The Mystical Adventures of Tess and Jack

Paradisical Palawan Part II: Coron/Basuanga

tessa86 — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 18:25:00 GMT

There are only so many gorgeous white sand beaches and seafood buffets a guy/girl can take before he/she feels ready for the next mystical adventure, so we made an executive decision (can you have an executive with two people?) to cut our time in El Nido short by a day and make a head start on our next destination, Coron Town on Basuanga Island - the hub of the Calamians, the group of islands north of mainland Palawan. However, a small bangka-shaped spanner was thrown in the works when we discovered that the only boat traveling to Coron on the relevant date was the 'Jessabel,' which we had previously done some online research about only to discover that it SANK in 2011. Admittedly nobody died from this little incident and we thought that one sinkage amongst an entire history of successful voyages was good odds, and went off to book our seats. However the first travel agent refused to sell us tickets, and the second one agreed to do so but gave the ominous suggestion we wait another day because the Jessabel was recently experiencing "engine troubles" and "could not be recommended." We decided that was enough of a warning and held off. In hindsight this was definitely a good idea for my poor nerves, because the safe (er) boat was quite small and there were some incredibly rough patches on the nine hour journey, where water poured into the back of the boat and many people turned green and scrambled for their life vests (we had been playing a game during the trip where we would pick the nicest looking close-by island and fantasise about catching fish and eating coconuts there for a few days until we were rescued...this game abruptly stopped when the swell started, because it only occurred either in open ocean or near perilous-looking rocky outcrops).

The setting for Basuanga was quite similar to El Nido but more rugged and with many fewer people (perhaps the necessary bangka ride is to answer?) What it is really famous for, however, are the 24 sunken Japanese WW2 warships that are littered around it and the surrounding islands. Following one day of rest, Jack was keen to get down there, and after some internal debates (no, swimming under 20+ metres of water in dark enclosed spaces is not what springs to mind when I hear the word 'fun') I decided to go along for the ride. We dusted off our PADI cards and signed up with Coron Divers (self-claimed as the cheapest dive shop in Coron - teamed with a photo of the staff using their snorkels as beer bongs, how could we go past such advertising?) and scored a whole boat to ourselves for the day. I was feeling more than a little nervous - especially considering we had not been diving for almost exactly two years. These fears were not quite allayed when I jumped off the side of the boat for our first descent: my BCD had a hole in it and deflated itself into the water, my flipper fell off, and then I got bitten by a fish...thanks universe, that helped! However I felt infinitely better after a shallow and low-key 'skill refresher' reef dive with our extremely competent and helpful divemaster, the aptly-named Ariel (get it? Like the Little Mermaid, except he was a guy). Afterwards he told us we were "very good divers" (and also "a very good-looking couple...good-looking person deserve other attractive person"...must have been the wetsuit look) and ready to take on the wrecks.

The first ship we explored was the Olympia Maru, an 120 metre long(not sure why I was surprised about this...but it was one friggin huge boat) cargo ship at 25 metres' depth. This was decidedly the more startling/beautiful?/amazing (the words evade me - one of those things you really have to see to believe - but 'awe-inspiring' hits somewhere close to the mark) of the two wrecks. Swimming through the dark cargo hold, touching the furry bricks in the engine room and seeing the light stream through the enormous hole in the ship's side (Filipino divers long ago looted the engine) made me feel like I was in the movie 'Titanic,' and I was spending so much time being fascinated I hardly had any time to be scared. The whole experience was made even better by the fact that we were the first divers at the site that morning, which meant that we got the eery feeling of being totally alone plus good visibility (because the sediment hadn't been kicked up yet).

After fish (the kind we had just been swimming with...yes I felt a little bad) and pork for lunch, and a relaxing surface interval, we dived to the East Tangat Gunboat, which was much smaller/shallower at 35 m long/20 m depth. It was unsurprisingly somewhat less dramatic than the Olympia, plus there were quite a few divers around which made for very poor visibility, but was made more fun by the fact that Ariel gave us his dive computer and let us plan/navigate/carry out the dive on our own (with his distant supervision). We enjoyed our half hour of wriggling through portals etc. together, and our independent dive went off without a hitch except a slightly botched safety stop (we were busy doing 'funny' underwater hand signals to one another and started unintentionally rising towards the surface before our three minutes was up - luckily the shape of the wreck means we had come up very slowly from the bottom and were in absolutely no danger of the dreaded bends!)

The next day was our last in Coron so we decided to make the most of it and booked in with the same operator for a day of diving and island hopping. This time we were in a group with three others (2 Japanese girls and a Filipino guy from Cebu) who were all extremely friendly which made for a really fun day. The first stop was Barracuda Lake, which is on the ruggedly beautiful Coron Island (about 20 mins from Basuanga). Although there was not much to see at the bottom of the lake, the dive (30 metres) lets you experience its changing thermoclines - the surface was ocean temperature, the next layer was bathwater (40 degrees c), then it gradually got warmer, and really freezing cold at one point. The water looks really strange as the temperatures change - best described as the haze you see on the road when it's really hot. After a relaxing swim at the island's other inland lake and another meal of fish and pork, we wound up the afternoon with a pleasant reef wall dive.

After all this excitement we felt that it was time for a few quiet, well-earned San Migs watching the sunset over the harbour. However Joe (the Filipino guy in our group) asked us if we would mind stopping off at a nearby island resort to have "one drink" (the famous last words) with some old friends who happened to be staying there at that time. There was not a beer in sight - the only option was vodka and tonic (my favourite...) - and unsurprisingly the afternoon soon degraded into a very fun and drunken evening making new, very rich, Filipino friends (including the famous Mike Kiong, who is apparently kinda a big thing in Manila and owns six nightclubs there), sampling delicious (but as I found out later, gut-liquifying) beer snacks which were all variations on 'fried pork fat', and learning a smattering of tagalog (we now know how to say "thankyou," "recharge your phone credit here," "the time is now" and "you are my only one"...you know, just the bare essentials) - see pics!

After a huge travel leg we are safe and content if a little waterlogged in rainy Southeastern Luzon. Our plans for beach camping are off and we plan to go further south to Legaspi tomorrow.

Lots of love,

T & J xoxox

Paradisical Palawan Part I: Puerto to El Nido

tessa86 — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 14:29:00 GMT

After a somewhat painful night bus trip (eight hours, uncomfy chairs and resultant fluid retention/‘cankles’, Americans in front of us whose favourite topic of conversation was ‘cute faces on fat chicks’) we arrived in the Philippines’ somewhat notorious capital, Manila. Complaints abound about the pollution, corruption, poverty and smell – but after awhile one Asian city starts looking a whole lot like all the others, and we didn’t encounter any particular problems during our day of waiting there. It was spent wandering around one of the enormous shopping centres – Manila is your quintessential consumers’ paradise – which sold everything, from balut (cooked duck egg with foetus), to Angry Birds cakes, to Havaianas (Phils is the only place in the world where Jack’s feet are considered ‘large’), to a disturbingly large selection of ‘feminine intimate washes’ – I’m talking a whole aisle in the supermarket - to anything else you could possibly imagine. This worked out well for us and we spent the day productively hunting down supplies for our twelve days in Paradise – including sunscreen and two shiny blue brand-spankin’-new snorkeling masks.

After a pleasant (free snackies!) if slightly delayed flight, we experienced a very cool almost-in-the water landing in Puerto Princesa – the largest city in Palawan (for those of you whose Philippines geography is not quite up to scratch, that’s the big long skinny island to the west of the Visayas – although technically it’s part of Luzon). After the cool climes of the north, the heat and humidity was a slight shock to our delicate constitutions, so we spent a few days acclimatizing in our blissfully airconditioned hotel room (the hum of the aircon almost drowned out the sound of the planes…yep, the only way we could afford it was by staying at the tantalizingly-named ‘Airport View Inn’…ahhh, budget travel….but it actually turned out to offer some of our best nights’ sleeps in the country to date). Activities included hanging out at Jollibees (the Philippines’ home grown fast food chain, which is everywhere) being brainwashed by their blatant but frustratingly catchy theme song which is on repeat throughout your entire meal (‘I’m your friend, I’m Jollibee; jolly, friendly Jollibee’ and so on), visiting a butterfly garden, and having a lunch of sickeningly sweet baked goods at nearby Honda Bay.

Feeling refreshed and ready for action, we pushed northwards to the quiet, one-street coastal village of Port Barton for some serious relaxing and soakage-up of sun and saltwater. Initially we made grand plans to hire a bangka (trimaran but with outside hulls of bamboo like an outrigger canoe…hmmm boats…thanks to Jack for that description!) and do some island hopping in the area, but J was fighting off a cold and feeling somewhat under the weather, so we spent the time reading and swimming instead (who’s complaining?). After a night of massive rainfall, the jeepney trip back to the main highway was interesting, and a little girl vomited her rice porridge onto my bag. We also encountered our first hint of dishonesty since being in the country. One of our fellow passengers who just happened to be a mini bus operator informed us that the connecting public bus to El Nido (our next stop) would not be coming for hours but that his bus, which was only 100 pesos extra, would be leaving immediately from Roxas (the stopover point). When we disembarked the story changed slightly; the minibus wasn’t coming for two hours but we should sit around at the shitty roadside stop and wait because no other public buses were coming until later in the afternoon. Luckily we were with some Austrians who were just as wily and cheap as we are and the boys managed to source us a public bus (packed with people, of course) which left immediately and cost us less than half of what our friend had asked.

El Nido is a smallish town on the northernmost tip of the Palawan mainland, which is renowned as the gateway to the beautiful Bacuit Archipelago, where limestone carsts reminiscent of Vietnam’s Halong Bay (slightly less dramatic, but with more beaches and less pollution) jut out of the water. The town itself, while not unpleasant, exists purely for the tourism industry (you can tell when there’s no market…which also means no cheap mangoes) – everyone is very proud of Palawan making Nat Geo’s top 10 destinations for 2011, and the pics of El Nido, which is admittedly gorgeous, get well flaunted in that campaign. We spent two out of three days experiencing the Archipelago in the cheapest and most convenient way possible: island hopping on organized bangka day trips (the third day was spent in our hotel because Jack got drunk on Tanduay* and had to sleep for hours, although he maintains this was part of his recovery from the cold…sure drunkie). On our first day of island hopping I awoke early full of energy and excitement, donned by bikini and new fake Chanel sunglasses, and went to pack my shiny new snorkel…only to discover someone had opened my bag on the bus trip and pilfered it! I was quite disappointed but on reflection decided you could probably get worse things stolen, and there were snorkel rental places everywhere. The islands are pretty amazing; lots of white sand, palm trees, clear water and limestone cliffs with keyhole passages you swim/climb through to access ‘secret’ lagoons or beaches (this area is what inspired the guy who wrote ‘the Beach,’ although it was set in Thailand). All this beauty was slightly detracted from by the hordes (by Filipino standards anyway) of tourists; the fluoro orange life jackets/rings worn by all the Chinese people who can’t swim clashed especially well with the idyllic scenery. There were some nice fish to be seen snorkeling but (heartbreakingly) much of the coral was dead owing to climate change, dynamite/cyanide fishing etc. Despite high hopes, we didn’t make any new friends as a result of our tours; all our companions seemed to be pretty unfriendly (including a surly French couple who bitched the whole day and refused to get in the water because the sky was ‘too grey’ to see any fish, and an unattractive Russian duo – the female made us well acquainted with her breasts (white rash vest, nothing underneath) and peed with her tog bottoms on (? – is that okay in Russia?) on a main pathway from the dunes to the beach).

On that pleasant note, I will leave you until I have the energy and inspiration to transcribe our next mystical adventure! But I will say that we were nice and far away from the earthquake that occurred a few days ago, and are both (as always) happy and well and missing our wonderful fams/friends.

T & J xoxo

* Filipino rum, costs about $1 per 375 mils. Often served with coke and calamansi, a tiny citrus which grows in abundance here, fabled to have magical healing properties. Jack thinks it staves off hangovers so we have been going with that.

Photos: Palawan Part 2

tessa86 — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:42:00 GMT

Busuanga

Photos: Palawan Part 1

tessa86 — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 13:40:00 GMT

Puerto Princessa, Port Barton and El Nido

The Rice Terraces of Batad

tessa86 — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 18:14:00 GMT

Our next destination was Batad, a tiny village nestled amongst the most beautiful of the Philippines’ famous rice terraces, which were engineered by some very enterprising tribespeople (the Ifaguo) over 2000 years ago. Because of its remote location, our journey to Batad comprised a few separate legs:

Step 1: an uneventful jeepney ride from Sagada to Bontoc.

Step 2: we arrived in Bontoc, basking in our good fortune to have arrived 1.5 hours before the next jeepney to Banaue (gateway to Batad…all these Bs…confusing I know). This meant we had just enough time to stroll through the streets of this pleasant little town and visit the local and much lauded museum, renowned as the best in North Luzon. The kind attendant at the jeepney stand offered to keep an eye on our heavy bags until we returned. The trip to the museum turned out to be sufficiently grisly (photos of head hunters with their prizes, drums with human jaws as handles – there are still head hunters living in remote areas of North Luzon! Haven’t met any yet), interactive (there was an entertaining outdoor replica of an Ifaguo village – with a real pig in a replica pigpen!) and overall well worth our while. Feeling refreshed and cultured, we returned to the jeepney station at the designated hour…to find it completely deserted, with our bags nowhere in sight. After wandering around helplessly and trying a few bolted doors, I could feel the panic rising. Just then, a jeepney pulled up and the friendly driver informed us that our bags had been loaded on the last one (which left an hour ahead of schedule, while we were busy taking lame photos in grass huts…yay) and were currently on their way to Banaue without us. He told us multiple times not to worry and that ‘his brother’ would have the bags ready for us when we got there. I felt infinitely better until he said: “your bags are yellow, yes?” “Um…no” “No problem – don’t worry, don’t worry.” There was nothing left for us to do but not worry, so we just trusted him and hopped aboard. About halfway through the trip we stopped for a spring roll break and got an update on our adventurous bags – they had reached Banaue safely but were now headed back for Bontoc, and we would meet them half way. Sure enough, we passed a van on the narrow mountainous road and our bags were hurled from the roof of one vehicle to the other – a sight of relief and a happy reunion!

Step 3: after a quiet night in Banaue (actually, our quietest since being in the country, because our guest house was on the banks of the river, which blocked out the sound of the millions of horrible roosters which are EVERYWHERE here…each morning I wake up at 5 am and have unkind fantasies about pitting them against one another in gory cockfights) we were too cheap to hire a private jeepney to the ridge (locally referred to as ‘The Saddle’) above Batad. Instead, we spent a lazy morning on the internet (notice the timeliness of these blog entries!) and boarded the once-daily public jeepney at about 3 pm. This was a fun (if a little bumpy) trip: we shared the vehicle with a group of drunk men who insisted we sample their rice wine (actually not bad) and kept repeating that their friend was the “drunken master” of Batad and, disconcertingly, that while they were drunk we shouldn’t worry about our safety because the driver was the “designated drinker.” Thanks guys!

Step 4: a pleasant 40 minute downhill hike to Chung Chung, the strip of guesthouses overlooking extremely scenic Batad!

Our accommodation for our stay was very basic (suffice it to say we felt like guinea pigs…but comfortable guinea pigs) but very pleasant with amazing beer o’clock views of the ‘amphitheatre’ of rice terraces in the valley below. We also met some nice like-minded people almost straight away: two friends from the UK, an English ex-pat diving instructor from the Visayas, and an engineer from the Netherlands. During our full day in Batad we hiked as a group through the maze-like terraces (one of the most amazing and beautiful experiences of the trip to date) to a fairly decent waterfall - in comparison to most waterfalls in SE Asia, which tend to be massive letdowns.

Our plan was to hike an alternative (and less stair-y) 2.5 hour route out of Batad, but the guides were rather pushy and insisted we would get lost if we didn’t hire one of them to take us. Jack took this as a challenge and we spent the afternoon navigating our path in preparation for the next morning’s hike. Jack felt like he had found the way but I was convinced he was merely leading me through a string of frightening obstacles (slippery rocks on the edge of steep terraces, bridges comprising of flimsy sticks, mud, mud, slippery rocks, mud). We quite easily found the right path and went to bed feeling pleasantly tired and smug.

It rained in Batad last night which made me super excited about all the fun obstacles I had struggled with whilst dry, however we got through the trek with no incidents and arrived at the ‘highway’ feeling very chipper (if slightly swamp-monsterish) to flag down a jeepney heading back to Banaue. One sped along almost immediately, the convenience of the timing only somewhat offset by the fact that approx 35 people (no exaggeration) were crammed into and on top of it. They seemed a little surprised that we were willing to haul ourselves onto the roof for the ride. Despite being seated relatively comfortably on two sacks of rice I spent much of the trip fearing I was going to somersault backwards into the mud. Jack, meanwhile, had bigger fish to fry: his seat was on the side of the road closest to the steep precipice into the valley and with the most pot holes. Once we got our brace positions figured out it was a very scenic and enjoyable journey (minus the water, mud, low power lines etc).

All in all we had a wonderful adventure in Batad – one might even say it was not a ‘batad experience’ (by Jack) – but the magic of the place is much better communicated in pictures – hope you enjoy! Tonight we catch a night bus to Manila for our flight to the beautiful tropical paradise of Palawan. We’re unsure when we will next be at an internet café – stay tuned!

Much love,

Your happy muddy travelers,

T & J xoxox

Photos: Batad (The Rice Terraces)

tessa86 — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 14:50:00 GMT

Photos: San Juan, Sagada and Bontoc

tessa86 — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 14:16:00 GMT

Welcome to the Philippines: surfing and spelunking (respectively) in San Juan and Sagada

tessa86 — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 18:56:00 GMT

After saying goodbye to the beautiful, crazy mess that was India, we found ourselves back in the delightful low cost terminal in KL and then up in the air again en route to the second half of our mystical adventure: the Philippines! The flight over was relatively turbulence-and-incident-free. The only things worthy of note were the several overweight, middle aged Australian men travelling solo (really hard not to be judgmental about that over here…), the relative lack of passengers (goodbye India, welcome back personal space bubble!) and the Philippines basketball team who was sharing our flight (my assumption that all Filipinos were tiny was totally dispelled…these boys were about three times my height, and needless to say not entirely impressed by Air Asia’s seating space allocation).

We disembarked at Clark airport (a former US military airbase) which handily is pretty much in the middle of nowhere – actually I lie, it’s conveniently proximate to Angeles, the sex tourism capital of the Philippines – thanks Air Asia! Needless to say we bypassed this little gem and headed straight for our first destination: the village of San Juan on the west coast of Luzon. This leg involved our first jeepney ride (jeepneys are ubiquitous in the Phils – somewhere between a taxi and bus service, they look like stretch hummers, minus any hint of luxury, with two long bench seats in the backfitting about 12-15 people. With true Filipino zest they are invariably decorated in neon colours, cheesy cartoons and chrome ornaments – and each has a unique name, which we will try to come up with an entertaining list of). Next it was time for an easy bus trip north – our Lonely Planet assured us it would be a quick four hour jaunt, so we weren’t too intimidated. Eight hours later (with no obvious reason for the delay) we rolled in to the darkened village. The bus trip was made slightly more bearable by the fact that Jack got to sit next to a woman with THE chubbiest, cutest, most delightful baby on earth. Admittedly it was screaming for half the trip but it made up for it by being ridiculously smiley and adorable the other half. Interestingly, the mother asked Jack to spit on his hand and rub it on the back of the baby’s back and stomach, which is some kind of traditional blessing. Sure…I’ll spit on your baby, no probs.

San Juan is a well-known surfing destination with generally consistent breaks, however during our stay they were quite tame which was disappointing for the locals but perfect for us novices. The first thing I learnt about surfing is that it is not NEARLY as easy nor as sexy as it looks. After a few balancing issues it was relatively easy to stand up. The real problem was the paddling – my weak little chicken arms just could not move the board in the water. My success with standing also came at the cost of multiple wipeouts (think involuntary somersaults in the water, being dragged face down by my ankle strap) and some very tender hips and ribs. My self esteem was boosted heaps by my instructor, a buff, 5 foot, 22 y.o. Filipino named Fernando, who suggested my paddling might be improved by doing push ups or just ‘playing more sports.’ To his credit, he did an awesome job towing me around (yep, he could pull himself and his board and me and my massive foam board just like that – yes, I did feel a lot like Migaloo the albino whale) and was very encouraging. Jack’s instructor, Norman (lol) left a little more to be desired. His English was minimal and he ascribed to the ‘throw in head first’ strategy of teaching. For example, after a few successes with pushing Jack onto the waves he announced “I will teach you how to paddle onto wave now.” Jack was in position, the wave approached, and he looked to Norman for instruction. “Paddle! Paddle!” he screamed – thanks for the tips!

Other than surfing there was not a great deal to do in San Juan so we spent our time relaxing, acclimatising (to a starkly different national culture), hanging out in our very atmospheric accommodation (a traditional thatch nipa hut with a mattress on the floor), stuffing our faces with mangoes and introducing ourselves to Filipino cuisine. The breakfast is especially goodand consists of garlic rice, 2 fried eggs and your choice of honey cured pork, salty beef strips, milk fish or some quite pungent sausages.

We departed San Juan slightly less deathly white and slightly more bruised and forged further northwards to the gorgeous mountain getaway of Sagada. The view from the bus ride (one hour ahead of schedule this time!) was absolutely breathtaking – we climbed quite far into the mountains and were surrounded by thick, lush forest. The view was only slightly detracted from by the multitude of landslides and looming rocky slopes surrounding the road…

Sagada was an exceedingly outdoorsy destination (as are many places here) with lots of good trekking, caving, etc on offer. Two days were spent hiking into Echo Valley to see the hanging coffins (sacrifices of pigs and chickens are made to the gods for the privilege of hanging here…the newest coffin was only strung up last year – see pics – and I’m not sure what the chairs are for either) and through numerous rice paddies and cabbage patches (which are everywhere up north) to a freezing cold waterfall where we swam (no worms that swim up your urethra here, in case you’re wondering) and ate some more mangoes. Our biggest Sagada adventure however was spelunking the ‘Cave Connection’ – an underground passage linking the region’s two largest caves. Our Lonely Planet warned that this was suitable for the ‘reasonably fit and courageous’ and ‘definitely not for the claustrophobic.’ Obviously these scary warnings drew Jack to the idea like a bee to honey. Although worming through a tiny dark tunnel is not exactly my idea of fun I agreed to go along, and as it turned out the passage was hardly squeezy at all and I didn’t suffer from claustrophobia whatsoever. What I should have been more concerned about was the ‘relatively fit’ part, which didn’t really mean relatively fit at all, but rather ‘really awesome arm muscles and the ability to rappel down, and climb up, up slippery vertical limestone surfaces without breaking a limb.’ Luckily our guide was used to my type (another buff five foot Filipino…please keep sending them my way, they make me feel so capable) and allowed me to step all over him during the three hour scramble. He and Jack also did lots of pushing and pulling so that I made it – only a little scraped and quite wet (the water was waist-deep in the bottom of the passage) – back into the glorious sunshine.

With one month in this amazing country still to go, we are continuing our sojourn north and will trek tomorrow to the tiny village of Batad where we’ll see the famous ‘eighth wonder of the world’ that is the Ifaguo rice terraces! I will leave you with lots of love, and a few of our observations about the Philippines so far….

· The food, especially in contrast to very-vegetably South India, is incredibly heavy on the meat, especially pork (Jack is in heaven). On a down note, the food is significantly more expensive than in India (think $3-$4 per meal).

· Beer flows freely everywhere in the country. The national beer is San Miguel (commonly known as ‘San Mig’) which is advertised everywhere as well; our favourite was a ‘drive safely’ sign with a glistening bottle of cool San Mig in the background.

· Our noses are slowly recovering from the Indian onslaught: the Philippines doesn’t smell!

· The people speak great English (American influence) with an almost Latin American twang.

· Our fingernails (and Jack’s beard) are growing at a normal pace again. I don’t think I mentioned it but they were going crazy in India – a diet-related mystery?

Filipino tourists have a better idea of fun than Indian ones (we were in Sagada during Chinese New Year so it was very busy, and everyone was getting their hands dirty doing exactly the same things we were).

Filipino babies are undoubtedly the cutest babies in the whole entire world. Full stop.

T & J xoxox

Pondy and beyondy

tessa86 — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:57:00 GMT

Our plans for the remaining leg of our journey were thrown slightly askew in Kodai when we learnt that a big cyclone had blown through northern Tamil Nadu on New Years’ Eve (the tail end of which we experienced as the squall in Alleppey). Our next destination, Pondicherry, had been hard hit – power was out, they were having trouble getting clean water in, and 46 people in the region had died from falling walls and electrocution. We weren’t entirely sure that going to Pondicherry was a good idea, but after some research we discovered that (a) there was nothing else that we wanted to do with our remaining time that didn’t involve tediously long bus trips; and (b) that most places in Pondicherry were back on their feet and that the locals were keen for people to still make the trip as it is peak tourist season and they were suffering economically. So new decided to forge onwards: with big smiles and zero expectations.

After a quick stop over in Trichy for some Marry Brown’s and many renditions of the Run DMC song (with lyrics changed to reflect our journey, moods, what we were having for dinner etc) we arrived in Pondicherry, known by the locals, exceedingly adorably, as ‘Pondy’. We found a city scarred – power poles were snapped in half and their cords lying on the sidewalk (eek!), windows were smashed, and there were piles of rubbish (bigger than the standard piles of rubbish) in the streets. Pondy still however managed to retain its French colonial charm – lots of crumbling colourful buildings, cute little schoolkids with pigtails and flowers in their hair, and some lovely wide ‘tree frondy’ avenues. The tourism slump meant we got our hotel of choice, in an awesome location amidst the French quarter. We spent a good percentage of our time in Pondy sorting out presents for our beloveds (and battling the postal system, which is WHOLE new version of inefficient bureaucracy…the experience is well summed up by the quote “you wait here some time, sir”) – you guys better friggin love us! Admittedly we also spent some time shopping for ourselves and indulging in the amazing French cuisine available (hello cream!)

With only a few days left before departure, we decided to take Jack’s Uncle Mark’s advice and journeyed a few hours inland to the temple town of Tiruvannamalai. This place has special significance to Hindus who believe that the god Shiva manifested himself as a linga (phallus) of fire at a mountain there, and they have big festivals every year where everyone climbs up the 800 metres and they burn hundreds of litres of ghee to celebrate. Jack and I decided to make a lingam pilgrimage of our own, and wisely set off for the climb in the blazing heat of early afternoon. This was not the most pleasant climb; there was zero shade, plenty o’rocks and lots of false peaks (and with them many shattered hopes). The view from the top was stunning and we got to stand in Shiva’s footprints (our feet got very ghee-y). On the ascent we got funny looks from some Frenchies coming down and assumed it was because we were wearing shoes (the yearly pilgrimage requires believers to make the climb barefoot). We got the last laugh on the way down when we overtook them, sweating profusely with their feet wrapped in fabric, begging us to share our water (we did). That night we had a delicious veg meal at our hotel and sampled ‘kashmiri naan’ at our adorable waiter’s urging – “this is very nice, madam” - which turned out to be naan bread covered in raspberry jam, glace cherries, chunks of pineapple and jelly cubes – which might be really nice…if you are eight…but we obligingly swallowed, smiled, and gave our thumbs up.

The next day it was back on the bus and full circle to lovely Chennai once more. We arrived in mid afternoon and decided it was a good time to catch up on our blogging. I was about half way through an entry and Jack had sorted all the photos when the shop owner rushed upstairs and warned “power will stop at 6 pm, madam!” I glanced at the clock: 5.57. Quickly I aimed my mouse at the ‘save’ button, but our friend had failed to mention the computers clocks were 3 minutes slow…oops! Hence the very late entry – sorry guys!

We have now arrived in the beautiful Philippines and are spending a few days in the surfing town of San Juan on the west coast of Luzon. We are both safe and happy and well (despite a few wipeouts) and eating lots of pork.

Lots of love to all,

T & J xoxox

Photos: The rest of India

tessa86 — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:20:00 GMT

Cosy Kodaikanal!

tessa86 — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 18:14:00 GMT

Feeling decidedly better and ready for more mystical adventures, we bade beautiful Kerala goodbye and embarked on our final Indian Railways trip. By this stage we felt we were ready to go all out and had booked two second class overnight tickets to Madurai, our kick off point to the hill station of Kodaikanal. Indian train + no aircon + lack of sleep does not a happy girl make, so again I was a little trepidatious about this move. It actually turned out to be pleasantly hassle-free. After staking our claim to our pre-booked bunks (there were some shady types around trying to steal some sneaky Zzzs) we settled down for some quiet reading to pass the early evening, but were told firmly by a rude, pink-shirted man in the opposite berth that we had to turn our lights off because it was ‘sleeping time’ (9.30) and he was tired. Being the happy, easygoing and awesome characters we are , we agreed, and the enforced bedtime turned out quite well because within 15 minutes I was in a deep lariam coma and didn’t rouse until half an hour before our stop. Jack fared well also, although was slightly disturbed by the constant (literally…well almost) train horn.

After a very bollywood-ful bus trip, we arrived in Kodai feeling slightly dazed but in high spirits. The air was crisp, the sky blue and the streets relatively wide and quiet, and we could tell straight away we were somewhere we’d like. In fact we were in such a good mood that we allowed ourselves to be touted by three hopeful candidates at the bus station. One and two showed us the overpriced, dark rooms with ugly and opulent furnishings (think crushed velvet) that are popular with Indian tourists, but we struck accommodation gold with # 3 who took us to a gorgeous heritage cottage from the 1800s, with high ceilings, bay widows and open fireplaces, all for 1000 rupees (about $20) a night. After one night the cottage had gained points for not being haunted, but lost a few for the fact that the local pack of semi-wild dogs called the backyard home and spent the night fighting, howling and strewing rubbish around outside our window. But we were so cozy and content that we let this minor drawback pass and extended our stay to four nights. The time was quite blissfully spent sleeping in, reading in the sun on our verandah, catching up on washing (see washerwoman pics) and gorging on Tibetan food and more homemade choccie. We also introduced ourselves to the classic Indian after-dinner treat/narcotic, paan (which is a whole heap of stuff…not sure exactly what but there was def coconut and lime paste) wrapped up in a betel leaf, which you chew and spit out. A decidedly acquired taste! We also got to witness the awesome view (of fog) and cheap plastic crap on offer at Coaker’s Walk and had a pleasant 3 km downhill walk (we caught the bus back) to a Jesuit natural history museum with lots of freaky amateur taxidermy and your standard range of semi-developed human fetuses etc. AND to make my mother proud I will also throw in that I re-learned how to ride a bicycle around Kodai’s lake. After approx 17 years out of the saddle I was a little shaky and felt slightly stupid – this didn’t seem to matter to the crowds of 12 year old Indian boys (the demographic which clearly finds me the most attractive) who followed us around calling out ‘hey sexy, where you from?' and 'I love you'. My ass felt truly awful on the bus trip the next day...

An Alleppey New Year!

tessa86 — Fri, 6 Jan 2012 18:48:00 GMT

Another valuable public transport lesson was learnt on our way from Munnar. Not only should one avoid the ticket collector's seat if one does not wish to spend the entire trip standing; one should also not select the back seat of the bus because there is an unspoken rule that this is the allocated ‘spew seat’ – anyone that suffers from motion sickness is entitled to boot you out so that they can vomit out of the back window. This might seem logical but is very annoying when the only place on the bus your backpack fits is under the back seat. We also got the distinct feeling that people were manipulating the system: drastic bouts of nausea seem to miraculously fade within 15 minutes and the victims (who were previously standing) then cheerfully enjoy the remainder of the trip in their comfy new seat.

We arrived at our next destination (Alleppey – the gateway to India’s iconic backwaters) in high spirits: the long bus trip was over, we had scored a cheap hotel room without booking AND in the high season, and enjoyed a delicious Indian meal at a busy little diner called Thaff. In the early hours of the morning, however, disaster (of the gastroenteritic variety) struck. Poor Jack was up and down for the next 10 hours squirting from every orifice in his body(possibly a slight exaggeration…does it count when you cough and spew comes out of your nose?) Things had subsided by the morning but he was still out of action so I took myself off on a pleasant outing to the internet café and bookshop, all the while basking in my good fortune and praising my iron guts for having dodged the illness. This smugness faded as I walked home in the sweltering heat and was overcome by the first wave of nausea. Almost 12 hours to the dot since Jack’s first spew I came down with exactly the same ailment. As someone who rarely suffers from illness of any sort, I predictably did not take this very well. The situation was not improved by our surrounds: really hot and about a zillion percent humidity (topped off by a tropical squall in the middle of the night), lots of mozzies and the conviction of one of our hoteliers that he was a good singer + access to a microphone. The real high point was where I crawled to the toilet (too dizzy to walk) and dry retched to the sound of a wailing Indian prayer song in the background. Another sad fact was that the last thing consumed before the illness was a nice big glass of sickly sweet rose milk. While it was pretty obvious that we had some kind of viral bug and not food poisoning, I don’t think I’ll be able to touch another glass of the stuff as long as I live. I hereby revoke what I said about my heaven flowing with it…my hell now runneth pink with rose milk.

Things began looking up the next day (New Years Eve), when both parties had regained close to normal digestive function, the rain was (sort of) clearing, and we were able to score accommodation in our originally preferred hotel, Gowri, which had been full on arrival. Here we had a nice little bungalow in a quiet garden with cute squirrels chasing each other through the trees. We didn’t feel up to much celebration-wise, so spent the evening having a few drinks (beer for Jack, a litre of water for me) in Gowri’s courtyard, chatting to the very friendly all-male staff and their New Years guests. Highlights included meeting Ramesh, an Indian guy recently returned from Belgium and two days out of a massive relationship breakdown. He got nicely drunk and perhaps overestimated how liberal Western tourists are when it comes to appropriate conversation topics; every second word was ‘pussy.’ We also got to witness some at-home fireworks displays which were very entertaining if not quite up to the usual safety standards: when things weren’t exciting enough the fireworks got kicked to send them soaring off to explode in unpredictable directions, including into the neighbour’s yard (not happy) and onto the street. We were snug in bed by 10.30 pm. Happy New Year everybody!

The remainder of our time in Alleppey was pretty laid back and uneventful, however we made an effort to go on one of the much-lauded tours of the backwaters around town. This was a relaxing four hours spent being paddled around in a covered boat, with one stop to look at some muddy rice paddies and get felt up by a creepy old man (he asked for a photo with me and then got a little too excited when I put a comradely arm around his shoulders for the pose…apparently this was taken as an invitation to grab my breast), and another to be little falconers (see photos). On our last evening we journeyed across town to the beach (pure Indian tourism: packed with people, stalls selling crappy plastic toys and various options of ‘shit to ride’, e.g. camels, ponies…and of course nobody in the water) and had a belated Christmas seafood feast in an atmospheric restaurant on the water’s edge, which was only slightly detracted from by an annoying American tourist sitting behind us bragging about all her overseas sexual conquests.

We are both back in excellent health and spirits and enjoying the last few legs of our Indian adventure. Hope you are all happy and well and enjoying your 2012!

Lots of love, T & J xoxo

Photos: Alleppey to Kodai

tessa86 — Fri, 6 Jan 2012 18:47:00 GMT

Photos: Kochi & Munnar

tessa86 — Fri, 6 Jan 2012 18:18:00 GMT

Tea & queues long and far in hilly Munnar

tessa86 — Sun, 1 Jan 2012 20:24:00 GMT

Our bus trip from Kochin was nothing out of the ordinary; brake screeching, speeding and overtaking around blind corners are all part of the Indian adventure package. The only noteworthy difference was a particularly horn-happy driver (he was on it about 75% of the time, which made for a nice relaxing trip).

Our first impression of the Keralan hill station of Munnar was not a good one. The streets were packed with honking traffic and strewn with rubbish, communist slogans were plastered everywhere and two out of the three Lonely Planet recommended restaurants were mysteriously absent or closed for renovation. The real purpose of a trip to Munnar seems to be a relaxing stay in one of the hotels in the hills to enjoy the lush tea plantation surroundings. However on arrival we were too tired, dirty and irritable to negotiate and thought it would be sensible to stay a night in town instead…

In our infinite wisdom we booked into Hotel Safa – a scrappy little building ‘with market views’ (i.e. in the middle of a dirty fruit market) that cost us the equivalent of $8/night. Our first sight of the room inspired thoughts of our rat hotel in Vietnam, which were not helped by the fact that Safa doubled as a shop specialising in massive home made rat traps. The polyester sheet on the bed was covered in granules of dirt and looked like the perfect habitat for bedbugs. However it was too late to bail and we decided to prepare ourselves for the night ahead with a few cool Kingfishers. This proved to be quite a mission. Walking to our restaurant, we spotted a slightly upmarket Indian hotel with a tiny cell-like box tacked to its side reading ‘bar’. From our previous experience of Indian bars this did not seem out of place, so we entered the grounds, trooped past the main entrance and made our way up a rickety metal staircase into the box. We quickly turned on our heels when we discovered we had intruded on the sleeping quarters of six Indians. Apparently we had taken the location of the sign a little too literally; luckily the hotel staff didn’t laugh too hard and we still got our Kingfishers (in the hotel restaurant, logically).

After a miraculously vermin-free night, we visited the tourist information centre and in true budget style managed to scope out the single available hotel room under $30 which ticked all our boxes: quiet, hot water, and beer (it’s the simple things!)After a day of R & R we were feeling lazy and luxurious and decided to splurge and hire a taxi driver to show us some of the sights around Munnar. We were thereby introduced to the concept of ‘Indian tourism’ and how vastly it differs from our idea of a good time. Because it was the Christmas/New Year period and Munnar is significantly cooler than the rest of the state, it was packed with Indian tourists. The ‘sights’ we were treated to included

The ‘flower garden’: a greenhouse chock-full of imported plants. The highlights were the numerous signs stating ‘please do not pluck the flowers'.
The ‘giant jungle honey bees’: various wild bees’ nests in the forest outside of town. Our guide informed us that they are “very poisonous” and “five bites, dead.” We noticed that these appeared to be the same species as at our hotel room in Ooty and understood why we were roused inside when they came out to play.
The ‘Tata Tea Museum’: tea-processing machinery, some nightmare-worthy trophy heads, a free cup of tea, and a 1910 Petron wheel for a turbine (Jack told me to put that in case any engineering friends read this).
Eravikulam National Park: we arrived here excited to soak up some nature and spot an endangered mountain goat or two. Instead we were met with a FIVE HUNDRED METRE long queue of Indian tourists waiting for park tickets, who seemed pleased to see us (“Helllloooo Madam + wolf whistles) but to whom the feeling was not reciprocated. We decided to be good sports and hunkered down for the wait until a girl in front of us (i.e. second last in the line) told us that they had been waiting for half an hour already and that they expected to be in line for “exactly three hours more.” We bailed.
The crowning glory of the day was ‘Dream Lands Spice Gardens,’ somewhat misleadingly named unless your dreams involve dying herbs in cracked plant pots, an unenthused guide muttering botanical names on a forced tour, and a cat shitting in the garden. This cost us 300 rupees and we both agreed we would gladly have spent double this amount to have been spared the experience.

Our original plan had been to spend three nights in the hills, but our room had been pre-booked so we were kicked out after two, but not before a pleasant morning walk through the sweeping tea plantations around our hotel (which was free and about two squillion times funner than our tour, but less fun to write here about).

Lots of love, tea and queues (and photos of said tea and queues soon),

T & J xoxo

Kristmas in Kochi!

tessa86 — Sun, 1 Jan 2012 19:55:00 GMT

With a fluey Jack in tow, we descended from the cool hills of Ooty back into the blistering heat of the plains. Returning to the delightful commercial hub of Coimbatore, we once more found ourselves in a musty train station battling bureaucracy for those holy grails of Indian travel: air con seating tickets (not sure if I mentioned it but these become available 90 days before departure and get snapped up very quickly; the situation has not been helped by our lack of organisation + inability to use the webpage). Because we were a little off the beaten track there was no English-speaking tourist counter this time, which meant we had to slug it out in queue with the locals. Surveying the jam-packed booking office (think cow yards again) I felt slightly confused as to where the lines began. It looked like a chaotic classroom with endless rows of chairs. Jack pointed out that these chairs were the line (presumably because no human would be physically capable of standing for the time it takes to reach the window...so considerate) and I knew we were in for the long haul. The minutes ticked slowly by, sweat dripping from our brows. Chair by chair, we inched closer and closer to the goal. Just as the magical window came into sight, it was abruptly slammed shut (TWO places from the start of the queue!) for a 15 minute tiffin (snack) break. Patience and perseverance...

Our mission was only partly successful in that we were able to book an overnight train for later in our trip. However we were firmly told that all reserved class seats on the train to our next destination, Kochin, were full. Luckily an enterprising staff member at our stopover hotel offered to navigate the somewhat daunting non-reserved system for us, albeit for a fairly hefty commission (approx. $2 - a total bargain for avoiding the queues!) When he disappeared for hours and failed to show up at our specified meeting time we felt somewhat skeptical, but our faith was restored when he appeared at our door that evening with the prize – 2 non-reserved sleeper class tickets for the morning.

We have been told time and again that unreserved train travel is the quintessential Indian experience, which made us slightly trepidatious. Fifteen minutes before the train was due to depart crowds of people began congregating on the platform, with many ducking down onto the tracks to cross platforms, chat to friends, sweep up rubbish etc (this is perfectly acceptable in India and happens all the time – we have even seen one guy having a snooze in the afternoon sun). We had gotten slightly better at assertive public transport entry but in no way could have been prepared for what we found inside. Sleeper class consists of narrow bunks in tiers of three crammed full of people lying, sitting or squatting anywhere they can find 30 square cm of free space. Things appeared grim but luckily we must have looked desperate and white enough because a group of Indian men took pity on us and made some room. Overall, the best words to describe our train experience are ‘intimate’, ‘humid’ and ‘culturally enlightening.’ Additionally, we were unsure where the toilet was and too scared to get up in case we lost our seats, so the word ‘busting’ also springs to mind.

When we disembarked we were in a different state – Kerala, which is known for its lush tropical environment (The God of Small Things was set here) and for being the only democratically elected state in the whole world. The difference that we noticed most quickly was the readily available beer (Jack is pleased); the Kingfisher labels only give a mild health warning – the lack of moral condemnation is quite refreshing!

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were spend in shamelessly touristy but oh-so-easy and comfortable Fort Kochin, a former Dutch colony and historical port town on the Indian Ocean. Our activities included sampling THE most amazing Indian cuisine at a wonderful place called Dal Roti, enjoying down time at various arty little cafes, viewing several centuries-old murals of Krishna’s orgies (his multiple appendages come in handy in this regard and apparently his specialty is nipple-tweaking…with his feet), and two aborted plans to see the historic synagogue (closed on both Christmas Eve and Day…umm it’s not Hanukkah guys). I also spent an evening watching a Kathakali performance(unqiue Keralan opera/theatre, a little too cultural for Jack’s tastes) which involved lots of face paint, cymbal clashing and wailing. The plotline would have been difficult to follow if not for a printed handout received on entry. My favourite part was where the hero disembowelled his enemy to avenge his dishonoured wife and then lovingly wrapped her in the entrails (with Krishna’s encouragement and blessing).

Our original plan had been to splurge and sample some of Kochin’s fresh seafood for Xmas dinner. However we found that the set menu for the evening totaled $50/head (5 nights’ accommodation) so we forfeited the chocolate samosas and settled for some amazing dal roti (again!) followed by some Chrissie goodies (chocolate cake for T and rum for J).

Hope that everyone had an amazing Christmas with just as much delicious food and far fewer mosquito bites than,

Your happy travelers,

T & J xoxox

P.S. Jack requested that I name this blog entry 'Merry Krishna-mas in Kochin' but I steadfastly refused on the grounds that it was too shamelessly corny and contrived even for my standards. Please feel free to write and tell me I'm correct. Merry Krishna-mas y'all (love, Jack).

Photos: Chennai to Ooty

tessa86 — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 15:33:00 GMT

Bee-Ooty-ful Ooty!

tessa86 — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 17:48:00 GMT

Chapter II of our mystical adventure began in a rickshaw at 5.00 am on a murky Chennai morning. We were destined for the central railway station; by another miracle (Ganesh again!) our bureaucratic mission of the previous day had resulted in two second class 'AC' tickets to Coimbatore, our stopover on the way to Ooty. The train trip was very pleasant and roomy and actually significantly more civilised than our plane trip (train adventures do not happen in reserved seats, as we discovered by way of comparison...stay tuned!)

Generally Indian people seem to be quite reserved and significantly shier than in South East Asia. We were in a row of three with a seemingly demure Indian gentleman, so we settled down in anticipation of some shut eye and quiet reading time. Half an hour into the trip it became apparent that this was not to be; the demure gentleman (Peter) actually turned out to be the most impatient, fluent and chatty person in the entire subcontinent. He was very bored by the train journey and could not stop talking. Despite feeling a little overwhelmed and kind of exhausted, our conversations were really interesting and enlightened us on some aspects of Indian culture about which we were quite ignorant. For example:

The caste system still plays a large role in everyday life and can impact your chances of education and employment. Declaring your caste and subcaste (required for any kind of application for just about anything) takes 15 pages of paperwork. Peter was unmarried but reminisced about his unrequited crush on a Brahmin girl, which he said would have been a big issue for both sets of parents.
Love matches are allowed but are generally frowned upon, so Peter's marriage is in his parents' hands. He said part of the process is posting attractive pictures of yourself on the caste union's website; his mother insisted on using one where his dimples were prominent.
Alcohol carries a heavy social stigma. Men should only drink in private and drinking women are considered promiscuous. Peter was on his way to a bachelor’s party. We were curious as to what kind of revelry would transpire but he assured us there would indeed be ‘boozing’, however horrified when Jack asked if there would be strippers (a slight social faux pas and a lesson learned!)

Peter was extremely intelligent and well-read (we talked Salman Rushdie!) and had a poetic grasp of the English language; he used the word ‘thrice’ thrice and described himself as an ‘ardent’ reader! I am delighted that such beautiful archaisms are safely preserved in this part of the world. It was a refreshing change from the rape of the English language so frequently witnessed in Australia!

For Deanne, Kathy & John: Peter was shocked and horrified that we were in India for Christmas and not spending it with our parents. He told us in all his 28 years he had never missed a family Christmas and that it would break his mother’s heart if he were not at home. Yes, we are terribly disloyal children and are sorry.

We bid Peter goodbye at the dusty manufacturing hub of Coimbatore (touted as the ‘Manchester of South India’ i.e. ugly and nothing to do). Our next leg was by local bus into the Ngilri Hills. Getting on this bus was an adventure in itself. Nobody at the bus station spoke English; sign language got us to a metal pen reminiscent of a cattle yard where we became part of a stampede when the bus pulled up. We darted to the two remaining seats at the rear of the bus, feeling so pleased with ourselves that it didn’t seem to matter that my seat was comprised of a broken tennis racket. Our smiles fell when I was unceremoniously booted from this apparently prime position, which was reserved for the ticket collector (who proceeded to blow his deafeningly shrill whistle in our ears for the remainder of the trip). Jack was a chivalrous little Maharaja and sacrificed his seat for my ass (which was feeling slightly tender owing to the tennis racket + bad roads).

The journey into the hills was stunning, if a little disconcerting, with dramatic precipices, 36 hair pin bends and some veeerrrry squeaky brakes. Dozens of monkeys sat on the road shoulders grooming each other and watching us pass. The best part was when we got stuck in a traffic jam because a wild elephant and her TWO baby elephants were crossing the road!

Our five days in Ooty were relaxing and uneventful. Ooty is a favourite Indian tourist hotspot but the whities were pretty sparse and we got lots of stares, points, laughs etc. Highlights included the ‘Wound Wonder’ (Inglish) of Ooty’s thread garden, comprised of silk replicas of native plants that some poor loser spend 12 years making (pretty lame – see photos - glad we only paid 15 rupees), a picnic in the botanical garden with fresh homemade cheese and chocolate, and a very infuriating wasted day trying to book train tickets – we spent hours on the stupid Indian Railways webpage trying to work out our planned routes only to find online booking is impossible unless you have an Indian phone number, which is impossible to get unless you have permanent residency! It was a moment when I needed a few deep breaths and some reflection on our India mantra (imparted by an elderly Indian couple on our flight over): ‘patience and perseverance.’

The lack of sleep, time changes, lungfuls of pollution etc. took their toll on Jack and he was down with the flu for our last few days. He is now recovered and back to his bratty self and we are spending Christmas day in comfortably touristy Fort Cochin! Until next time, I will leave you with a few of our general observations about India/Tamil Nadu…

The head wobble (try Youtubing). This gesture is ubiquitous and was initially confusing and hard to pin down. After three days our friend Peter informed us it means "I understand" or "okay." We have been practising our own head wobbles; Jack tells me mine is terrible but gets better after a few beers.
On the topic of beers...the immoral men who drink beer can only obtain it in bars (not restaurants) which are unfalteringly dark, disreputable and filled with drunk leering Indian men; women are not caught dead here. It is difficult to handle the onslaught of India without a few quiet ones in the evening, so we braved the bar and brought some tallies of the local brew, Kingfisher, back to our hotel balcony to watch the beautiful sunsets in the evenings. This mission was not without its hiccups; we came very close to buying non-alcoholic beer from a Muslim shopkeeper (slightly embarrassing). The beer is good but I still haven’t moved past feeling slightly slutty whilst drinking it. These feelings of guilt are conveniently reinforced by the huge warning on beer labels that “liquor ruins country, family and life.” I’m a ruined woman.
The lack of beer is made up for by the abundance of AMAZING food. Dear Heaven: please be filled with kofta balls, onion pakora and rose milk.
India is an olfactory sensation. It smells like urine, garam masala, sewage, smoke, chai tea, cows, curry, clutch, urine, chocolate, waffles, garlic, urine, burning rubber, stale urine, fresh urine, bidies, dead animals, fried snacks, eucalyptus, and urine (to name but a few). Our noses will be bored when we get home.

Hope that everyone has a wonderful Christmas. We love you all immensely and wish we were together; hope we are in your hearts, despite our shocking disloyalty.

T & J xoxox

Chapter One: Gold Coast to Chennai (and a totally different planet)

tessa86 — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:21:00 GMT

Hello beloved family and friends, and welcome to another exciting edition of your favourite travel blog! This time around we are doing a one month sojourn in southern India, followed by five weeks in the beautiful Philippines. Yes, we are very lucky and excited. Let the mystical adventures begin...

The classy mood for the trip was set as soon as we pulled in at Coolangatta airport for our flight to Kuala Lumpur. Fate intervened in John's car park choice; as we donned our backpacks for the first time we noticed that we were parked directly over the top of a huge purple dildo. We took this to be a portent for fun and sexy times ahead. Ahh Australia, we will miss you.

After this exciting farewell, the first leg of the journey was largely uneventful. The action picked up again on our flight from Kuala Lumpur to Chennai. As we waited for our gate to open, it became abundantly clear that Jack and I were the only non-Indians on the flight. This provided for an enlightening (if somewhat disconcerting) introduction to Indian transport etiquette. To set the scene, we felt as if there should be chickens in the overhead compartments. An excited and anticipatory atmosphere filled the cabin; everyone was out of their seats as much as possible and cheered during take off and landing. Unfortunately this fun and carefree attitude extended to safety precautions. Everybody totally ignored the seat belt signs and refused to turn their mobile phones off during the flight. We made our first Indian friend (people here tend towards extreme friendliness) who videotaped us on his mobile phone and asked for help filling in his immigration forms.

Chennai airport is entirely un-touristy and perhaps not the most enticing portal to this entirely different planet. The building was old and dingy, the air heavy with moisture and the smell of mold. As we waited by the baggage carousel, an old man approached Jack. Laying a hand on his arm, he asked earnestly if he was Jesus.

We had a slight ATM hiccup (exhausted and rupee-less, we waited in front of an apparently frozen screen for 10 minutes for it to give back Jack's card...the helpful sign on the wall suggested "calling the issuing financial institution" in case of a "captured card." Luckily this story had a happy ending.) We then piled into an old 50s gangster style car and attempted to communicate to our driver (who had no English) how to get to our hotel. We spent the next half hour slightly stunned, watching Chennai pass by in all its insanity. Memorable things we observed:

A cow walking down the sidewalk.
A sign reading "Feisty Cats Pet Store." The beginning of my love affair with Indian English.
Lots of traffic signs which were hilarious in their redundancy. E.g. "No horn," "high crash zone," and "choose a lane." In case you didn't guess, horns are used CONSTANTLY (basically to signal 'I'm behind you' or 'give me right of way'), there are hazards everywhere and the lines on the road are completely ignored.

By an act of divine intervention (Ganesh = God of Luck) our driver delivered us safely to the Hotel Comfort. We wound down with our first of many incredible Indian meals and some soothing Tollywood (South Indian version of Bollywood) video clips.

The next morning we spied Paradise (the hotel) outside our bedroom window and, reading that it was considerably cheaper, moved camp. Our first and only full day in Chennai was spend acclimatising (slight culture shock) by wandering around the city streets on several missions: to buy breakfast (conical dosa bread with potato, curry and four types of chutney - a South Indian breakfast specialty), to book a train ticket to our next destination (our first encounter with the crazy Indian bureaucracy - the ticket officials were hurling verbal abuse at each other as we filled in a long unnecessary form in the musty little office), and to buy a lock and chain to secure our bags on the train (not as easy as it sounds).

We are now out of the bustle of Chennai and enjoying some down time in the beautiful (and cold!) hill station of Ooty in the Western Ghats, and attempting to have as many blog-worthy adventures as possible. Sorry about the lack of photos - it's taken us a little while to get into snap-happy tourist mode but we have a few coming soon that I think you'll enjoy. Rest assured we are both happy and safe and miss you all.

T & J xoxox

Bangkok: Banglamphu and ping pongs too!

tessa86 — Sun, 7 Feb 2010 20:13:00 GMT

Our trip from Don Det to Bangkok involved 3 bus rides. Everyone else on the island booked a joint ticket but we saved about $10 - woohoo - doing it separately for not much more hassle. We are soooo intrepid these days. As mentioned in my previous entry, poor old Jack was a bit green for the first leg (another broken air con, no windows deal) and was trying desperately not to spew or poo his pants the entire time. Luckily by the time we crossed into Thailand he was well on his way back to perfect health and we had no further issues. There was a more drastic change than I expected when crossing the border - the first thing we noticed was that there were ATMs galore (which is good news for bad advanced planners). The other thing that we noticed was that the whole place was swarming with farang - mostly annoying (except us of course) - which is part and parcel of being on the tourist trail. This isn't all bad because since we've been spending entirely too much time together we have discovered that imitating annoying fellow travellers is a great conversation filler. Thailand is proving to be full of prime material!

After an 8 hour night bus trip from Ubon (near Laos border) we arrived in Bangkok in the early hours of the morning. After 2 months in the (relative) wilderness it came as a huge shock to the senses: it was stifling hot and ridiculously humid, glaring yellow lights shone from every direction, a high-pitched voice screaming directions in Thai blared from a megaphone, and we were swarmed by tuk-tuk drivers trying to snatch our bags from every direction. Feeling dazed, we wandered around the dark streets looking for an abode. As expected, this was no easy feat, and we were turned away at the first 4 or 5 places we tried. Finally, our explorative efforts paid off when we came to shore at the Marco Polo hotel ("There is no evidence to suggest that Marco Polo ever visited Bangkok, or that he stayed at Khao San Road...but if he did we can guarantee he would choose the quality low budget accommodation available at Marco Polo Guesthouse!"...how could we not?). Our room was extremely basic - a long narrow little cell which had obviously been tacked on to the side of the building in recent years, with a bare concrete floor and king single - but we got aircon and a good deal so were as pleased as ever! It was also in a great location just off Khao San Road in Banglamphu, which is Bangkok's major backpacker hub. It has become pretty famous in recent years (especially because of The Beach) and is a pretty fun place to be - if you can ignore all the hassling - women selling wooden frogs that make a croaking noise when rubbed with a stick on the back - very annoying after the first 100 times you hear it, men selling cheesy glow in the dark cube clocks, children with roses and tailors galore (flashing picture of incredibly buff black man in Armani suit: "I can make you like this!"...Jack's response: "I am like that!")

Our first day was just spent relaxing, recovering and acclimatising to our new and very bizarre surroundings. On one of our first outings, we were accosted by some Indian fortune tellers in turbans who insisted they would give us a free introductory reading. Knowing that they were scammers but interested to see what bullshit they would come up with, we followed them into a back alley (where we saw a rat the size of a small dog). My guy told me Jack and I would return to Bangkok in 2012, but Jack's told him I was not his soul mate and he would return in 2010 with his new true love. Harrumph! Obviously I was quite offended and we refused to pay, at which point mine changed his mind and told me Jack was bad for me and some bad karma was coming our way. Luckily we're not superstitious.

On day 2 we ventured further into the city to the famous Siam Square. This involved a canal taxi ride on some of the most disgustingly polluted waters I have ever had the displeasure to witness. They smelled like a sewer and the taxi was surprisingly fast, splashing our faces in the grey stew. Siam Sq is packed with 5 or 6 huge shopping centres (the biggest I have ever seen!) packed with Bangkokians sniffing a bargain. It was a lot of fun and an interesting clash of east-meets-west. We didn't buy too much but J got a good trade off for a new phone. I could have spent many many hours here (in another dimension where I have a bottomless bank account and a boyfriend who relishes being dragged around clothes stores listening to his indecisive girlfriend). When we were satisfactorily shopped out, we returned to Khao San where we discovered our Bangkok culinary gem - not Indian this time but a tiny Israeli restaurant tucked behind the police station with amazing baba ganoush and falafels!

We packed in quite a lot on day 3. First up was a visit to Bangkok's forensic science museum (not its most famous sight, but we were up for something a little unusual). As it turned out, we got much more gore than we bargained for! The museum is packed with:

An abundance of deformed fetuses in jars
Crushed severed limbs suspended in fluid
Mummified capital punishment candidates, dripping unidentified bodily ooze into turkey basting trays
Decapitated heads
Heaps of organs and bones riddled with stab wounds, bullet holes, ruptures and car accident inflicted damage (not nice)
An astonishingly wide array of murder implements (such creativity), including various nooses, bullets, knives etc etc and most interestingly a dildo (yes a dildo) and the bloody shirt of the victim who was stabbed by it (how exactly you could use this to STAB someone is something I try not to think about whilst lying awake on larium-induced sleepless nights)

There was also a tsunami victim display which I won't go into in any great detail (I feel I've been gory enough for one entry) but I will say it involved a lot of bloatedness. Particularly harrowing considering that the disaster area is one of our up and coming destinations. Hmm! After we were guts-ed out we paid an obligatory visit to the not-nearly-as-interesting adjoining parasitology museum (cos we felt sorry for it), which was only worth it to show Jack what would happen if he refuses to wear his mosquito repellant and to laugh and the ridiculously poorly scaled dioramas.

It was lunch time but strangely enough we weren't feeling too hungry so we pushed on to the amulet market. This is just a street lined with dozens and dozens of stalls selling nothing but tiny buddhist and hindu talismans. Of course we had no idea what any of them meant so didn't buy any, but it was interesting watching all the pros sifting painstakingly through them and putting their various choices in little red baskets. Afterwards we had a big hike to Wat Pho. By this stage in the trip we are a little watted out to say the least, but this is one of Bangkok's most famous and has a huge gold reclining buddha so we thought it worth a squizz. We put in some real effort to dress respectfully despite the suffocating heat, but as soon as we were through the gate in our t-shirt/sarong combo we found we were surrounded by westerners in shorts, thongs and singlets. Buddha would not be pleased.

After this busy day we retired to our favourite watering hole (with the subtle moniker 'Cool Corner'; it has the cheapest Beer Chang on Khao San and is packed with ladyboy waitresses, the tallest and most masculine of which developed a little boy crush on Jack and would flirt with him when he went to the toilet) for a Chang or two. Once we were toasted enough to be able to handle it, we hopped on the sky train to Patpong Road, Bangkok's famous red light district, to see our obligatory ping pong show (classy I know, but you gotta do it once). There were thousands of options, but we eventually settled on a club called Super Pussy (figured it was a safe bet). Tricks went beyond your standard ping pong; we were also treated to cigarette smoking, drawing, blowing a horn, the production of impossibly long streamers and chains and, most impressively, the popping of balloons with darts. We were in a prime position for the show but luckily narrowly avoided being hit with some of these objects upon expulsion. The female employees were uncomfortably friendly and money hungry (yes, we did get offered a threesome) and kept encouraging us to hold the ping pong paddle, smell the darts, etc. The height of personal space invasion occurred when one of them pointed out that my white underwear were glowing through my (kind of thin) dress under the UV light. "You show me yours, I show you mine!" she squealed, before promptly pulling down her own underwear in my face despite my desperate protests. Because I wouldn't hold up my end of the bargain she grabbed me in the crotch - slightly violating to say the least! Only in Bangkok!

After all this hilarity we were exhausted and spent day 4 taking it easy and completing various chores in preparation for our island sojourn. The only minor adventure worthy of mention was the sampling of some unusual Thai culinary delights from a street stall: grasshoppers and scorpion. Both were surprisingly tasty after overcoming the mental hurdle!

We are now in beautiful Ko Tao and begin our diving course tomorrow! Very excited and busily reading up on our anti-decompression tables. I discovered this afternoon that I have lost my camera cable somewhere along the way, which I am extremely disappointed about as I have a wonderfully expressive photo that Jack took of me eating a scorpion. Sorry folks - it will give you something to look forward to upon our return (in addition to our glorious company of course!)

Much love from your happy travellers,

T & J xo