tips about navigating his city, how to save a few rupees by taking the 'other' exit from the station. And then to cap it all he gave me his mobile number and the address of his hospital. In case anything happened to me I was to call him immediately. What a very nice man. India has such contrasts. But they co-exist, on top of each other somehow, in the same enormous petri dish. Right. To Amritsar!

Rats in the temple, camels in the lab - Bikaner

eoghancito — Sun, 9 Aug 2009 04:45:00 GMT

Many guesthouses in India have telephones but seem rarely to deem it appropriate to answer them. Thus I arrived in Bikaner train station undecided as to where to go because nowhere would pick up the phone. As I was giving the hotel one more chance a guy aproached with a card for a guesthouse. Why not, I said to myself and went with him. After a few seconds walking he said something about having to meet someone else – could I wait at a a tea stand. Sure ... why not I fancied a cold drink anyway. A few minutes later a rickshaw came along and I got in. I was taken through hectic jam at the gate into the old town and through the typical pothole ridden alleys to the house. A neighbour eyed me up while pissing into the gutter. It had all the hallmarks of a house, rather than a guesthouse. An old lady gestured to wait, which I did, for about five minutes during which I decided that it had probably not been the best decision to come here. Finally I was shown the room. It was blatantly someone's bedroom but that fact had been ineffectively concealed. There was still a half full glass of something and what looked like a bowl of pet food on the floor beneath the badly made bed. I thanked the man but declined. Apart from all that he was charging double what I had paid for an ensuite room in Jaisalmer.

The rickshaw wallah took me to the Harasar Havelli hotel on the other side of town near the fort. It was a bit more expensive but clean and looked like sensible people would actually stay there. I had dinner at the rooftop restaurant. But it was eerily empty. Only as I was leaving did a couple come in. It seemed strange for a big hotel.

I had a busy day planned. After an early breakfast I took a packed Jodphur bound bus from Llalgarh bus stand to Deshnoke, a small town 30km to the south of Bikaner. It's famous for its temple, Karni Mata Mandir.

Here mice and rats are fed sweets and milk and revered in the belief that they are reincarnated saints. As I entered I had had a vision of a river of rats coming towards me, pied piper of hamelyn style, but in reality they mostly scurry around the edges, as rats do. A lot of them were either asleep, bloated on the vast amounts of milk they drink, or dead.

Cute was not a word that came to mind.

They do get everywhere though and languish around in a quite chilling way.

It's supposed to be good luck if you see a white rat or one crosses over your foot but I was quite contented to remain unlucky. Especially seeing as I was barefoot. The biulding itself was quite attractive with huge silver gates but 40 minutes or so was plenty.

After lunch in the hotel I had another trip planned, to the Indian national camel research centre on the outskirts of town.

I hired a rickshaw for the trip and we passed through the town which is very attractive by Indian standards with its old fort and open parks.

A man with a beard that put my own to shame showed me around the fascinating centre and was a wealth of useless camel information such as the gestation period (13 months) and the amount of hair that is shaven off one camel in a year (1kg).

They perform genetic research and breed camels suited for their roles. I hadn't known that different camels excel at different things: the dark gugarati ones are good for milk, the light Jaisalmeris are good at running and the army prefer these.

The local Bikaner ones are good at towing carts I had seen a lot of produce on camel carts throughout the day.

We saw the baby ones and the studs which are used for natural and artificial insemination. The moody teenagers who were being broken in were good fun. After a stop at the dairy for a delicious pistachio camel milk iceream I sat down in the shade to eat it. The heat was blistering, it must have been touching 40° C.

Towards twighlight the main working gang of about 200 camels majestically sauntered in from a thirsty day's toil in the desert. It was equally impressive seeing one man control so many beasts and witnessing so many creatures farting and belching in unison. I like camels much more than I thought I would.

That night's dinner was a complete contrast to the previous night's. The whole roof was jammed with groups, large and small and there was a queue of people to get seated. I was put with a guy who was also on his own, Raimundo an articulate, friendly Angolan born Portuguese guy who ran a club in Lisbon. His English was thankfully far superior to my Portuguese and we had a good chat. It proved somewhat challenging to order though and it was close to 11pm when my food came along. By this stage a little tabla band had started up. The high pitched singing reminded me of the gypsies in the Thar desert. Then one got up and started dancing, having great success getting most of the women from the large Spanish group beside us to join in. Raimundo gave a great show himself.

One thing that Raimundo and I had noticed was that India was not a particularly easy place to meet fellow travellers. He usually took his annual month long holiday diving in Indonesia and I think he was revising the decision. He had hired a driver to take him around Rajasthan – a very different approach from mine. Once again though it was a short encounter - he was off in the morning to Jaisalmer and I had decided to push on to Amritsar the next day.

The train wasn't leaving until the afternoon so I had some more time in Bikaner in the morning. I strolled down to the fort and into the busy streets beyond.

A young local struck up a conversation and asked if I wanted to be shown around. He assured me he didnt want money, just to practice his English so I agreed. We went into the old town and walked through the narrow trading alleys. As always they were split into sections with each shop selling identical stuff side by side.

I declined a visit to the Jain temple in favour of going to the spice market. It felt a little but like a scam completely losing my sense of direction as we went through smaller and smaller lanes but eventually we came to the spice street.

I love the atmosphere in these streets, its very orientalism and stares – from and at the unusual outsider. Men carefully weighing out sugar crystals while others chew pan and spit.

I enjoyed the walk but my companion seemed to no longer want to practice his English so I spent most of he journey walking behind him. He finally took me to a little local craft shop so I bought a few postcards to acknowledge his services. Then he asked me for money, the little shit. I didn't give him any.

Jodphur: an unexpected kite festival and an engagement party

eoghancito — Fri, 7 Aug 2009 13:33:00 GMT

Having no hotel booked in Jodphur the rickshaw wallah took me to a place in the back streets. I didn't feel confident that Pushp would be a good place. Why would someone name their guesthouse after a push up?

In fact, Pushp is named for the family that owns it and it was an excellent place to stay – very welcoming and friendly, clean and cheap. Pushp is located in a maze of tiny streets to the north west of the clock tower. After dumping my bags I went up to the roof to have a look around.

My arrival just happened to coincide with a lovely old festival where everyone in town goes up to their roof and flies kites. A recent addition seems to be the blaring of banghra hits. There was a great atmosphere, young and old alike skillfully managing the simple kites made of paper and plastic.

If there was such a festival in Europe I'm sure it would turn into an arms race of superkites – here everyone is happy with the simple, cheap ones. The Pushp family were very friendly and encouraged myself and the other lodgers, 2 Canadian girls and a German fellow, to try our hands at flying the kites but we were all crap. It's deceptively difficult!

Jodphur is often called the blue city after the myriad of blue houses surrounding the massive Meherangahr fort which dominates the entire city. It's a popular myth that the houses are blue because that is the colour associated with the high Brahmin caste who occupy the majority of houses under the shadow of the fort. In fact the town has had a terrible termite problem for years and the addition of copper sulphate to the limestone used to paint the walls creates an attractive baby blue colour.

I went for a wander around the town in the late afternoon, through the charismatic alleyways down to the elegant clock tower and the market which surrounds it.

It was just closing down so there wasn'y the usual hustle and bustle but I got the impression it was a local's market where people wouldn't hassle you to buy stuff like in Jaisalmer. I finally found an ATM and returned to the guesthouse. The kite flying and general festivities really heat up in the early evening when everyone comes out. The wind often gusts to break the string or cat gut that the kites are held with. Great excitement is had when someone manages to catch a kite which had been set free. Like The family on the opposite roof were out too (everyone was) and Mr Pushp came across to us (guests) with an invitation – the daughter of the family had got engaged and they were having a party the following night – would we like to go? Well there is only one answer to that kind of question – “Of course!!” Manual, the German had been planning to leave the followong day but he changed his plans to be able to go. Jodphur had already provided an unexpected festival and an invitation to a party. I liked it already.

I arranged to visit the fort with the Canadian girls, Elise and Julie who were both teachers. They were good company (and yet more French language practice) as we made for the imposing building after breakfast.

The fort was begun in 1459 by Rao Jodha but not before someone sacraficed himself to become part of the foundations as a good omen. Once again I'm not sure exactly where he fits in but he was Muslim.There is a very good audio guide which takes you through the extremely well preserved palace.

Near the spiked main gate there are the handprints of the concubines and wives of the Maharaja Ajit Singh who commited Sati. Sati is the practice of throwing oneself on the funeral pyre of the leader. It was quite common at the time!

Inside the palace were beautiful displays of palanquins and howdahs and the glimpse palace, where the palace ladies in their zenana would look at court proceedings through the jali screens without themselves being seen.

It was all put in context well by the audioguide and the view from the battlements was amazing. Jodphur might be twisty and easy to get lost in at street level but it looks great from above.

Across from the fort is the cremation grounds for the deceased royals, the Jaswant Thada. It had some pleasant gardens but a load of rip off merchant rickshaw wallahs so we ended up strolling back down to town through the windy streets to the clocktower, market in full swing now and we had lunch nearby. The girls took in a Bollywood movie while I went to find the internet and get hopelessly lost returning to Pushp.

When I eventually found my way back the guys were already over at the party. I followed them over and was lead up through ladder like stairs up to the top roof section where a few groups were sat around in the half light. The Pushp family soon joined us and a plate of delicious local delicacies was brought over. Over the shared food we chatted with those around us but it was Mr Pushp's stories of the origins of the Hindu Gods which were most memorable.

All of a sudden we were not asked exactly, more it was implied that we should be leaving... another few groups had arrived and they needed to be fed and watered. They had been having sittings like this all day! Thankfully Manual had sorted out a small gift (chocolate and perfume!) and on the way out we finally got to see the bride-to-be. She looked mortified, poor girl. It must be tough to go through this very public process of meeting the stranger that her parents had selected for her to spend the rest of her life with. Not exactly romantic...

We were told to come back later after the eating for the music so we passed the time on the guesthouse roof chatting about the pros and cons of arranged marriages. Mr Pushp lives in a joint family with his brother and his wife and child. The arrangement, which he was delighted with, essentially created a family with four parents and two children. The synergy makes a lot of sense for them. Family is so much more all pervading here but I can imagine there are many drawbacks to the approach.

The night grew later and there was no sign of any music so people started drifting off to bed. We were all moving on the next day, my new friends south to Udaipur on an early bumpy bus while I would be heading north to Bikaner. I had heartily enjoyed Jodphur but I felt the need to keep trucking. Just as we were saying our goodbyes the musicians started to set up but it was after midnight.

When they did get going I had a front row balcony seat from my window. After an hour or so they saw me filming them and gestured for me to join them but it was late and I was happy to listen to the lilting (but very loud) music from afar. It didn't bother me in the least to lie awake listening.

Camels and gypsies in the Jaisalmer desert

eoghancito — Wed, 5 Aug 2009 11:43:00 GMT

The combination of sleeping aids did their job, much to my surprise, but I found myself waking up in Jaisalmer to the din of hundreds of touts and rickshaw wallahs shouting in through the bus windows. I never enjoy this part of travelling but you just can't stay on the bus! I had booked a room ahead and left my name with the hotel to try and impose some semblance of order but it didnt work. No-one had my name – the one person who had a sign from the hotel told me I was Kevin from France. In the end I went with him anyway – at least he had a sign. Luckily it was the right decision.

Jaisalmer looms out of the desert like a fairytale fort. It's the type of place you expect Ali Baba and his fourty thieves to pillage, with a massive walls and imposing gate leading to a maze of dim alleys blocked with obstinate cows. The hotel, the Desert Haveli inside the fort, near the Jain temple was cheap and clean. The building is 500 years old and the basic air cooled rooms have great views out over the desert. Moona, the hospitable manager told me a little about the place over chai – “not free, complimentary!”

The owner had died suddenly a few months ago, leaving a young wife and son behind. He was very happy that I had arrived, the first of the month. This is a good omen for his business for the month - “You very lucky, sir! Thank you for coming today!” He then told me, with an unnerving smile, that his wife was in hospital having an operation. I made my apologies and I had some breakfast on the roof, looking out at the desert scrub.

After a nap I went for a wander around, first of all getting completely lost in the alleys and lanes of the fort and then doing the same again outside its walls.

Jaisalmer literally oozes atmosphere - the faces of the people on the streets are so different from anywhere else. I found myself in the main market street, Ghandi Chowk, looking for an ATM but they all seemed to be locked shut or empty. After a great dinner overlooking the chowk I returned to the havelli. One of the main things to do in Jaisalmer is go on a camel safari so I wanted to discuss the options with Moona.

Abdul, Moona's busy sidekick reminds me a bit of myself when I lived with my parents. Not that I had it tough by any test but any time anything needed to be gotten from outside the hotel, or in particular when there was chai to be made, “ABDUL!!!!” is shouted, he apprears and duly goes and gets whatever is needed, or makes the chai. Over Abdul's excellent chai Moona took me through how they run the safari and it all sounds good. The ideal scenario for me would have been to join a group doing 2 days and 1 night. It just so happened that an Aussie couple were leaving in the morning so I signed up there and then. An hour or so later Moona knocked on my door with a problem – the couple were honeymooners and didn't want a hairy Irish man crashing their romantic party. So I wouldn't be leaving in the morning after all. Good for me I could have a lie-in!

What started as a lie-in turned into quite a lazy day. After breakfast I wasn't fully in the mood for persuading the vendors that I really did not want to buy anything so I continued catching up on the blog and enjoying the shade in the room. Moona (of course) had been keen for me to go out and try to sell the safari to other tourists but really, that was his job – I would certainly help if needed but I wasn't about to start accosting strangers. In the afternoon I got a knock on the door from Abdul - “Come upstairs”, he said. A French couple were on the roof with Moona and Ramesh, who actually does the camel safari. They were chatting about maybe doing a safari but neither Ranesh or Moona was able to close the sale. I guess they had called me up hoping I could... It was quite clear to me that the French guys, Adrien and Margot had in fact not decided what they wanted to do at all in Jaisalmer so I didn't bother trying to get them to sign up. In fact they were much more concerned about their camera which had just rolled over died on them. I told them I was going for a walk around town I offered to share my photos with them if they wanted to come along and share my camera.

That decided we went out and took some snaps. Some of the old sandstone havelis in Jaislamer are beautiful. Because of the dry desert air the intricate carving work has survived well in many places. Some houses have particularly ornate jalis which allow the air and some light in allowing the house to be cooled naturally.

Less ornate but just as practical were the long column shaped stones kept over the battlements. They were simply rolled over the top to incapacitate anyone trying to scale the walls. We got on well on our wander – it was good to be able to use my French again. I told them that I was going on the camel safari tomorrow (I did after all have a vested interest in having some company) and they decided to come along. They also decided to buy a camera too. Adrien went off to get the camera while Mango (as the hotel guys had started to call her) came back to the hotel to book up.

We were going to all gfo out for dinner but we all seemed tired to we decided to do our own thing. I looked in the guide book for a decent place to eat nearby (the food in the hotel had been great, I just wanted a change of scenery!) I found a place called palace view that was nearby. I found it, very close to the haveli and made my way up to the roof. The waiter seemed to know everything about me – where I was from, when I had arrived, when I was going on safari, down to what I had had for breakfast for the past few days. Suddenly, looking at the menu, identical to the one at the hotel, iot twigged. Palace view does all the catering for Desert Haveli. I might as well have stayed on the roof of my hotel – the orders are given and served over a wall. I loved the coincidence and had some great deep fried bhaji like things called pakora and a chocolate pancake for good behaviour.

Moona banged at my door in the morning saying there was a problem. When I went up to the roof Adrien was there, mangoless. She was sick and they couldn't go. I understood their predicament but I could not wait a third day. I had to go, and beside they were leaving the next day anyway so they wouldn't be able to go either. Moona was annoyed as only 12 hours before he had been ordering extra camels and buying food for us all. He was looking for 50% severance fees which was a bit steep but then again it was very short notice. Adrien paid a bit less and finally I was off on the safari. I suspected it was going to be more introspective than I had hoped for, going alone, but not to worry.

We visited a Jain temple on the way out to meet the camels. It was pleasant, serene and very ornate but I wasn't really in the mood for more temples. I declined the offer to visit the second in favour of meeting the camels.

Ramesh was waiting for me with our steeds, the well-named Johnnie Walker and Rocket. Ramesh had told me about Johnnie Walker at length the previous day, proudly informing me that he and Johnnie had won the camel races at the annual Jaisalmer camel fair. I was to be riding Johnnie Walker.

I got my leg over the high saddle and before I had settled down Johnnie was doing that unusual stand up routine that only camels do. We were off.

Ramesh held the reins for a while and then passed them over to me. Within minutes our speed had increased from a walk to a canter. I didn't even know camels could canter! It wasn't all that dissimilar from horse riding, except that it's a lot higher up. I found myself quite intrigued by these strange animals. I had been expecting tick ridden, smelly, foul breathed creatures but in fact they proved to be strong and elegantly clumsy in an a stoically dopey way. Well their breath does smell quite bad, but they have great expression in their faces. It's as if they want to tell you where to go but are too busy chewing the cud to bother.

The landscape was more like scrubland that desert but it was intensely hot despite some cloud cover. The first trek lasted about 3 hours, during which we were trailed by a mangy dog hoping for some scraps from lunch and passed by some simple obelisks at the top of hills. I thought they might be grave markers but Ramesh corrected me – they were made by local shepherds to kill the boredom.

When we broke for a rest it was as much to allow the camels some time without their heavy saddles and to get some food as for me or Ramesh.

He got straight to making a tasty vegetable byriani, unearthing a tiny scorpion in the process, I collected brushwood for the camp fire.

Afterwards I put on some tunes – Johnny cash seemed very appropriate for this scorching midday heat. He also helped us both nod off.

When we awoke the camels were nowhere to be seen. Ramesh dispatched me to find them while he cleaned up. They were only on the other side of a hill so no biggy. Ramesh retrieved them and out back on their saddles and we were off again. The sun was really beating down now. Camels sweat a sticky black substance and they have their sweat glands just underneath the back of their heads so you can see when they are straining.

The landscape slowly started to change from scrub into the more dune-like images that you would associate with the Sahara. Just on the edge of the dunes we stopped – this was where we would camp for the night, deep nito the Thar Desert only a few km from the Pakistani Border. The journey had been what I expected but I was a bit disappointed to hear Ramesh on his mobile almost constantly thoughout.

Ramesh asked me something funny when I got off the camel – “you like cold drink?” I knew he didn't have a fridge hidden in there so I failed to see the point in the question. Less than 3 minutes after the question a man carrying a heavy box on his shoulders appeared on the horizon. I should have known it was the cold drinks man!

We chatted and I joked that Ramesh kept getting many calls from ladies in the desert. My sense of humour seemed to go over his head and he asked me if I wanted a lady. Instead, I indulged in beers for Ramesh and I and as we sipped I tried to teach him cacho. He didn'.t get it at all but still beat me. He was good company but there was too much time and too few areas of common ground for a decent conversation to develop.

After collecting a lot of firewood Iwandered off into the dunes – it's such an inhospitable environment it's hard to imagine anything living there. But dung beetles were busy pushing poo about the place and of course the camels are more than at home there. It really is an amazingly beautiful and peaceful place though. However it was windy and the sand was getting whipped into my eyes so I headed back to camp.

It was good to have a bit of a change when a few people from the local village turned up. Ramesh had asked me if I wanted to hear some gypsy desert music and see some dancing (for a price). I agreed (for a lower price). They sat and spoke Rajasthani for about an hour while Ramesh prepared the food.

I made a few cursory attempts at communication but Ramesh wasn't gifted with sufficient translation skills to allow a conversation to develop. I had another wander round the dunes, this time keeping my eye on the amazing sunset.

By the time I returned dinner was ready. For some bizarre reason the whole group that had now assembled watched me eat my rice, dhal fry and chappati bread in awe before anyone else would put hand to mouth. I was also the only one eating with a spoon. Everyone else mashed everything up into a pulp and then popped it into their mouths in bitesize chunks. It was great food, simply cooked on a fire and the chappatis made just with flour, salt and water were particularly tasty.

Night fell soon enough and with it emerged many more insects. Beetles were rolling dung all over me so we went over to the sand to get comfortable for the show. The cast were all gypsies from the local village, an older, fatherly gentleman who played a snake charmer flute, his 2 daughters who sang, all joined later by a son who played a drum of sorts. There was an audience of me, Ramesh. Johnnie Walker and Rocket had long since lost interest.

It was hard to see the performers in the half light but the high pitched unusual sound of the flute was made for the desert night. The girls then came in with incredibly high pitched, loud repetive mantra chants. They play a few numbers, traditional desert songs that had been handed down through the generations, after which the younger girl started to dance. It was a bit like belly dancing but not so revealing or erotic. She seemed miffed when I declined to dance with her but I didn't feel bad. No-one, least of all me, would benefit from my dancing plus it all felt just a tiny bit sleazy.

At a certain point the cold drinks man appeared over the dunes carrying 2 beds. Where he brought them from I will never know. I was happy to keep listening to the wonderful, unusual music but the dancing girl kept asking me up to dance and I kept refusing. Eventually I tired of the slightly strange atmosphere and settled down to my rickety metal bed on the dune.

The wind whipped sand cruelly into my face but after I had organised my scarf properly I actually slept really well. I had been expecting to wake up with the sun and look at it rise over the dunes but in fact Ramesh woke me at 7am with a plate of toast and a cup of chai. Breakfast in Bed in the desert – I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't there myself!

Back in the saddle, Johnnie had been misbehaving so he (and I) had to suffer the ignominy of being made to walk behind Rocket and watch him poop prodigiously.

We made for the nearby gypsy village where the singers and musicians had come from. It was quite a depressing place – makeshift lees providing shelter from the wind and sun for a combination of dirty children and dirty goats. When they saw us coming the kids came over in force begging for ruppees and chocolate. I held fast although it was hard to look at their needy wanting faces and say no.

It was another long trek across the scrub until we came to a gorgeous oasis where Ramesh let the camels have a well deserved drink, also I noted taking one himself from the same water.

Nearby we had the tastiest meal so far, a lovely spicy potato curry. Ramesh spotted a friend of his somewhere and went off to chat to him. I had a lot of time to kill here, but Vikram Seth's “A Suitable Boy”, the epic Indian story kept me in good company. It was only at this point that I started to get tired of the whole thing. Riding the camels was not very comfortable but equally not sore. That said I had suddenly started to feel quite stiff.

When Ramesh eventually returned we made a camel stop, swapping Rocket, who had been giving Ramesh trouble, for Hilton who was given over to me. Hilton was a much more malleable beast who seemed to actually care what I did with the reins. Johnnie had tended to follow his own nose. On this last stretch with Hilton I felt I was getting better at this camel riding thing – I could get Hilton to go into a camel sprint without use of the reins and I was sitting better but I couldn't get away from the fact that my arse was now not only killing me but completely caked in sand. I had enjoyed walking in the dunes, seeing the sheep herders and learning about some of the customs (camel milk is supposed to help a lot with cancer while opium is still used to cure diarrhea) but I was glad it finished when it did. On the way back to Jaisalmer the driver picked up another safari group, an Argentinean guy who was doing some research in Delhi and two French girls. They had clearly not enjoyed their safari or each other's company and it was a silent ride home. Maybe it had been better to do it on my own after all.

The shower, despite it being little more than a trickle in the new room, was bliss.

Afterwards I got the next leg of transport, to Jodphur organised and picked up a few groceries before having a good long skype chat with Claire. It's good to talk. I went back to the Palace view for dinner, just because I thought it was funny and had an early night. Moona was in good form. He had blamed the fact that the hotel was almost full and that 4 of the guests were going on safaris the next day roundly on my good luck. Whatever works for him!

Hinduism, Hindi and meditation guitar: Udaipur

eoghancito — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 14:48:00 GMT

Udaipur is a picturesque city set on a lake where a large part of Octopussy, the James Bond movie, was filmed. I had booked rooms in the Udai Niwas hotel right beside the main temple, in the middle of the old town. Even from the rickshaw ride into town it was obvious that something had changed for the better. It was sunny for starters, and warm and dry. Gone were the nasty smells, replaced by spices and incense. The streets were clean (as clean as can be expected) and the buildings were old, meaningful and looked after.

It felt like arriving in India for the first time. About 300 years ago. Of course as a result there are more tourists and more tourists mean more touts and scams. You can't have it all! The room wasn't ready so Giles and I killed time with breakfast in the rooftop restaurant with spectacular views over the nearby temple, palace further up the hill, the lake with its island palaces and the mysterious forts perching on the hills in the distance.

It was immensely pleasant after the last few days in the mist. After a freshen up we strolled about drinking in the atmosphere.

The ghats, the steps down to the river where people used to and still do wash and bathe, played home to a collection of blissfully lazy cows.

A guy who tried to convince us that we should immediately go to his tailor shop to get suited up told us that we were lucky with our timing. Only two weeks before the lake had been dry and people were getting across to the fancy hotel in jeeps rather than cruisers. Everything here seems to depend so much on the rain, and all I was selfishly asking it to lay off. In common with other old cities, the streets are made up of professions, like saree street.

I had a few chores to do. I would be in India long enough to justify a local sim card and my bag had started to tear so i needed to get them sorted. To get a sim in India you need to provide proof of address in India and a passport photo. I have no understanding of why either are necessary. I got away with a card from the hotel and an old pre-beard photo.

The lady who I asked to fix my bag had never fixed a bag before it seems. She sewed all the wrong bits together and made it worse so I had to start again elsewhere. It was great to have an excuse for going down all these tiny streets, working out how to negotiate the cow in the way, placidly chewing the cud wondering why the strange man is looking at it.

We had a late lunch in another rooftop cafe – you get decent exercise in Udaipur running up and down all the stairs. As we were tucking in some kind of Hindu procession got tangled up with a school bus near the main square. On the way back I wasn't paying attention and nearly got knocked into the gutter by a large elephant.

This was starting to feel more like the India I had imagined.

In the evening it seemed every restaurant was showing Octopussy. I hadn't seen it in years and was looking forward to it. I am a big fan of Bond movies but Roger Moore has never floated my boat. This movie reminded me why with its tired, dated plot, hammy overacting. I asked the guy serving us if he liked it and how many times he had seen it. “16 years I have been working here” he said, “and I hate this film. It is a shit!” I couldn't have put it better – I didn't stay for the finale.

I was in the mood for some cultural exploring the next day so after breakfast I visited the beautiful Jagdish Mandir temple. It has a long set of steps up to it, and then its shape carries on up towards the Gods. I didn't see a sign saying “no photography” in the inner sanctum but a young guy sidled up to me and warned me before the tell-tale flash. He offered to show me around. Usually I turn down these offers but this guy seemed ok so I let him point out the key features. There was a healing stone, smoothened through use, against which people rub the bits of their body that aren't working any more. The roof of the temple had intricate designs indicating the wheel of reincarnation: animals at the bottom, then humans, some dancing, others fighting or in Kama Sutra poses and then deities the further up you go. The flag at the top indicates that it is active.

I can't say that I have taken in much Hindu yet but from what I can gather here are the basics. There is a trinity of Gods, Brahma the creator, Siva the destroyer / restorer and Visnu the preserver. Ganesh, the elephant headed son of Siva and Parvati is quite popular and represent good beginnings and is the remover of obstacles. There are lots and lots of other gods too and they tend to have wives and consorts too. Each has a meaning or representation, such as femininity, desire or protection, an iconography and a following. They also have multiple incarnations just to complicate things for monotheists.

I think a story goes a bit like this (Sorry if I've got it wrong). Parvati, the goodess mother of the earth and wife of Shiva the destoyer was at home, bathing, scrubbing the sand and dirt from her body. The sand formed into a son, who she called Ganesh. She sent Ganesh outside the house to guard her dignity against anyone coming in. “Even if your father Shiva comes do not let him in.” Shiva, meanwhile was out hunting – he sent a man of his to give word to his wife that he would be home soon with food and to prepare the fire. The man tried to carry out his orders but after fighting and losing against Ganesh, returned to Shiva. Furious with this story, Shiva wondered who this boy was and decided to go and kill him himself – whoever he is how dare he behave such at the house of Lord Shiva. They fought long and hard but Shiva eventually won, decapitating Ganesh with a swift flick of his sword. Parvati, on seeing what had happened cried “Shiva, what are you doing? This is our son!” On realising his error Shiva fell to his knees and cried also. When this initial grief passed he saw that Parvati was inconsoleable so he tried to remedy the situation. “The next man or beast to come down the road from the mountain shall give up their own head so Ganesh can live again” Lo and behold, an elephant came down the road and thus Ganesh has to this day the head of an elephant. But Parvati was not placated. The only way she would forgive Shiva for his deed was to make Ganesh the first, the first whom people pray to - before even Shiva. So, Ganesh is worshipped and prayed to for new beginnings of any sort – births, engagements, marriages, new businesses..

The deities were set a task, to go around the whole world and tell everyone about the gods. Each deity chose an animal vehicle, such as a lion or a ram to bear them on their mammoth journey. Ganesh chose a mouse and ran around the abode of Shiva and Visnu once, snappily fulfilling his task. He's a bit of a wiseguy, I think people like hime for that too. As you can see I really don't know what it's all about yet – but it's certainly interesting when I can make something out. Anyway there were a few deities in little temples outside the main one. Shiva and ganesha on either side and Vishnu atop Garuda, his mythical eagle vehicle. Interesting that Indonesia, the world's most populous Muslim country decided on a Hindu name for its national airline.

After the temple and avoiding its slightly perturbing sadhus, wandering ascetics who usually only have a loincloth, a begging bowl and a beard to their name, I made for the city palace.

It was built over the course of successive generations of the Mewar line. The line is still running and they proudly proclaim that they are the longest serving dynasty in the world. The palace is entered by a tripiola gate which opens onto a wide courtyard and garden, complete with humps for mounting elephants, a wall over which they fought (elephants) for sport and a place where the head -wallah (forgive my impertinence - the Maharana) was publicly weighed on an annual basis - his weight in gold would be distributed to the poor and needy. Weight watchers eat your heart out! (ED Just re-read that. So bad I have to leave it in.)

The palace itself is an imposing building with an impressive entrance, overlooking the city on one side and the lake on the other.

Underneath a golden image of the sun (the maharanas are descended directly from the sun) are the steps down from the main doors. They have an elephant sized step and a horse sized step, but none for people Anyone coming out of the main door would be getting on a horse, carriage or elephant.

Although still inhabited by the Royal family is mostly given over to an interesting museum. Much of the museum revolves around the life and times of Maharana Pratap Singh who successfully defended Udaipur against the Mughals and his faithful horse Chetak who he used to dress in a fake elephant trunk to bamboozle the enemy.

It's a luxuriously over the top place with ruby mirrored rooms, decoratively tiled images and exquisite courtyards. It must have been some life to lead here, but too gawdy for my liking.

I met back up with Giles in the afternoon..We had planned to take a boat across to the Lake palace but we had left it too late. He had decided to continue on to Ajmer in the East while I was heading for Jaisalmer in the West. We booked our respective tickets (no train to Kaisalmer so I was on another bus) and bumped into a character on the street. His name is Shariq Parvez and is a talented musician and artist. I quite like, but don't have much, sitar music. Shariq makes his own 'meditation guitar' music using an instrument he invented himself, a cross between a Hawaiian slide guitar and a complicated looking traditional Rajhastani string instrument. He played me his music and it was haunting, very good and then we had a good old chat about music. He offered to give me some of his tunes on MP3 and I went up to get my USB stick and iPod so I could play him some Rodrigo and Gabriela who I thought he would appreciate. He did, very much and wanted to get it off my ipod. I told him of my ipod troubles in Uruguay and he understood the complications. It was great chatting to him and I agreed to call in the next day. It was already dark when I said goodbye.

After a rooftop cheese toastie with Giles we said our farewells and parted company. We had different objectives for our trips to India and we both knew that they would be better achieved flying solo. He had an early train while I was on a dreaded night bus. I had a hindi course booked for the following morning. Footprint had recommended Meenu from Queen Cafe so I packed up and made my way across the bridge to meet her. We sat cross legged overlooking the kitchen/cafe and she took me through the very basics, hello, thank you etc. Hindi is very different from any of the latin based languages I know so it was hard for me to make associations to remember. I needed a few rules rather than just learn the sounds off verbatim. I asked Meenu for some more grammar. Meenu has learnt English from foreigners and her brain does not work through grammar. I think I was a difficult student for her ... questions about subjects and objects and auxuliary verbs!

But she was very patient and we took breaks from language by having little chats and cups of chai which her mother took us from downstairs. After about four hours I had built up a hunger so ordered one of the special curries for which her mother is famous. I chose a good sweet and spicy pumpkin curry. Meenu's raucous kids came home from school while I was still eating.

They were gregarious and good fun but well behaved, taking as many photos with my camera as they could but never quite getting to grips with the focus.

My head as well as my belly was full by now so I called it a day for the lesson. I was going to have to write all the words down in some form of structure if I was to learn anything.

But I wasn't in the mood for that so I relaxed on the hotel roof for a while before trying to find Shariq. He had said that he would be at the mosque that day so could not be sure about time so I wasn't surprised to see his shop closed and went back to the hotel. I tried his shop a few times over the next few hours but eventually the time came for me to catch my bus so I wasn't able to say goodbye. Or give him some music in return. I'm sure there's karma there somewhere.

I was prepared for the worst of journeys. I knew it was going to be a bumpy ride to Jodphur and not much better on the second bus to Jaisalmer. It was, as Mark McMahon, my mate who made his own round the world trip last year, would say, a right arse rattler of an Indian bus.

It wasn't that the road was bad per se, just that about every mile or so there was a massive B-BUMP as the coach rolled over what felt like breeze blocks. After the Vietnam bus experience I had decided to avoid 'sleeper' and had a chair instead. I was ok reading for a while but then it became impossible to hold the book steady so I got out the headphones and hoped the time would pass quickly, which it did. In Jodphur those heading on to Jaisalmer were changed onto another bus, this one equipped with an incredibly loud and lengthy horn, even by Indian standards. I took a Dozile pill, put on the eye mask, ear plugs and pillow hoped to get some sleep in spite of the comedy horn and the man behind me with the curly moustache who kept opening my window and not allowing me to recline.

That's not our train. Is it?

eoghancito — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 14:40:00 GMT

It was an auspicious start to the day. As I ate breakfast there was a beautiful hindu song on the radio with a hypnotic, repetitive mantra. I had been reading “Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert. The author had been struggling to concentrate during the mantras chanted during her stay at an Indian ashram. I asked the manager what was the name of the song. It was the very same mantra that yer wan had been having trouble with! I took it to be a positive omen for the comfort, speed and ultimate success of another battle against India to get somewhere.

It started well enough. We were on a direct bus to Indore for a start, and it left on time at 9am. But after two inexplicable 30 minute waits in downtrodden market towns and another shower we found ourselves back in Dhar. Rain or shine, night or day, Dhar bus stand is identically unattractive.

Five hours in the rickety bus, listening to the deafening horns of ever increasing complexity. Why is it necessary to beep a 30 second long 120 decibel off-key melody when there is nothing, not even a lizard, around?? I had lost the optimism of earlier in the day, becoming hard and determined – it was time to return to the train system.

As soon as we arrived Giles saw a new side to my character, which most of my colleagues and certainly Claire, over the course of the trip, would recognise. Highly-motivated-no-time-for-fanny-arsing-around-Eoghan. He tends to get things done. We got a rickshaw to the station. The rickshaw-wallah took us to the bus stand rather than the railway, despite my protestations. I directed him back around and left him no doubt in his mind that he would not be getting an extra 20 Rupees for getting us to the right place on second attempt. Chancer.

In the station the information desk was manned by a blind man who seemed to be giving some sort of stand up comedy performance to a group of grinning locals. So not much information. When we found what looked like a queue (the word does not really do the reality justice) Giles, graciously recognising my humour, offered to mind the bags and let me sort things out. After 30 minutes of fending off queue jumpers I reached the top, only to be informed that I had to go to another building across the street (the ticket office, sensibly enough) in order to get the ticket to Kota and then the transfer to Udaipur.

I strided across the road, Indian style - heedless of the cows, beeps and traffic. I had a large rucksack covered in a bright holy dirty saffron cover – they could see me so they could bloody well stop for me for a change. We got a waitlisted ticket from Kota to Udaipur but ... it was too late to reserve to train to Kota so we had to go back to the station to get an unreserved ticket. Finally we had gotten all the tickets, asked people which platform, gotten snacks, water and a guide to India's train system and were sitting on the platform one whole hour before the departure time. With a rocket in the right place you can get a lot done in an hour or two.

I started to relax again. I leafed through the train book – I had been expecting a sort of pocket size book with a few maps and timetables but the train system is way too complicated for that. It's about the size of a secondary school science book and is a masterpiece in complication. It reminds me a bit of la Guia 'T', Buenos Aires' indisepnsible bus guide but on a far far far grander scale.

The 2^nd class unreserved tickets for the 7 hour journey from Indore to Kota had cost all of 90 rupees each – about a pound. Neither if us had been in unreserved, so we would see what that meant on the train. One was at the platform already. Giles asked a few people if this was the right train and they all said no.. wait for next one. So we did.

There were a lot more characters this end of the train – the usual “which country sir?” merchants but also some pilgrims of some sect or another, complete with a handpowered wheel chair of the like I had not seen for a few weeks at least. They told Giles off for smoking on the platform.

Over chai, we chatted and finally watched the train pull out of the station at 16.20. Our departure time. You can see where this is going. It was our train. We had taken the word of random strangers of good solid platform information. I rifled through the portly Indian Railways at a Glance and confirmed that we had indeed been stupid enough to watch our train and only hope of getting to Udaipur, chuff slowly out of the platform. I was livid with myself, but there was no point crying over spilt milk so we left the platform and made our way back to the ticket office. I admit there was a little less spring in my step this time. On the upside, we found a decent enough hotel not too far away and managed to get reserved tickets for the same journey the next day. This side of Indore was better than we had seen and had more facilities. I never thought this was something there was demand for but I stand illuminated:

I got some spare ear drops and antibiotics (you never know) and found an internet cafe and a place that sold pizza and milkshake, ending up the hotel for a few philosophical beers with Giles. A decent lie-in and after breakfast I did some blogging. Giles found a place to finally cash his traveller's cheques. I arranged some rooms in a hotel in Udaipur. Sharing was fine but sometimes you need your own space. All in all it had been a pleasant and useful stay and we were ready for the trip to Udaipur now. Plus we would avoid the scary mystery of second class unreserved with our shiny sleeper tickets. Helpfully, they now had the train number and name on it and the carriage our names and berths in English and Hindi, making getting on the train foolproof.

Sleeper class is a three tier bunk bed with room for 6 to sit on the lower berth (which is why is good to get upper). A young family going to Kota and an elderly couple doing a pilgrimage joined us. They were friendly and considerate in direct contrast to the family of about 20 who spilled from their berth into our own, their own screaming kids competing with the tinny bhangra music coming out of their shiny mobile phones. I opened my laptop, started typing ignored as best I could the noisy family and the constant stream of urchins cleaning the floor with rags and begging for coins. At one point a one man band came in and gave a great busker show. Many people seem to live on the train going up and down the carriages selling food, water, newspapers, hot meals, anything. It would be quite feasible to spend weeks on a train and not need to get off for anything. Feasible, but not perhaps totally enjoyable the whole time.

After a while things settled down and people started to sleep but I read. I was too paranoid about falling asleep and missing the stop. We pulled into Kota station after midnight and the train to Udaipur was due in an hour. Indian train stations usually smell distinctly badly of shit, despite the constant requests, aural and visual, for patrons not to use the toilets in the station. They also tend to house many of the homeless so the platforms are scattered with rags and the few possessions of skin and bone people who seem to sleep all the time.

A trustafarian from Oregon, the first westerner we'd seen in a long while, came up to us. He had an unreserved ticket to Delhi but wasn't sure of the platform. Giles and I nodded wisely, recounted our tale and told him to make sure he knew the train number so he could make sure to be on it. Giles chatted away to him while I read. He didn't heed our advice though and his train left with him looking on, as we had one day before. Ours however was only a half an hour late. We had a better class thus time, back to 2AC. It was silent, dark and cool in the carriage and not long after putting my torch out I was out for a surprisingly good sleep. Barring catastrophe I would be in Udaipur in the morning, and hopefully out of the Monsoon!

Why Mandu?

eoghancito — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 14:19:00 GMT

The unmistakable stench of a combination of human excrement and decaying rubbush hit me as soon as I alighted the train. It was only a three hour train ride. My first, in Sleeper class was just fine but not quite as well equipped as AC class. Khandwa was on the map but not mentioned in the guide book. How hard could it be to get to Mandu?

Khandwa was not in the guide book for a reason – it consisted of a train station, a few bedraggled stalls selling random stuff and a bus station filled with philosophical cows sitting in their own pats. No-one had a word of English (not that they should, of course) but I did get the message that there were no direct buses to Mandu. One shop seller told me I had to go to Dhar and catch one from there. That would leave at 1.30. It was 9.30am. I took a seat, bought some somosas and bhajis and started to read. Or try to read.

People often approach you in India, sometimes out of genuine curiosity, others to sell something or scam you. One man who, wearing a finely stitched silken beige outfit, much better dressed than anyone else in town, took a particular shine to me. He kept urging me to go to Indore instead as that was where all the connections were (I gathered through hand signals and gestures). I asked around and the opinions were about 50/50. Footprint had said that Indore was the place where to get connections to Mandu in the first place. Eventually preferring to be on a moving bus than sitting in Khandwa, like an alien, I succumbed to the dedicated follower of Hindustani fashion's gestures and hopped on.

Much to my surprise a whitey sat beside me on the bus. Giles, a teacher from Plymouth. Small world coincidence, he knows Calstock. He was the first tourist I had seen in days and the first I had actually spoken to since arriving in India. We were both glad of the company - the bus ride was long, bumpy, uncomfortable but made bearable by the conversation and ridiculously cheap cost for a 5 hour ride. Giles was making for Mandu too and had had the misfortune to get stranded in Khandwa the previous night. He was even happier to be leaving the place than I was. Giles needed to cash some travellers cheques so we agreed to meet at Indore's Gangwal bus stand to make the trip together. It was 5 o clock in the evening and we needed to make tracks if we would get there by nightfall. Indore, the centre of India's automotive industry is an aggressive city choked with traffic jams and beeping. Everyone beeps all the time. Everyone tries to scam you for extra cash as your are white. Open sewers abound. Cows sit in the middle of dual carriage ways (although I liked this aspect). I did not want to stay here any longer than necessary and certainly not a night.

As I only to visit an ATM I was there before Giles. Just as I pulled in, a group shouting “Mandu Mandu!!” descended on me, urging me to get on a jam packed standing room only bus. On the last bus lots of punters stood the whole way. I declined. Anyway I had said I would wait for Giles and what kind of person would I be if I pulled up the ladder like that. When Giles turned up we swapped stories. We had missed what was the last bus to Mandu. Giles had not been able to cash his cheques despite having spoken to the manager of the bank by phone earlier. We had not done very well. There was a bus to Dhar though so we took that in the hope of getting a connection to Mandu. It was on this second ride that the rain, which had been patchy all day, started to take itself seriously. The going was bumpy, slow and packed once again - my rucksack was too big to fit anywhere. I jealously eyed Giles' tiny backpack and remembered that he had six weeks and I had a year so it was ok. All the while we passed by saffron wearing men making pilgrimage, some in bare foot. We had been in buses for hours – I shudder to think how long it takes them.

Dhar bus stand is incomprehensible. There are tons of buses randomly sitting around surrounded by goats and banana wallahs. Destinations, times. A ticket office? Ha! Platform is not part of the vocabulary. Someone pointed the right bus for Mandu and we got on, my rucksack on my knees. It was an empty twenty seater bus that within 10 minutes had at least 40 people crammed on. We were lucky – we had seats. The cold rain dripped freely on top of me from a leak in the ceiling. It was pitch black now and no reservations had been made. One hotel, the Roopmati sounded decent enough. I saw the sign loom in and out of view and then another for a different hotel. I hurriedly stopped the bus and we stepped out into the full force of the monsoon. The wind whipped the rain into our faces, blinding us as we ran for the shelter of the first hotel. No rooms. Another wet sprint to the Roopmati.

They had no rooms either, but did for the next day. We booked it and asked for help finding a place. Footprint mentioned another place, Maharaja, but the phone was disconnected - not a great sign but it was our last chance.

We took a taxi and arrived at the most run down sorry excuse for a hostel I have ever come across. It was run by children, the oldest of whom was a filthy but smart 15 year old trying hard to grow his first moustache. They had one room left. It was seriously dirty, stained and had one double bed which came equipped with bedsheets printed with Indian martians.

Not ideal to have to share a bed with a relative stranger the same day you meet them but such is travelling. After 15 damp bumpy hours on the road I would have bunked with satan.

It wasn't raining in the room. We had bought a few beers and had the tunes so it wasn't all bad. The boy-manager walked in to the room (no knocking here!) and pretty much told us to go with him to eat. It was a short walk through the weather to follow him for food. It wasn't really raining any more, more that we were in the centre of the cloud where everything is damp, even the air as you breathe it. So much for keeping my ears dry.

The restaurant, if it can be called such was a barn with one lightbulb, a table caked with old food and god knows what and a few plastic chairs. Dinner consisted of limp chapatis and cold dhal. We had waited for 10 minutes for one of the younger ones to heat it up but the meaning of the word heat was lost on him. It was actually ok, but I wouldn't order it again...

(thats the mist in the restaurant!)

It was Giles' turn to look on jealously as I wrapped myself in my silk liner while he had to make contact with the bed sheet aliens and whatever secret baddies that inhabited them.

Neither Giles or I had any qualms about skipping breakfast with the boys the following morning. It was a bit brighter and the rain held off as we walked into the town past the mosque and battlements the town is famous for.

I was hungry but Giles had been dealing with a touch of Delhi belly so he watched on as I had rice, naan and veg curry – my new staple diet. Then a quick taxi ride back to the Roopmati to check in. It was a delight compared to the last place. There was a shower which even had hot water. There were two beds and a balcony with a view over the valley (when the cloud allowed a view). It was clean!

Much more relaxed with things, and with the weather seeming to behave, we left the hotel and rented some bikes. We made for the palace of Baz Bahadur, a few km to the south of the township.

Cycling in India is an experience. You have to be simultaneously polite, determined, inconsiderate and rude if you want to get anywhere without causing offence. The going got a lot tougher when the rain started.

This happened to coincide with our getting to the traffic jam. Buses, trucks, cars, jeeps, motorbike, bikes, cows goats and people, all trying to go in opposite direction through the mud track which was probably built to handle nothing more than a cart. The bike became pointless as walking through was the only way.

After almost an hour of struggling through the jam we almost gave up but eventually came across the source: an abandoned bright orange truck on the middle of the road at the crest of the hill. Nothing bigger than a bike could make it past it. I felt sorry for the poor local sightseers who had driven maybe three hours to get here, spent an hour at whatever the attraction is and then spend hours looking at a cow's arse..

After that we were able to freewheel down to the entrance to the fort. We made first for Roopmati's pavillion, the home of a musician prince way back when. After making our way to the top of the fort, past the hawkers selling pakora and cucumbers, a fabulous view over the plain below was opened up and the clouds parted for a few minutes.

Within minutes of getting to the top we were beset by mob after mob of curious, boisterous teenage boys, each trying to outdo the other's audacity and general rudeness towards Giles and me. The incessant 'which country' 'what your name' was very tedious.

There was a rickety ladder which everyone climbed up to the roof and a permanent jostling crowd to take steep steps back down.

It was a trampling waiting to happen but I wouldn't have minded if the people were in any way pleasant. I never thought I'd say this but there's a lot to be said for a queue!

On the way over to the next palace I got some cucumber wedges with a salty powder – very tasty and simple and expertly served in a big banana leaf by a smiley woman and her young son.

One of the more persistent kids tried to steal a few of my wedges to impress his mates. Although he ended up with nothing it strangely reminded me of being in school with bullies whose testosterone levels far outstripped their intellect. It was a pretty enough palace but we didn't stay too long – besides it was starting to rain. Luckily the jam had dissipated a little by the time we were heading back.

The hot shower, my first in India was bliss. A few hundred extra rupees goes a long way here! I was looking forward to a lovely thick curry for dinner so I ordered Ghobi Tikka. What I got was baked cauliflower with a tasty powder on top. Very dry but just right. Giles' stomach still wasn't the best so he stuck to chinese. I taught him cacho afterwards. Just after the game he jumped up from the table, ran out to the garden and chundered marvelously all over the flowers in the garden. Bolivian dice games sometimes have that effect on people! The rain washed away the sick in minutes.

These events unlocked a decision in my mind. I was not going to go stay inland and go to Bundi, another “timeless backpacker village in beautiful setting”. The monsoon was starting to really piss me off. I was going to go straight to the desert as quickly as possible. Battered and bruised Giles was of the same mind. Mandu would, I'm sure, be a very agreeable place to stay under many circumstances. It just so happened that our arrival did not coincide with any of them.

Tomorrow: Udaipur or bust!

Sometimes one doctor just isn't enough: Jalgoan

eoghancito — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 14:13:00 GMT

The Plaza Hotel on Station Road, Jalgoan was so clean I felt I could have eaten my dinner off the bedroom floor. In India that's really saying something. The manager explained that they are Jain people so cleanliness is very important to them. I silently wished that the Jain faith was more popular.

Within five minutes of my checking in to the little oasis of spotlessness, complete with BBC news, HBO and a mossie screen, the manager had told me the best places to eat both veg and non veg, where to get a beer and a choice between a GP and an Ear Nose and Throat doctor. Not be melodramatic I took the GP's address and proceed directly to the smoky bar the manager had directed me to for a special veg club sandwich, finger fries and a Kingfisher.

Thankfully I got what I was hoping for – a decent sandwich, chips and a beer. If you want to stay at the hotel, and I highly recommend it you cn contact them on hotelplaza_jal@yahoo.com.

After a fitful bite free slumber I had a banana for breakfast on the way to the Raisoni hospital. My ear was now quite sore so I was hoping for as decisive a treatment as I had received in Cambodia. At least I could hear though.

Jalgoan is a pleasant town with a country town bustling atmosphere but which gets the odd tourist passing through. After a short wait in a room filled with catheter holding patients (seem to need a lot of those in India) Dr. Shekar Raisoni MS, FICS (USA), FAIS listened to me from behind his desk littered with papers and boxes of tablets. I gave him my ears' potted history, including the incident in Mumbai and, putting a fresh battery in his instrument, had a look. Reassuredly he said he should be able to solve the problem. Just some light cleaning and some antibiotics. Which he could do now. Just needed to prepare the treatment room. No problem. He wrote me out a prescription and when I asked how much he said 500Rps for the consultation and same again for the treatment. 12 quid, a far cry from the more than 200 the Angkor Royal Hospital charged.

A few minutes later I was lead to an operating theatre with lots of machinery from the 50's. I lay down on the bed and to my great surprise, had a heart rate monitor attached to my toe. I had been expecting some short of suction device, like last time but the doctor had some cotton wool attached to a skinny plyers. He gently placed it in my ear and swabbed and started to go further in.

My heart rate increased as I realised that this was not going to solve the problem. Just as I had that premonition I felt the thing in my ear be pushed further in. I could feel the passage literally block up and my hearing stop. I told the doctor what had happened and said “No no look I am cleaning it” – pointing at the swab marked with a little waxy stuff that paled into insignificance in comparison with what felt like a blob of blue tack far into my ear.

The beeping continued to increase in pace. He peered into my ear and said “Maybe right”, mostly under his breath. He then insisted that he had cleared the problem. We both knew he hadn't. Asking me how I had managed to let a man in Mumbai stick something in my ear he started syringing saline solution into my ear.

I wasn't happy – I had lost my confidence. in him, he was now berating my misfortune and this spray-water-in-and-let-gravity-help-it-fall-out technique was not going to work. I told him as much and asked him to stop, removing the toe clip, expressing my displeasure. Agog, the doctor was lost for words – I imagine his patients are usually more reverent and trusting.

I asked for the address of the ENT specialist and walked out of the theatre. He asked me to come into his office and he offered me a seat. I was definitely pissed off – but more so because he would not listen to me than anything he had done. Unprovoked, he started to defend his qualifications, saying that he had trained in Chicago and had treated many tourists. He said we were having a misunderstanding. I told him that I understood exactly what had happened: I had come looking for help and he had made it worse – I was now quite deaf in one ear – ten minutes beforehand I could hear. Could he understand that? He stayed silent but began to pen a letter. It was a referral to Dr Gupta, the ENT specialist. I felt like saying that that was a bit of a cop out – I am the one who decided I needed to go to him, not you! But I bit my tongue. He asked me to come back afterwards so he could improve and I said I would.

Luckily the ENT hosptital was 100m up the same street. As I waited for Dr. Gupta MS (ENT) DOR (BOM), MB, FAIS, FICS, FICA (USA) the crazy thoughts that you have in these situations flashed before my mind's eye. Would I have to go to Delhi to get this sorted. Back home? I cursed the strange man in Mumbai who had caused this.

Dr Gupta sat behind his orderly desk and listened as I explained what had happened. He read my Cambodian treatment sheet closely and then said that Dr Raisoni was a very good doctor but that he could not do the things he himself could. Dr. Raisoni had called to warn Dr. Gupta. He took a look (in both ears this time). He said it was caused by fungus and was very common in India during Monsoon. India's pollution problem literally comes back to haunt people with the rains. He said he would remove it, very easily in less than five minutes and it would be just fine. He had a great bedside manner and I was much more comfortable this time. I did however have a few misgivings to sort out. “How will you remove it, Dr.? “By suction.”

And he did, in less than 5 minutes. That familiar sensation in the ear, an irrational concern that my brain would get sucked out during the procedure, but it was fine. My hearing came straight back. The doctor gave me an array of tablets and ear drops, all samples and then said that as a guest in his country I would receive the treatment free of charge. I was dumbfounded in gratitude – what a lovely man. “Enjoy your travels in India! Be careful!” he said as I left, thanking him profusely. “And keep your ears dry even when it's not raining!” I wouldn't have to make an emergency exit after all – I was delighted.

The final chat with Dr. Raisoni was not that comfortable for eiter of us. He had brought a well dressed Indian lady with excellent English in to the meeting and it started with a defence of what he did, added to by the lady with references to the satisfied foreigners who had received treatment. She seemed lawyer-like somehow. I told him that I had been right, there was fungus in my ear (it seems the strange man was at least not the main culprit). Now it had been removed, I had the medicine I needed so I was happy. At that point he got a call – Dr. Gupta calling him back. They seemed to exchange a joke and the call finished.

One more time Dr. Raisoni started to make excuses and call it a misunderstanding. Whatever he wanted to call it I didn't care. “You asked me to come back so you could improve”, I said. I asked him to be honest with his patients – all he needed to do was admit that he couldn't do it (and I did thank him for trying) and refer me to someone who could. I think his usual Indian patients would submit to his superior education while I am a bit more willing to follow my own understanding. We shook hands and parted not amicably but I hope with some greater understanding of each other.

After a great dhal fry lunch I made a reservation for a ticket out of Jalgoan. I had planned to make for Indore and from there make for Mandu, a little backpacker town in the hills. The manager of the Plaza advised to go to Khandwa instead and take a direct train from there. With no reason not to believe him I got myself on the waiting list for a 6am train. After this I retired to the room, feeling a little alone.

As if by magic one of my favourite feel good movies, Jerry Maguire was on HBO so I had a very chilled afternoon. The evening was spent eating even better vegetarian curry with some light internet and packing. I had enjoyed Jalgoan with it's laid back atmosphere and good food and hotel. And it had given me a solution to my ear problems which was the main goal. Time to move on!

Captain Caveman and the mini Taj Mahal

eoghancito — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 13:20:00 GMT

Expecting the unexpected and prepared for anything I was in Mumbai's hectic CST station a full two hours before the train was scheduled to leave. I plonked my conspicuous rucksack down in the middle of the station and sat on it, joining the crowds laughing and joking as they sat on the floor and kept an eye on the station indicator. I watched the world go by, still too different to properly take in or understand.

A half an hour before the departure the platform was annouced so I made may way up it, passing a waiting room for passengers with reservations. So that was where I was supposed to wait. Learning all the time! The trains are huge in every sense, long, this one had 30 or more carriages and about 4m wide, enough for a 6ft sleeping person, a corridor and a seat across. I found my carriage and my berth and was quite impressed. 2 AC is bunkbed style with sheets and covers, AC, a reading light and is relatively clean. All good.

Unsure what to do with my rucksack (I couldn't be expected to bunk with it surely!) I slung it under the lower bunk and climbed up to mine.

I started to prepare the bed the other people in the section arrived. I politely greeted them with Namaste and was grunted at in return by a mustachioed man with a pot belly across from me. The Sikh below me at least smiled as he reverently removed his turban and placed it carefully on the middle shelf. The train departed on time and everyone fell asleep within minutes. Except for me, of course. I was happy to read but eventually got tired and gave it a go.

It was initially the noises and constant toing and froing which kept me awake. Ear plugs to the rescue. Then it was a general paranoia about my rucksack below. I reasoned that it is such a hefty beast I would surely hear if someone tried to grab it. Then paranoia about missing my stop – they don't make announcements (that would be annoying all night) and you can't see out from the upper berth. But again I reasoned that the train was not going to be early so as long as I set my alarm it would be ok. But finally the thing that kept me awake was the ear shattering snoring of my unfriendly mustachioed companion accompanied by his thunderous sleeping farts. I didn't think people could fart that loud at all, never mind asleep. The only way I know he was asleep is because the snoring didn't pause for the farts. I gave up and read again till 4am when we arrived at Aurangabad.

I had a booking at the Shree Maya hotel and although it was close to the station had asked for a pick up when I booked. A man identified me quickly enough (being the only gora or whitey) and took me to the hotel. The staff were all asleep on the floor of reception when I got there. After the usual passport shenanigans I was shown to my room which was once again not very clean but I was too tired to care.

I slept through the longest solar eclipse of the century. I didn't feel bad because it wasn't visible in Aurangabad and even if it was the persistent rain would have ruined it anyway. I did catch the best of it on the TV though. Including the poor kids who had been buried up to their necks in sand by their parents hoping that doing so during the eclipse would cure their ailments. Poor kids looked not only miserable but embarrassed – I could imagine them thinking “Wow the lads are really going to take the mick out of me in school tomorrow”. But of course, they probably don't go to school.

I had some breakfast and chai and then went back to my room. I wasn't going to leave until I had some sort of plan. It wasn't too bad at all actually - I took a thematic approach and it soon became clear that everything I wanted to do was up North. The Goan beach or backwaters of Kerala didn't appeal very much in this weather so Goa and Kerala would not be on the list.

Content with this I could go straight to execution. I had given myself a few days to have a look around Aurangabad itself and take in the Elora and Ajanta cave systems. I didn't want to get too hectic on such little sleep so settled for a city tour during the day. The hotel manager arranged a giude/rickshaw driver to take me. He introduced me to Nazir, a friendly, heavy set guy with a ready smile and we were off in the auto rickshaw.

No new MOT here I'm afraid – it's identical to a tuk-tuk. The rains had ceased for now, a good sign.

First up was Pan Chaki an attractive set of medieval buildings and a mosque centred around a water mill which allowed gravity to do some of the work giving the peons a rest.

Kids sheltered from the rain under an enormous 500 year old Banyan tree. Aurangabad was originally a walled town named after the last great Mughal, Aurangzeb who built his citadel here.

The rain started again on the way up to Aurangabad caves in the hills overlooking the city. I've been quite surpised at the temperature since I got here – more often than not I'm actually regretting wearing shorts as the wind whips the rain into the back of Nazir's rickshaw and into my face.

The caves themselves date mostly from the fourth century AD and consist of various decorated and pillared rooms cut into the stone where people came to worship. Images of the Buddha are prominent although Hindu deities feature in the later one. For the most part they're surrounded by austere little meditation chambers where the devout and monks lived and hopefully found whatever they were looking for. They are interesting and provide a great view of the city below but when it started raining and waterfalls started sprouting from the cliff face I had no trouble leaving.

Nazir took me on a drive back into the old party city. A rickshaw drive is a great way to see a place, up close and personal. Traffic jams caused by cows chewing the cud in the middle of the street. Mysterious Muslim ladies in purdah doing their shopping.

Shops with every conceivable shape and size of guady bangle. Beef shops proudly displaying their wares in the shop window. The amount of flies freely getting involved with the meat was all I needed to see to convince me that vegetarianism was the way to go in India.

We stopped at the city chowk, a warren like maze of streets and the commercial heart of the city. It was great to wander around and soak up the atmosphere (and some more rain). The streets are organised by trade, so you'll have a street full of fabrics beside one of metalware and a third of jewellery. Gaudy jewellery has a big market here – some shops somehow specialise in imitation jewellery. How honest of them.

I wanted a light sheet to use as an all purpose cloth/bedsheet/towel so I found myself of cloth street perusing the shops. A gregarious group of men asked me a few questions, which country etc. and we ended up talking about Ireland recent prowess in cricket, the national sport (not that I know anything about it I might add!). I bought a sheet and they offered me some chai. We kept chatting and more and more people joined the group to stare and listen. It was quite fun – they were a friendly bunch. One of them wanted some Irish coins but all I had to offer was a Singapore Dollar. He seemed quite happy the alternative and in order to reciprocate, gave me a handkerchief. It was new by the way, it's not as if he gave me the snotty rag out of his pocket!

Afterwards we made for Bibi ka Maqbara which is a bit like a poor man's Taj Mahal. It was modelled on the more famous mausoleum in Agra but is only half the size, widely agreed not to be not as beautiful and completed for, it's said one three hundredth the price.

It's the mausoleum of Aurangzeb's wife and is set in a series of interconnected gardens. I'm sure a stroll around would be delightful in the dry season but the heavy rain put a bit of a dampener of things. When you get up close you can see that marble was used only for the bottom of the building and the top parts are grubby and in need of repair. But seeing as I will be saving Agra for another trip, it had to do.

The rain was starting to not only get to me but also worry me. If it stayed like this for the whole trip I would struggle to keep important things like my laptop and guidebook dry. I asked Nazir if it would be possible to buy zip lock bags in the city. Of course, he took me to plastic ware street where a shop specialised specifically in zip lock bags. I love it! He dropped me off at a good veggie restaurant near the hotel. I returned there for some chai and blogging. I didn't finish the second cup as it smelt unmistakably of human excrement. You really have to watch things in India.

Mosquitos prevented me from getting a decent night's sleep but I had arranged for Nazir to pick me up at 8. It was pissing rain again – even more miserable than the previous day. A dank fog lay across the whole town and as we drove out of it and to higher ground it got worse. The first stop of the tour was the Deogiri fort in Daulatabad. It's a huge imposing structure surrounded by multiple rings of defences. It was built in the twelfth century and in its hey day served as the capital of a wide area. Despite the history (which I was fast discovering that I knew less than nothing about) it was totally miserable wandering about in the fog. There wasn't a sinner anywhere and it's enormous. A cloud hung over what I suspected what was the main fort itself but I wasn't sure so I kept approaching whatever the cloud was hiding. A victory tower loomed into sight and I suspect I was on the right track. More battlements and bridges and a moat. The defences of the palace are impressive. The moat was once home to crocodiles and other nasties who would happily gobble up any attackers who fell in.

When I got into the fort itself a man with a torch offered to take me through the dark entry tunnel with a flaming torch. Anything to get out of the rain! The passage, the only way into the fort is set with all sorts of traps to befuddle and then maim or kill the unaware. At one point the passage splits in two then joins back together, a simple way to get attackers to kill each other. All the while the ground is very uneven making it tough going even with a torch.

I kept marching upwards into the mist, thinking that there must be something at the top.

An octagonal palace.

Further above a grave and finally an old cannon, some chipmunks and the odd frog.

I made a silent request to the weather to do me a favour and lay off for a while at the top. Miraculously, it did and there were great views on the way down.

I was feeling better for it too – not so chilly! The better weather seemed to have brought more visitors (Indian) and residents (monkey) to the entrance.

After a pitstop for some petrol poured through a funnel we made for Ellora caves, the main reason I was in town. On the way Nazir was free with information about his culture and society and his life. He has 4 children, his eldest girl having just been married. I congratulated him but it seemed a mixed blessing for him. He had to sell his rickshaw for the dowry. This aspect of Indian society is quite alien to me. I asked him if he was religious.. he replied “Yes sir, I am communist!” He goes to the mosque, to the Hindu temple and to party meetings, covering all his bases. Very smart.

The Ellora caves are very impressive. But there are over thirty indiviual caves so I had my work cut out.

I started at number one, the oldest, Buddhist cave and worked my way up through more and more ornate caves.

Then the Hindu ones begin and the imagery changes to their deities although Buddha features strongly thoughout. I have to admit that Hinduism, along with Indian history is completely new to me so I can't say that I understood what I was looking at.

The Jewel in the crown is cave 16, a hindu temple carved straight from the cliff. They started at the top and worked their way down over what must have been centuries to complete a mammoth ornately carved temple which is suppsoed to represent Mount Kailasa, the home of Siva, the oxymoronic God of creation and destruction. My amateur photography does no justice to the sight itself.

The rain had been on and off but it really started to come down in sheets when I had finished with “cave” 16. 5 hours of temples in the rain had taken its toll so when I looked at the last few later caves, this time of the Jain faith (not sure what that is yet exactly but hey) my heart wasn't in it. What had been a trickle when I started the visit had become a cascading torrent, flooding the area below. It was time to move on.

On the way back to town we made some interesting stops. The first was at a very ancient and important Hindu temple. I entered and in order to go in to the shrine I had to take off my top. I looked on, bare-chested as devotees poured coconut milk into a brass cup which then overflowed onto offerings of flowers and rice. Not an iota of a clue as to what all this meant but I was delighted to get my first bindi, the distinctive mark on the forehead. Mine wasn't a red dot as I had expected, more of an orangey smudge.

After lunch we went into Rauza so I could visit Aurangzeb's tomb. Nazir warned me not to give anyone any money and only to visit the main tomb, not the others. It was a very simple affair, unlike anything he had built but a blind guy started hassling me for baksheesh (a backhander/tip) so I feigned an inability to understand English and scarpered. Being Argentinean can have its uses!

The last stop was at Himroo Sarees a famous factory shop where they make what Nazir told me were they use handlooms to make the best sarees in India. It was a shame that there was no-one working at the time but the looms were quite impressive to behold even when silent.

Some of the sarees are inlaid with gold and silver, takes months and even years to make and can cost up to 50,000 rupees, about the same price as a good second hand rickshaw. They were beautiful but the salesman was quite pushy and I didn't really warm to the place. I'm not target market of course.

My original plan had been to get a bus up to Ajanta that evening for the other set of caves. After 2 days of caves, forts, more caves and temples I wasn't enamoured with that prospect. I felt like Captain Caveman. For a few days now I had been starting to get that familiar itchy feeling in my ear – the sign of an infection coming on. I hadn't really slept that much either. I needed a rest and for someone to look in my ear. I changed the plan – I would skip Ajanta and make for Jalgoan which was the closest rail connection from where I could start heading north. And I could see about a doctor.

I had become friends with Nazir and I was sad to say goodbye to him. It felt as though he was Prabaker to my Shantaram, explaining what I was seeing, being generous with his humour and knowledge. He took me to the bus station, found a seat for me and even found a place for my rucksack which was not on the roof I was glad to see. It wouldn't have mattered the skies cleared on the four hour trip. I saw the sun for the first time in India. It seemed like weeks since I had seen a sunset.

The my first Indian local bus ride was quite pleasant ... the road wasn't bumpy and the traffic seemed to behave. It was good to see a few characters on the bus with me. The elderly man sat beside me had a catheter which, once he had filled up proceeded to empty it out the window. He did wait till we were stopped at the bus station though which was very considerate of those passenger with open windows behind. I was glad to get off four hours later. I jumped in a rickshaw and it took me to the only hotel in the book. I was definitely off the tourist trail now – kids pointed and stared as I struggled to get my bag on to enter the hotel. I hoped it was clean, quiet and mosquito free. A lot to expect in India but I had my fingers and toes crossed.

Mind your ears it's Mumbai!

eoghancito — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 13:06:00 GMT

The sound of heavy rain on plastic woke me up. I was disoriented at first, wondering first where Claire was and second where I was. Then it clicked. London (or quite possibly in a holding pattern around the M25). Mumbai. I looked out the window to see a small brown flood outside the hotel. It was horrible weather, I felt like I was breathing in steam. I contemplated going back to bed but willed myself into the mildew covered shower for a cold sprinkling of water of questionable origin.

As it had been quite cold through the night (I even switched off the fan!) I downgrarded to a cheaper, non AC room. I moved my stuff to the new room and paranoid, locked my big bag secure and locked that to the bed. Not sure what was the lesser of two evils – rain or theft, I took all the important or valuable stuff with me in my small bag. Claire had given me her umbrella.

A taxi driver was lying in wait for me outside the hotel. I wanted to go to the renowned Leopold's in Colaba but had no idea how much that should cost. He said 90 rupees, I said put it on the meter. He said it was broken. I was getting wet now so I jumped in. The traffic was quite crazy, reminiscent of Vietnam but this time with cars, bikes, mopeds and pedestrians all vying for supremacy, no-one giving an inch. There seems to be a loose convention of driving on the left but it's only loose. People don't tend to use the path to walk on, favouring the street itself. Horns honk all the time warning whatever smaller to get out of the way of the bigger thing coming behind. Amazingly and in common with Vietnam, it all somehow works.

The taxi dropped me off at a street that looked just like any other and the driver pointed down it. I followed the gesture but couldn't find the restaurant. All I wanted was to do was sit down, look at the guidebook and have a think over some breakfast. It was too wet to look at the map in the book so I went for a wander around the streets looking for somewhere to park myself and make some plans. I had done no research on India, not even on Mumbai apart from a cursory look at the map of Mumbai when I booked the hotel. This is not my natural style. I don't need a plan to stick to it, rather to have something to deviate from. Not having a plan was quite unnerving. I didn't know what I wanted to see in Mumbai, or India. I didn't even know if I should go North or South.

I found the whole walking about experience quite overwhelming. People were shouting things at me from all directions, none of which I understood or cared enough about to stay and find out. Eventually I chanced upon the Gateway to India, an elegant arch constructed by the sea in 1911 to welcome George V and Queen Mary when they visited India, presumably for a bit of a jolly in the jewel of the empire.

It was windy, wet, miserable and quite cold yet large gangs of people were milling about, seemingly enjoying themselves. Massive waves broke over the sea wall, soaking one group after another, causing raucous laughter each time.

As I took all this in I must have looked like I was new in town because I was quickly approached by a tout. He told me that Elephanta Island was closed. I thanked him, glad that I hadn't been intending on paying a visit anyway. Then he started on about a city tour. Against my better judgement I listened to his spiel, mostly to hear what the places to visit were but also because I had nothing better to do. He named off all the places and I asked him how much. 1600 rupees. 20 quid. I scoffed and walked away. He followed and asked what I wanted to pay. I said I was to hungry to think but that was way over my budget. “I take you to cheap place to eat and you think”. Bingo. I could at least eat now.

As I ate the omelette and toast and drank my first cup of chai the tout sat opposite, eyeing me up as he drank his own chai. I was not comfortable in Mumbai and wanted to leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow. However, I had also decided that, seeing as I had nothing better to do today and wouldn't mind seeing at least a bit of Mumbai before getting the hell out of here a tour might be a good idea. I got him down to 1000 Rupees, still a total rip off I'm sure but I wasn't in much of a mood to bargain hard.

I was introduced to the guide/driver and we set off to the first “attraction”, something called washing laundry. It was a short drive from Colaba, through the higgeldy piggeldy streets. Stopping and starting as people, or cows , or goats decided to cross the road or just stop in the middle of it for a think (this applied to people as much as cows or goats). A gap between some buildings opened out into a concrete maze of water filled baths, many filled with clothes and manned by a wiry armed chap mangling the clothes with physical power.

If you get some laundry done in Mumbai, chances are it comes here to be washed by hand. There was some evidence of industrialisation. A massive home made washing machine had been constructed as had a lethal looking gas powered dryer but the majority of work was still done by hand. Pile after pile of clothes lay about.

I have no idea how they could tell which piece of clothing belonged to which batch and most likely never will. Thankfully the rain had stopped for a while.

Next we drove along Mumbai's famous Marine Drive with its odd shaped storm defences and heavily polluted, practically deserted Chowpatty beach.

Onwards towards Malabar Hill where I had a few barefoot minutes in a beautifully decorated Jain temple.

The heavens opened as I left and we made for the Hanging Gardens, so called because they are built on top of the city's main resevoirs. I am sure the topiary and flowers make it a relaxing place to chill out on a sunny day but the lashing rain prevented me from staying very long.

We drove back towards the centre of Mumbai past the Towers of Silence. Tourists are not allowed in but I was able to sneak a glimpse from the road. Mumbai is the Parsi word for temple. The Parsi believe that corpses are inherently unlcean and that the elements of Earth, Fire and Water should never be polluted by them. As such they lay out the dead on the top of the towers for vultures to pick clean. The reduction in the vulture population is a cause for concern. The Parsi have long played an important economic role in the city. Notable adherents are the Tata family who own a huge Indian conglomerate which makes and sells everything from trucks to mobile phones and even has a consulting wing that was rumoured, to buy out Deloitte Consulting while I worked there. I didn't know about the vultures then but I was glad the deal fell through.

Mahatma Gandi is probably the most famous Indian of modern times. He lived in Mumbai for a number of years and his residence has been maintained as a museum and research centre. It also provides welcome relief to damp tourists in the rainy season. I didn't know much about the man and it was fascinating to be walked through the principal events of his life through the medium of diorama. I'd never been a fan before but they managed to get the emotion and gravitas of his life and times across.

There were also some interesting letters to and from him including one to Hitler requesting that he avert the planet from WWII. The man correctly had a global impact and appeal, many countries, even Ireland, commemorating his life and death with stamps.

Ciaran, I'm not sure if you're still a member of the Irish Philatelic Society but that one was for you.

Three hours after it had begun the tour ended back where it had begun in Colaba. I had actually enjoyed it (ok the parts where I wasn't in the rain) and was glad to have seen some of Mumbai. Now I could leave quickly in good conscience.

But not before going to Leopold's. This establishment plays a pivotal role in Shantaram, Greg Roberts book about Mumbai and India. I had to at least see it. When I found it I was a bit disappointed – it was almost empty and a pretty shabby place. The prices were very high too.

I sipped a diet coke, looked for somewhere more Indian to eat, took a snap and went down the road for my first authentic Indian curry. I didn't know what I was ordering but it was a superb mutton kadai which came with slices of boiled eggs in the curry. Claire would have barfed. I also had some great naan bread. It was only as I was smacking my lips in enjoyment afterwards that I realised I was supposed to be vegetarian in India. I would have to start that later. My bill came with these lovely aniseed flavoured seeds (maybe they'reaniseeds?) which aid digestion.

After the meal I took the the time to read my guidebook a little. While I didn't have the time or inclination to make a big plan I did manage to decide where to aim for after Mumbai. Neither North nor South but inland to Aurangabad. With that decided I had a renewed energy. I went back down to Gateway looking for a tourist office but couldn't find it. The giudebook said there was one in the Taj hotel. I went through the incredibly tight security (Hilary Clinton was staying) to find that the bomb blast last year had wiped out the older section of the hotel, the tourist office along with it.

There was nothing left to be done but make for the main tourist office, over by Churchgate station. As I was agreeing a price with the taxi driver, a well spoken, turbaned, bearded man approached me saying something about my ear. I instinctively ignored him and carried on with the taxi driver. The ear man persisted, preventing me from reaching agreement on the price. He then said “Sir, please if you just give me a moment I will show you”. Before I knew what was happening he had deftly rolled a piece of cotton wool around a long, thin pointed instrument which looked medical in nature and stuck it in my ear. I yelled “Get the fuck away from my ear you crazy bastard” at the top of my voice and pulled away from him. At this he calmly showed me some white gloopy gelatinous stuff that he had allegedly removed from my ear. Then he had the gaul to stick his hand out at me expecting some kind of payment for services rendered. I jumped in the taxi and told the driver to go. I said to him, “That was bullshit right?”. He waggled his head from side to side, in the way only an Indian can and replied “Yes sir, this is definitely bullshit!”

I found the tourist office with some difficult. It would occur to no-one that a tourist looking for a tourist office would by definition not no where to go. Not a sign anywhere on the building and up some unmarked stairs (opposite Churchgate station – follow signs for the computerised reservations office). The lady was sort of helpful. I would have thought that I was a tourist information officers wet dream. I have 2 months to spend in your country. I like the following things. Can you tell me where to go I have no plan. She drip fed me some information about a few places and gave me some maps and badly copied information sheets about a few towns. She did offer me a piece of cake though and did ask if I drank alcohol. I said yes and she put an all India liquor permit stamp in my passport. I was now legally permitted to be in possession of alcohol anywhere in India. Not that I wanted this dubious honour but there you go.

Nearby was the railway reservation centre. I wanted to get to Aurangabad the next day. For those unfamiliar with the Indian railway system (which according to different sources seems to alternate with the NHS as the world's biggest employer), it's not as simple as just walking up to the counter and buying a ticket. For starters the route map is so complicated that you can't just look to see if a train goes from A to B. It may or may not, depending on a myriad of factors too complex for me to evcen begin understanding. If you do happen to find out that a train goes between A and B, you need the train name and number. Then you can fill out a form with your name and address and passport details (along with those of the train) and fight your way to the front of a counter. (The Indian definition of queueing is, somewhat different to that of the English shall I say). Then a clerk will tell you what is available – there are 6 classes of reserved ticket and 2 of unreserved. There are also special quotas on all trains for different types of people: tourists, government officials, military etc. If there are no tickets left in the chosen class or quota you can go on a wait list, whereby unallocated reservations from all quotas are released the morning of the journey. You may or may not get a ticket.. In summation its bewilderingly complicated. I was blessed to be in and out in 15 minutes with a reserved tickets in 2AC class for Aurangabad from CST at 9pm the following day. Success!

It had been a pretty full on first day in India – I had done a tour, made a bit of a plan, had a curry, been scammed, run away, negotiated the train system and bought a ticket the hell out of Mumbai, a place I just could not warm to. I was glad to go back to the relative comfort of the hotel and be able to discuss the days events with Claire who had by now arrived in London. It was only afterwards, as I was mooching about the internet that I realised that my day had unwittingly tracked the terrorist attacks that blighted Mumbai almost one year to the day before. Leopolds, The Taj hotel, CST were all invaded by gunmen, killing locals and tourists alike.

I spent the whole of the following day in the hotel and I have no shame in saying it. I was horribly behind on the blog and would have to make a mammoth effort if I ever wanted to catch up. I also needed to reply to a lot of unanswered emails. Most of all though, I wanted to leave Mumbai for somewhere a little less... like Mumbai so that I could feel at ease, do some research in a quiet place and make a plan. I knew that I was essentially running away from a city that deserved more. There was a lot I still wanted to see in Mumbai, such as the Dabbawalahs in action delivering tiffin boxes to hungry husbands all over the city. But all that was secondary to feeling happy in my own skin. Maybe next time.

India begins with I

eoghancito — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 08:23:00 GMT

India was always going to be an experience of sensory overload, but not just for the usual culture shock-related reasons – the key to the beginning of my Indian travels is contrast. I was coming from Singapore, a model of modernity, order and efficiency, to India which in many ways is still a medieval country. I had left the most modern airport in the world in the most modern plane I had ever been in for Bombay International, just a tad less efficient than Changi. We had been in a dry heat for months and it was the rainy season in Mumbai. Most importantly Claire and I had been inseparably travelling for 10 months, in each others company for 23.5 hours a day. I was now going to be on my own. Just me and my thoughts. The we had become an I. Even writing 'I' in the blog is strange ... being so used to 'we'. That's a lot to contemplate on a flight of only 5 hours.

It was 11pm and the monsoon rain whipped across the runway as we landed. There I go again. As the plane landed. Mumbai airport looked totally chaotic – it was as though planes had been left anywhere there was a free parking spot. Lots of airlines I didn't recognise. I had managed to change my remaining Singapore dollars for rupees in Changi so I reckoned I would have enough cash to get me to the hotel, provided I wasn't duped into one of the renowned airport taxi scams all the guide books talk about.

As instructed I pre-paid my taxi and was told to go outside by the gruff man at the counter. Taxi number 64 would be bringing me into town. The airport was quiet as I walked through it, I had expected crowds. I found the exit and walked out into a throng of hundreds of exotically shabbily dressed people shouting and waving signs. So I'd found the crowd, now for the taxi. I followed a sign which lead me to a stand where there were hundreds of identical bashed up black and yellow cabs that had probably been built in the fifties. Of course none of them had any numbers on them. I waved my ticket around and eventually someone in a uniform guided me towards a cab, just a little bit more rickety than the others. The cabbie hadn't a word of English and my hindi was non-existent. Expecting this, I had chosen my hotel (Sealord) specifically so that it was close to somewhere everyone should know: Mumbai's main train station, CST, formerly Victoria Terminus.

On leaving the airport it was immediately obvious that India is far poorer than any other country I have visited. Dark, sad faces gave thousand yard stares from beneath cardboard boxes and makeshift houses as we passed shanty after shanty, slum after slum, naked children playing in the mud well after midnight. After an hour or more of trying to understand what the driver was on about he turned on the radio. Ironically David Gray was playing. “What on earth is going on in my head?” The rain kept pouring down.

The driver got us to CST but was stumped after that. I wasn't prepared to start wandering the streets. He wasn't a very resourceful chap so I got him to stop at a shop and shouted out the window for directions. A crowd gathered and eventually admitted that we were on the right street but needed to go a few km further. I thanked them and gestured to carry on to the driver. We passed by more makeshift housing and some really interesting (bad) smells before the dim sign of Hotel Sealord came into view.

Mumbai accommodation is expensive, no bones about it. As I was arriving late I needed as reservation and this was the cheapest place I could find which took bookings and was close to anywhere. When I grabbed my bag out of the taxi boot the driver stood there, hand out, expecting a hefty tip for his services. As he had not even managed to get me to the hotel without my help I brushed him off. I could hear him swearing Hindi insults at me as I left.

The hotel was filthy and the man behind reception ignored me for a full 15 minutes before I caught his attention. He spent an age looking for my booking and finally found it, only then asking for my passport. He perused every page disapprovingly before wordlessly throwing it back at me and pushing the register towards me to complete. Welcome to India indeed!

The room was dank, smelly and hadn't been cleaned in some time. The bathroom was farcically dirty although the bedsheets did seem ok. The guy who showed me to the room was pushy ... eager for me to drink beer. Just to get rid of him I ordered one. It was well after midnight and I was wide awake and on edge.

After a beer and a flick through the 100% Hindi TV channels I went downstairs – I had spied a wifi router on the wall and was hopeful of connectivity. Reception had changed shift and the much friendlier night crew had started. I got the wifi password from them and sat down in front of my laptop. Privacy is definitely not the norm in India. The porters immediately sat behind me and looked at what I was doing over my shoulder, asking questions about my age, family, profession, marital status, you name it. They also made various offers to buy the laptop. They were a friendly bunch though and I was glad of a little company. They then started asking to download bhangra music to their virus ridden phones which they connected to my laptop. The virus scan kicked in and I hastily put a stop to all that. I would deal with India tomorrow. Time for bed. Just me...

Slings, sleaze and au revoir in Singapore

eoghancito — Sun, 19 Jul 2009 03:17:00 GMT

It was long before dawn when the nicest coach in the world crossed the bridge over to the island state of Singapore.When we saw the customs complex it was immediately clear that this would be a lot more organised than anywhere else in SE asia. It was massive, with seperate sections for cars, minibuses, coaches and trucks. As it was such an ungodly hour there were no queues and our bags, and our passports were scrutinised meticulously. My bag was identified for opening. I thought it was for the pack of illicit chewing gum I was smuggling in but not so. Whatever it was, was ok by the customs official.

As a treat for the final section of Claire's journey we had splashed out on a 4 star hotel, The Furama City Centre, in Chinatown. We arrived at the unusually shaped building at about 5am, hopeful of a room being ready. As they were full would have to wait. We sleepily traipsed around the local area looking for somewhere for breakfast that wasn't noodle based (not easy in Chinatown). Finally we found somewhere nondescript serving nondescript food that wasn't noodles. We stayed as long as we could, to give the hotel time but alas they still had no rooms ready when we got back. We took a seat in the quite posh (compared to what we were used to) lobby and waited, like only backpackers can in a 4 star hotel. They found a room soon enough after Claire and I sprawled out on a leather sofa while Japanese business men and pilots were checking out.

I'd like to think the hotel manager took one look at us and said “get them out of my lobby – I don't care how!” because we had landed an executive room. At the price we paid we should definitely have been in standard. Despite the nice room it was shocking to see how much they charged for broadband and minibar stuff. To think that no so long ago I had thought nothing of paying such crazy sums for being able to send a few emails when working away on a project. Now though there was no way I was spending our normal accommodation daily budget on the an hour's Internet access.

Yet again the arrival in a new city had the Olympus theme. After a sleep and a late lunch we made for the office, a few MRT stops away. The MRT is Singapore's highly efficient metro system.

Colm, my oldest brother had once described Singapore as Asia-Light. We had sort of felt that about KL in that it was quite organised and efficient but Singapore seemed to us to be devoid of any Asian feel at all. It looked more like Boston than anything Asian. Once we found the Olympus office and dropped off the camera we called it a day, having an early night preceeded by the decadence of takeaway McDonalds in front of the TV. We had to get into the non Asian spirit of things you see!

Out and about for our first proper day in Sing we wandered around Chinatown, only to discover most things closed and no-one around. We gave up and made for Little India instead. A few shops selling saris, gold and tat. Not so appealing. We passed by an English pub and, at a loss, had an overpriced but cheeky pint. Singapore was not blowing up our proverbial skirts so far ... but perhaps we were looking in the wrong places. A swim at the hotel pool and a quick Jacuzzi quickly got us back in the right frame of mind. We went out for a walk around the city, checking out the skyscrapers oddly juxtaposed with the elegant cathedral.

Raffles hotel is a world renowned Singapore institution since (arguably more exciting) colonial times. We had a look around the building and visited the compact, interesting museum. You have to be impressed by a hotel that has its own museum, about itself!

Across the road is an unpronounceable entertainment complexed called Chijmes with a trendy bar called Insomnia just off the main courtyard. We took a seat outside and had ourselves some Singapore Slings. They had been invented in Raffles, who decline do a 2 for 1 happy hour. Iit was an economically lead but tasty decision.

After a while a guy with an acoustic guitar, a great voice and a repertoire that came straight from my ipod came out and kept us singing along for the rest of the evening. Riza, a friendly Philippino girl sat down beside us and we got talking. She confirmed that the principal pastime in Sing was shopping. We had done plenty of mall crawling in KL and our retail bags were full.

Keen to try and get out of the city we visited Pulau Ubin, a small island off the east coast of Singapore proper, near Changi Airport. We somehow managed to persuade Riza to take an impromptu Friday off her accountancy duties and join us for the day. We met her at an MRT station and she showed us the way and a good job she did too as we would have ended up in altogether the wrong place.

Pulau Ubin is supposedly what Singapore used to be like in the 1950s. We took a small boat across the channel and were greeted by strip of shops renting out sub-standard mountain bikes. We chose our three steeds for the day and disregarding the free map we were given, went off to get lost.

Riza had been here before but hadn't veered off the beaten track too much. We did a little, down a muddy one way path only to return. Riza's whiter than white trainers, which I suspect had never been used outside, were ruined, covered in mud but she took it in good spirits. Later we came across a wildlife observation path built out onto some of the remaining coral on the island. He path then weaves through some beautiful mangroves with tiny fiddler crabs boisterously fiddling away in the mud below. Tantalisingly close, across the channel was Indonesia.

There was a wooden tower to climb where you could check out the local bird life but it seemed most (ok I admit it I) was more keen on looking at the planes come in to land in Changi Airport. Never did catch an A380 but I suspect it was the wrong time of day. It was a lovely afternoon, spent cycling around the woods and tracks ... such a far cry from the strangely muted hustle of the city.

We indulged in another swim in the hotel and did some outrageously expensive laundry before the evening was upon us.Vietnamese Casino Heist Nick had just come back to Singapore. He and our new friend Riza came over to the hotel for a few beers.

The Singapore food festival was on so afterwards we walked down to nearby Read Bridge, the epicentre of the festival. It had been marketed as restaurant food at hawker prices but in fact the inverse was true. Perhaps we were a touch too late but it did not impress. The people at the stalls were bored, the food was stodgy and there was a crazy system of buying tokens in order to buy food and drinks. We moved on.

After a stroll along the quays with its seated bungy jumps, we ended up in Chijmes. We hit a few bars, testing Nick's ability to get cheap, airline staff drink discounts even though he doesn't have a job. He did surprisingly well, even when we ended up back at Insomnia where Riza was mates with one of the managers. The Singapore Slings flowed and a good time was had by all. Nick, with a grin, suggested another place, Orchard Tower for a last drink. Claire and I were game but Riza declined when she found out where he was taking us. Shopping mall by day, multi-storey all purpose sex emporium by night, Nick referred to it as the Four Floors of Whores. It was just that ... seedy, neon, brash, in your face, but not scary or pity inducing. It was quite strange getting an escalator up while a giggling group of lady boys fluttered their eyelids at us going down ... We had our last drink in one of the slightly less seedy bars, finished it quickly and called it a night. We had to start packing up in the morning.

Needless to say we weren't operating at 100% the next day when we had to go back to Olympus to collect the camera. It's a simple journey. One MRT stop from Chinatown, change to the only other line and then one more stop. When we got out at the other end nothing looked at all familiar. We had somehow sleepwalked, assuming the other was keeping an eye on where we were going. In one change and stops we were not only in the wrong station but in the wrong end of town. The second attempy, by taxi was more successful and we got another example of native Singaporean disaffectedness. The driver bitched and moaned about taxes, the government, the crazy laws and the lack of personal freedom. We could have been in London but for the Chinese accent and the genuine smile.

Olympus, without saying why had deigned it necessary to change the circuit board of my camera. With the work done in KL and Singapore the little camera had now had the equivalent of a multiple organ transplant. On testing it seemed as though the colours had come back and it felt better so we took off.

Once again, I am ashamed to say we indulged in some fast hangover food. This time BK was the beneficiary. The staff were amused at my insistence on a BK hat.

We wandered around, eventually taking the MRT (correctly this time) back to Chinatown. As we were walking back into the hotel we passed by a little shop which had a massage sign outside. We went in and had the most painful chinese style pummeling we had ever had. There were a few small similarities with the Thai massage style we had learnt in Chiang Mai but it was mostly elbows and knees in painful places in our backs. Afterwards all we were fit for was a nap – in fact it was a struggle to make it through the few steps and a lift to the room.

It took a freezing cold swim and jacuzzi to wake us up for the evening. It was our last evening in Singapore, our last evening together (for just a while) and essentially the last evening of Claire's trip. Understandably there was a melancholy air to it. We put on our finest attire (ill fitting Bolivian jeans and a shirt for me, the twice repaired El Bolson dress for Claire) and made for the Long Bar in Raffles, ... dahling. We had to give this institution its due – visiting the museum was not enough. We ordered a pair of outrageously expensive Slings and sipped away, savouring the opulent sights and sounds, a little disappointed that they had been prepared using a mix and not fresh as we expected for the price. We used the time to write notes for the blog which was now ludicrously out of date. We ran through part of Thailand before covering the whole of Malaysia and finally Singapore. It was fitting that we returned to Insomnia one more time for a bite to eat before retiring.

The original plan had been to visit the Singapore Flyer, Singapore's taller answer to the London Eye on the morning of our last day. Nick had also invited us out to his apartment near the airport for some lunch. When we had packed up though we didn't really have time for either and the desire to be sociable wasn't great either. We settled on a long walk through the sultry city, through the maze of subterranean malls and passages, making the most of each other's company.

We had a tasty asian lunch and marched on further until we reached the destination, the Chocolate Research Facility. It's essentially a shop selling lots of types of chocolate but oh the chocolate. There are heaps to choose from, all superbly packaged and marketed. Claire settled on Champagne while I went for Chilli Pepper flavour. They tasted great (with a price tag to match) but it didn't take the edge off the facts. We needed to bade each other farewell, albeit temporarily.

It was a quick but emotional goodbye. My flight to Mumbai was early evening and Claire's back home nearer midnight. We had decided to not draw things out any more than necessary so I took the MRT and Claire stayed in the hotel until she could check in for her flight. While I made the journey with my newly svelte bag, Claire had acquired a whole new bag. Inside were some souvenirs but mostly of my heaviest belongings which I wouldn't be needing in India. Like a dive watch or PADI course books. I can only imagine the sight of her on the MRT to Changi. A red-eyed English girl with a big rucksack, a small rucksack and a cargo bag, all full to bursting and sporting the Kathmandu logo.

Changi Airport is renowned for its comfort and efficiency but it was all a little wasted on me in my somewhat forlorn humour. I went into the lounge priority pass lounge only to be told that my card was expired. I paid anyway, not in the mood for retail therapy. When the flight was called I made for the gate and finally caught a glimpse of the Singapore Airlines A380 which has fascinated me since I hear about it. But only a photo for me this time. Jet Airways don't have any A380s.

I was however incredibly impressed with the A330 they provided for the flight (despite the unnerving recent tendency to inexplicably fall out of the sky). It was very new, months old at most and the service was impeccable. I managed to keep my melancholy thoughts at bay by catching up some of the blog and catching a movie on the surprisingly large screen. At the back of my mind, a persistent yet unanswerable question: What would India hold in store for me? In a few short hours I would find out.

Deep thoughts and tall towers in KL

eoghancito — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:43:00 GMT

We turned up back at the Mayview Glory in KL well before 6am. They were full so we couldn't check in till someone else checked out. Too tired to be imaginative and overwhelmed by the menu in the expansive cafe next door we guiltily settled for a dirty McBreakfast around the corner to keep us awake after the night journey. It wasn't too long a wait before we got a room and some decent sleep. Somewhat like groundhog day, the return to KL once again revolved around my passport, an Indian Visa and technology problems.

As soon as we had a rest we were up and at em, down in the Indian Visa office, handing over the passport, now that I had received clearance from who or where ever these things come from. We'd skipped lunch due to our nap. By now hungry we stumbled across a decent Indian restaurant in the Arab quarter which served dishes on a big banana leaf instead of a plate. Not sure if that's what happens in India but it was very tasty nonetheless.

The next mission was to get my camera seen to. What a pain that it had actively disliked snorkelling despite supposedly being waterproof to 10m. Grrrr. The Olympus repair centre was in a place off the little Rough Guide city map and people we asked said we needed to get a taxi. So we did. A guy near the Indian restaurant said he would go there for 30RM. The metered ride from the bus station to the hotel had cost 10RM. I was skeptical but he said he would pay the tolls. I thought “Well if there are tolls it must be a fair trek” and we jumped in. He was very jolly on the way pointing out this and that, including the Indian Consulate, where you get your visa, he said. I corrected him and we arrived after a 15 minute journey.

It was only after explaining the problems with my camera to the smiley receptionist that I realised I had forgotten the bloody thing. What an idiot! They were closing in an hour so we had to make a return journey in the start of rush hour to make it. The return (metered) ride in much heavier traffic only cost 20RM. The other fella had literally and figuratively taken us for a ride. Note of caution to anyone taking a cab in KL – insist on the meter running!

The Olympus receptionist had a massive grin on her face as we walked back into the office. I'm sure I was a source of much amusement for her and her colleagues. They were very good though and said they would get to fixing the disobedient camera as soon as they could, but they needed at least until after the weekend. We both liked what we had seen (very little) of KL thus far so were happy to spend a day or two extra.

There was a bazaar/market downstairs which we had a wander around but it wasn't great. This was the posh end of town and the prices and range of wares said as much. We hailed another cab back to town. This one said he didn't have enough gas to get us there but we jumped in anyway, agreeing that he could put on the meter once he refuelled. A full tank of LPG cost 7.60RM, just over a pound. These taxi drivers were making a fortune!

It was too early to call it a day so we got dropped off at our favourite mall, Berjaya Times Square and paid Kenny Rogers another visit. Not as good this time but still tasty, healthy and cheap. Although we were tired by then, it was still too early to hit the hay so, seeing as the cinema was right beside us we caught Ice Age 3. Funny but I preferred the previous incarnations.

It was finally time for some proper touristy sightseeing and buying of random stuff. We were on our way down to Chinatown when we passed by a place which provoked curiosity. It was called Mydin Wholesale Emporium and appeared to be a big solid windowless block of concrete.

Entering, we had to put our bags in a locker and there was pretty tight security. It was an emporium of cheap tat. This was where people selling stuff on market stalls must come to get it. Brilliant! It's not just tat though - you can buy anything in this shop at ridiculously cheap prices. Claire's watch had been about to fall apart since Thailand. We got her a new Casio (which is a very fetching pink and has 2 alarms, a stopwatch and a world time function!). I got a watch for India, needing something more discrete than my oversized altimer/compass/barometer action man watch which had attracted strangers' attentions more than a few times. In fact we saw the aforementioned action man watch for half the price I had paid for it on ebay a few years back. We later saw a plastic strap version of Claire's watch for twice the price hers was.

There are floors and floors of stuff – appliances, IT gear, clothes, shoes, toilietries, food. Thanks to the lizards Claire's flip flops were about to bite the dust. Tick.

I needed another memory card and a rain poncho. Check. Conditioner, Yes! Moisturiser (non-whitening – very hard to come across in SE Asia) of course. Sun tan lotion. Why not. It's a great shop. As my mom would say we saved a lot of money there. Although as my father would say in response, we spent a fair bit too!

A few hours later, when we finally made it down to the myriad of stalls and pushy touts of Chinatown we discovered that it was all the same stuff, way more expensive than we had just seen it. Plus you had to haggle them right down by about 50% to get the same price! We tired of the pushiness and general touting quite quickly and had lunch.

Afterwards we made for the old KL train station which, according to the Rough Guide, was supposed to be a striking example of colonial architecture and one of the most memorable buildings in SE Asia. After many wrong turns and incorrect assumptions we got there eventually. It was now the HQ of Malaysian rail and although a very nice building, not quite as fab as we had been lead to believe.

Decadent pizza and beers in the hotel room for the evening.

One of the best discoveries of KL for us was Aji Cafe, the place right beside the Cafe. Its open 24 hours and has free wifi, but that wasn't the draw for us. In fact KL has a great free wireless system (KLwireless) which has near cityside coverage and that anyone can sign up for. Aji's attraction was breakfast. Malaysia has fabulous rotis, or pancake like warm flatbread, served with curry dips. They eat them a lot. Roti Telur, we discovered was roti with egg. Claire hates egg and she loved them. Plus they did the best fruit salad we had had in months, perhaps ever. Once we had had one breakfast there we never went anywhere else. Go.

Saturday was a bit of a rest day but we did venture out in the evening to Menara KL, or the KL tower which KL proudly states is the fourth tallest telecommunications tower in the world. (For curious nerds like me, that's after the ones in Toronto, Moscow, Beijing and, according to Wikipedia, Tehran, making KL fifth but hey!)

It's a very impressive building which, along with the Petronas Towers, dominate the KL skyline. Needing to stretch our legs, we walked up from the hotel but were halted at the bottom for the free minibus – they don't seem to like people walking up through the park. Slightly bizarrely they give you KL tower shaped water before you go up in the high speed lift.

The view from the top really is breathtaking. KL is a very modern city with lots of skyscrapers so it's great to see them all lit up. Across the city, Petronas Towers, the worlds tallest building for a while, is the big photo opp.

And Of course there are lots of chances to buy tat. But we declined, knowing full well where to get it cheaper! Its a great place for the comedy building photos though.

Along with the entry fee you get into what they dubbed a wildlife park. We soon discovered it was a pathetic and horribly cruel collection of caged animals. A zoo of sorts. It was so sad to see some quite beautiful creatures clearly going stir crazy (or getting fat) in tiny cages.

We left very soon after entering. Along with your ticket you also get into some sort of Formula 1 experience, presumably promoting the Malaysian Grand Prix. We missed the final entry but it looked for all the world like a PC driving game on a flatscreen monitor all inside a cardboard cut out of an F1 car. I won't even bother talking about the free pony ride. The tower is great. Skip the free stuff.

Continuing with the theme of tall buildings we made for the Petronas Towers early the next morning. The only way up, other than submitting your CV to Petronas (Malaysia's state oil company), is to bag one of 1600 daily tickets to walk across the Skybridge.

They open the basement ticket office at 9am and we got there soon after 8. It was mayhem. There was a large orderly queue in a cordoned off section. Outside this there was a load of people milling around, everyone asking the poor security lady manning the cordon the same questions. “Will we get a ticket??”

A secondary, queue-to-get-into-the-queue formed, which we were near the front of. It snaked around the area until it started to block the down escalator. Someone sensible made the call to ask all the people in the second queue to come back later. We complied and went to get some brekkie. Most didn't. When we came back an hour later there were still a big second queue but the first was almost finished. There was a bit of argy bargy about queue jumping but we eventually got a ticket to go up in the late afternoon. Great!

We had been wanting to visit the National Mosque and Islamic Museum anyway so this afforded us the time to do so. It's a large imposing structure near the old train station.

I wore shorts and a t-shirt but Claire, who wasn't wearing anything racier, had to put on a crazy purple wizard's robe. I was sooo jealous.

We had a look around, peeking into the mosque proper (non muslims are not allowed actually inside.

A lady was explaining the features and practices to a bored looking Indian couple. She invited us to join them. The Indian bloke's phone rang seconds after we joined. He said it was his mother and left, looking relieved. We now had the lady's full attention and she ours. Her name was Fatima and she spends every Sunday at the mosque, part of an organisation called Muslim Outreach, explaining aspects of Islam to the tourists who chance by. What a great idea.

We were both very curious about the Islamic faith and Fatima was an enthusiastic teacher. She took us through the basics and was happy to answer my questions and challenges along the way. We found out, amongst lots of other good stuff, why women have to pray upstairs (so there are no distractions to or by either sex from communing with Allah), who Mohammed was (long story), the relationship between Judaism, Christianity and Islam (even longer) and what all those people do in Mecca (complicated). It was a fascinating, illuminating conversation, shedding light on the deficiencies I have in understanding the Islamic belief system. It sparked a desire to learn more but not in order to convert, just to further my understanding.

While Fatima dealt very well with my science based questions about Darwinian evolution, quantum mechanics, big bang theory etc., she had a dogmatic approach, not allowing room for alternative theories. She firmly believes the holy Qu'aran has all the answers anyone had ever or will ever need. It was just that we hadn't read it. She also made a few statements, such as “everyone is born muslim” which I felt she could have phrased better.

I am positive she meant well in her own way but I was left with a familiar feeling :ultimately Islam is a faith based religion. At the end of the day you have to believe. It's not a matter of deciding to believe - you just have to have this thing called faith. It took me a lot longer than an afternoon to decide the same about Catholicism. It looked like Islam would not be tipping my agnostic see-saw in either direction. Claire wasn't convinced either. There seems to be a lot of gender based inequality built in.

We thanked Fatima sincerely for her time and patience – she had spent well over an hour with us and presented us with a lot of pamphlets and a copy of the Qu'aran which I will try to read. But she refused to shake our hands, leaving them dangling there like ... unshaken hands. That, I found somewhat rude but presumably it was for religious reasons. Or maybe the swine flu epidemic. Apologies to anyone who I may have offended in the last few paragraphs with my observations. I would actually love to continue the debate and the chat with someone else another some time.

In the time remaining we wouldn't have been able to do the Islamic museum justice (and had enough Islam for one day) but still had more time to kill. Back to KLCC to delve into one of the other great religions in Malaysia: retail. While they were building the Petronas towers they decided that a very glitzy shopping centre in between the two would be a good idea.

Times Square has a rollercoaster, a bowling alley and a lot of shops, some tatty, others aimed at teeneagers. The KLCC mall has Rolex, Hermes, Gucci and even an M&S. It was somehow comforting looking at the price of Percy Pigs and Breakfast Tea. We ate at Nando's. We could have been in Bluewater or Liffey valley. In one shop I got a head massage from a really weird machine and we both got mechanised calf rubs. We would have taken photos only cameras aren't allowed – it was fun.

Suddenly the time for our skybridge trip was upon us. Claire didn't get a chance to pee before we were ushered into a small auditorium for a 3D Petronas production on themselves and the construction of the tower. It was good but a little staid and the 3D slightly pointless.

After a security check we were put in the high speed lift to floor 40. Claire was about to pee her pants when we arrived but the neaest public toilets was back beside the Bally Shoes shop on basement 1. She was literally about to have an accident when she asked a security guard and was accompanied (almost) every step of the way to a non-public toilet. I admit I found the whole thing quite humorous. The view, needless to say, was amazing and it really is a fabulous feat of architecture and engineering.

You only get 15 minutes to have a look around before the next group arrive and take their snaps. At the bottom there is an interesting interactive exhibition with puzzles and displays about tall buildings.

Seeing as it was kind of on the way back to the hotel we stopped by Times Square to get Claire some pink shades to match her watch and pick up some more Doxicycline, our antimalarial of choice (thanks Emma!). We'd eaten out so much all we wanted was pot noodles for dinner so we grabbed a few of them too.

When I called Olympus to see how the camera patient was doing they said it was fixed so that became the primary objective for our last full day in KL. After we picked it up and were trying it out in the taxi it felt a bit strange, like a new camera. The colours were washed out and the images lacked clarity. But we had run out of time so we had to deal with it. The taxi dropped us off at KL's main local market, a vast array of stalls selling spices, fruit, veg, meat and fish of questionable origin, all enveloped in a potent stinky odour. It wasn't so much fun – we left quickly and had a quiet evening, eating at Aji's.

Finally the time had come for us to check out. We were off to Singapore on the 11pm Royal Class express Bus. We had a final wander around the city during the day, visiting the Masjid mosque, much older and picturesque than the National mosque.

Then off to the Malaysian National Planetarium. Unfortunately a lot of the sections were closed as they were updating their exhibitions but the area about space flight was really interesting. I never knew that Malaysia had put a man in space. There were lots of interesting things to do including sit on a space toilet which was amusing.

After a late lunch back at the Indian restaurant we hung about in the hotel and then in Starbucks before the super nice bus pulled up. It literally said the words “super nice bus” along the side of it and it was by far the most luxurious bus either of us had ever even heard of. Every passenger gets their own TV with choice of on demand movies plus (this was the most fun) a hydraulically operated seat!

Malaysia had treated us well and although it lacked the vibrancy and distinctiveness of other SE Asian countries we would certainly go back and I would have no qualms recommending KL and the Perentians as places to spend some time.

Diving and Snorkelling paradise: The Perenthian Islands

eoghancito — Thu, 9 Jul 2009 10:27:00 GMT

A supremely confident muslim woman in a headscarf ushered all the bleary eyed tourists off the bus in Kuala Besut at about 5 in the morning. She lead us towards the harbour and to an office where they sold boat tickets to the island. She was rushing people and intimating that we had to buy quickly to make sure we could get on the early boat at 7.30am. I never like this rushed sales tactic and was suspicious but still not fully awake so handed over the cash for a return ticket.

We had a simple breakfast looking at the dawn break spectacularly over the harbour walls and waited for the boats to leave. Close to the time we went over to the jetty and paid a 5RM national park conservation fee. Unusually for us we were first in the queue for the boat and had a birds eye view of an English girl in a Trinity College Dublin hoody refuse point blank to pay the conservation fee. She was pontificating at the poor guy from a height. When the gates opened and we were ushered onto the boat she disappeared from view.

The guide book warned those with frail stomachs against eating before the speed boat trip. Speed is the word – it was a very comfy and almost brand new boat but it had two monster out board motors which made the small boat with a dozen souls on board practically fly across the sea. The unmistakable dome shape of heavily vegetated tropical islands came into view as we approached Perenthian Kecil, or small island. The first stop was at long jetty leading to Coral Bay but we had decided to try our luck on the other side at Long beach, facing the big island.

The water was too shallow for the speed boat to go all the way but a small flotilla of sea taxis pulled up alongside us to take us the 30m or so onto the beach. It was a wide sweep of pristine white sand with a haphazard collection of bars and guesthouses providing a back drop. The Rough Guide had suggested a place which had a dive shop, restaurant and accommodation in one place. Claire stayed with the bags and I went up to see. There were no rooms at the inn.

We were going to stay three days on the small island and then maybe go over to the big island, Perenthian Besut for two more. We tried another place, Mohsin Chalet, a collection of blue roofed beach huts stretching up the hill overlooking the southern part of the beach.

They had only one room left. It was the cheapest one they had with a fan and and bathroom. We looked at it and for 70RM it was overpriced and dirty (to be fair the people who had last stayed had left a complete mess). They did an offer for 55RM for three days or more. We took it and groggily waited around the restaurant for a few hours for them to clean the room. They turned away about 10 people looking for a room while we were there. It was clearly very busy and we felt lucky to have found anywhere at all.

While we were waiting the guy at the desk shouted over at me that I was the last person to get the 55RM price. He had just received a fax from the owner to increase the prices immediately. Now the deal was 75RM a night with free breakfast. We would have to pay for all our nights there and then to get the 55RM price. We signed up for 5 nights – it was such a hassle packing up, moving, finding a room that we decided that it was better to lock ourselves in.

The island has no direct electricity connection with the mainland so all power is produced by generator. A sign in the bedroom said there was power 23 hours a day in high season. Given that they were full and turning people away I was expecting it to be high season. We both wanted a nap and it was getting seriously hot – a nap would be painful if not impossible without a fan. The manager, who was really quite rude, said that it was not high season so we would only have power from 7pm to 8am. He made a litany of excuses about why it wasn't high season, my favourite of which was that it was only high season when it doesn't rain. And it had rained a few days ago. Nothing to do with occupancy, demand or time of year. I told him he was a chancer (in a jocular, good natured but serious manner) and we went down to the room, which was now a lot cleaner, for a well needed forty winks.

Feeling refreshed afterwards we went for a walk down the beach.

Perenthian Kecil is your textbook tropical island paradise. The beach is pure white fine sand with gently lapping wavelets of crystaline clean water. It was far cleaner than either island in Thailand.

There is a ramshackle collection of atmospheric restaurants and shops along the middle of the beach after which the dense jungle vegetation begins and covers the island everywhere where the beach is not.

I wanted to check out a dive shop that the book had recommended, Quiver Dive Team which was on the far northern end of the beach beside a large 3 storey expensive looking hotel called Bubus. We met John, one of the instructors who told me about how they do things. 1^st dive 70RM and subsequent dives 60RM. He seemed a decent chap and I liked the feel of the place so I signed up for a lunchtime dive the next day. We caught some rays on the beach and paddled in the lovely water before showering and having an excellent BBQ dinner on the beach. All the restaurants offer the same deal for 18RM, choice of fish such as barracuda, kingfish or shark with rice or fries or roti, veg or coleslaw, fruit salad and a drink of orange cordial. For three quid its a great deal. Drinking is more expensive, not surprising as it is a muslim country and none of the restaurants serve alcohol. However an enterprising man with a coolbox sits on the beach in the darkness at the edge of the restaurants and will give you a cold Tiger beer if you give him 9RM.

Island life is simple enough. But that's what we were there for. We would rent an umbrella for the day in the morning. Alternate between playing beach ball, reading, paddling and snoozing. The occasional break for food and I went off for a dive every so often. It's all very pleasant and very relaxing but somehow we were very tired in the evenings. We did go for a wander though after dinner into one of the bars which provide sheesha pipes for those who aren't allowed to drink for religious reasons. While we were sat on a rattan mat we bumped into Alex who we had met at the bus station. We got chatting and an English gap year type came over and, looking around him, mischievously said he was selling vodka – did we want a bottle. I was curious, how many could he possibly have? He had started out with 48 bottles but only had three left. It was cheap, a lot cheaper than the bars so I bought one but more for the story than for the vodka itself. How did a gap year traveller end up coming across enough vodka to sink a ship never mind bringing it all to a tiny island that you can only get to by speed boat? Someone had told him that a good way to make money was to buy vodka cheap on the mainland and sell it for a profit on the islands. Himself and his mate bought 2 cases each and, being light travellers managed to fit them into their rucksacks. They had found prices more competitive than expected on the island so were only making about 5RM profit per bottle. Fair play to the enterprise. I loved the story.

The next day my first dive, my first ever “fun dive” was to a site called Tanjung Basi, off the big island. I was joined by a friendly English couple called Josh and Amy and a Swiss Instructor who was going back to Singapore to, of all things, research Foot and Mouth disease. Josh and Amy had also just learnt to dive on Koh tao so we had plenty to chat about. I was excited to use the dive computer for the first time but was so busy waffling on the way out in the boat that I forgot to set it up. Thankfully it's so idiot proof it did everything on its own.

It became clear very quickly that diving here was far better than in Koh Tao. Visibility was over 20m and there was a much greater volume and variety of sea life to see: all the usual suspects, sting rays, bannerfish and clownfish but for the first time I saw jellyfish underwater and long needle fish just under the surface. We also saw a feeding frenzy of lots of fish gorging on hard coral on the dive which lasted just under an hour. The water was 31°C throughout – we were spoilt. I was also delighted to have a full profile of the dive shown on the computer. I admit it, I had become a diving nerd.

Back at Quiver cleaning up our gear Josh and Amy mentioned they were leaving in a few days but wanted to do one more dive. They had been to a place called the temple of sea a few days before and said it was amazing. They wanted to go back for their last dive and asked if I would go? Of course I would!

After another chilled out afternoon on the beach Claire and I went back for more BBQ. So good! One of the good things about Mohsin Chalet is the fact that when the power is on in the evening there is Wifi. Ok sometimes. It was very intermittent and unreliable but wifi nonethless so we were able to catch up on news and email in the evenings too. Sometimes!

Dive 2 was to temple and it was the most challenging dive I had done. There was a huge current when we got there which meant we needed to use a current rope, to keep us from drifting off as soon as we jumped in (backwards, as is the style here necessitated by the diminutive boats used). Michael, the Austrian Dive Master leading us had trouble keeping the group together as we descended down the rope. It was like being in a gale force wind, except under the water. The fish, who are supposed to be in the environment seemed to be struggling in the current. It was very disconcerting and all i could do was concentrate on keeping hold of the rope. If I let go I felt I would end up in the Philippines.

Eventually when we got down to our maximum depth the current eased but the visibility was right down to 5m. The Temple of the Sea, that I had read about in the Rough Guide and that had been the clincher for us to come here felt more like the Temple of Doom. I exaggerate of course.

It was a short dive. I was stressed at the beginning and had been gulping air. The first time I looked at my air I had over 150 bar. The second time I looked I had jumped to 60, only 10 away from needing to start to ascend and do the safety stop. I only lasted 34 minutes, my shortest dive so far. We did however see a few Bamboo sharks hiding under a few rocks as well as some box fish but for me it had all been about getting to grips with the current and learning how to deal with it rather than enjoying the scenery. I was discovering that there is no such thing as a bad dive, only adverse conditions. I felt bad for the other more experienced divers who had plenty of air left though. Eric, the jolly, experienced Swede who was with us admitted it was the strongest current he had ever been in. But he still had lots of air. I was definitely going to have to work on my air consumption.

After all that stress it was high time to take a break from diving for a while. Plus poor Claire had been left to her own devices on a beach where most people are too busy trying to look cool than say hello and was going slightly mad. We booked a snorkeling tour for the next day and had some more beach time. We were getting pretty good at beach ball at this stage.

That evening I had arranged to meet Josh and Amy at the opening of a new bar at the Southern end of the beach. It was huge and much more organised than most of the other places but had prices aimed at tourists rather than backpackers. We rocked up to the cavernous open-air world cafe at 8 so we could eat before the guys arrived. We were just about to order chile con carne when the English waitress, who looked like she had been at the last full moon party and had been roped in at the last minute, told us that it was only pizza and pasta that night. An hour and a half later it had yet to arrive while Josh and Amy were dead on time. To be fair to them when they noticed the problem (I think the kitchen forgot to cook it) they gave us a round of drinks and a 20% discount and the food was tasty when it did arrive. But when you pay London prices you expect London service. All the more when they slyly slap a 10% service charge and a 7% tax on the bill.

The guys had brought along some rum and we had the illicit smuggled vodka and the portable speakers with us so we found a spot on the beach and had a great evening. We all had a lot in common, living in London and travelling. Josh and I had a tunes-off with our ipods. I'm sure we'd both say we won hands down.

Things got quite raucous towards the end as the tunes attracted a bunch of locals. Although they were muslim they seemed quite happy to drink with us and take what was left of the alcohol off our hands when we decided to call it a night and bade farewell to the guys who were leaving in the morning.

So it was that we were a touch hungover for the snorkeling the next morning but that disappeared as soon as we got into the water. There was a good group on the boat too, a gaggle of gossipping Aussies on a girls away holiday, a Swedish couple, a Malaysian who looked and sounded distinctly English and an older Aussie guy with an Asian girlfriend who didn't open her mouth for the whole trip.

The first stop was back on the other side of the island near a sea lighthouse about 2 km off Coral Bay. It was fabulous with excellent visibility and lots of fish around.

One type of fish, with black and white stripes are quite fearless and come towards you while most veer away into the deep. I put my hand out to one and it took a bite. No damage but I wasn't expecting an attack! I managed to take a few snaps but after while taking a video (the one above) my worst nightmare happened. The waterproof camera told me to close the battery door. The battery door was clearly shut! I cursed through my snorkel and went back to the boat to let it dry off. What is it with me and technology!

Next up was Shark Point, at the southern tip of the big island. The guide took us himself this time, and after about 10 minutes lo and behold a black tip reef shark, about 2 m in length, majestically came into view behind us, had a look at us and carried on into the distance. It was very impressive. A few others came and went but were hard to see unless you were in the right place at the right time. The final site of the morning was “Secret Turtle Place”. Claire and I were really keen on seeing a turtle. Koh Tao actually means turtle island in Thai but they are no longer there or very rare at best. They seem to be going that way on the Perenthians too as it they don't go to the reefs near the beaches any more.

The point was mid way between the two islands and one quickly came up for air near the boat before going back down. We all piled off and followed for a few minutes till he sped off. They're really cool creatures, looking clumsy, wise and comical all at the same time. A few others came and went while we were there. I saw one eating a large jellyfish. It must have been lunchtime – for us as well as the turtles.

We half ate a really nasty fish and chips at a cafe at the functional fisherman's village on the small island. We should have gone for local food they can cook it better. It was nice to have some time out of the sun and off the rocky boat though. After lunch we went to what was the best coral reef I have ever seen ... diving or snorkelling.

It was called Coral gardens, just off the west coat of the big island. There were huge table top corals, needlefish everywhere and big bumphead parrotfish aswell as sea anenomes with tiny clownfish darting in and out. I've never seen the Great Barrier Reef but Claire said it was very similar. The final spot was Turtle beach, a beautiful spot where the turtles come to lay their eggs in the season. They have very good taste but I wondered why we were allowed there. Surely lots of tourists have an impact on their habitat? Instead of lounging on the sandy beach we made for the coral around its fringes.

Claire hadn't bothered with her fins (I always thought they were flippers but everyone in the diving community seemed to call them fins so I'll go with that). As a result she was a little slower than usual. We came up behind a larger fish which swiftly turned around. I recognised it instantly as a Triggerfish which are territorial and aggressive. It had big momma lips behind which rows of sharp teeth sat scarily. It started to come towards us, clearly aggrieved with our presence. I immediately backed off and go around its patch of water, having been told by Terry never to swim over it. Finless Claire wasn't so fast and it started gaining on her but thankfully we had enough of a head start for it to lose interest after an alarming 30 seconds or so. The Aussie guy (with the quiet girlfriend) who was nearby said he saw it happen and he was “worried for a few seconds there, mate”.

He had been enthusiastically pointing out things over the last few minutes and moaning about something called a crown of thorns which he said eat the coral. He pointed one out, a large star fish that, hence the name, looks like a filled in crown of thorns. As well as eating the coral they are highly poisonous. The guy found some sticks and fishlike, dived down to the starfish. He then poked and poked it with the sticks until he had a hold on it, taking it up to the surface and threw it onto some rocks. I asked him afterwards what he was doing and he said protecting the coral. He said that over fishing was depleting the stocks of larger fish which prey on the crown of thorns. I felt that as snorkelers we should be observing not interacting with the wildlife. Not sure about the correct moral stance really. In one day we had seen as much, if not more snorkeling than I had in all my dives on Koh Tao. It was incredible, and great for Claire to finally see for herself what the appeal was about diving.

We decided to try one of the different restaurants for dinner, also a BBQ. An hour after ordering we still had received nothing despite asking for our drinks twice. When I saw the waiter tucking into his own dinner I went up and asked him where ours was. He lazily called our order over to the BBQ man. We voted with our feet. We weren't having much luck with food these days but got what we wanted back at the BBQ.

That night Claire woke me up worried with a rustling sound in the room. Once again I sleepily dismissed it and about 30 seconds later realised that she was dead right. Geckos had been a regular feature of our lives for the past few months but never had one been so intrusive. When I turned on the light I saw a big one scurry across the floor under my bed. They seemed to just love rustling about in the random detritus of our belongings.

I decided to get back on the horse the following day. Quiver were going back to Temple in the morning and I signed up – I wanted to give it another chance. I was well rewarded there was no current at all and visibility was over 25m. John the instructor I had met on the first day lead this dive and he said it was the best he had ever seen it. There were shoals of literally thousands of yellow back fusiliers and more of the usual suspects than I had ever seen. The breadth and array of fish was staggering. I won't go through the lot but my favourites were a moray eel who looked like he was having a look out his front door of rocks and a shoal of squid. Squid are really unusual looking animals with a strange backward looking anatomy and a clever jet propulsion system. Very much the best dive so far (sorry Terry, the surroundings were better!).

Back on land, I discovered that both Claire's wallet and flip flops had been nibbled on through the night. It seems the lizard was just hungry. But if he had any sense he would steer very clear of any of Claire's footwear in this climate.

We spent the day once again under an umbrella on Long beach and then went over the jungle path to Coral bay to do a sunset snorkel. It was sad to see all the dead coral having been so clearly impacted by man's presence and the onward march of “progress”. The one remaining section of coral was quite impressive but it was a complete contrast to the abundant life seen the previous day. We did see a big monitor lizard on the way over though which was some consolation. It would soon be time to leave the island so we arranged our return speed boat trip and the night bus back to KL with the veryfriendly man in Lazy Buoy's shop. The timing allowed me one final dive in the morning. Hooray!

Back to the BBQ place one more time for dinner. It was our last night so we thought we might as well go with what we knew rather than risk any more service disasters. We had an early night after packing up our gear, as much to prevent hungry lizards eating it as for the requirement (for me) to get up early for the dive.

The final dive was to Sugar wreck, a 90 meter cargo ship that sank in 2000. The ship hauled sugar, hence the name. It was a calm day and there was no current as we put in. Eric and his girlfriend were with us. As was, surprise surprise the girl who had refused to pay the park conservation fee. It turned out she was a divemaster at Quiver.

I'd never been near a wreck before and it was great sight to behold. She was lying on her side in around 18 meters of water and it was visible how it was becoming a reef. There were corals and shells growing on the hull and a whole ecosystem now calls the place home. There was heaps to see: huge puffer fish and porcupine fish. A Scorpion fish almost hidden on the hull. A lionfish wandering around the mast. I also found out what the sign for a bat fish is, my fave so far (you swing a baseball bat – I love it!). I have to admit this dive was up there with the temple. Even Michael who is pretty low key about things said that it was better visibility than he had ever seen at that site – he usually can't see the length of the mast where we could see what seemed like most of the ship. A great way to finish up the dives.

Afterwards there was only just time to grab some food and then it was time to say our goodbyes back at Quiver. The guys very kindly let us have a shower and a change of clothes before our taxi came to take us to the speed boat.

It was a bit choppier on the way back so the speed bumps were more exaggerated. There was a bunch of older Italians on board who were terrified by the journey. As soon as we got off the boat they were off trying to complain to the police. Perhaps they should have got the slowboat.

There was a wait for a few hours until the night bus so we holed up at a very friendly cafe in the nondescript town of Kuala Besut. I wrote the blog for a few hours and Claire got deeper into Shantaram. We had dinner there too which I thought was tasty but the dish Claire ordered involved a lot of MSG which she doesn't react well to. A dose of Buscopan and a lot of “windypops” later she was finally feeling better. Just in time for the bus to take us back to KL. Surprisingly it was the first time on the entire trip, apart from organised tours, that we had done the same journey in two directions, in effect retracing our steps. Not bad going.

The great technology pitstop and an unexpected encounter (sort of) with Kenny Rogers in Kuala Lumpur

eoghancito — Fri, 3 Jul 2009 07:52:00 GMT

The flight touched down at Kuala Lumpur's Low Cost Carrier Terminal, or LCCT for short. No-one had mentioned that the timezone had changed so we thought the flight was an hour early, but in fact it was us who was out of kilter. It couldn't have arrived any sooner for Claire who, still suffering from a head cold had very bad pains in her ears as we descended. More swine flu declarations on entry and one more stamp in the passports.

The guide book and the hotel we had booked suggested that the best way to get into town was via the train – but I think that must be for passengers arriving at KLIA, the main airport a few km away from LCCT. We would have had to take a bus to KLIA, a train (at 35 Malaysian Ringit, RM, about 6 to the pound) to the centre and then a taxi. There was a bus for 8RM straight into town so we took that and saved the hassle of all the transfers. It turned out to be a great decision as it left us off within view of the place we had booked, the Mayview Glory Hotel.

Once we checked in it was time for action this was just a pitstop before heading up to the Perenthian Islands. My laptop was in a sorry state and there was an Asus service centre not too far from the hotel. We took an overpriced 15RM cab to Plaza Imbi (not knowing exactly how far away the place was). It was only about 2 km up the road, an easy walk but hindsight is always 20/20. I explained the issues to the very enthusiastic Asus repair guy and left it with him. He said there could only be three things wrong with it, there are only three components to the very basic machine – the keyboard/mousepad, the monitor and the motherboard. If it was the keyboard it would cost a negligible amount to replace but the motherboard would cost well over 100 pounds. Not too far away from the original cost of the laptop. We would have to wait and see.

KL is great for shopping - computer / technology shops abound around Plaza Imbi. We had a quick look around and saw a great deal on a Dell netbook for about the same price as replacing the motherboard on the old Asus which had clearly seen better days. MMMM. A new laptop or fix an old one which broke in about 8 months. Same price. We would still have to wait and see.

Following on from my new love of diving acquired on Koh Tao we would be heading up to some islands off the eastern Malaysian coast which are well known for diving and snorkeling. I had used a dive computer just twice but it had convinced me that it was not only safer but it would get me to dive safer and longer in the future. A bit of internet research into a dive computer I had tried looked at in Thailand put the cheapest vendor, rainbow Runners conveniently located 100m down the road in Plaza Berjaya. We went in an had a look and a play. It was a big investment but I was sure I would get the use out of it in years to come. I had to decide between a few different models. The older, more expensive, better looking Suunto Stinger or the newer, cheaper, cheaper looking D4 with better functionality. I would have to wait and see what happened with the PC.

Claire had put up with all that exposure to computers remarkably well but we needed to do something more up her street. Across the road is one of the biggest multi-function shopping super centres I have ever seen: Plaza Berjaya Times Square. It is positively gargantuan.

We were getting hungry so looked around the 12(!!) floors and on the 3^rd or 4^th, beside the cinema and curiosly underneath Malaysia's biggest indoor rollercoaster (!!!) we found a place promising the world's best chicken.

The last celebrity restaurant tie up I could ever have expected was with Kenny Rogers (!!!!). It was very American, in the insincere “have a nice day, sir” way but it was tasty and healthy and good value. They even give you a tasty muffin with your meal-deal. It was getting lateish by the time we finished up but we weren't quite ready to go home yet so we decided to grab a movie, seeing as it was on the same floor. There was a limited choice, however and the best of a bad lot was the latest installment of Transformers. We had seen the first one in difficult to hear Spanish with no subtitles on a bus somewhere in Latin America. So I was somewhat qualified to see the sequel but Claire wasn't. Being based on a kid's cartoon it wasn't a very complex plot and actually we agreed at the end much more enjoyable than either had expected.

Claire had a lie-in the next day while I went down to the Indian Visa Bureau to get my visa sorted out. I had to provide photos and lots of random information including an address in India, which meant I had to go off and look on the internet for somewhere before going back and handing over some money. All this was for the clearance check alone which would take 5 working days. And if I passed clearance only then would I be able to hand over my passport for the visa itself. I preffered the chaos of Laos' visa on arrival or even the random bribery in Cambodia but this was the only way.

By the time we checked out I had received an email from my friend in Asus saying that the only solution was to replace the motherboard. Perhaps it was time to buy a new laptop then. We did need to make our arrangements for later so we headed up to Putra bus terminal to get a ticket for Kuala Besut, the port of entry for the Perenthians. KL was turning out to be a very compact city, eminently manageable to get around using public transport or on foot. We didn't have time to see the sights but we knew we'd be back so were happy to get on with the chores at hand. Laptop was now one on the list. On picking it up, the Asus was unusable in its current state. The letter o had stopped working as well as the function keys so my blog was starting to l00k like a bl0g. Very bl00dy ann0ying if you see what I mean. We jumped on the efficient Monorail system to get back to Imbi. More because it was another mode of transport (number 40) than because it got us there any faster.

Before committing in the place that had the deal I dragged Claire around about 10 shops to do a comparison of prices and models. It was a lot more structured than the complete impulse buy in Paraguay. I found one guy who would match the price and upgrade the RAM. Then we went back to the original place which was much bigger and for some reason I trusted more to see what they would do. They would throw in a mouse and upgrade the RAM.

We left to let them stew for a while and go back to the dive shop. I tried my hardest bargaining but to no avail. They could go no lower on either the D4 or the Stinger. Finally I surprised myself by plumping for the cheaper D4. The few hundred ringit saved would make a very good contribution to the laptop. Back to the laptop place and he made his final offer by including a USB hub. It was a deal. They took a long time to upgrade the RAM and we were pushing it for time by the time they had finished. By the time we made it back to the hotel to pick up our bags and then go to the bus station there was only time for a rushed Pizza before the bus was due.

Putra bus station doesn't have a system of platforms like any other we had been at. Rather there is a traffic jam of buses outside the station with a barrier preventing them from entering. We met a friendly guy called Alex in the station as we were munching our pizzas. He was heading to the Perenthians also and spotted a bus from our company in the traffic jam about 20 minutes before departure time. He went out, got on and we followed suit. It was comfortable enough night journey and the roads were far better but neither of us slept too much. I think I had too much new technology to play with.

Blood sucking leeches and flying lizards in Khao Sok

eoghancito — Wed, 1 Jul 2009 07:00:00 GMT

It's a very easy system when you get a ferry in Thailand. They give you a colour coded badge with the destination written on it, each destination has a different colour. If you so much as look at the wrong queue or try to go in the wrong direction someone will identify your error and guide you the right way. The ferry to the mainland was pleasant enough – no repeat of the high seas on the previous trip so we were able to do some reading and blogging. After a coach transfer we reached Surat Thani, a functional town which seems to serve mostly as a transit hub to and from the islands.

We had about 30 seconds to buy some fruit and we were put onto a minibus. Only the back seats were left and there wasn't much room for us or our bags but we squeezed on anyway. We were off but to our horror we discovered that two more passengers were being picked up too. They piled in beside us, somehow managed to fall asleep practically standing up and we had an uncomfortable 3 hour trip to Kao Sok National Park.

We had tried to book Our Jungle House, a place that Lonely Planet had recommended for its treehouses. They wouldn't accept a booking at such short notice but we went anyway on spec. Thankfully they weren't too busy but they didnt have any treehouses left so we settled for a riverside bungalow. It really is an amazing setting for a place. The open plan reception and restaurant are in a clearing in wht looked like primary rainforest and are built from real wood, no concrete in this jungle. The lodges and treehouses themselves are situated along a set of dimly lit trails through the rainforest itself. Our lodge was to be found in a clearing beside the Sok river underneath a spectacular limestone cliff.

It was very tastefully appointed in teak and rattan with a veranda overlooking the river.

There was even an enormous spider in the bathroom to remind us that we were in the jungle.

Despite the spider it was the best view I've ever had from any shower anywhere.

After settling in we ate well in the guesthouse restaurant. Not that we had a vast amount of choice as the closest buildings and the village were a few km away. We spoke to Klaus, the German manager about what trekking options there were in the park and after a bit of deliberation decided on a half day guided trek in the morning and a night safari for the evening. A strange rustling woke Claire up in the middle of the night. She woke me, scared and I dismissed it as her imagination. 10 minutes later I was banging on the bed trying to scare whatever it was away, unwilling to leave the relative safety of our mosquito net cocoon.

After breakfast we set off for the trek with Lek, our happy go lucky Thai guide.

He was delighted to get the work as it was low season and trekking tourists were few and far between. We got to the park itself, via a shortcut Lek knew, through an orchard of mangos and other exotic fruits which look a bit like hairy lychees but are much tastier. We arrived at the entrance and paid our fee. The fee evidently changes based on the whim of park guard collecting it – the book said one price, the guesthouse another, the sign on the park gate a third and we ended up paying less than any of them. Handy that!

The park covers a large area of primary forest and a large manmade reservoir created at the cost of a few villages and a whole lot wildlife. It was the first to be nationalised by the Thai government in the sixties but that didn't seem to stop the reservoir being set up. The inevitable tourist developments are encroaching, right up to the boundary fence along which Lek lead us. He pointed out a few monkeys in the trees and some wild elephant tracks.

At one point I came across a very strange little being just screaming for attention in the mud. It was about 2cm long, thin and brown the shape of an earthworm but much more flexible and skinny. I asked Lek what it was an the answer came back: a bloodsucking leech! We'd read about them in the guide books and they had recommended using tobacco water. It seemed pretty harmless and tiny so we left it to its own devices and carried on down the track. Lek pointed out a flying lizard. I was skeptical but eventually he caught one and showed us its wings and how it glides through the trees (it doesn't fly).

We came to some beautiful waterfalls when Claire spotted that her one side of her sock, by the ankle, was covered in blood. After examining her foot there were no beasties to be seen so a leech must have gorged itself and then fallen off, bloated.

It seems boots and socks, even tucked into trousers are no defence. They don't like tobacco though so Lek applied some tobacco water to our shoes and we started to turn back. It worked a charm. We also saw a few enormous hourglass spiders and some very hairy and poisonous caterpillars.

The forest and its waterfalls were quite beautiful but we were comparing it to the Amazon which was the last time we had been properly in the rainforest and it was probably an unfair comparison.

Just as we got back to the lodge the heavens erupted in what was our first real taste of monsoon rain. It came down like a thousand taps on full, creating a lake around the restaurant.

We agreed with Klaus that if it didn't clear up we would postpone the night safari but luckily it stopped just at dusk allowing us to get back to the lodge and get our night gear before dinner.

The night trek was much better for seeing wildlife. Just as we entered the park we saw a slow loris, a sort of cross between a bear, a monkey and a sloth. They don't do a hell of a lot, hence the name. Although Lek gave us a really good dose of tobacco all over our shoes and socks it didn't seem to have any effect.

I was plucking the little fellas of my legs every 5 minutes. 2 managed to get me around my belly and one was just about to sink his teeth into my jugular before I caught him in the act and squezed him off. Claire had the same issues and narrowly escaped a tick biting her ankle. It was easy enough to get used to once we got the technique down. Some people say use a lighter but a nail swipe worked just fine. Not for the squeamish though! Lek was great at spotting the animals. We saw a lot of very cute, tiny and appropriately named Mouse Deer and a beautiful civet cat with a long stripy tail.

We did see some recent elephant tracks but none of the beasts themselves. I asked Lek what he would do if we found any elephants and he said he would run away as fast as he could so it was probably just as well.

We got back to the lodge and had a pleasant late night beer on the veranda. Rudely interrupted by a rat brazenly walking up the stairs and into the room. So that was what the noise was! I also spent some time admiring my leech cuts!

In the morning get got up with no intentions of doing much apart from having a mooch around and booking our onward journey. As we set off to look at what we were missing with the treehouses Claire spotted an unusual sight. It was a female chameleon underneath the lodge laying eggs into a shallow nest.

We asked a few people if this was normal and were told that it was very rare and that we were very lucky. After having spent the whole time in the grounds of the guesthouse we thought it would be nice to explore a little. But we weren't missing much. A few closed up bars and restaurants. Gueshouses, which looked a bit shabby waiting for the high season. We had clearly chosen our accommdation well. We booked our ticket to Krabi and went back to where we belonged!

There is a really nice atmosphere at Our Jungle House. Dick, the American owner was there for a short spell and we got talking to him. He was there to oversee the handover of management from Klaus, who was retiring, and his friendly Thai wife to a French couple. He was admiring my laptop and cursing his own larger and infintely more expensive Sony. I waxed lyrical about the cheap as chips Asus EEEPC I picked up randomly in Paraguay and something strange happened. The laptop keys started to stop working. I couldn't turn up the screen light or turn off the wireless. It was very frustrating. I should have kept my mouth shut. As we hung about the reception reading (I was getting increasingly angry with the unreliability of my technology) the staff we quick to point out things – there was a beautiful orange Mango snake curled up on one of the trees and there was a resident lizard who comes into the kitchen to eat scraps. They really were very welcoming and hospitable.

That evening we met some other guests, Kim and Bryan, a couple on holidays from Holland. They were a friendly bunch we had dinner together. They ended up going on a trek with Lek the following morning on our advice, despite our exaggerated stories about bloodsucking leeches and tobacco water.

After seeing our new Dutch friends off the taxi arrived (read 4x4 – they don't do black cabs in Asia as any regular reader now knows), we jumped on and were taken to a mini bus. This one had a lot more room and we were off for an easy 3 hour trip to Krabi.

Krabi is on the west coast of Thailand. As its prone to monsoon during the summer we had been avoiding the coast and were only staying one day. We had a flight to Kuala Lumpur booked the next day with our old friends Air Asia. The reason for the flight was that there are a lot of warnings about terrorism and political instability in the Southern provinces of Thailand. Rather than risk it we would save some time by getting straight to KL.

The damp of the jungle had gotten to Claire. By the time we checked into a guesthouse in Krabi she was sneezing and displaying all the signs of a cold. I went out to get some flu medicine and make an attempt at fixing my computer. I succeeded on the flu medicine front but failed miserably with the laptop. It was beyond my means. Claire slept, I cursed and lamented and tried to see if there was an ASUS repair centre in KL. More on that later. I cajoled Claire into getting up for some food in the evening – for our last night in Thailand, which had such great food, I am ashamed to admit that we had a pizza. But a very nice pizza it was too.

A bus the following morning took us to Krabi airport. I had been expecting some sort of nasty regional shed of the type that Ryanair call an airport, like Paris Beauvais but it was a pleasant surprise to arrive at a very modern place that looked like it had only just opened its doors. We were a little sad to be leaving Thailand, a country we had spent well over a month in all told, but also excited to be moving on to Malaysia, a Muslim country, for the first time. We hoped it would treat us as well as the Thai treat their monks.

Koh Pha Ngan and not a full moon party in sight

eoghancito — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 03:54:00 GMT

The crossing over to Koh Pha Ngan was ludicrously rough. People were puking their guts up into the sea at the stern of the catamaran while it see-sawed in and out of the waves. It was too rough to sail but the boat was full to bursting and there was money to be made. A few people fell over doing that pseudo-drunken rough sea walk around the ship. I had been planning on blogging but settled for staring blankly at the horizon over staring blankly at a screen.

It was clear that the island was much bigger and more developed as soon as we arrived at the concrete port. Taxis and touts were waiting for us, waving flyers for full moon this and half moon that. We had decided quite some time previously that we did not in any shape or form want to have anything to do with the parties that have made the island legendary in backpacker lore. We had even timed our stay so as not to coincide with any lunar phase which provokes a party, the main ones being full, half and black-moon but I'm sure it won't be long before there are waning and a waxing gibbous moon parties too. The main centre of hedonism is a town on the South East corner called Had Rin.

We jumped in the back of a 4x4 taxi and asked to be taken to Chaloaklam, in the far North West corner. It's a very quiet fisherman's village by a sheltered sweeping bay reminiscent of Killiney Bay, itself a tiny Irish version of the Bay of Naples. The sand is pristine white and soft to the touch.

Longtail boats occasionally drop in to take the odd tourist on a trip to nearby Bottle Bay or further around. It's a gorgeous place with beach huts dotted along the sweep, just off the sand. We looked at a few of the huts before settling on Rose Villas which had the best constructed and cleanest.

They were all priced the same at 300 Baht for a fan room and although some seemed to think that having an outside loo was a good idea, Rose Villas had a normal bathroom and was set in a pretty garden.

This was to be the place for some down time. Us, the beach, the sun and some swimming and snorkeling. After settling in we explored the village with its three or four restaurants and two surprisingly well stocked exchange book shops. We ate at one of the restaurants, Pannee's and were not disappointed – Pannee cooked us up a storm and seems to run the place singlehandedly, taking orders, cooking, serving and clearing while her husband dutifully rocked their baby to sleep.

We bought a set of beach tennis bats and balls and made for the beach in the morning for a game and a swim. The water was incredibly clear and calm, much more so than it had been on Koh Tao – the fishermen better guardians of the environment than divers or tourists it seems.

Afterwards back to the hut for a read or a nap in the shade. So the days went – we stayed four in total and there was not much to distinguish between them. We had fish for dinner in a different restaurant one night.

It wasn't great so we returned to Pannee's the next. I turned on the laptop to write some of the blog which I had been neglecting for quite some time. We were still in Vietnam and had yet to go on the Halong Bay trip ... it was such a monster of a story it was too daunting to write. I wasn't even hoping to get a wireless signal when the Chaloaklam Health Centre's unrestricted signal came into view.

And so we learnt that Michael Jackson had died. Neither of us were fans really but it prompted us to listen to his greatest hits for the rest of the afternoon. He did have a lot of talent ... before he got weird. Pannee was all talk about it that night – someone, her brother I think had found out and was so upset he couldn't go back to work. Chalokolum is the type of place where time loses its meaning and we could have stayed for weeks but after spending more time than expected on Koh Tao we had to move on eventually.

We reluctantly bought a ticket to Kao Sokh National Park, back on the mainland. Koh Samui is the next island down in the chain, also the largest and most developed. Koh Samui has an airport and 5 star hotels and McDonalds. We gave it a miss. The lady we bought the ticket off offered us a discounted taxi ride back to the port for the ferry. It was a rusty jeep that looked like it had actually been used in world war II and had appeared in M*A*S*H. A most unexpected and bouncy MOT 39.

Koh Tao: Diving deeper

eoghancito — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 03:37:00 GMT

Once I had finished the course I wanted more. The sensation of being underwater is incredibly addictive. Terry suggested that a good way to feed the habit would be to do the next course, Advanced open water. You get to do 5 dives, each with a different speciality. No classroom work. The price of the course was comparable to doing five fun dives and Asia Divers were throwing in two more nights accommodation. Sounded like a pretty good deal to me. Terry had to go to Koh Samui to do a visa run so if I wanted him as an instructor, which I did, I could start in 2 days. This was perfect as it would allow me some time off diving and Claire and I to see a bit more of the island.

Almost everyone on the island gets around on some variety of moped or motorbike. Neither of us were keen on this. Taxis were too expensive. Walking was too slow. An elegant solution presented itself in the form of a quad bike. It had also been a while since we had a new mode of transport. We rented MOT number 38 in the town very easily. No questions asked – I dont have any kind of license. A quick 30 second lesson and we were off.

They're great fun to drive and very easy. You just need to make sure you position the weight forward when going up steep hills so it doesn't topple back over you. I think this is what happened to Ozzy Osbourne a few years back.

A few of the people who lived on the island long term had said that Shark Bay, on the southern tip, was good for snorkeling and for a day on the beach. They also mentioned that you had to climb over a wall to get to the beach itself but we were a bit hazy on details. We went as far south as the quad bike would take us, down to the sea through some pretty bungalows. The beach was a few hundred metres to our left but the only way to it was to scale across a large collection of smoothly rounded limestone boulders. I chose to go over, Claire around, by the sea, almost losing a flip-flop in the process. But it was well worth it. The beach was picture perfect. The coral was a bit too easily accessible though, in less than knee deep water which made it hard to avoid the ubiquitous pointed black sea urchins.

Afterwards we went for a bit of a jaunt around Mae Had Town where we had arrived. Not too much to see although it did confirm that we had been much better off up in Sairee. We headed back north and carried on, beyond Sairee up to the northern tip, or rather as far as the road would allow us. A sign told us <no motorbike allowed>. We weren't sure if that included our quad bike but alighted just in case. A steep path lead to a beautiful plush resort. Definitely the type you would stay in on a 2 week holiday. It had an amazing raised pool with a view over to NangYuan Island. Really idyllic place ... with lots of loved up couples with shiny new rings on their fingers. But not for us in backpacker mode. Maybe some day.

Back at Asia Divers Terry and Haruna were at the bar, back from Koh Samui with freshly stamped passports. They invited us out to dinner to a DIY Korean BBQ called 139 Gold. So-called because it costs 139 Baht for an all you can eat feast. Earlier in the season it was called 99 Gold but it seems inflation happens on Koh Tao as well. It was a lovely evening: great food, great company and for the first time in my life I was the designated driver which was a definite novelty.

We finished proceedings back in Lotus bar, bumping into Angus and a few of the lads on a complete mission, buckets in hand. We made our excuses and left them to it. Steve, a comedic English guy did have a story worth retelling however. He had been at the full moon party on Koh Pha Ngan, the next island down. He had been asked to join in a game: flaming skipping rope. It ended as you can probably imagine, with the flaming rope catching on his foot but he was too drunk to fully acknowledge the pain. He hadn't been able to dive for three weeks as a result. He said that under normal circumstances he would always say no to that sort of invitation, but the full moon party does crazy things to people.

We got up early the following morning to make the most of the quad bike and see some of the west of the island, plus it was Claire's turn to be at the helm.

She had loved the vibe (!!) of riding pillion but wasn't so fond of being in front. The road was much rougher too. I took over and found the going too tough as well. We turned back and went for a bit of a spin around instead. It was fun but I had more diving to do!

Ian hadn't been feeling the best so had passed up on the course. There were no other students (I reckon Ian might have been persuaded to do it if the Swedish national beach volleyball team was doing it) so I was receiving one to one tuition with Terry, Oli, as ever assisting. It was great to be out with familiar faces too. Claire came along too. The first dive was peak performance buoyancy which was all about getting me to manage my buoyancy better and do a few maneuvers through a plastic square.

Then a bit of hovering and finally a fun dive. Terry also took down my camera which I was very happy with managing to work and take photos at 12m.

What was different to the previous dives was the atmosphere on the boat. Everyone was qualified, no-one was learning for the first time so there wasn't that sense of nervousness and lack of experience that had been on every dive beforehand (except of course for my own nervousness and lack of experience – it's other people's that bothers me!)

Afterwards we went to Three Rocks for the navigation dive. Of the five dives two are compulsory and this is one of them. I had to work out how fast I swim and then navigate around a big square using a compass. I got back to square 1 without too many problems, although I suspect luck was on my side as much as successful compass skills. I was starting to appreciate the underwater world around me by this stage. Lots of pretty Angel and Banner fish.

One of the DMTs (Dive Master Trainees) was a girl from Tallaght in Dublin called Danielle. She had been a hairdresser for a long time and as Claire was in need of a trim, I introduced her to the word nixer. A nixer is a job on the side, cash in hand. A lot of hairdressing nixers were performed in my parents over the years. Danielle did Claire a nixer on the veranda of our room during the afternoon. Danielle said that her mother (who owned their salon in Tallaght) would kill her if she knew what she was charging in Koh Tao for a nixer. She had priced herself a touch above what the local salon were offering so she was obviously a savvy businesswoman. The joke around the bar was that Danielle would be heading up the entire PADI organisation within less than a year.

The Lions were playing the second test against South Africa that evening. There was a big crowd of fans for both sides down at choppers, a bar in the village with free wifi and good food specials which Claire and I had frequented a lot. We got seats at the bar early and tucked into an indulgent surf and turf ( it was on special!). As we were eating the usual suspects from Asia divers crammed in and the game started to much banter and anticipation. Will, one of the senior instructors was a big boks fan and there were a lot of English military guys training to be instructors. One of them was beside Claire at the bar for the first half. As the second half went on and the game got more stressful he got more agitated, eventually squeezing Claire off her chair before elbowing her. It wasn't malicious - all of this went on while he was completely unaware of his own actions. I don't think he'll make a great instructor... The Lions lost but it was a great game. We cleared off pretty soon after it finished.

Up early for a dives 3 and 4 the next morning, multilevel and computer diving and deep diving. The first one, as you can imagine involved diving with a computer which I rented from the dive shop. Most importantly it showed me how it was possible to avoid using the dive tables which had caused me trouble in the Open Water exam. The main reason people dive using computers is that they are much more accurate regarding the amount of nitrogen you have in your system, and therefore how long you can remain under. The tables assume you dive right down to say 18m, stay there for an hour and then come straight back, whereas in reality its more of a curve. The upshot is you get more time diving which is what every diver wants. I also had to lead the dive which obviously I had never done before. I took us around 2 large rocks in a figure of eight back to the guide line. Terry said afterward that actually I had gone around in 2 big circles, cheating but hey. I have to say I much prefer following someone looking out for cool stuff else to keeping an eye on the compass and looking around making sure your group are following you. More fun and easier. The site was shark island. We went a little deeper than planned – Terry had found a memorial to a diver who had died here a few years ago and wanted to point it out to us.

An hour later the boat took us down to South west pinnacle a good 15km away from the island for the deep dive, the second compulsory dive. Up until then I had been to 18m, the maximum depth for my level. The deep dive took me to 30m. To be honest the depth didn't seem to make that much difference – it certainly didn't feel any deeper but the site and visibility made it the best dive I had done so far. I had my first encounter with Triggerfish which are habitually territorial and aggressive but thankfully this one was placid. We came across highly poisonous and very well camouflaged scorpion fish.

Large groupers flitted about, grazing on the coral while Blue Spotted ray majestically floated along the bottom. It was amazing.

While the deep dive was exhilarating, the next and final dive of the course was very different and presented some challenges. It was that evening and it was my first night dive. The boat left the harbour close to six in the evening, as the sun was beginning to set.

It was quiet – there were only about ten of us on the boat and there wasn't the usual drone of twenty other diving boats around us.

At dusk we began our final preparations and giant-stepped in. The main rules of doing a night dive are to be familiar... with your fellow divers, with the dive site and with your equipment. It all makes sense. We all had torches but even still I felt quite a bit more disoriented than usual, even though there was still the half light from dusk to peer through.

Once on our way I started to feel a little better. Terry had given me a loan of a compass from the shop which I had only used once, on the navigation dive. He turned around at one point and asked me where it was. I had no idea – it wasn't on my arm any more. It must have fallen off at the put in. This put me more on guard. I found it hard to manage my buoyancy and my breathing wasn't as calm as it had been even earlier in the day.

Eventually I did start to enjoy it. A few blue spotted ray came straight for us and then dipped down at the last moment – very unusual for them. I spotted a large hermit crab wandering, snail-like along through the sand. We saw a puffer fish (unpuffed). At about 30cm it was much larger than I expected. The highlight has to be the Great Barracuda. They're very smart predatorial fish who like to follow night divers around. Just as the diver uses a torch to point out interesting fish, the barracuda uses the light to identify dinner. The one that accompanied us was large by the accounts of the more experienced divers .. about 2m long. At the end of the dive, in almost complete darkness the barracuda darted into Terry's light 3 or 4 times within the space of a few seconds and gobbled fish whole. It was an amazing sight to see. Back on the boat we drank a few beers that Terry had been keeping cold in his wetsuit (onboard!). I had unfortunately come to the end of my diving in Koh Tao. Claire and I had a quiet night, ending up in a pasta restaurant in the beach. They closed up just after serving us, thankfully they left us a light on so we could see our food.

Our last day on the island was ironically our first full day on the beach. We found a shady spot under a coconut tree and whiled the hours away trying not to get burnt. While Claire was paddling a dog joined her, a lovely Black Labrador. All he wanted to do was paddle and chase handfuls sand. Not the smartest dog but lots of fun.

Surprise surprise there was a party to go to on our last night. It took place in a bar further down the beach which looked like something out of the Flintstones. There was a good crowd from the dive school out and we all ended up in Lotus bar. It was sad to have to leave them, to leave the little community which had formed. It was one of the first times we had had a circle of friends, people to meet on the street, a bit of gossip, since we had left. And it felt good. But such is the way of travelling ... you have to move on. But I hope we'll keep in touch.

Learning to dive on Koh Tao

eoghancito — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 03:11:00 GMT

The bus though was a pleasuredome of luxury compared to the insomniac 'sleeping bus' we had been used to in Vietnam. We were originally thinking of taking a train to Chumpon and then a night ferry over but Lompraya were offering a bus and a high speed catamaran which would get us there in half the time for half the price. They were located on Khao San Road and the bus was leaving at 6am so we had an early start. The seats were comfy and reclined. There was a movie (ok the sound didn't work but that's not the point). There was a toilet. A sit down toilet! After a few hours we were given a sandwich! Welcome back to Thai hospitality – sometimes it's good to be in a country with a well developed tourist industry.

When we arrived at Chumpon harbour, a few miles outside the town the twenty first century catamaran was waiting for us at the end of a nineteenth century wooden jetty. I'm afraid no new mode of transport can be awarded for a catamaran because we had already been on a double hulled boat in Peru. This one had jet engines while the first one had no engine but rules are rules. The gentle swell of the sea lulled us both to sleep for the 90 minute journey to the island.

We awoke just as we came into NangYuang island about 100m off Koh Tao. Not only is it pretty but it's unique too: three islands which at low tide are connected by spits of sand. Of course a swanky resort has been built on it. About 100 day snorkelers wrapped in towels got on and shivered in the AC.

Minutes later, as we arrived at Koh Tao itself there was an announcement for everyone to move to the front of the boat on account of the low tide. We had to get off at the front anyway so were happy to oblige. Down another rickety jetty and we had our first taste of island life. “Taxi!?!” We didn't know where we were going so declined.

The entire purpose of coming to Koh Tao had been diving. It's one of, if not the best value place to do a course here and that was my intention. Claire wasn't sure ... maybe she'd try it out for size but wasn't very committed after getting freaked out once in the water as a teenager. I wanted to find somewhere which would do a dive and accommodation deal but that would take time – I was keen to check out a few places and we couldn't do that with our backpacks on so we needed a place for just one night – enough to dump the bags and have a look around.

The Lonely Planet mentioned a place called Mr J's. We went for it mostly because it was only a few hundred metres walk from the jetty. Mr J is a strange but entertaining man who has a very unique philosophy about life the universe and everything. He tried to explain it to us after we checked into the very basic room on offer. It involved ladyboys, buddhism, karma and beer and he had it on A4 laminates plastered all over the place but I think we were in a different age demographic from his target market. He also said we would get free stuff the longer we stayed. “Two night free Pepsi, three night free chocolate, three night free beer”. It was pretty cheap at 350 Baht but we wouldn't be swayed. I'm sure some people love him (there were lots of testaments to him from punters including one appearance on top ten coolest people in the world list in Loaded magazine) but he wasn't our cup of green tea.

Mr J did however recommend we head to Crystal Dive resort, just down the road. They were offering the PADI Open Water course, the standard entry level diving course for 9800 Baht with reduced rate for “backpacker standard” accommodation. I didn't get the feeling at all. It took five minutes to attract someone's attention from what seemed to be a group flirting exercise in reception. We moved on. Asia Divers had an office just near the jetty. The guy behind the desk gave me the basics, 9000 Baht plus free accommodation but when I asked more complicated questions dialled a number on the phone and passed it over to me. Claude, with a pleasant Home Counties accent talked me though the process and answered all my questions to satisfaction. Low maximum class size. Discount as I had my own book (I had found one in a hotel drawer in Chiang Mai). No problem for Claire to stay and come out on the boat. Pool she could hang out at. It seemed like a good deal and he was a nice chap. But I wanted to check a few more before making the final decision.

An advert in one of the island information magazines for Black Tip Divers School had caught my eye so I was keen to hear what they had to say. This time the girl at the desk picked the phone straight up and passed it over to me. The person at the other end seemed annoyed with me for interrupting her. They were charging more for the course and a lot more for accommodation. No discount for a book. Claire would have to pay to come on the boat. No feeling at all. We left. Visiting one more, a smaller operation near the jetty my mind was made up. They were chatty and friendly but had no accommodation and charged more. They did tell us a good story about Mr J though. Apparantly he used to arrange visa runs (where someone needs a new passport stamp as they have or are about to overstay their tourist welcome). Well the story goes that he never took them to immigration at all just to his mate on Khao San Road who had a dodgy stamp. They got caught and ended up having to pay a load of bribes to stay out of jail. Who knows if it's true.

After lunch we decided to walk the 2 or 3 km north up the road towards Sairee Beach, where Asia Divers was based. I wanted to have a look for myself before signing up. It was only walking up the path did we start to realise how beautiful the island is. Palms trees waving in the wind along a crystal clear beach, pretty bunglaows and restaurants right on the beach. Sure there were shops selling board shorts, bikinis and sun tan lotion and the occasional moped driven by a sunburnt westerner but it is a beautiful place. There was an increase in the concentration of shops and bars at a certain point ... we had reached Sairee village.

Asia Divers is a short walk away from the beach and village with an open bar and restaurant area. We went in and sat down to have a drink and soak up some of the atmosphere. We would potentially be spending some time here so wanted to make sure it felt right. There were a crowd of Francophones beside us. I asked them if they were doing courses here. Some were instructors, some were studying to be instructors and one girl, Isabelle from Brussels was a Divemaster from another school who hung out here every night because there was a good atmosphere. The signs were all good. A group who had just finished their open water course arrived in high spirits and enthusiastically watched the DVD of their dives.

It felt like a happy place and one that I wanted to be part of. I went into reception, introduced myself to Claude and signed up for the course. Not only did it feel the best but they had the best deal too. Isabelle, who also happened to be a nurse invited us to eat with her so we had a lovely blustery dinner in the suitably named Wind Cafe on the beach.

When we got back to Mr J's we wanted to sit on the beach for a while so asked him if we could get to it from our room. He said “Oh yes!” Private beach straight down” His directions lead to a building site which we picked our way across to reach a beach littered with a combination of construction materials and household refuse. Needless to say we didn't stay long and were happy to be leaving. We took a 4WD taxi up to Asia Divers in the morning, checked into a fabulously well appointed (and free) room and then chilled out by the pool for a few hours. It was like being in another universe from Mr J's.

In the afternoon Claude had asked me to come in to the office to meet my instructor, Terry an outgoing Canadian with a quick smile and firm handshake, and Ian, a fellow Canadian who would be doing the course with me. I had been reading the first few chapters of the PADI book in preparation. We were shown a DVD which was a carbon copy of the book. I was a real swot – taking notes and trying to get all the quiz answers right. It felt really good to be exercising my brain again!

In the morning we spent time in the pool. First we had to show we could tread water for 10 minutes and swim for 200m. Then we did our confined water dives which were all about getting used to the equipment, how to use it and some procedures like clearing a flooded mask, breathing from your buddy's air source and ascending safely. I struggled a bit managing my buoyancy but apart from that it was a-ok. After lunch we were free to chill out at the pool (and do some more reading.)

One of the great things about doing a diving course in a resort, and particularly about the one I had chosen was the buzz of people around. There was a large group of people on an intensive instructor development course so they were always around. Also there were a few people learning to be divemasters and some other open water courses going on so at all hours of the day people were in the restaurant chatting or reviewing their distinctive blue coursebooks. This was really important for Claire (although she did have to put up with an increasing amount of 'dive-talk' as the days went on!)

Asia Divers give students a discount at their shop so to give Claire something to do I bought a mask and snorkel so she could get comfortable with it in the pool and do some snorkeling off the boat while I would be doing my dives.

We had an dinner at an excellent little Thai place called Tic two doors down. Neither of us had ever eaten quite so well and quite so cheaply in a restaurant wedged in the corridor between two houses. Perhaps unsurprisingly the place was full of fellow Asia Divers.

The next morning was spent in the classroom where Terry patiently reviewed our homework (scribbled answers to questions to prove that you had read the chapter), explaining where we had been wrong. Diving is very logical, if a tiny bit technical but my problem seemed to be thinking too much. It's in my nature to look at a problem from all angles ... the answer to any question is rarely clear cut in my view. I was rapidly discovering that in diving it usually is.

After lunch is was time to get in the water for real – open water dives 1 & 2. We prepared our gear and about 15 of us piled into the back of two 4x4s headed for the harbour. We clamboured across another boat before reaching Asia Diver's own, much bigger than I had expected with room for more people than we had on board. I was impressed that the tanks were already there waiting for us along with unlimited biscuits and a sun deck up top which Claire took full advantage of, while a lot of nervous first timers went through their set procedures below.

Obviously Terry would lead Ian and I through the dive but a genial Dutch guy called Oli, a DMT (dive master trainee) would be assisting, as is the procedure I believe. As we made for Mango Bay sheltered cove on the North side of the island Terry briefed us on the top deck about what would happen on the dive.

As we got close to the put-in Ian and I started our buddy checks as we had been taught. BWRAF. BCD (Bouyancy Control Device). Weights. Releases. Air. Final Check. Much more memorable was what Terry had taught us. Bangkok Women Really Are Fellows. And then we John Cleese funny walked into the depths.

OK it wasn't very deep at 8m but hey! All our exercises went well, the major ones being to control our descent and get used to ourselves.. Apart from a few issues equalising ears there were no issues during the 45 minutes.I hadn't even noticed but Claire had been snorkeling around above, tracking our movements.

The second dive, after about 90 minutes surface time was much more challenging. We went to a site called Japanese Gardens but the conditions were very rough despite the site being sheltered from the worst of the swell by NangYuan Island.

It was really hard to hold on to the guide rope as it swung up and down with the boat. Terry had a nightmare keeping us all together. Ian had real problems equalising. I had something called a reverse block, a painful condition caused by expanded air trapped in the sinuses. We did however manage to get through the exercises once we got to the bottom where the rough water wasn't an issue. We seemed to fare better than some of the other newbies who didn'.t get in at all or were forced to retire early. Still a good learning experience.

We spent a long time at the bar that evening chatting to Claude and getting to know his little dog. Jammie. Or more formally Jammie Bastard. He was an instructor but a nasty moped accident had robbed him of the chance to dive. Very sad – he would have been a brilliant, patient teacher. I think if he had have still been instructing Claire would have given it a go. Such a shame for poor old Claude but he's the type of character who infectious laugh and dry not quite cockney wit are indomitable. He recommended a place on the beach called King Crab for dinner so we took him up on the advice. The food was great but they only managed to get Claire's order. We waited for a few minutes but when we saw the barbeque being put out we thought something was up but they rectified it quickly enough.

I was annoyed with the alarm when it interrupted my slumber early the next morning. I could have done with two more hours sleep and two less beers the previous night but it was time for the next open water dives. This time we were off to Chumpon Pinnacle about 10km off the southwest of Kah Tao. I was armed with Sudafed to prevent the blockage and determined to enjoy this dive more. I certainly did.

If the first two dives had been about getting used to diving, this one was where I started to enjoy it. The pinnacle is a 25m tall mountain in the sea surrounded by beautiful corals. I was starting to see why people spend so much time diving. It was spectacular, swimming through a huge shoal of tiny baby chevron Barracuda. We went deeper than we had before – to 18m (the limit for our level) and the 37 minutes were up too quick.

The final Open Water dive was to White Rock, south of NangYuan Island. It was even better – I was starting to feel much more comfortable in my underwater skin and actually have fun. I was finally starting to get the hang of my buoyancy. Ian and I navigated around a square using a compass (after the second attempt to be fair). As a last hurrah Oli turned himself into a human ball and played a game of underwater human pong. Afterwards (still underwater) Terry shook our hands and wrote on his slate “Congratulations you're Open Water Divers!”

That, however wasn't strictly true. There was still the small matter of the exam. We still had the afternoon in the classroom anyway and the plan was to do it afterwards. I found the afternoon class hard going – it was all about dive planning, nitrogen levels in the blood and majored on maths involving tables. Tables were never my strong point. We agreed to do the exam the next day rather than go straight to it. As I sat by the pool studying I met Angus, a friendly fellow round the worlder from Donegal. He was only a few weeks into his odyssey so we had plenty to chat about.

It seemed the whole crowd from Asia Divers was out that night. A trapeze school had set up down in the village and was having its grand opening. After a few post-dive beers accompanied by the usual banter and exaggerated fish sightings (“it was enoooormous and it was coming straight towards me!!”) we joined Terry, Haruna, his Japanese dive instructor girlfriend and many others for the show.

They are aiming at the market of other halves who are dragged along to Koh Tao but have no intention of diving. The idea is that they spend a few days picking up the ropes (literally) and then showing off their skills on the last day. It's a good idea and I think they'll be successful but they had a few teething problems on the night. Firstly it rained just as it was all supposed to start so I think they lost a few people during the 30 minute delay. Secondly, they started with their newest students, who were under a lot of pressure to succeed. Some of them, including the poor guy who was first up failed to make it across and landed ignominiously in the safety net, legs flailing. If I was them I would have put the instructors on first, with a dazzling display. “This is who you could become with our training”. Then the trainees. “These guys have got this far after only 3 days!” Doing it the other way round just didn't seem to have enough of a wow factor. Best of luck to them though it's a great idea.

People lost interest and we moved on to office Bar, a great little place on the side of the the Sairee path. One of the French trainee instructors was doing proposition bets which I had no time for but kept a good few including Claire entertained (and out of pocket). The running joke in Asia Divers was that there was a party on every night. Someone would say “There's a party tonight”. People would ask “Where?” and the answer was always Lotus bar. This was the first time we had visited and it actually was a very carnival like atmosphere. Trancy techno music, rattan rugs on the sand, intricate displays of flaming diabolo in the style of Glastonbury's stone circle, all with the waves lapping softly at peoples feet. Its a fun place and it was a great night.

The exam the next morning was tough, I found. I was ok until I got t the part working out the pressure groups with the tables. Ian finishing a good 30 minutes before me didn't help. It took me a long time but in the end I handed my paper in to Terry and was delighted to have gotten 90%. We spent the afternoon chilling by the pool and looking at the trainee instructors get put through their paces. Looked complicated. While everyone on the whole island seemed to be out the previous night there wasn't a sinner to be found out in the evening. Escept Angus. He had decided to do the three week Dive Master Course with Asia had moved into a little bungalow to save on accommodation. He invited us up to his house to warm it up (if thats the right phrase when its 30º C all day every day). It was an early night by all accounts – the previous evening had taken its toll on us all.

Return to the Kingdom

eoghancito — Sat, 13 Jun 2009 12:39:00 GMT

The Air Asia flight touched down in Bangkok's Suvarnabhumi airport early and our bags were waiting for us at the carousel. The girl I had persuaded to smuggle my pen knife into Thailand for me came good and handed it over once she picked up her bag. We moved off towards passport control but not before Thailand's high tech answer to the swine flu epidemic came into view: thermal scanners. As we walked through in single file I wondered what their tolerances are ... a few decimal points over 37º C or a full degree? Either way no-one got called out of the line. Through passports and past the gauntlet of taxi drivers to the bus. It was strange to find Thailand so very familiar after Vietnam.

Rather than stay in the Banglamphu area again we had decided to get a place near Siam Square, Bangkok's super-modern commercial heart.

Luckily the bus went very close to Siam Square itself so it was only a short walk to The Bed and Breakfast Inn where we had reserved a room. It was a poky room but it was clean, had AC and a shower and the lady checking us in was very friendly. The place even had two resident fluffy poodles which hung around reception.

Lunch was first on the to-do list. MBK across the road is an enormous warren like shopping centre with a swanky food court on the fifth floor. We had been looking forward to getting back into Thai cuisine so we both went for Pad Thai. It was stodgy and disappointing but we wolfed it down all the same, not having eaten since Vietnam.

One of the reasons for choosing this area to stay was its proximity to BA's offices in Bangkok. About six weeks earlier Claire and I had agreed that I would carry on to India alone after we reached Singapore a month or so later. Some explanation for this is needed – for myself as much as anyone reading this. I had, particularly since New Zealand, been feeling that the trip was not very challenging. One of my main objectives for the trip had been to push me out of my comfort zone. That had simply not been happening. Don't get me wrong, it had been lots of fun and very enjoyable with some unexpected moments ... but just not very stretching. Traveling in a self-contained unit, it was very easy for us to chat or play cards or read at any given moment ... waiting for a bus or during the rain or any time. It's very enjoyable but also very easy. I didn't feel I was learning enough. About myself. About the worldhu going around. Aside from all that, all the evidence – from traveller's tales to the books we had been reading, 'Shantaram' in particular - lead to the conclusion that India is a pretty crazy place. Even more so for women. Indian men don't seem to get good press for their treatment of foreign women. So, the decision was made and we needed to change the flights – I would fly to Mumbai from Singapore on the 19^th July and Claire would head back to London.

We walked down to the BA office .. it was a good 30 minute stroll in the heat but we needed the exercise. It took a bit of finding but eventually we made it. I was expecting some quite grand offices but it was more like a cheapo travel agent than the offices of the 'world's favourite airline'. I guess times are tough for all airlines. Our deli counter number was called soon enough and the man behind the desk was very helpful. We started with Claire's route and date change. I was expecting it to cost over 100 pounds but the bill came out at 71. We then moved on to my simple date change. One of the reasons why I bought the round the world tickets I had was for flexibility – date changes were supposed to cost 'a nominal local fee, usually 5-10 pounds', which they had cost in NZ. They wanted 71 for the date change as well. I was not happy at all with this so we left, paying for Claire's change but not making mine. I called the travel agency through the laptop but it was such a bad line they asked me to send an email. So we had to wait .. hopefully they would make the changes and be done with it. They replied promptly and said no can do.

Dissatisfied with progress made we returned to the hotel and regrouped (I had the runs too so needed a bathroom where I could spend as much time as I liked). Retail therapy seemed a suitable distraction. And Bangkok is a great place to engage in retail therapy. Around Siam Square are a myriad of outrageously ornate shopping malls, each one trying to outdo the other in opulence, all containing every type of shop and service imaginable. It is eminently conceivable for people never to leave – they almost all have multiplex cinemas and food courts. One has a large underground aquarium!

After losing my second pair of headphones in Sydney airport I wanted a replacement – there seemed to be an entire floor dedicated to ipods, cameras, headphones and such like. I was also looking for a book 'A Suitable Boy' by Vikram Seth, a renowned story about India. They had it at Borders. After a wander around a shop selling all sorts of crazy Japanese stuff – chocolate bar styled ipod protectors and funky salt sellers (Claire wanted to buy the entire shop) we decided that a movie was in order. We chose Up, a Pixar animation. After the usual ads and trailers the Thai National anthem came on and everyone leapt to their feet and sang along while images of the King were put on screen. The Thais really are very proud of their Royal family. I'm sure the Windsors would be delighted if they were paid even a quarter of the respect the Thais pay their King. The movie was hilarious and very heart warming.

I had another crack at the whip of changing my flights the following day. My ticket said I could change it an local offices of BA, Qantas or Cathay Pacific so I found out where Cathay were based and we took the skytrain a few stops downtown. Cathay's offices were very posh, a far cry from BA's. The lady at the desk was very helpful but could not change my ticket – only BA or Qantas could. Qantas shared the office with BA. There was only one choice – back to the BA office. We took a cab. After a long wait - the office was very busy – a kind faced lady listened to my simple enough request. She had it done within about 30 seconds and, on account of the fact that we had had to wait so long, waived the charge. Just like that we had saved 70 quid. I nearly hugged her.

With that out of the way we could start to relax a little. After having Wifi almost everywhere in Vietnam it was a strange to arrive in Bangkok and for it to be hard to come by. Claire spotted, of all places an O'Briens Irish Sandwiches shop down a side street in the business district. We were both in the mood for a toastie so went in and lo and behold they had free internet. After catching up we took the river boat to Khao San Road to get a few more chores done. I wanted to get some little flags for the countries we had visited. Not to sew onto my bag ... to be honest I'm not sure what they're for exactly, but now we have them. I had been mistrusting of the Vietnamese post system (or Cambodian for that matter) and needed to post off the insurance documents from my ear troubles in Siam Reap. Tick. We needed to get tickets to our next destination, Koh Tao, an island off the gulf coast. Tick.

We're both fans of regular dental hygienist visits back home and there were lots of dentists around Khao San Road so we booked ourselves into one that could see us at short notice for a cheeky scale and polish. Claire's sister-in-law Denby, a dentist, would be very proud. I'll let her decide whether or not to put the tick in the box.

I'm not a nervous patient by any stretch but the experience was a little strange to say the least. The girl at reception, no older than 18, gave us a few forms to fill in. Nothing unusual there. The fact that other people's details had been tipexed out so we could fill our own in did raise an eyebrow. I went in first to check it out. I had to take off my shoes, again normal in Thailand but a bit weird at the dentist. I was lead behind the reception desk to a little room behind where there was a male dentist wearing a T-shirt under his lab coat and an assistant dressed in jeans. After a poke around my mouth he offered to remove a wisdom tooth which had not ever given me a problem. “No thanks, just a scale and polish please!”

At this he placed a bizarre mask over my face with a hole for my mouth and nothing else. I was enveloped in darkness as he started scraping away. The assistant was chatting to the receptionist throughout and wasn't the best at her primary role – suction. At one point I gagged quite badly and stopped the proceeding, tearing the mask off and telling them how strange this was. I am used to a pair of goggles for eye protection and doing the suction myself. I emerged at the end, certainly with cleaner teeth but somewhat bemused. Claire got a warning about the mask and so refused it immediately. The main objective, getting our teeth cleaned, had been achieved but we agreed that the dentists seat-side manner left a lot to be desired. Still it was about a third the price of getting it done on the NHS. The beer afterwards, we felt was well deserved.

One of the activities we had spoken about before coming back to Bangkok had been to spend an evening in Patpong, Bangkok's renowned red light district. A lot of the shenanigans that go on there, we were lead to believe, are for the entertainment of tourists who come to gawk at the sex tourists rather than for the sex tourists themselves. It was our last night in Bangkok – if it was going to happen tonight was that night. Perhaps we're getting old, or maybe we were tired after running around but we decided to leave that particular stone unturned.

Instead we went back to Siam square and looked for a food court, ravenous. We found one in MBK, a different one to the one on the fifth floor with the dodgy Pad Thai. As we walked around every place was closed or closing. We were disappointedly reaching the end of the court when we saw someone giving out menus. Not even caring what type of food it was we joined in. It was Japanese style Teppenyaki. Delicious and just what we wanted without knowing it. Shattered tired and delighted with our decision to leave the ping pong girls in Patpong to it, we had an early night.

One chilled out Uncle Ho in Hanoi

eoghancito — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 12:02:00 GMT

Following the tour crowd off the bus from Halong Bay lead us to the Blue Star Hotel on Bat Dan Street. They tried to give us a really pokey windowless room for $12 but on declining a much better room with Air Con and wifi became available for the same price. Ok so someone had left what looked like a load of fish entrails in the minibar and the AC could only be on (“never off” said the manager) but it was fine. We hightailed it back to the original guesthouse to collect our bags and then could properly shower and change out of our stinky clothes. As my friend Ailish, who had done her own round the world a few years ago would say, we had been at one with the “tinker within”. The oppressive heat in Hanoi had made that become even more pronounced.

We had been harbouring quite basic ambitions for the evening – a pizza and a movie. After going out into the heat to collect our bags we had no desire to leave the AC again and had suddenly become really tired – it had been a pretty high octane few days for lots of reasons. So we ordered a delivery pizza and watched a movie on TV. Perfect.

The following day the heat was even worse – Joanne had suggested a swimming pool near her house but we were in the mood for AC all the way. We got an AC taxi from the door of the hotel to Vin Com Towers, a plush shopping mall with the Air Con on permanent overdrive. After a Asian-Western fusion lunch on the food court and a wander around the shops we caught a movie: Star Trek. I was, and still am a huge Star Trek fan in the next generation days. Claire had never seen an episode of any variety ever. The fact that we both loved it is testament to its wide appeal. By some ironic twist (in a big city like Hanoi) the couple who had stayed at the hairdressers on Cat Ba island watched it at the same time. For the second time! Go and see it if you can it's a great movie.

Joanne and Mike had offered us a motorbike tour of Hanoi in the evening so we had to rush to get back in time. After turning down so many Vietnamese blokes shouting “Motorbike tour! Very cheap!” in every single city we had been in since arriving it was nice to finally get one without any strings attached. They picked us up at the hotel and we were off.

I've already mentioned the madness of Hanoi traffic – well it doesn't get any better when you have a vehicle. How they moped around every day I just don't understand. What does become apparent after a while is the organic, almost natural way in which the traffic works. There aren't any rules but there is a lot of common sense. The small vehicles get out of the way of the bigger ones. Apart from a few boy racer types everyone drives slowly enough to stop if there is a sudden need to. Mike said that the closest analogy he could think of was water. If you block part of a river the water finds a way around the obstacle. Hanoi mopeds work in the same way.

After a quick run around the French quarter with its opera house and elegant tree-lined bouevards and Parisian five storey buildings, we rode through a bewildering maze of side streets and alleys. There was no way I would have been able to find the way back and I usually have quite a good sense of direction. It had taken Mike almost 3 years to find the place – a sleepy residential square of houses surrounding a small lake. During the war an American plane had crashed into the lake and was still there. I'm not sure if it was a case of the government not bothering to do anything about it or wanting to preserve the sight. It had almost entirely sunken in but parts of the fuselage and I think a wing was still obstinately jutting out of the water. A strange and strangely compelling sight, particularly as the neighbourhood did not seem to care in the slightest bit about a large piece of foreign military hardware in their lake.

Back through the complex maze and on to the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum, where Vietnam's famous communist leader had been preserved. The guys said it was a much more impressive sight at night than during the day. The mausoleum itself, a simultaneously impressive and somehow humble granite structure stands brilliantly floodlit at the end of a large lawn, criss-crossed by paths. No-one here walks on the grass, hence the paths.

We took a few snaps, one of which I am particularly proud of (below), before a traffic cop firmly but politely moved us on.

Next up was Joanne and Mike's favourite Bia Hoi. We were a bit surprised to see that it was located inside a military base but anyone and everyone was allowed in. This Bia Hoi was totally different from the touristy one we had been at previously. It was enormous and filled with loudly laughing Vietnamese men. There no women at all. Apart, of course from Claire and Joanne who provoked a few stares as we walked over the discarded peanut shells on the floor to reach our table.

A frothy jug of Bia (Beer) Hanoi was poured out and we tucked into some peanuts as I began to recount the story of what had happened on the Halong Bay trip. Well over an hour later, after some fabulous local food – scrumptious pork - and a couple more jugs I finally finished the tale as the place was thinning out . I'm not sure whether they were glad or sad they weren't able come.

Back on the bikes and past a huge statue of Lenin overlooking a concrete plaza. What was remarkable was not the statue itself, which is pretty impressive, but the rampant modern capitalism in progress under his watchful eye. Hundreds of kids were careering around in rented electric cars. Those who weren't actually driving were at the controls of remote control cars, also rented by the quarter of an hour. Dance music blared and the five and six year old were having the time of their lives as their parents turned a blind eye to their very appropriate introduction to the streets of Hanoi. My siblings with kids would I'm sure be shocked to know that it was almost 11pm. At least there were no rental mini mopeds. Apparantley on most nights a group of break and street dancers practice. What would Lenin think I wonder.

As we got back to Hoang Kham lake we stopped off at a bar to see how the other half of the Vietnamese live. It was a huge contrast after the down-to-earth nature of the Bia Hoi – a swanky expensive bar with leopard skin couches and a fashion conscious twenty-something clientele.

We could have been in London, New York or Paris. For some reason tiredness hit us all at the same time and we parted ways, turning down the guys' kind offer to run us home in favour of a walk along the lake.

We had been looking forward to getting back into the world of AC but the cleaners had turned it off in our room, which as the manager had warned as we checked in, meant that it couldn't be turned back on. It was a furnace in the room. The receptionist clearly saw the sweat pouring down my face as I came down to see if anything could be done. He didn't know how to switch it on. Finally I persuaded him to give me a fan of some variety. The only two around were those screwed into the wall of reception. He duly unscrewed one of them and handed it to me. Relief!

The next day troops of people seemed to come in and out of the room looking at the AC unit for most of the morning – eventually we got sick of it and cleared out. We hit the Kangaroo cafe, an Aussie run place with great burgers for lunch. I had been thinking about getting rid of my beard. Neither scissors not razor had touched my head since Chiang Mai, about 10 weeks before so it was high time. I was starting to share physical traits with a well known terrorsist.

I asked the waitress if she knew a place which could help me and she produced a card for a beautifying health spa where ladies of leisure go to get their highlights and a cheeky mani-pedi done. I politely explained that I was in the market for something a bit more rough and ready. She thought for a while and directed us to a street a few blocks south of the cathedral.

I couldn't have wished for more. It was a man in a white coat with a barber's seat literally in a hole in the wall. It was going to be a street shave and short back and sides. I took my place in the queue (a few plastic chairs in a row down the street) beside some locals and waited my turn.

When it came the barber smiled and asked me to take a seat. I gestured at him to take it all off – face and scalp. It took a bit of clarification a gesture of a blade 3 but once he got it he was off to get some extra tools. He came back with an ingenious set of pump action manual clippers and got to work. Claire worked the camera while the curls were shorn. He needed a bit of encouragement to get rid of the beard – easily the most massive I have ever grown. I looked about 10 years younger when he was finished. All for the princely sum of 40,000 dong, a little over a pound.

By the time we got back to the hotel the AC had been fixed. We enjoyed it for about 15 minutes before the electricity went. On checking with the front desk we discovered it was localised – to the entire street and that it was a regular occurrence during the summer. Too many people using AC and not enough power to go around. We went for a stroll around to try and kill some time – the room was just too hot to stay in. We were a bit tired and very hot. After checking back to the street we discovered that it was still off. Our only option was the Bia Hoi a few blocks down the street, at the end which did still have power. They had fans and peanuts and cold beer. We actually didn't want any beer but they didn't serve anything else. Ah well mustn't grumble. What a terribly challenging life we lead! The electricity men had sorted the issue out by bed time thankfully so it was back to the pearly gates of AC heaven by bedtime.

Next day we had arranged to visit the man himself, Ho Chi Minh with Nick. The meeting place I suggested, right in front of the mausoleum seemed sensible when I had made it. There were tons of people milling about in the criss cross park the evening we had done the motorbike tour. During the day however it is not a place to be I discovered. We were running late and the taxi driver had left us off, quite sensibly at the entrance to the mausoleum which happens to be nowhere near the mausoleum or in view of it – the meeting place. I was all out of dong so ran around trying ATMs for a while before striking green on the fifth attempt. We were also running late which didn't help.

I left Claire at the ticket office while I took a moto to try to find Nick. The driver took me around to the strangely uninhabited park and I ran down one of the cross paths towards a shape that looked like Nick. Suddenly there was a loud whistle behind me which I assumed was for some traffic infringement. Another, louder whistle to my left got my attention. The whistle blower was an armed soldier dressed in full bottle green communist scary regalia and he was pointing his baton straight at me, waving me off and approaching. I froze. Behind me the first whistle-blower was coming towards me and waving me away too. I had clearly done the wrong thing by being in the park so began to retrace my steps. I hadn't even touched a blade of grass! I managed to call out to Nick and gesture at him to meet me at the side of the park before the game was up. The soldiers kept their eyes trained on me until I had gone back across the road. My moto taxi man gave me a grin of commiseration, gave me back my helmet and took me to meet Nick. He had already been through to the Mausoleum as we had been so late so we agreed to meet for lunch after we had seen the enbalmed one.

With all those shenanigans out of the way we were free to go in and visit the mausoleum itself. It's free in but there is an entire employment category of people involved in making sure all the right things happen. I had assumed that they would be pretty hardcore about making sure no photos could be taken so went first to a left luggage counter. I handed over my bag, they had a root and took out the chewing gum and bottle of water, put an elastic band around it, made me put my name on the water in a blig black marker and then gave the bag (containing a camera!) back to me.

Then we joined the queue which stretched about 2km around the back of the building but moved quickly. They were thoughtful enough to put in a shaded path. When we got around to the other side there was a checkpoint where we were asked to put all electronic devices in a yellow bag and then were scanned, airport style. Then we had to hand in the yellow bags in exchange for a numbered token. After all that we joined another, slower moving queue to the entrance itself, monitored all the time by soldiers dressed in smart white ceremonial uniforms. Every so often one of the eagle eyed soldiers would come over to the queue and tell someone politely but firmly to remove a hat, cover a shoulder or stop talking(!!).

The guards increased in number and rank as we entered the fierce cold of the air conditioned angular granite building. It was a welcome relief from the heat (we found out there was a heatwave while we were in Hanoi) but the AC itself seems to be a fundamental element in the preservation of HCM's corpse. He is only open for viewing 3 mornings a week, hence the queues and crowds and is jetted off to Moscow for two months a year for ... repairs and maintenance. I guess they're the experts having kept Lenin fresh and bright on display for so many years. I'd like to think of them getting their hair done together, past comrades of the proletariat revolution.

Uncle Ho lies in a large dark room, colder than the entrance corridor, wearing a smart communist style grey suit and a serene, almost happy expression on his face. He is surrounded by a group of glaringly serious guards and a polished glass screen. Claire and I agreed that he looked like a nice man for what our opinion is worth. We were respectfully shuffling around his body when the girl in front us' mobile phone rang the Nokia tune. I had visions of Dom Joly taking out his gigantic comedy phone and screaming “HELLO! I'M IN HO CHI MINH'S MAUSOLEUM!” before being dive tackled by the scary guards. The girl was mortified and silenced it before too many people could notice. Once we had left the room I quietly said as much to Claire and was promptly told to be quiet by a guard.

Back outside I exchanged the token for my camera which had somehow managed to make it all the over from the other side of the mausoleum. I'd like to think it was via secret railway, perhaps the same one that take;s Uncle Ho to Moscow for his annual overhaul.

Next up was Ho Chi Minh's House, were he lived from 1954 to his death. It was modelled on an ethnic stilted house and remarkably small and modest. The upstairs consisted of a simple bedroom, study and dining room while downstairs was an open air meeting room where the politburo committee sat. He lived a very spartan life for such a widely revered and powerful man. In fact his final wishes were to be cremated and his ashes spread over the hills of his beloved Vietnam. His view was that it would save more land for agriculture. It seems that the Vietnamese Communist party felt that these final wishes would best serve the nation by being broken.

Delving into Ho Chi Minh's life had worked up a hunger so we were glad to be finished and moving along to meet Nick for lunch. As we were leaving the next day we wouldn't see him again so we bade our farewells and promised to keep in touch. He passed on his girlfriend, Kali's details in Singapore so we could meet up when we made it all that way South. The afternoon consisted of packing up and preparing to leave. It was most fitting that we capped off our last day in Vietnam with one more meal with Joanne and Mike. They had suggested an Indian but when we arrived a bit early the whole street was in darkness, the electricity out as had happened on our street a few days earlier. We took a candlelit seat in any case and about 30 seconds before the guys arrived it tripped back on. We had a great meal, made all the more interesting by Mike's hot-off-the-press news of having just found about an Aunt and cousins he never knew he had.

Our flight to Bangkok in the morning was with Air Asia, SE Asia's much more palatable answer to Ryanair. We checked in and I got pulled up at security – I'd stupidly left my swiss army knife in my carry on and they wanted to confiscate it. Obviously I was keen to hang on to it. We managed to agree a compromise – I would have to go back out to check in and see if they could help. They could not but suggested asking a passenger to put it in their checked in luggage for me and giving it back in Bangkok. I felt quite strange hanging around the desk with a pen knife rehearsing the line: “Sorry I know this sounds weird but would you be able to help me get my knife to Bangkok?” A group of Vietnamese students declined as they had no check-in luggage but thankfully an American girl obliged. Back in through security we bumped into a kiwi girl we had met in Vang Vieng tubing and passed the time before an outrageously priced sandwich in Hanoi airport's only eatery. It cost something like $20 for two sandwiches and 2 OJs. If you're there, buy a snack beforehand or on the plane – it'll be worth your while!

It was time to leave Vietnam after a fabulous, exciting, unexpected and hilariously topsy turvy three weeks. What had we learnt? Well, for starters we knew a lot more about the complex Vietnamese history and culture and had gained a real appreciation for the people's welcoming nature, tenacity, practical way of 'just getting on with it'. We'd also learnt to watch out for hustles and scams and for people's sometimes understandable desire to make the quick buck – if you come across something nasty deal with it patiently – losing the head just doesn't work. A final piece of advice that I'm happy to share with anyone hoping to get to know Vietnam is about the open bus tour. Buy a sleeping bus ticket with your eyes open – don't plan on sleeping. Try one journey and see how you get on. I believe the trains are lovely (and slow).

The Halong Bay Fiasco 3

eoghancito — Mon, 8 Jun 2009 13:50:00 GMT

We didn't get much sleep due to the generator but we got enough. It turned out that the $65 couple's AC didn't work anyway. After a simple breakfast we stopped for 10 minutes to allow those who wanted to jump off and have a swim. The American and English guys were arguing with the boat manager again so we were happy to leave them to it. They got off and surprise surprise the brothers we had eaten at the dinner hotel with got on. They weren't so chatty (read drunk) this time so we went back to our places at the stern of the sun deck. The last few hours of our time on the bay were really good fun. After the batteries for the speakers ran out we went round the houses and had a sing song. Aggressive Aussie guy turned out to be very pleasant and a great singer.

The Canadians embarrassed to start off with but eventually gave a pretty good group rendition of Oh Canada just as the boat docked in.

As far as I was concerned there weren't going to be too many more antics on the tour. What could possibly go wrong – all we had left to do was eat lunch and get a bus back to Hanoi. Read on ... I can hardly believe it all myself.

Well it was no surprise that we would be waiting for a while for ... anything really – information, some direction, a bus? We managed to find a shady spot and bought some strange fruit, not because of hunger but more for the entertainment value. We had succulent giant hairy lychees and a fruit I had never heard of called Mangostan. You peel off the skin with a knife revealing small white mandarin-like fleshy segments tasting somewhere in between a pear and a mango. While we were eating, a bus came but was full by the time we got to it. The canadians were gone. A second bus came along and the French people from the original tour made it on before it was full. It was just us two and Mark left at the end.

Eventually the bus came. It was one of the posh ones. We got decent seats at the back. We were in luck! Other people piled on and just when we thought we could leave, there was an announcement. “Could someone please get off to let a sick 83 year old woman on?” We were so far at the back it was impractical to volunteer. Someone did and a little old lady stuttered her way on. We went about 4 minutes before we got to a restaurant – I had forgotten about lunch and thought we were on our way back to Hanoi. Mayhem once again at the restaurant – identical tour buses everywhere and bewildered tourists, western and asian alike milling around them looking for the right one. I wanted to take our rucksacks off the bus and bring them to lunch with us as instructed– it was the only way to guarantee we wouldn't lose them. A man said “No, no! You leave! You leave!” I asked him how he knew that I would get onto the right bus after lunch. “I know everything!” came the flourishing response. Speaking at the same time Mark asked him what the population of Indonesia was while I asked him for the meaning of life. The bus had already left, bags on board, by the time we realised that a response was not going to be forthcoming on either count.

It was the strangest set up for a restaurant I have ever seen. We were told to go to the fourth floor. We passed by 4 floors with 3 or 4 windowless rooms each with an identical lay out. 6 six-seater tables. 36 chairs. One door at the side – that would be the toilet. One door to enter – exit via the same one. We were with another group now – they were clearly newbies – one Irish girl asked what was on the menu. I should have known what the answer would be: “Everything!” The same old menu as ever got brought out.

Mark, Claire and I were joined at the table by a friendly Scottish guy, Ewan. We were swapping stories about this and that when I asked him what the craziest part of his tour had been. “Easy!” Ewan exclaimed and recounted a story about his own bus from Hanoi to Halong Bay. He had been unfortunate like us – it was one of the no AC models. There was a very old lady ... 83 years old someone had said (!!) who couldn't handle the heat. She collapsed and the driver took her to hospital. Rather than leave her there, the whole busload, in unison, waited for her for over an hour. She was brought out to the car park on a gurney. Ewan assumed she would be put in an ambulance, but nope, the gurney was upended and she had to get back on the same bus. The driver promptly took her to the harbour and dropped her off along with everyone else. Euan was delighted that she had managed to get an AC bus in the end, if even for a short hop to a crazy restaurant!

Various tour guides came into our room beckoning at tables to follow them. We were the last to be called. I saw the guy who knew everything and asked him where our bus was. He nonchalantly pointed at one of the buses outside. They all seemed to be the same standard issue so there was no reason not to believe him but I did want to make sure our bags were in the boot. Against the omniscient man's wishes I opened the boot to discover it empty. Scowling at him and his lack of knowledge I started to check random buses. A shouting match developed between the know-it-all and our “guide” – there was much pointing and gesticulating but I'm not sure what it was about. Finally Mark, Claire and I were led to bus around the corner. It was almost completely full but it had our bags on board – better than nothing - so we got on. We piled a few rucksacks off a seat for Claire and Mark found a hidden seat near the back. I made do spreadeagled on top of the removed rucksacks with my feet either side of the driver's gearstick. The “guide” sat in the place where the door opens. I was beside a lovely little girl who alternated between opening packets of sweets, offering them to Claire and I and falling asleep on my shoulder. Behind us were an English couple who we recognised from the dinner hotel. We started chatting.

They had had as interesting an experience as we had but theirs was subtly different from our own. They had stayed on the boat the first night – no major mishaps there, but when they got to the island they, like our Aussie friends, were told there was no room at the inn. Rather than demand to sleep on the boat again, they went with the flow. They, along with another couple, were taken to a few hotels but none of them had any rooms for them (despite groups of Vietnamese checking in before their very eyes). Eventually they were taken, of all places, to a hairdressers. Both couples (who didn't know each other from Adam) were asked to sleep in one room with two single beds. Together. On their vociferous decline, another room, this one windowless was magically arranged. They had a decent night's sleep and the following morning, as a, excuse the pun, fringe benefit, got a haircut each for 40,000 dong, a little over a pound. You literally could not make it up. They seemed to be relishing the madness as much as we were.

As we left the bay itself Claire and I started making notes. So much had happened during the three days (if you have managed to read this far you will know). We had to write it down to remember it all. Just as we finished 4 pages of bullet points, just when we thought nothing else could happen, the final installment occurred.

Our bus was flagged down at a seemingly random police checkpoint the like of which are all over Vietnam. The driver got out to talk about whatever he was pulled over for. Within seconds he got in again and pulled the bus over further into the siding. I'm sure the same thought was in every passenger's mind – “Please let this NOT mean waiting for another bus – we were so close!” I turned to the guide, who was in better form now that his responsibilities were lessening (as we approached Hanoi) and made the universal sign for money. He nodded and smiled. The driver got back on and we carried on our merry way. The driver and guide had a chat and once they were done I asked what the problem had been. “Too many people on bus” came back as the response. “So what happened?” I asked. “500,000 dong bribe” said the guide. All told it had cost the driver 12 discounted haircuts to get me back to Hanoi. What a tour!

It seems fitting to finish this crazy story is with a quote, from the quilt in our cabin on the crazy boat:

"LOVE YOU I wishes for my friends happy today and today!!!"

Just like the tour, the sentiments are there but there's definitely something lacking in the delivery. But at the end of the day it's kinda funny and endearing. But it's also just plain wrong. Maybe that's why I enjoyed it so much...

The Halong Bay Fiasco 2

eoghancito — Sun, 7 Jun 2009 13:46:00 GMT

Day two of the Halong bay tour started surprisingly similarly to day one. Claire was in the shower when the phone rang. The voice said ”Finish! Leave hotel now!” I looked at my watch: 7.10 and we had been told to meet at 7.30. Ignoring what had been said I took my time, had my shower and we were at reception at the agreed time, but not before a hammering at the door at 07.15. “FINISH - OUT NOW!” No need to remind us quite so incessantly. Vietnam is a bit funny about passports when you stay in a hotel. They always ask to see it, and most of the time keep it for the duration of your stay as some form of ransom in case you smash the room up or steal the air conditioning unit. The Cat Ba Plaza had kept everyone's passport. When I handed in the room key, expecting the passport back the reception said “No passport”. I wasn't too happy about this but let it go, trusting that we'd get them back eventually. One of the French guys, probably still drunk from the karaoke soundtracked excesses of the previous night wasn't taking no for an answer. He wanted his passport back and started raising his voice. A sense that this wasn't going to be pretty began to rise inside me. In the midst of the shouting he tried to go behind reception to retrieve his passport himself. A scuffle started. We left to avoid adding to the situation. We we got to the dinner hotel (also serving as breakfast) back in town we found out that he had been manhandled out of reception and still did not have his passport. Neither did anyone else. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow. After a flavourless pancake breakfast (of which there was not enough to go round all the guests but luckily a few were too hungover to stomach breakfast anyway) it was time to set off for our trek in the Cat Ba National Park, comprising about half the island. We were ushered onto a comfortable new bus with AC by yet another guide type character. There were a few unfamiliar faces – an English gap year group and a local family with two pudgy daughters dressed in summer party dresses. Then everyone was asked to get off the bus again. A subset (everyone minus the gap yearers) were put back on and we set off. At this stage most of the group were embracing the disorganisation, looking forward to the next stumbling block – it had to be the trek... A sleight, polite man with decent English took us off the bus when we arrived at the park – he would be our guide through the park. He was wearing flip flops while the other guide, a younger lady was wearing backless heeled slippers and a pair of super tight satin jeans. The reason for the description of their ludicrous trekking clothes will become apparent later. Off we set, up a rolling hill, the whole motley crew. Claire and I hadn't been trekking in a while and were looking forward to a good sweat. We got it immediately – the heat was oppressive. We took a brief water stop and our guide, who turned out to be from Laos sprang off, the little girls in summer party dresses in tow. Claire and I followed the rest behind. Soon the path turned much harder, a sheer drop on one side with difficult terrain on the path itself. The guide had gone on ahead, leaving the party dress girls on their own to negotiate a (in my opinion) technically challenging part of the trek. They stopped at the largest chasm ... and started crying. Their parents were miles behind. So Claire and I guided the girls over it and on up the hill. Claire's girl had a pretty little net over her dress which kept getting caught up in the brambles. When we got to the top I thought the girls were about to combust. Everyone was dripping with sweat but I never knew children could sweat so much too. Poor things.

At the second rest stop we had a magnificent view over the bay and the lady guide passed around a few hairy lychees before we were off again. I went behind the guide this time.

Shortly after the beginning of the descent he hissed “Stop – poison!” and grabbed a branch. Using it he coaxed a skinny vermillion green snake off the path and into a crack in the rocks. The trek had now turned into 20% scaling rocks and was taking its toll on some of the group. At the third water break we were told “Only people with good shoes continue.” Somehow the guide's flip flops qualified him and he set off with Claire behind him. A few other people seemed to have dropped out. The trek now turned into 60% rock climbing. At a certain point the guide stopped, saying he was too hot but beckoned to Claire to carry on up to the pinnacle. Claire of all people! I had visions of another vertigo-ridden rescue like in Maccu-Picchu but thankfully it wasn't required. The view at the top was beautiful once again: sheer-cliffed islands topped with green jutting out from the Gulf of Tonkin. Even the descent down to the road was tough going. A blanket of pine needles prevented any type of purchase down the incline, but it did pass by one of the most beautiful spots for a graveyard I have ever come across, with a broad sweeping view over the islands.

The Canadian girls, who we had been getting to know quite well, were laughing about their friends. We didn't even realise they had been travelling with two guys until this moment. The guys were complete beefcake steroid types who (as their friends told us) would only work out if a mirror could be found. When we got back to the van we found the two enormous beefcakes (they were both ripped with muscles and well over 6ft tall) sitting down in sullenness around a table drinking 7up with the two little girls with their now ripped up party dresses. They all had the same, slightly wincing expression of defeat, having left the trek at the second water stop. For out part we thoroughly enjoyed it – the guide was good fun - he was actually a guide who imparted information and seemed to have some experience dealing with people, and the exertion was all there although the rock-climbing was unexpected!

Back to the same old hotel for lunch (the food at lunch and dinner, either on the boat or off it was always identical – tasty, but the formula was now starting to get tired 3 meals in). All hell had broken loose. Our group had been told to dump its rucksacks by reception as we couldn't take them on the hike. Another group of people were trying to check in but couldn't for the bags in the way. The new group included the 2 belligerent dutch girls, one of whom was now sporting a large, painful looking graze along her leg and arm. An Aussie couple were patiently but firmly complaining to the manager. The snatches we heard were “But this is not what we were told would happen – we want to leave the tour now and get our money back.” The manager replied, “You buy cheap tour no? Well this is the cheap tour!”

We ate lunch hurriedly to get out of dodge as soon as we could. Once we had vacated our seats yet another bus load of cranky tourists arrived for lunch. We had “lazy time” now according to the brochure (no-one actually told us anything – are you seeing a recurrent theme?) so wanted to make the most of it at the beach. We asked where a beach was (Cat Ba town itself just has a harbour with lots of boats and boat people – no beach to speak of) and were told “10 minute”, pointing south. We arranged to meet the Canadians there, where ever there was but walked off at a slower pace. A good half an hour later we arrived at a beach – not sure if it was the beach we were supposed to go to but it was a beach, it had sand, a gentle surf and the type of vista that people send postcards home about. And the water seemed to be clean, which it certainly wasn't around the corner at the harbour. No Canadians though.

We had about 2 hours and spent them playing frisbee and floating about in the turquoise waters. We had joined some of the French guys from the tour and then a group of friendly locals invited us to join in a game of water-keepy-uppy. At one point an oily slick drifted in and made us get out fairly sharpish. Aside from that it was absolutely gourgeous and a real pleasure to have nothing to do with a tour where so many things can go wrong.

When we got back to the hotel for our bus transfer to the boat a thought occurred to me. Seeing as there is a port in the town – why not have the boat drop people off at the town and then save them the annoying bus ride? I didn't dare suggest this customer focussed business improvement lest my passport come back a fake.

Claire and I were the last two on the bus. I crammed in beside a middle aged couple – he was a kiwi and seemed to speak for the two of them. “I'm from New Zealand and my wife is German”. Ok I thought ... and we had a pleasant enough chat, about the disorganisation of the tour, of the gradual destruction of the natural resource the tour companies are profiting from but then he asked the fatal question. “How much did you pay? We paid $65 each.” To be fair I had commented “you get what you pay for” at one point in the conversation, inevitably provoking the question. I didn't have the heart to say “about half what you paid” so just said that we had paid a little less but not much, in the grand scheme of things. The man's key point was that it was not the money it was the waiting around and the wasted time and broken promises – they had had a similar litany of events - particularly as they only had 2 weeks holiday this was a big chunk of their days. I think this point is crucial – we have a year more or less – they had 2 weeks. We were having a great time in spite of the tour – they were having a horrible experience (not even noticing how beautiful everything was) because of it. If you are thinking about doing a Halong Bay tour as part of your holidays my advice would be to stump up the $100+ and get a quality one on a nice junk with a decent company like the Kangaroo Cafe. Or take your chances – you might have more fun the cheaper way! I reckon we did!

Of course, when we arrived at the jetty the boat was nowhere to be seen. I was first off the bus and was told to wait “over there” by the driver, pointing at a few drinks hawkers around a few uncomfortable looking shaded seats. I duly complied, kind of looking forward to this impromptu “free time” and to seeing what would happen next. Most people off the bus followed me across to the waiting area. The older couple and the Canadian girls confidently marched up the jetty, perhaps assuming a boat would appear from the deep, Pirates of the Caribbean style. It didn't. The Canadian girls took their rightful places in the shade a few minutes later.

The hawkers were doing a hilarious deal on beers. “1 for 15. 2 for 35!” I got one of them down to 25,000 dong for 2 and accepted that the wait would have to happen whether it was being enjoyed or not. We all started chatting and listening to some tunes. An Aussie couple (the same who had been looking for a refund) moved away from the group, preferring to wallow in their own grumpiness than join in the banter. It must have been over an hour later when we were called over to another guide – a boat had turned up!

There was a problem though – the boat could not fit everyone on it. The new “guide” tried to read out a list of Western names – the lucky ones who had made the cut – his pronuncitation wasn't great so I offered to read the names out for him. I was most surprised to read the first 2: Eric Clapton and David Copperfield. Then the Canadian girls, the three South Koreans who were also part of the group and finally myself and Claire. The Aussie couple and the French guys didn't make the cut. At this point a lot of things happened at once. The Vietnamese guys started counting us all and shouting at each other. The Aussie guy started shouting at the main Vietnamese guide and the French guys started grumbling too. Their remonitions had a lot less ferocity, having already had one fight and seen its outcome.

The Aussie guy really started to go for it and screamed at the Vietnamese guy menacingly an inch from his face. A scuffle developed and I started to walk off towards the boat – not my problem. Claire and the Canadians followed. The South Koreans stood fast, I think stunned by the western direct action approach. The second Vietnamese shouted at us all to stop – there was a problem. There were four people already on the boat (who, we didn't know!) and 13 people on the pier trying to get on. There were only 16 places to sleep so there was one too many. “Who is travelling alone?” he asked.

Mark, our English mate was very much one of the gang so we all said that we were travelling as a big group to keep us together. The scuffle between the Aussie and the other employee had subsided now – it turned out there had been no rooms at the hotel earlier, hence the complaint, so they had to get on the boat as there was no alternative. Fair enough but no need to be so aggressive, I thought. There was a stand off. No-one budged.

I wondered if Eric Clapton and David Copperfield would provide light entertainment on the boat...

Eventually an agreement was reached – the 3 South Korean guys very diplomatically agreed to stay behind. With all this messing around I wanted to do one thing when I got on the boat – show me our passports. I didn't want them back I just wanted to see them – there was no rhyme or reason to the tour so if our passports made it to the same boat as we did it would be pure chance. Everyone else had the same idea so the passports were brought out and everyone could look for themselves.

Most people's were there – but so were the 3 South Korean guys who were obviously absent. The passport belonging to the German half of the $65 couple was missing. It was a complete mess. The kiwi started shouting at the guy managing the boat who started shouting back. Then the boat manager/ guide started really freaking out about 2 missing passports. Not the German lady's one we knew was missing, or even the 3 extra South Korean ones but 2 more which he was now accusing us of stealing. No-one had a clue what was going on – it was a really tense nasty situation.

We went through all the passports again, raising hands, but there were still two missing according to the guide. “Wait a minute” I thought, “What about bloody Eric and David!” They had said there were 4 people on the boat – the $65 couple and who else? I ran upstairs to the sun deck to see who the additional passengers were. Sure enough there were an American bloke and an English guy sunning themselves. I told them what was going on and asked them if they had their passports - “Yes. Yes we do. We took them back when they weren't looking cos earlier on they left them out on the counter for anyone to steal.” “Well would you mind going downstairs and sorting your shit out cos everyone else is tired of trying to deal with the crazy Vietnamese boat man downstairs!!”

They obliged and once there was a hook to hang the problem on everyone scarpered to their cabins. The atmosphere on the boat had become tangibly tense. On the upside, the boat itself was much more luxorious than the one we had taken to the island. There was plenty of room for everyone and the cabins even had ensuites and towels! The sun deck was huge and had plenty of space. Claire wasn't comfortable with the situation though. Neither was I but there was very little to be done except for embrace the madness – and keep laughing. It was a beautiful place after all...

The next installment, and the one which we had been looking forward to most was “kayaking”. I used inverted commas because we were put in a double canoe, given a broken lifejacket and told “Come back before it dark. Don't drop paddle – it sink.” Who designs a heavy metal paddle that sinks? We had a paddle around a limestone outcrop and took some photos but it was a little anticlimactic, although, as usual, stunningly beautiful scenery. We only got about 20 minutes in before it became hard to see so we returned.

We were the last out of our cabins for dinner. The Aussie couple and the $65 couple were providing a mutual support network for each other, Mark was listening in (for gossip for us later imagined) and the Canadian girls' table was full. So we were left with one canadian beefcake, the other was sea sick upstairs (on a pancake flat voyage!) and Eric and David. I know there was a bit of history but it was without a shadow of a doubt the most impolite table I have ever had the displeasure to sit at. The three of them wordlessly wolfed down the food regardless of whether anyone else had had any or not. Claire and I essentially got leftovers.

No attempt at conversation was made. Claire and I chatted amongst ourselves but even that seemed forced somehow. There was a very brief conversation about the merits of various SE Asian beers and then right on cue a common ground in NHL and the benefits of anabolic steroids was found. We made our excuses and took our highly overpriced and bitter but delightfully decadent local Dalat red wine upstairs to the sun deck to get away from them. At least we had garnered that they had given their passports over.

Bit by bit the group joined us upstairs and everyone started to unwind from the earlier tensions. Even the $65 couple were in better form with a few tunes, a can of beer and a friendly chat. They had even managed to get the missing passport back while we were kayaking. It was all looking up.

I got chatting to one of the boat hands throughout the evening. His English was really good and he was a very friendly chap. He explained a bit about the Bay – all the boats which have tourists aboard overnight all spend the evening in the same bay. 2 reasons for this. There is a police boat out there somewhere in case there are problems (and given what we had seen in two days I suspect they are quite busy). There has also been a problem with piracy recently – so when everyone stays together the police can keep an eye on everyone easier. Comforting. I was touched by the contrasts and dichotomies that Halong bay was displaying. The peace and tranquility the bay interrupted by the sounds of drunken karaoke and diesel generators. The genuine friendliness of the majority of Vietnamese compromised by the view, by some, of Westerners as “walking dollars”.

The Canadians had gotten in trouble downstairs for smuggling vodka on board in a water bottle. They paid a “corkage” fee and then were allowed to continue. We played a few games but then the American guy, David Copperfield (I never knew his real name) turned the games into a very public chat up of the one Canadian girl neither of us had taken a shine to. Somewhere around midnight we decided to call it a night. Now we had noticed that our cabin was directly above the very noisy generator but hadn't thought that much of it assuming that they would turn it off at some point. We asked what time and were told in a few minutes. Seconds later there was a knock at the door and a very apologetic boat guide telling us that the generator would stay on – one couple had paid for AC and they needed it to be on throughout the night. So that's what $65 each gets you: an air conditioned lack of sleep due to the noisy generator needed to provide it. We busted out our own illicit bottle of vodka, circumvented the corkage fee and joined them back upstairs. We were told the objectionable American had succeeded in his chat up – the roommate of the object of his affections could confirm she had been asked to make herself scarce. She couldn't sleep for the generator anyway. Mark was missing but suddenly he appeared at the stern of the boat, a bottle of vodka in one hand, and a bottle of pepsi in another. He had engaged the services of an enterprising boat person who operated a covert sea faring off-license undercutting the tourist boats' vastly inflated prices for liquor. Only in Vietnam!

The Halong Bay Fiasco 1

eoghancito — Sat, 6 Jun 2009 05:32:00 GMT

It was an inauspicious start to the trip. We had slept through the alarm and were awoken by a heavy thumping on the paper thin bedroom door. The thoughtful receptionist had given us a 20 minute headstart before the promised air conditioned minivan would take us to Halong Bay.

The first broken promise was the minivan – the driver smiled and shrugged negatively when a few people getting on gestured hopefully at the air vents and then their sweat-glistening foreheads. It was only a four hour trip - not to worry. The second was the amount of people – we had been told that the group size was 16 – more than 20 were on the bus including a morbidly obese Belgian and a Vietnamese family, the patriarch of which insisted on proudly showing me his military identification card as we sign-languaged and smiled our way through introductions and pleasantries.

When we arrived at the port where we would embark the boat (we assumed, having been given no information) we found large groups of foreigners finding shade under trees and being harrassed by hawkers selling fruit and water. After about half an hour there, none the wiser, some people started to ask questions – when would we leave, where was the boat, what time was lunch? The guy who had collected us at our hotel and taken our tickets spoke very little English. Eventually he tired of not being able to answer the incessant questions, pointed at another fellow and said “Follow him!” as he almost but not quite ran away. Broken promise number three: English speaking professional guide.

The rest of our group consisted of Mark, a soft spoken English guy just out of Uni, a half Vietnamese, half Belgian guy (and friend of the larger gent we sat beside on the way down) who was back discovering his routes and a group of Aussie girls. When another minibus turned up, branded the same (AZ Queen Cafe) its human contents were mingled with ours. We noticed jealously that it was a much better bus and clearly had AC.

The new “guide” had disappeared and reappeared again much later and now started asking some people (not all and not us) for passports. Rumours began to spread about the import of this – some said that if you had handed your passport over it meant that you would be staying on the boat that night – night 1. As this was what we had been told would happen to us, we were a bit confused but let it pass – no sense getting stressed about anything. It was the cheapest tour we could find after all.

After being ushered around to the harbour side of the building the “guide” pointed at one boat, identical in style to all the rest, but a little smaller and shabbier. We boarded. There were about 40 of us now and there wasn't enough room at the tables for everyone. We left the harbour and went about 200m into the bay, among a thousand other boats spluttering black plumes of smoke into the blue sky, where lunch was plonked down in front of us rather than served. A middle aged northern lass behind us shouted that as there were eight rather than six at their table they would need extra food.

We were joined on the table by the Belgians from our bus and two Dutch girls from the other who spoke Dutch through most of the meal. As we put down the chewy squid and morning glory I tried to get a conversation going but no-one seemed to be chatty so after eating we cleared off to the upstairs sun deck where at last we started to understand why people flock to Halong Bay. In the bay are a myriad, over 3000 other-wordly karst limestone outcrops, islands and towers which are like something from a dream or a Hollywood movie. In fact I think one of the Bond movies was shot here – Dr No's evil lair – something like that.

Our first stop was at some caves. The guide had told some people there were caves to visit and what time to be back at but not everyone was in on it so there was a bit of confusion to begin with. We walked up the stairs and into the caves which were gaudily lit in green and pink for no apparent reason. They were large and impressive but the lights took from their splendour rather than added to it. Many groups had a guide pointing out interesting features of the cave but we had to interpret it for ourselves. We learned later that this merely consisted of pointing out shapes similar to human genitalia with a laser pen but we were still a bit jealous.

A crowd of hawkers forcefully selling beer and soft drinks harangued us as we exited the cave. We passed them by to take in the fabulous view and wondered whether we were supposed to go to the second set of caves. Looking at the watch we didn't have time ... and proceeded to spend 15 minutes trying to find the boat anyway (no-one had thought that it might be useful information to let us know its name. Admittedly we had not thought to look either so one-all on that account). Back on-board we got talking to a genial Argentenian and a lovely Welsh girl fluent in Spanish. I was dumbstruck when he produced a thermos and yerba and proceeded to serve mate, the traditional South American tea I love so much. It had been a long time since a chat passing around the mate – a very unexpected and pleasant surprise. Even the hungry northern lass got in on the action, pulling out a pair of comedy monster sunglasses as she took her first, and last sip. No idea why – why not.

Later we made another stop where we were told if we paid 40,000 dong (about $2) to a man in a little boat he would take us to a “water cave”. Without any more salesmanship most of the boat declined but we decided to go for it, along with the Welsh girl and the Argentino. It was well worth it – the boat man steered the little vessel (with his feet!) towards a seemingly impenetrable karst fortress towering out of the sea. We made for a tiny dark cave and, passing through under strangely shaped stalactites emerged into a brilliantly bright place.

When our eyes adjusted we could see enormous 70m walls reaching up on all sides but the island was hollow, an intense blue sky with wheeling frigate birds above. We circled about and went through a few sea arches before returning to the main ship. It was impossibly beautiful and not at all what I was expecting, That said I don't know what I was expecting.

We relaxed on the roof as we cruised around the bay for the rest of the afternoon, finally making it to a jetty on Cat Ba Island. There was an incomprehensible announcement about passports and rooms – the first of the tour! On clarification it turned out that if your passport had been handed over you would stay on the boat, if not, you would stay on the island the first night and the boat the second. Fine ... but this persistent lack of information and changing the plan was starting to irk us a little and some people more. Thankfully we didn't have much residual stress from 9 months of travelling but the Dutch girls refused to get off the boat. Luckily the Belgian guys who had given over their passports wanted to stay on the island having befriended a big group of French who were not chosen to stay on the boat. Problem solved with a swap of passports.

The island people were lead to a half full bus on the jetty but, as with the boat we had just left, there wasn't enough room for everyone. Some, from different groups, were left waiting for another bus. It took about 45 minutes to get to our hotel, It was a basic but decent sized room with a fabulous view over a postcard bay with islands in the distance. We were told to be back down at reception for 7pm when we would go to dinner in another hotel. The Canadian girls who checked in just before us were told 18.30. When Claire and I came down at 7 unsurprisingly they had the look of people who had been waiting for half an hour. The Franco-Belgian group were at a beer stall so we joined them until the decrepit one head-lighted mini bus came along to bring us to dinner.

The whole group was starting to gel a bit now so no-one paid much attention to where we were going or where we had come from. On arrival at the dinner hotel there was no space left at any tables where we knew people so were placed with four young Vietnamese guys. Three of them were brothers and the other was a friend and were all great craic. They drank beer and ate food with a determination and gusto that I hadn't seen in a long time. They were also very polite and took care to offer us anything before they devoured it themselves. I asked them what they did – the oldest brother replied IT. The next replied “electricity”, I interpreted as an electrican. The youngest brother was a student and the fourth wheel, when asked, paused and replied “businessman”, rather grandly for a man still in his teens. I found out later shoes were his business - he worked in his mother's shoe shop. We raised glasses in the typical Vietnamese fashion “mot, hai, baa, yo!” (literally one, two, three, yo!) countless times until they left, asking us to join them later for snake wine and dancing. We regrettably declined. You just can't go to all the parties.

We only noticed once the Vietnamese had left that the area we had been eating in was empty and that rest of the tour group had gone. We asked one of the hotel workers about our bus back to the hotel but he shrugged. We then asked the waitress and she said “No bus!” but only after a lot of pointing and gesturing at the distinctive one head-lighted bus driver-less outside. We asked for the name of our hotel. I suspected it was the something plaza but wasn't at all sure. The assumption had been that a bus would take us back so the logic was that we shouldn't have needed to remember what it was called or where it was. I had a vague recollection that we came down a hill on the way, and it had only been a 10 or 15 minute journey so how hard could it be? The night was but young.

Cat Ba town is by many accounts quite pleasant – the main street down the waterfront, where most of the hotels, restaurants and street food vendors are gathered is pedestrianised in the evening. It's blissful to be able to walk freely with out constant fear of mopeds crashing into you anywhere in Vietnam! There was a the feel of a lot of people on holiday – not jaded westerners expecting more but locals enjoying a precious few days off work away from the bustle.

We turned up a street that seemed to go in the right direction and walked past busy seafood restaurants with live catch in aquaria outside and large bottles filled with bizarre shapes inside. We picked one and went in to look at what was in the bottles. Amongst other things I can't describe there were snakes, scorpions, sea horses and starfish and what looked a bit like canine foetuses. We had avoided eating cuy (guinea pig) in Peru and I didn't want to miss the opportunity this time. I chose snake wine and Claire reluctantly chose seahorse and starfish. Mine was vaguely palatable but Claire's was quite nasty. Neither were strong in terms of alcohol but they certainly were in flavour. Ice-creams were in order afterwards to get rid of the taste.

We carried on up the street and eventually it started to curve and drop back down towards the sea as I had remembered. It started to look familiar – I thought we were coming out just beside the hotel when we came out exactly where we had started. The situation which had been funny an hour ago had started to become very tedious. We were staying in a hotel which we didn't know the name of never mind its location. We went back to the place where we had eaten and tried a lot harder to get something out of them. This fell on completely deaf ears – the rising temperature of my colère increased the vehemence with which the hotel staff ignored me. Eventually one of the girls offered me a hotel room there for $30, as if to shut me up. Why hadn't I taken one of the hotel business cards. Or even the room key?

Enzo, an Italian we had chatted briefly to at dinner passed by. We explained the predicament and he said he thought our tour guide (there was a tour guide?) was staying at his hotel. We followed him to it and somehow got a room number to knock on. The TV was on but no-one was answering.

We left on another attempt, this time more focussed on the task at hand. We came to a crossroads. We had already chosen the right had turn. Left, up a hill felt all wrong so we carried on straight. A moto driver asked us if we wanted a lift – we asked if he knew the plaza and pointed back towards town, gesturing to get on behind him. No thanks. We asked a man clearing up his shop for directions which we followed. It looked as though he was right until we discovered that he had brought us back into town again.

In despair we returned to the dinner hotel for a final crack at the whip. Mercifully the night receptionist who spoke some English had started his shift – we had been traipsing around for 2 hours now and were getting tired and seriously pissed off. He had the four words we needed – they seem so obvious now in retrospect but hindsight is always 20-20: The Cat Ba Plaza. Of course it was named after the island! We found a moto driver nearby who would take only one of us but before long another showed up. I jumped on and was given a helmet. Claire jumped on only to be presented with a construction site hard hat. Put put put and away!

I had plans of making very serious complaints at the hotel when we returned but when we saw the French and the Belgians in the open air bar beside the hotel we joined them instead. We wanted to see if anyone else had had the same problem. Everyone had, but it seems that only those who left the dinner hotel first were given directions back. Instead of complaining we joined the crowd.

They had been there for some time, in very good spirits literally and figuratively. A karaoke mike appeared and was passed around. Even Claire, not renowned for her solo karaoke talents got into it. The singing got louder and worse, the night went on and the owner of the open air bar opened the door to a private video karaoke booth he had kept hidden at the back. Presumably to keep the noise down. It was a terrible night and a fabulous night, luckily in that order. So much had happened on the tour already , good and bad – what could the next day bring?

Hanoi, where the wild mopeds roam

eoghancito — Thu, 4 Jun 2009 15:51:00 GMT

The first impressions of Hanoi in the taxi were that of a French city. It was after all the colonial capital of French Indochina so it shouldn't have been too surprising to be passing through wide tree lined boulevards past pretty lakes surrounded by buildings built in that distinctive 5 storey Parisian style. Once we got to the hotel in the old quarter that all ended and Hanoi became Vietnamese again – narrow one way streets filled with mopeds zooming in both directions, pavements filled with people selling everything from noodle soup to snake wine to snakeskin wallets.

The guesthouse only had 3 rooms and we were in the one above reception with the blaring music. It didn't matter we were shattered and got about 80 winks before heading out for brunch. Hanoi, especially the old quarter seems to not have enough resources of any kind to meet the demand. The shops are tiny so they spill out onto the path. There's no parking anywhere so the mopeds park on the path too. Pedestrians can't walk on the path because of all the mopeds and shops so they walk on the road. The people cooking food on the street have no room on the path for the reasons above, so they move out onto the road, pushing the pedestrians further out on the streets, which are busy anyway, more so because no-one pays any attention to the one way system. So it's carnage. You have to look four ways before you cross every street. But you trust in the “system” and you get across. Most of the time.

There were 3 objectives for the day – one was to meet up with Joanne, a friend of mine from college who had been living in Hanoi for some time, the others to book a tour to Halong Bay and meet up with Nick of casino heist fame – he was thinking of joining us on the tour.

After arranging for Joanne to come over to the hotel in the evening Claire and I were free to look into the tour side of things. We had asked a few people who had been before for recommendations and their message was simple – get the cheapest tour you can because you will go on the same tour no matter how much you pay. The receptionist took out a shiny brochure and offered 3 days 2 nights for $45. It seemed fair enough but we wanted to play the market a bit.

We met up with Nick at his backpacker hostel and found out what he'd been up to. He had decided to make a go of it in Hanoi as a teacher but was sorely tempted to take up an offer to help open up a members-only club in HCMC. Good old Nick – a great man for the crazy offers. He wasn't going to come with us to Halong Bay but as we were chatting a local approached us offering a “special accommodation opportunity”. A competitor to Nick's Aussie style backpackers was opening nearby and they wanted to poach their clientele by offering one free night, opening night in exchange for feedback. I swear the scams just follow this guy around. He didn't seem to want to talk to us, only to Nick – they shook on meeting up later and left it at that.

Nick's hotel were offering a Halong Bay 3d/2n trip for $90. It seemed to have good reviews but at twice the price would it be twice as good? The Rough Guide (which had quite a big warning about broken promises on the trips) suggested a place called the Kangaroo Cafe as one of the few places which kept their promises. We went and asked if someone could talk to us about the tours. We were given a massive folder to flick through. $100 this one, Seemed fine too. Keen to compare apples with apples we went to one of the little tour agencies that are everywhere in Hanoi. We chose one near the hotel, Sinh Cafe which took out exactly the same brochure (AZ Queen Cafe) as the guesthouse receptionist had and quoted $40 for the same tour.

We deliberated about what to do – which tour to choose – there are literally thousands of offices – are they all selling the same tour? I went down to reception and lied that we had found a tour around the corner for $38 – would he match it? As is the custom in Vietnam made a call to a faceless superior to check. Yes he could do it. We booked for the next morning – it was a risk and we knew it but it would have been a bigger risk to pay twice as much for the same tour. Only one way to find out.

Joanne and Mike called over in the evening. They took us to a nearby Bia Hoi - a Vietnamese street drinking emporium with cheap beer. We caught up and downed a few beers. They had been working for the UN and other NGOs as consultants and gave us the lowdown on Hanoi life. Great to catch up properly after so long. We carried on to a restaurant which was reached by climbing a long set of stairs. We sat down on the floor at the low table, Japanese style and let the guys do the ordering. It was such a pleasure – we didn't need to navigate either the streets or the menu – all we had to do was concentrate on the good company and the excellent catfish springrolls.

Vietnamese is not an easy language – there are 7 tones so one word can have seven different ways of saying it and even more meanings based on context. Joanne was going great guns ordering all sorts of stuff. At one point the waitress came over with a lemon juice – we all looked blankly as no-one had ordered one. But the squid was missing. The words for squid and lemon are identical to the outsider. We all knew where it was going when Mike ordered a bottle of plum rice wine to accompany the beers. A mulberry wine joined the plum and we moved on to a bar. The manager was keen to practice his English in exchange for free drinks and we were happy to oblige. He explained the significance of all our Chinese zodiac signs – Claire's a snake and I'm a horse but we can't for the life of us remember the significance. Too many free shots – great night all round.

When we got back to the guesthouse it was shut up like it had never existed and Joanne's moped had disappeared. Lacking an alternative I banged at the shutter hoping for a solution to all our problems. We were not disappointed – the shutter was rolled up by a sleepy but smiliing receptionist (many Vietnamese seem to sleep where they work). He had rolled the moped in to the hotel when he locked up, fearing its theft. What a thoughtful guy. We promised to meet up with the guys on our return from Halong and stumbled upstairs to pack for the trip.

Underwhelmed in Hue

eoghancito — Wed, 3 Jun 2009 09:35:00 GMT

It was only a four hour journey to Hue from Hoi An but we still had the bizarre “sleeping bus” to semi-horizontally not sleep in for the journey. We allowed ourselves to be taken to the suggested guesthouse Bing Duong III. It was a pokey room for $12 but it had AC, a TV, a desktop computer with a gazillion viruses (a first for me, in any type of hotel, business or otherwise) and was pretty central so not a bad decision in the end.

Hue is the historical capital of Nguyen dynasty and the old town, or citadel is on the northern bank of the Perfume river. After some down time we wandered around along the southern bank and around the town. Absolutely nothing to report I'm afraid – none of the small town charm of Hoi An – the wide boulevards crammed with mopeds were becoming increasingly difficult to cross as we got further north.

We searched for a place to play pool in the evening but the places the guidebooks mentioned seemed to have been gobbled up by shoe and lingerie shops. Eventually we found a pool table but left after one game. The establishment clearly catered for the late night crowd but despite being 7 in the evening and empty apart from us, had nightclub style and volume hardcore dance music.

We were about to call it a night when, on the way back to the guesthouse a girl gave us a flyer for a place called brown eyes, offering pool, drinks promotions and “laid back vibes”. Sure why not – we didn't quite understand the directions the flyer girl gave us so we jumped on a cyclo, a single-seated, brakeless contraption with a guy behind you willing to cycle you to your destination: MOT 37 – I don't understand how they stop because there are NO brakes!

Brown Eyes was as promised, the mojitos were tasty, the music and general buzz was mellow and there was a pool table, albeit occupied.

We stayed for a drink or two and then Claire spotted a familiar face outside – I couldn't work out who it was at all but it was Chris, one of the Aussies who we had met swimming in Don Det and with whose girlfriend I had swapped a book for Gregory Roberts “Shantaram” (which is very good by the way, especially for anyone heading to India). There had been a few signs of strain the last time we had seen them – some sort of issue between Chris and the other travelling buddy, his girlfriend's best mate. It seems the strain had become more pronounced, so much so that Chris was accompanied by a jolly, rotund Lyonnais called Hugo. Other Don Det Aussies nowhere to be seen.

We joined them and swapped stories of our our travels and I was able to practice my French for a while too. The friendly staff who Claire and I had been chatting to at the bar kept an endless array of free shots and cocktails flowing and then joined us for a game of Jenga. When our stomachs eventually berrated us for neglect and we thought to ask for the menu the kitchen was closed. So we had street sandwiches with la vache qui rit, a few greens and some unidentifiable meaty stuff. Oh and tons of chilli sauce.

To say that we weren't feeling the best the next day would be a massive understatement. The weather had really stepped it up a notch – it was so painful to be out in the searing heat that we retreated back to the AC almost immediately. HBO and intermittent snoozes entertained us until our stomachs complained enough to require attention. Grease was required so we found a place, Cafe on Thu Wheel 3 doors up the lane whose burgers had been recommended in the Lonely Planet. It seemed to be a front for peddling easy rider tours, where you are zoomed around the countryside on the back of a Harley by a local for a few days. The reason I say it was a front is because the cook, an ancient old woman almost bent double with a hunch back had clearly never heard of a burger. It was a baguette with a strange brown quorn-like substance stuffed inside. Radioactive tomato sauce as accompaniment. We ate it regardless, it was too hot to go anywhere else. I am ashamed to say the evening passed much as the morning had.

We had decided that Hue was not really for us – I'm sure we didn't give it a fair crack of the whip but the decision was made in any case. We had a full day before out last night bus to Hanoi so we rented bikes and made for the Citadel, determined to see something of note. The citadel itself is yet another UNESCO world heritage site. It's essentially an enormous walled and moated city and although heavily bombed in the war, it was easy to see that it was a beautiful place in its day. Inside the citadel is another moated and walled city, the imperial enclosure which itself contains the forbidden purple city, modelled on the fobidden city in Beijing. In order to get a sense of it we cycled around the enclosure first, stopping at an impressive collection of captured American tanks and guns outside a war museum.

As we entered the enclosure itself via an ornate gate house we were asked to leave our bikes outside. I had been expecting to enter into a hustling city along the lines of Hoi An but it was serenely empty and filled with open spaces. The odd elephant was hanging about chained by the foot, no doubt waiting for a tourist to rent its services from a mahoot dozing in the shade.

We entered the forbidden city via the great throne room with highly lacquered decorations – this was where the main business of the court was done, civic and military mandarins discussing their matters with the imperial family, waited on by a team of eunuchs so as not to threaten the royal concubines.

Most of the buildings in the city itself were destroyed by bombs – the only ones remaining being the left and right houses, one of which contains a few interesting displays of clothes and crockery and the theatre which was closed for repairs. It all looked as though they had made a big effort a few years back but it had all fallen by the wayside. Towards the back of the city there was a massive chinese style dragon and a cock beside what looked like a bandstand – their significance was not explained.

What was explained though was the imperial tennis court just beside them which had been renovated for “enjoyment and leisure of tourist-visitor”. We left the city by a different, shaded route past an engaging exhibition of French colonial postcards of the area. It was funny to note the difference between the French descriptions on the postcards themselves and the English Vietnamese below – sometimes referring to completely different cities and landmarks. Who knows which was right.

The remainder of the enclosure was given over to the imperial lodgings and their various gardens. We also visited a few beautiful temples / pagodas in which the imperial ancestors were venerated and still are, with gold bars, coins, large vases and such like. The Vietnamese have a huge amount of respect for their ancestors and almost every family will have a shrine dedicated to those who have gone before. What a contrast to Western culture – sticking the old and infirm in a nursing home so they don't get in the way is often the occidental way. In the orient the elderly are highly respected and money, food and all sorts of other offerings are made even after they've passed away.

We spent the rest of the afternoon cycling around the outer citadel which is a fully functioning town dotted all over with lakes and undulating bridges over winding rivers. We had given the tours of the nearby de-miliatarised zone (DMZ) and imperial mausoleums further up the river a miss, but were happy to move on to the capital.

When the bloke from the bus company came along to collect us we had one hope for our last sleeping bus – please please please let us not be put in the 5-in-a-row-happy-families-space at the back of the bus. Our wish came true but it was one of the older nastier buses and the driver sped north with a ferocity that was terrifying, His wanton disregard for anything in his path was matched only by that of the oncoming, overtaking truck drivers. It was terrifying and very uncomfortable being slung from side to side but thankfully they changed driver after a few hours and the second one seemed to have a bit more restraint. We had to make an unexpected detour at one point in the middle of the night which added an extra few hours to the trip. 14 ½ hours (and not a wink of sleep) after setting off we arrived in the hazy morning of Hanoi's renowned pollution. We took the suggested hotel, too tired to do anything independently.

Suited and booted in Hoi An

eoghancito — Sun, 31 May 2009 09:32:00 GMT

We lucked out with the bus to Hoi An – it was quite a bit more modern and seemed to have been designed with passengers in mind unlike its previous incarnations. This time there was a space for your bag rather than having to find a between the legs storage spot. It was still, however impossible to sleep so when we arrived at bleary o'clock in the morning we plumped for the suggested guest house so we could put our heads down immediately.

Rested and refreshed we rented some bikes to explore. Hoi An is yet another UNESCO world heritage site and THE place to get clothes tailor made. Cloth shops and bespoke tailors are literally everywhere and seem to cater for every taste and bank balance. One boasts the Queen of Spain as a regular customer while another will cut you a suit for $40 and have it ready in less than a day.

The town centre itself is very pretty and atmospheric and neon lights are remarkably absent. One street is even pedestrianised, or at least says that only primitive transport is allowed. I took this to mean that cyclos and bikes are allowed but of course, like everywhere in Vietnam, 2 wheels good 4 wheels bad so the mopeds weave in and out too. There's also a very picturesque Japanese bridge over a tributary of the river which runs through town. A pair of dogs, revered with altars adorn one end with monkeys at the other indicating that the bridge was started in the year of the dog and ended in that of the monkey. Although it's known as the Japanese bridge, it was becoming clear that Chinese influence was becoming more evident the further north we travelled. As we cycled about it became apparent that our guest house was not ideal – it was a bit out of town, more than a bit tired and lacked internet so we booked the more centrally located Thanh Van Hotel, which was HI affliated, had a pool, internet and a free breakfast for just a few dollars more.

In the evening after our cycle we sat down for a beer and a bite of the tasty local delicacies Cao Lac, pork and veg with noodles and deep fried wontons. We sat outside and opposite was a cloth shop, A Dong Silk, which seemed to be one of the better ones. Well it looked nice anyway so as were planning to get a few things made we decided to give it a go the next day.

Once checked into the new place we made for A Dong Silk. Neither of us have ever had anything bespoke made for us so it was all a new experience. We were sat down, given cold water and asked what we wanted. The problem was we only had a vague idea. I wanted a suit or two, maybe more and Claire wanted an oriental style dress.

The pretty attendants dumped a few Next directories and Cosmos in front of us and we flicked through. Not finding much in the magazines, we described what we wanted and then the process began. We were seperated to discuss style, fabric, cut, inners, outers, linings and all sorts. After 2 hours we left with potential orders for 2 suits, shirts and pairs of trousers for me, 2 dresses for Claire and a best price of $490 – I had managed to haggle down to this from $515. Either bad haggling or a bad discount but either way not great, especially with P&P excluded.

We weren't particularly impressed with the service and felt a bit ... not rushed but somehow taken for a bit of a ride, although I must point out that this was only a hunch. Claire chose about 10 types of silk she liked for her dress but was told sorry not enough every time before going for what felt like a second best option. I got the same about suit fabrics – they only seemed to have the more expensive fabrics in stock. Finally the bill was a lot more than I had been expecting – we could have got some decent enough stuff at M&S for less – even without my old employee discount! Then there was the postage home – it seemed quite steep compared to Bolivia, Argentina, New Zealand or Thailand.

We decided to see if there were any recommendations on the Internet, a few places kept coming up but one was consistently there for both quality and price – Tony's Tailors. We rented some bikes (it's a bit further out of town), grabbed some lunch and made for it. En route we bumped into Nick, our nearly-got-roped-into-busting-a-casino-friend. We joked about a middle aged Japanese man with a suitcase asking for him at the hotel in Nha Ttang and made arrangements to meet later on.

As soon as we walked into Tony's it felt different. Yes we got water and a load of magazines at the start but once we explained what we wanted the attentive staff did what I assumed they were supposed to: guide us through an unfamiliar process as experts and give us advice when we needed it. Tony, the patriarch sat at the head of the table and watched as we were whizzed around by his family choosing fabrics and the rest. I was concerned about price again and wanted to get to negotiations quickly so as not to waste anyone's time and ensure we were in the right ballpark. Tony calmly sat me down at the table and we chatted. The quote for the same items with the same if not better quality fabrics (to my untrained eye) was considerably lower. Even the price list for delivery to the UK was a good percentage less expensive. We were in and out in about an hour and felt much more comfortable with the whole experience. We would have a fitting the next evening.

With the tailoring thing out of the way we could get on with enjoying what Hoi An had to offer. We met Nick at the Japanese bridge, A great man for finding a cheap beer we went straight to a collection of open air restaurants, somewhere in between street food and a cafe. The beers were good and went down well and the food was excellent - we had some great spring rolls and noodles and then Nick suggested a hot pot – none of us had ever tried it before. They brought along a little gas stove identical to the one which fed us all the way through our camping trip in NZ and a plate of greens and raw beef and a dish of noodles. A big pot was placed on the stove and we cooked the rest ourselves. It was easily the tastiest thing we had had in Vietnam, all added to by the novelty of cooking for ourselves.

Just as we finished we heard the sickening thud of 2 mopeds colliding. It was surprising that is was the first time we had seen a moped crash. It looked bad – one rider wasn't moving. A crowd quickly gathered but after a few minutes the drivers dusted themselves off and moved on, laughing it off, No hassle or fuss, no police, no swapping of insurance details and no blame – just one of those things. They do things differently in Asia, no doubt and we were starting to admire them for it,

Flyers given to us over dinner lead the three of us to The Reggae Bar across the river offering free drinks between 10 and 11. How could we refuse? The bar was empty when we arrived but soon filled up with a load of surly teenagers wearing beer lao singlets – so we left for a competitor. This one was empty so we sat at the bar. The manager was English and one of the most uninteresting people I have ever met. He had ended up in Hoi An two years previously and had absolutely nothing of consequence to say – strange for an ex-pat but there you go. A Canadian and some Germans joined us at the bar and the free drinks flowed (this bar had a happy hour too). A great night was had. We ended back in The Reggae Bar for some reason towards the end where they were serving rum and cokes to people without any rum. For an an extra few thousand dong you could order a bacardi, prepared under the bar of course to ensure the punter doesn't see it's Vietnam's finest rather than Puerto Rico's. Nick pointed this out to the barman and got kicked out, but only temporarily.

In order to clear our heads the day afterwards, a scorcher, we rented some bikes and met Nick to head to Cua Dai beach, about 5km away from town. By the time we arrived we were sweltering. We jumped straight into the warm water with the locals and they all joined in to our game of frisbee. The Vietnamese just love practicing their English with foreigners – the main question of the day focussed on whether our respective countries were more beautiful than Vietnam. Well if rain is beautiful, Ireland wins but my vote is for Vietnam. The hawkers were out in force. We bought “lucky” bracelets from one whose English was great and had such a wonderful sense of humour it was impossible to turn her down.

On the way home Claire disappeared. I thought puncture immediately – it's happened enough times! I cycled back around a corner and spotted her walking the bike along, dejectedly holding a pedal. We swapped bikes and I finished off the trip in one-legged-push-jump-cycling style which provoked a few mopeds-by to offer a shoulder to hang on to. Enjoying the exercise, I declined, but was shattered by the time we got back.

We had another hotpot for lunch-dinner and then visited Tony's to make sure the clothes actually fit. Claire's dresses came out first. One was perfect but the Oriental style had an indecently long slit at the side which needed to be fixed. My trousers were lovely but a little tight and the one suit that was ready was fine, just a few adjustments needed. The shirts looked and felt great so I ordered another 3 and we arranged to come back the following evening to check again. Amazing that Tony the Tailor was able to turn it all around in less than a day with only a few adjustments needed. Tony had recommended a place to get some shoes made down the road so we went down to see what they said. half an hour later we had ordered a pair of all leather brown shoes for me and a pair of heels for Claire to match the fabric in her Chinese dress. It was time to get out of there soon – the bespoke clothing bills were adding up (to not too much admittedly).

We knew the time for sending packages home was soon approaching so we took the opportunity in the morning to walk around the markets and stalls and buy some tat to put it in the box with the newly tailored clothes. To it I added the heavy chess set which had been making by rucksack all the more ungainly since it was bought in Laos. The second fitting went well – all the shirts were fine and Claire's dresses and new top also checked out. I had a few more problems with the tightness of the trousers and suit but they were running out the door to the factory with notes made before we even left the shop.

We had an hour to kill before the adjusted clothes came back so we visited the shoe shop to see how they were getting on. They were getting on very well as it turns out – both our orders were finished, fit perfectly and looked great (They're called The First Shoes Shop if anyone's interested).

Back to Tony's and all the final adjustments had been made and we were happy with everything. Best of all they took all of the tat off our hands, including the heave chess set. They would package everything up for us and send it on. We didn't even need to deal with the post office! All that was left was the issue of payment. It was approaching $500 for the lot, including postage so I wanted to pay by credit card. Tony's machine wasn't working. I jumped on the back of his daughter's moped (mode of transport number 35, a while since we had a new one and nice and unexpected!). We stopped at the shoe shop but there's wasn't working either. We were running out of options – I couldn't take that amount of cash out of the ATM in one day .... that would mean 2 more days in Hoi An which wouldn't be the worst thing in the world but not ideal. We found a third way by jumping back on the bike and heading for another of the gazillion tailors in town. Thankfully their's worked. We left all our stuff in Tony and his family's care and booked the next open tour bus with seconds to spare.

Funky monkey and the floating bar: Nha Trang

eoghancito — Thu, 28 May 2009 09:30:00 GMT

We had decided to do an island tour from Nha Trang - the punters on the boat were an eclectic mix of English gap year types, Filipino engineers working on the soon to open Nha Trang Marriot and a few locals enjoying the weekend, plus us. 5 minutes after leaving, the first stop was a small island with an aquarium which we decided against entering on the grounds that the tanks we could see were woefully small for large marine animals like sharks, preferring to stay on the boat for the alloted 20 minutes. The people who did pay in confirmed our suspicions when they got back.

As we left the aquarium the host/guide introduced himself as Funky Monkey. He was hilarious – a real charachter. He explained the agenda for the day and then handed out beers. We considered whether or not to get back on the horse so early for a few seconds before the expression on Funky's face said it all. Drink or be thrown overboard. Psst... and the Tiger beer flowed. We reached another island a while later and were given snorkels and masks. As the gap yearers (led by Funky of course) somersaulted overboard I wondered whether it was wise to get my ears wet. They felt fine, and I could hear as well as I ever could ... so jumped in.

It had been raining quite heavily the day before so visibility was very low. We could just about make out some grey-green coral and Claire thought she saw a clown fish but wasn't sure. I had spent so much bloody cash on multiple waterproof cameras in the trip I was determined to take some underwater snaps. When we got back on board it seems the camera saw a lot more than we could.

After a move away from the coral island we were joined by a boat full of locals for lunch. The benches we had been sitting on were transformed into a table and a huge spread laid before us.

As we chatted and had some more beer Funky Monkey started to pluck away on a guitar. Much to everyone's surprise he was soon joined by a drummer (playing pots and pans) and a basist. They were actually a really good make shift band – Funky had a great voice and they got both boats going in no time.

Then the karaoke started – Nick was called up for a decent rendition of Waltzing Matilda and then it went around the boat – the Filipinos, clearly well practiced karaoke afficionados were very good. The Chinese weren't great and the English girl called up was a bit young to know the lyrics of The Bangles 80s singalong classic Eternal Flame. Thankfully Funky Monkey let Claire and I escape scott-free in favour of 2 Vietnamese girls who were brilliant. I actually thought they were professional go go dancers – they got the whole boat gyrating - the table had now become a dancefloor.

The sun shone brilliantly as the band packed up and we motored on again. We stopped and a strange metal contraption was produced and flung overboard. We soon found out it was the floating bar. The music was cranked up and the boat disgorged its occupants who floated about in rings. The hilariously foul mouthed floating barman who only answered to the name homosexual told us the only rule – if you say no you finish your cup of cocktail.

So, those people who had had enough of the concoction and declined were topped up again. Now that I'm writing about it it does sound like a recipe for disaster – 40 people in various states of inebriation bobbing around a bar tethered to the ship by a thick piece of twine but it was great fun and a unique way to spend the afternoon. The Filipinos in particular were great sports. A lot of them couldn't swim but soldiered doggedly on in their life jackets, never turning down a drink and water-dancing and insulting the barman along with the rest of us.

After a final stop at yet another island we made for home and poured ourselves into our taxis home, promising to meet up with everyone later. We broke all the promises – I'd like to blame it on HBO but I suspect it had more to do with a lack of stamina for all day drinking than anything else.

A massive rainstorm descended on Nha Trang the following morning. Nick had left a note to say he'd had enough of Nha Trang and was trucking on. it's not much fun in a beach town when the weather is crap so we decided to book our own onward trip but could only leave the day after. We settled into an Irish bar and had fish and chips for lunch and eventually felt ready for a quiet beer and a few games of cards. We played pool. The rain kept coming. We visited another bar and played more pool. It continued to pour down. We went back to the irish bar and played darts and got talking to a Franco-Irish couple. The Irish guy was pleasant enough but he got a bit weird and started talking about the merits of the Real IRA. We moved on and met a Norwegian helicopter pilot and his crazy girlfriend. Then finally a brief respite in the rain which allowed us to go home.

The sun returned the next day and after checking out of the hotel we rented some shaded loungers on the beach to kill the day before our bus in the evening. The water was beautiful and calm and the beach peaceful except for the constant hawkers peddling trinkets and tat.

A lady in the ubiquitous Vietnamese conical hats approached. She carried the most amazing mobile restaurant on a bamboo balancing stick on her shoulders – she looked a bit like a human scales. On her scales were a fire, a huge pot of boiling water, and a pot of lobsters and crayfish fresh from the fishing boats. We couldn't refuse and decadently ate 2 exquisitely cooked lobsters for breakfast. It only cost about a fiver!

The day languorously flowed on and eventually it was time to pack up and jump on the next bus.

The old Vietnamese casino-heist scam

eoghancito — Mon, 25 May 2009 07:57:00 GMT

As usual, the bus was late. After half an hour of waiting patiently in the travel agency we went across the road for some beers, their arrival, of course coinciding with that of the sleeping bus to Nha Trang, 10 hours up the coast. The decision to bring rum and coke along was a double edged sword – it did help oil the social wheels but the lack of an on board toilet became excruciating. I was forced to make an emergency exit against a fence when people were getting off at one point. Claire managed to hold out to the next stop at a hotel, running around like a lunatic in search of any door with a WC painted on. While the bus was marginally better than the “sleeping bus” in Laos, it was another sleepless journey punctuated by overnight truck overtaking and massive potholes.

We shared drinks and stories through the journey with Nick, an amiable Aussie pilot who had done his time flying freight across the outback but was looking for hard to come-by commercial work on the ryanairs and easyjets of SE Asia. Groggily turning up our noses at the grubby hotel where the bus left us off, we jumped in a taxi, way to small to accommodate the three of us plus luggage, and made for the beach. After viewing a few overpriced hostelries we settled on the lovely Thanh Long Hotel, a little off the main strip with a great view of the mountains and a friendly owner who offered us tea every time we saw him. Ironically they wanted to put us in a beach view room for a few more dollars – the view of the beach was in fact a view of the back of 2 grey multistorey block hotels, not a grain of sand or a wave in sight.

After a well deserved catch up on sleep, Claire and I headed out to look around and get some food. We headed south, away from the centre and ordered coffees and omelettes in a place called “Nice Cafe”. The staff, clearly not used to foreigners giggled their way through the order and after a time brought our breakfast. The coffee was industrial strength, unthinkably potent and over- complicated by the little single cup filter it came with. It splashed all over me as I tried to get to grips with it. The staff stared on as I sat bemused at the coffee stained napkinless table. Then the “omelettes” arrived. It was two undercooked eggs, sunny side up with a large sprinkling of pepper and a bit of lettuce as a garnish. Claire nearly vomited. We sent them back, gesturing the basic principles of beating the eggs in order to make the omelette. It was quite obvious when the waitress returned less than a minute later, plates in hand, that they has thrown the eggs back in the pan, stirred them around a bit and sent them back – the yolk was still runny. We paid up, coffee and omelettes untouched, too tired and hungry to argue. Our second chicken sandwich-based attempt, after a long walk up the silvery beach in the scorching midday heat, was much more successful.

Nha Trang is a quintessential beach resort town, much the same as any I have seen anywhere in the world, with a plethora of cheap and posh hotels, bars with all day happy hours and shops selling board shorts and blow up swords. It doesn't take that long to get the gist of it. We headed back to the GH to get out of the sun and see if Nick was about.

He knocked on the door of our room a few hours later and asked to come in, looking shocked and generally taken aback. After sitting down and taking a breath he told us the story what he had been up to during the day.

Similar to us he went out for a wander. Not far from the hotel a local on a motorbike said “nice sunnies” to him in an Aussie accent. They stared chatting – the local had lived in Oz – and got on well. The local offered to show him around town on the back of his bike and Nick accepted. At this point my own internal alarm bells started ringing, but obviously not Nick's. They had a grand ole time for a few hours when the local (I'm not sure I was told his name so let's call him Johnny) offered Nick some lunch back in his house with his family. They enjoyed a pleasant lunch with Johnny's family, all washed down by a few beers. So far so good.

Johnny's brother-in-law, confusingly called Nicky, was a manager in the nearby Vin Pearl Casino, a very flash 5 star affair on the closest island to the town (for any fans of useless facts, it's joined to the mainland by the world's longest over-water built cable car at a cost of $5m).

Over the course of lunch and the ensuing beers Nicky explained the workings of the casino to Nick, and also his grand plan of doing it over. He took Nick through the basics, then the finer details of black jack, counting cards, secret signals and how to commit the heist, right down to the dealers, pit bosses and security staff that needed to be paid off and the profit margin for Nicky. All that was missing was an unknown gringo to work the 21 table for a fee of $35,000. The alarms bells in my head had been replaced by police sirens at this stage.

Intrigued, but understandably cagey, Nick was getting his head around all this when a mobile phone rang. It was one of Nicky's high roller Japanese clients, organising his suite and preferred blackjack dealer for a night of gambling at the Vin Pearl. He had won big, over $200k on his last visit but was not popular as he had not tipped anyone out, as is the convention. Winking at Nick, Nicky asked Mr. Yakimoto to come over to his house to join them for a drink, to which he agreed. In the next 10 minutes Nicky explained to Nick that this was the perfect opportunity to test the scam and, by way of revenge, make some easy money from Mr Yakimoto.

Nick, still curious, pinching himself to see if he was awake and probably more intoxicated by the prospect of making many months salary in a few hours than by the free beers, stayed on. When Mr. Yakimoto arrived there was some pleasant chit-chat followed by making the arrangements for the evening at the casino. Nonchalantly, Nicky offered to deal some blackjack if Nick and Mr Yakimoto wanted to play. As Nick recounted the tale It seemed a strange game of blackjack to me as the participants played against each other rather than against the house. Nick, assisted by Nicky's finger taps and secret signals couldn't fail to win as he knew exactly what card was coming every time.

The initial bets were small, and Mr Yakimoto consistently lost in the good natured manner of a professional gambler, knowing his luck would turn eventually. They played with chips all the while, no money actually exchanging hands at any point. Eventually there was a big hand. Mr Yakimoto, sure of his victory bet $50,000. Nick had 21 (of course). But Mr Yakimoto refused to show cards unless there was proof that if he won, Nick could pay up. Of course, Nick, who had only taken a bank card and about $30 with him had no ability to do so. Mr Yakimoto opened his shiny briefcase to reveal many bundles of $100 bills, far exceeding $50,000. At this point Claire and I raided the minibar for beers – we needed Dutch courage just to listen. Nick took a beer too, to assist with the telling.

There was a stand-off. Nick wasn't sure what to do with himself – was he on the cusp of wining $50k or was an ominous mafia-esque hole being dug around him. An approach was agreed. They would seal the cards in two envelopes which Nick would keep. The $50,000 would be locked in a safe in the house and Mr Yakimoto would keep the key. Nicky would start calling around friends and family to raise the capital to allow the bet to be seen. Nick would make a 20% cut of the $50k – a cool 10k, more than enough to fund his further travels and stave off the need to work for a few months.

Nick, seeing that he was in too deep called it a day and left. He left the cards with Nicky, who, by the time of Nick's departure had managed to get $10,000 together. It was dark when he left the house – he'd been there for hours. He was still trying to get his head around it when he had knocked on our door. Claire and I peppered him with questions for about an hour to try and make sense of it all but we couldn't work out how or why this had happened.

The conversation carried on to a restaurant. Nick was comfortable because at no point was he asked for anything – money, hotel details, phone numbers ... nothing. He had Nicky's mobile number and commitment that once the $50k had been raised, the game could carry on. Also that the date for the casino bust was set – 3 days time.

My view was that Nick had had the best of all possible outcomes – a free lunch and beers, a great story and most importantly no debt, underworld enemies or hefty jail sentences. Once the initial buzz and adrenaline rush wore off he tended to agree, but the temptation of a lost opportunity for easy money weighed heavy on his mind. Even though it wasn't my story I had to put it down in words as a cautionary tale of what can happen on an innocent stroll around a Vietnamese town. He called Nicky up later in the evening while we listened in – Nicky had reduced the cut to 10% and was now asking for some financial assistance for the bet, plus some money up front for the casino heist. Nick thankfully left him hanging although I suspect he was as curious as we were to see what would happen if he let it go further.