Highlights of our travels

Gallery: Nepal and Laos

beaker — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 19:42:00 GMT

A couple of pics from Nepal, and one from Laos

Oswiecim: Words?

beaker — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 18:29:00 GMT

Oswiecim is a small place about an hour and a half from Krakow, in the Southwest of Poland. It is quiet, a bit dusty, bathed in yellow leaves falling from trees. Rows of tour buses sit in a parking lot, people depart from them and walk solemnly towards a red brick building. Groups of school kids stand around outside the building, joking and laughing the way only school kids can. It is a clear day, but there is a bit of chill coming in on the wind. The Germans had a different name for Oswiecim during the Second World War. Auschwitz, they called it.

People at the hostel back in Krakow would ask you, “Oh Auschwitz, I’m going tomorrow, was it good?” How do you answer that moronic question. What words do you use?

What words do you use to describe your feelings when staring at mounds and mounds and mounds of human hair, taken from female prisoners for use in the German textile industry. What words do you use when standing in a Nazi gas chamber; a small concrete bunker into which 700 innocent people were crammed at a time, under the false belief that they would be taking a shower, only to be gassed to death. 10,000 people were murdered in the bunker, before it became insufficient for the Nazi’s requirements, and they built bigger, deadlier gas chambers. What words?

What words come to mind when you see a small one-metre square holding cell, in which four or five men were forced to stand all night after a hard day toiling in the field as slaves. Stand, shoulder to shoulder, barely able to move, all night, every night for up to two weeks.

What words do you think of when you see footage of children that have been freed, only to be unable to walk because their feet are frostbitten, the result of being forced to stand an entire day in the snow, barefoot. What words can describe your feelings when you see photos of children, head-shots, children who are known only by a catalogue number tattooed on their arms, or if they were too young and their arms insufficient in length, tattooed on their legs. Children with tears in their eyes, staring down the lens of the camera, burning a hole in all those who look back. What words?

At what point do numbers become meaningless? Incomprehensible? In Australia, around 300 people die in road accidents each year. That’s 300 immediate families who have lost a mother, brother, sister, father. 300 sets of friends who have lost someone dear to them. Somewhere between 1 and 1.5 million people were murdered at Auschwitz and the larger camp of Birkenau, just a few kilometers up the road. 1.5 million.

What words form to help you digest photos of pits of burning bodies, the result of crematoriums that could not dispose of bodies as fast as they could be gassed.

What words do you use when you see tourists posing behind lines of barbed wire, so their mate can take a photo?

What words do you use when someone asks, in regard to your visit to a Nazi death camp, where almost 1.5 million men, women, and children were murdered, “Was it good?”

Rib tickler

beaker — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 22:15:00 GMT

I looked across to Bec from my position on the roof.

“Ok, you ready with the camera?”
“Yep.”
“Right then. One……..two……..three!!!!!”

I leapt out into the fresh air and found myslef sideways, arms and legs flailing about crazily. Bec snapped away with the camera as I fell. I wanted the photo to be as dramatic as possible but in trying to achieve that (with the ridiculous flapping arms and legs) I somehow overlooked the fact that I was about to go crashing into the green water twelve feet below me. By the time I remembered, prompted somewhat by the green wall rushing up towards me at warp speed, it was too late to turn my body, and I slammed into the water almost horizontal. Sound disappeared. Water rushed up my nose.

After a few disorienting seconds I surfaced, coughing and spluttering.

“I think I broke my rib,” I called up to Bec, only half joking. I treaded water and attempted to catch my breath whilst taking in my surroundings. All around me, sticking up out of the water like black and green icebergs, were limestone karst mountains. There was just one other boat on our secluded little cove amongst the cliffs, and the sound of splashing and laughing was all that could be heard. This was Halong Bay, in the north of Vietnam.

Halong Bay is a little over three hours drive from Hanoi. Whilst it is possible to ake the journey there on your own, we were keen to avoid the frequent frustrations that independent travel can bring, and this area of Vietnam was particularly known for its difficulties. And so, for just the second or third time during our travels, we were part of a tour group.

Choosing a tour operator back in Hanoi was no easy task. There are literally hundreds of companies that promise the best tour - the best food, the best boat, the best accommodation. Most of them, unfortunately, are full of shit. We’d heard too many horror stories of dud tours and false advertising (in fact, bald faced lying), to go with any old tour, so we shelled out a few extra dollars to travel with a reputable company; The Kangaroo Cafe. But even having decided this, actually booking with the right office is a battle in itself. The Kangaroo Cafe, having established itself over many years as one of the best tour operators in the country, has seen money-hungry dishonest folk setting up imitation Kangaroo Cafes in an attempt to steal their business. The sign at the desk when we booked said it all; “Avoid the imitation Kangaroo Cafes in Ma May and Hung Be streets. They will steal your money like they stole our name.”

We paid for a three-day, two-night tour, with a small group of just sixteen (as opposed to the forty-plus sized groups we’d heard about elsewhere). After the morning bus ride, and a bite to eat in Halong city, we boarded our impressive looking but unfortunately named boat, ‘Bai Junk’. It was perhaps sixty feet long, with bedrooms on the lower level and an upper lever featuring dining room/bar/karaoke disco (this is Vietnam, everywhere is a potential karaoke disco!) and an outdoor lounge area perfect for laying back with a beer and admiring the scenery.

As we chugged gently away from Halong city and out into the bay, the limestone mountains that Halong Bay is famous for patientyl approached from the horizon, untli soon we were psasing almost within touching distance of sheer, moss-covered cliffs. The boat squeezed through narrow channels between chunks of rock, and we were surrounded by the dramatic landscape.

Vietnamese legend says the limestone mountains that explode so distinctly out of the green water were created by the swoops of a dragon, carving out the mountains to what they are today. It is hard to imagine that a locale of such unique beauty was created naturally, that it is not the product of some Hollywood producer’s creative imagination.

Our guide took us to what he described as an ‘amazing cave’, called, er, “The Amazing Cave”. It was indeed amazing, and for a number of reasons; it’s immense and imposing size, the suprisingly warm temperature deep inside the heart of the rock, the stupendous views offered at the cave’s elevated entrance looking back down over the bay, and last but certainly a long way from least, the rock inside the cave shaped like a penis and called, obviously, “The Penis Rock”.

Back on the boat, we tried to escape the fleet of others that were anchored outside the cave (because let’s face it, who wouln’t want to see a rock shaped like a penis), and eventually managed to find a secluded area, though still within site of a pearl farm, for our rib-tickling swim. Our evening was spent on the boat, this time in a not-so-secluded cove, surrounded by no less than twenty-five other tour boats, eating giant prawns and drinking semi-cold Tiger beers. Despite the numerous boats nearby, the feeling of isolation and serenity remained, as we chatted easily with the others in the group and watched the sun sink slowly into the water, turning the sky a soft yellow. In fact, it was refreshing to know that all the tourist boats were forced to spend the night in the same area, relieving the majority of the bay of the strain that so many visitors inevitably brings.

Breakfast the next morning consisted of fruit and toast with jam. Not quite the typical Vietnamese breakfast of rice noodle soup that Bec and I love, but this was, afterall, a tour run for Westerners by an Aussie-owned company, and we were sitting on a boat in the middle of a huge body of water.

After a morning in which we visited another cave, this one of the not-so-amazing variety, our boat took us to the wonderfully named Monkey Island. On the journey there our tour guide repeatedly warned us not to feed the monkeys, that they were to be treated as wild animals capable of attack at any moment. As we landed barefoot onto the soft sand of the beach, signs up ahead warned us of the same danger - ‘Do not feed the monkeys!’ After spending three months in Nepal living in the shadows of the Monkey Temple, where monkeys were known to ring the doorbell of our apartment at 5am, just for monkey-giggles, Bec and I didn’t exactly care to feed monkeys. If I never see another monkey durin my life, I can live with that - and this attitude prevented me and Bec from being disappointed when the angry life-threatening monkeys failed to materialise. No bother, it allowed us to focus our attention on the demanding tasks of swimming in the ridiculously warm water, throwing a frisbee across the sand, and snorkelling amongst the rocks, whilst admiring the mountainous terrain that served as the beach’s backdrop.

Another of the reasons we’d selected the Kangaroo Cafe for our tour was due to its assurance that the accommodation on our second night would be top-notch. They weren’t kidding. We stayed on Cat Ba island, the largest of the hundreds of islands in Halong Bay, on the seveth floor of a brand new hotel. Our balcony offered amazing views over the small bay filled with fishing boats gently bobbing up and down. With four others from the tour, we took a water-taxi out into the bay to enjoy a delicious seafood meal at a floating restaurant (or perhaps on a floating restaurant). We selected our fish from the nets that were built into the middle of the wooden barge, allowing the fish to swim in the bay without escaping, and added to that two huge plates of king prawns and some fried squid. Yum!

The next day, after a peaceful sleep in the largest bed we’d encountered for months, all that remained was the trip back to Hanoi, where we would spend one night before flying out.

Snow at 1700 metres

beaker — Sat, 22 Dec 2007 21:59:00 GMT

I pointed to the three dimensional map; “How long to hike this section?”

“5 to 6 hours” the old guy in the mountain hiking information centre replied. “But the snow line is down at 1700 metres. This chalet,” he pointed to the mountain chalet we were thinking of staying in, “is at 1960 metres. And this peak,” he moved his finger to the highest peak we would have to pass, “is over 2300 metres.”

“Hmmmm,” I put my thumb and forefinger to my chin, and pushed my eyes skywards. “Well, you see, I don’t really have any hiking shoes. All I have are these,” I lifted my ankle up with my hand, showing off my every day low-cut shoes. The old man looked at my shoes, then turned his eyes to me, doubt screaming out from his silent face. “Not so good?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Snow up to here.” Here was where he put his hand, which was just below his knee. Yikes.

“Ok, how long to hike this section?” I pointed to a shorter path to the mountain chalet, one that passed over no peaks, but rather looked to gently meander up a valley between two long ranges to the chalet.

“2 to 3 hours.”

“Yeah, that sounds more like it. Thank you.”

My ladyfriend and I were in Stary Smokovec, a sleepy little mountain village at the foot of Vysoke Tatry, or the High Tatras, in northern Slovakia. Our plan was to hike up to a mountain chalet, and taking the advice of the old man we figured we’d take the easy hike up, stay the night, then amble the same way back down.

And as I sit here now, a few hours after getting back from the mountain chalet, with aching legs and sore feet, I can say, with not the faintest hesitation, that the last two days were two of the most stunning, amazing, and damn well memorable days I’ve spent.

After speaking with the old man, we logged some internet time, and at around 5pm walked out into the street. Tiny, white snow flakes were floating down from the clouds above, landing like dots of dandruff on our shoulders - and this was in the town at just 900 metres. What the hell was going on up at the chalet at 1960 metres?

From the town of Stary Smokovec, a funicular railway takes tourists a few hundred metres up into the mountains, and to the start of our hiking trail. But bugger that, tourists we are no longer, and so we walked the 45 minutes up to the official start of the hike. Hell, what’s 45 minutes on top of 2 or 3 hours; nothing. This bottom section took us first across a barren hillside - a graveyard of trees. Stary Smokovec had been the victom of a vicious storm that swept away all before it a few months earlier. But we soon entered into the section of forest that survived mother nature's onslaught, and walked up a gentle slope over tree roots. As we moved further into the trees, we began to see small patches of snow hiding in the shadows. We gave a little cheer of excitement as we pointed them out to each other, with each patch growing ever bigger, until a thin layer of snow - it looked like icing - covered the forest floor. In just 35 minutes we made it to the end of the railway section, and the start of our real hike.

For the first hour we remained under the cover of the forest. Fallen trees lay like sleeping giants, a line of white covering their exposed side, and a small creek led us up to an icy waterfall. Eventually we left the forest, and walked in brilliant sunshine, dwarfed by the huge peaks rising up on either side of us. The peaks seemed violent - jagged and vertical, with trails of snow weaving in and out of rock piles.

The path here was all snow, a couple of inches deep at first, but getting deeper all the time. And there was no way we were even close to 1700 metres. We passed over a small wooden bridge, below which flowed clear, icy cold mountain water. Icicles hung from the tree branches leaning out over the creek, dripping slowly in the sunshine. Small pine trees sat beside the path, their green branches holding handfuls of snow - it looked like christmas, even to an Australian (perversely, Australian culture is so Americanised that at Christmas time, people decorate their homes with snowmen and fake snow. Ugh). Whilst it was a beautiful sight, especially as I had never even seen snow until earlier this year, the christmas-like scenery somehow put the following song in my head, “And so this is Christmas, and what have you done….”, for two bloody hours these two lines swam around my head. The hike was great - the song in my head was absolute torture.

Early on in the hike, I had the naive, near-masocistic thought that “wouldn’t it be cool if we were the first people to go up here through the new snow, leaving fresh footprints as we went?” When the snow got to a foot deep, the huge foot holes already in the snow, preventing me from sinking a foot down, were like presents on Christmas morning.

After another hour or two of a walking up a slight incline, the trees began to thin out, and rocks began to dominate the path, making it much steeper. Slippery, snow covered rocks, they were. And with each few minutes, a new, larger, whiter mountain peak would reveal itself in the distance, standing defiantly against the blue sky background, and we would stop to marvel at our surroundings. We pushed on over the snow-covered rocks, passed more icy mountain streams and small waterfalls visible only through small holes in the snow and ice.

My ladyfriend had been suffering some knee problems recently. After an hour or two of walking down what were basically uneven stairs, her right knee had begun to give way whenever it hit a certain angle. For this trip, we had brought some pain killers with us to help her get down, but unfortunately, her knee wasn’t cooperating, and on the way up she started to get some sharp pains. Our progress through the snow was slow, especially when we came to a particularly steep section where there were no rocks, only snow about a foot and a half deep. As we struggled up, Bec wincing with pain every few steps, we passed a couple of hikers coming down, wearing identical red outfits, the guy weilding walking poles, confidently striding down through the snow. Clearly, we were a bit out of our element. And I was hating the fact that I couldn’t help Bec any further than offering words of encouragement. I could see her behind me, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. I only felt worse,too, because I was loving it. I felt like a little kid again, exploring out in the Australian bush.

After about four hours, I made it to the top of a rise, and saw up ahead, sitting on a small hill above a frozen lake, our mountain chalet. Huge icy mountains surrounded it on three sides. I laughed. I didn’t know what else to do. It was one of the most amazing sights I’d ever seen, the sort of place that you read about in travel magazines whilst waiting to see the dentist.

We made it to the door, swept the snow from our feet, and staggered into the warm chalet. A few minutes later, we had in front of us a beer and some hot garlic soup. I reckon we’d earnt it. Afterwards, we got the tour from the sole lady looking after the place. As she walked us into the 14 bed dorm room she indicated the sink to our right, “We have no shower, only cold water,” and mimicked splashing water up under your arms.

“And is there a toilet?” Bec asked

“Yes, out the door, and to the right.”

Yes, she meant the front door. The toilets were housed in a small shack sitting on the edge of the hill. We went out for a look; 4 longdrops, cold, dark, and smelly. There was a thermometer on the front door, it wasn’t yet 4pm, but the temperature was already down to minus 3 degrees celcius, and dropping.

We shared the chalet with a group of three middle-aged guys, who were knocking back shots of whiskey and slivovic, and a couple of families - some parents and four or five kids all aged under ten. We ate dinner, a tasty mix of potatoes, capsicum, and some sort of deep fired pastry, at 6pm with just the fading outside light casting a dull grey over the room. As it got darker, two or three kerosene lamps were bought out, and by 6.30pm they were our only light. Bec and I were battling to stay awake, and forced ourselves to stay up until 7.30pm. No-one else spoke English, so there wasn’t exactly a lot we could do.

After a restless, but thankfully warm nights sleep, we rose by the light of the sun (there were no curtains in the room), dressed quickly, and ventured out into the freezing cold to watch the sun rise over the clouds on the horizon. A flaming orange line ran the length of the clouds before disappearing at each end behind the mountains forming the valley. Behind me, the full moon still shone in a pale blue sky, above mountain peaks that were lined with a purple glow. I literally laughed out loud at the beauty.

I took my gloves off to take some photos, but after a few minutes my fingers began to hurt, and once the sun became too bright to look at, I retreated back into the warmth of the chalet.

By 8.15am, we were on our way back down the valley, again in brilliant sunshine, and mercifully with no freezing wind buffeting us like on the way up. There was no sound as we made our way down, save for the crunching of ice and snow under our feet. Then, from way up in the mountains to our right came the slow creaking of breaking ice followed by a loud crak as it broke free from the rock and tumbled down the mountain. The sound raced around the valley like a gun shot.

4 hours after leaving, we made it down to the top of the railway, and gladly hopped in the rail car to get taken down the last few hundred metres. Once down, we grabbed ourselves a hot meal, took a shower, and slept.