Vagabonding

Pushkar - India

whippin_picadilly — Sun, 10 Oct 2010 16:28:00 GMT

Set by a lake and ringed by forest covered mountains, Pushkar is temple town of the highest order. Holy men, priests and cows meander through hot, dusty streets filled with touts and hippy trail tourists. Holy petals are offered up for the soul and marijuana for the mind. Alcohol is officially forbidden, as are kissing and eggs, but it's possible to get your hands on a beer in some places and, as we all know, where there is alcohol there's kissing...

Eggs however, are most definitely off the menu as the local council plug the chickens and employ various other anti-egg measures. The last sentence may not be entirely true but wouldn't it be a better world if it was? What the town elders actually do, is charge unsuspecting tourists a cheeky entry fee. For 5 princely rupees, a limp roadside barrier is hauled up by an underfed pensioner and you are granted access to Hinduism's holiest, and possibly dustiest, city.

Ten rupees lighter, we rolled under the midday sun into town, wound or way down a long dusty, egg-free track peppered with camels and cow shit, and were deposited in the tranquil gardens of the Prem Villas hotel. After a bit of banter with Pawan the manager and a promise to give his pranayam yoga a bash, we dumped our bags and headed to the markets for a wander.

Central Pushkar is a walking heaven compared to other Indian towns. For Indian town planners, the concept of a pavement is as abstract as the smell of unicorn shit. Pushkar however has a small centre where pedestrians have equal rights with the cows, motorbikes and scooters. We spent an hour in amongst the colourful stalls and stores selling everything from books to banana lhassis, before we found a little rooftop restaurant with a view over the lake. It was just what the travel doctor ordered and when we hit the streets again it was with full stomachs and a springy pedestrian step.

But Pushkar is also a place where you shouldn't get too ahead of yourself. Just because your feeling spritely, it doesn't mean everyone else is. A holy four-legged beef steak decided to teach me this when I failed to move out of his way with enough haste. Instead of politely mooing me out of the way, Billy Beef thought it best to headbutt me into a doorway before continuing with his holy plodding. No damage done but a valuable lesson learnt, never disturb the path of holy beef.

We spent what was left of the day, relaxing in the cow-free hotel garden and quaffing banana lhassis in the late afternoon heat. The next day continued in pretty much the same fashion but with occasional blasts of air-conditioning as the electricity connection was reestablished for brief 20 minute periods. It was lazyness personified but by sunset we were getting restless.

Thus, we hopped into the car just as the sky was turning a pinky orange and headed to an "English Wine Shop" (note: wine not sold) on the outskirts of town to buy some forbidden beers. Once laden with sweaty bottles of Kingfisher, we made tracks for the Pushkar Palace rooftop restaurant. There, we feasted on chapati, poppadoms, curry and beer and 5 hours later my backside was firmly planted upon the porcelain throne, with a bucket in front of me, as I experienced my first, violently sudden, case of Delhi belly. I won't go into detail but lets just say I didn't even have time to look for the lightswitch.

Eight o'clock the following morning, Lana, myself and a grumbling stomach were given a crash course in "pranayam," i.e. an "oooing" and "aaahhhhing" breathing thing. It's something between meditation and yoga and can apparantley cure thousands of diseases and prevent malaria or dengue fever. Under normal circumstances I would have been a keen listener but a nervousness brought about by the slightest abdominal pressure meant that angry stomach took all my attention.

We checked out of the Pushkar hotel that morning, but not before Lana had painted some flowers on the wall at reception and I'd packed the bags, ensuring the toilet paper was sitting ready in my pocket... It was a long road to Udaipur...

http://www.saharanscot.blogspot.com

The Bollywood Experience

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 4 Oct 2010 19:24:00 GMT

"It is just like sitting in a big cake..." That was the clinching sentence that made me book tickets for "Dabangg" in Jaipur's "Cake Cinema." I just hoped Lucky, our driver, didn't mean Dundee cake.

Bollywood produces hundreds of films each year and draws in regular cinema audiences numbering millions. Most of the films follow the same love, violence, family problems, sing and dance genre in order to satisfy the majority of a 1.1 billion viewer market and in Jaipur, I began my Bollywood education with a standard Hindi comedy called "Dabangg."

Dabangg roughly translated is something like undefeatable, which made sense considering the main character, a cross between a beefed-up, Indian Freddy Mercury and the policeman from The Village People, was largely invincible. The main man also inspired whoops and cheers from the cinema audience when he first came onto the screen, including one guy next to me who let out a bizarre Mohican war cry to show his approval of the characters appearance. I suppose any character who can bust the Bollywood dance moves, harmonise the Hindi hymns, battle with the bad guys matrix style, dodge bullets, laugh after being stabbed and rip off his shirt with his expanding hulk-esque muscles at the sight of his dead mothers inhaler, deserves to be cheered and applauded when he blesses the screen.

He was also able to woo any lady he thought worthy of his charms and was a perfect gentleman when, after falling through a roof into a bedroom, he was faced with a young damsel with her collarbones exposed. It's possible that lesser men feel certain urges at the sight of such a fine neckline, but not Mr Dabangg. His finest party piece however, which would only be possible in India, was to kill the main bad guy using tractor exhaust fumes. A moment of pure genius…

In Bollywood films there's also often an "item song." This song has absolutely nothing to do with the film and is instead just a chance for a bit of a singalong and for the men in the audience to continue the whooping and cheering as a sexy Bollyood bellydancer belts out a Hindi classic to the beats.

But despite the howling males, Indian cinema is a place for the whole family. There were grannies, toddlers, new born babies and even a couple of birds in the expansive auditorium enjoying the hero-led tale. And, halfway through the 3-hour odyssey, a 20 minute interval is provided where 500 numb bums can stock up on popcorn, coke, samosas and chai (Indian masala tea). Thus everyone is catered for.

As for the inside cake aspect, the cinema had an ornate 1920's feel about it, although the carpets may have been there since the British Raj, and the lighting was either a soft green or yellow which, I suppose, would be Indian cakey. We would probably be classified as the topping as, yet again, our white skinned glamour status meant that we were filmed by locals with their phones. And on that note, if the person who filmed me dribbling coke down my chin is reading this, I would like to see that video...

An Unexpected Toilet Stop

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 19:12:00 GMT

A few weeks ago I found myself stuck in 20km's worth of Autobahn traffic performing some unusual crossed legged clutch manoeuvres. Morning coffee and battering rain had put into action every possible bodily function on my brain's „don't piss yourself“ list and left me wishing Renault had installed an automobile equivalent of a bedpan. Alas, they hadn't, they don't and likely never will. As such, my bladder drove me onto the hard shoulder, past a kilometre worth of patient, cursing German drivers and off the Autobahn in the direction of Kaltenkirchen, north of Hamburg. I soon found myself on a country road and began desperately looking for a suitable petrol station, cafe or bush where I could relieve nature's call. A sign appeared to my left, „KZ Gedenkstätte.“ As a former history student and someone bursting for a piss, a concentration camp memorial seemed like a perfect place to stop.

I parked the car in the waterlogged carpark. The rain had stopped and after an hour stuck in traffic, the crisp, clean air was a welcome relief. Hopping over puddles, I made my way towards a large portakabin with an open door. Just before entering, I was stopped in my tracks by a overly enthusiatic „Hallo!“ from a man off to the right. I matched his enthusiasm with my urgent request for a toilet, whereby he escorted me to a cupboard inside the portakabin. There was a moment of confusion as he switched on the light and leaflet laden shelves came into view. Was my German pronounciation really that bad? However, after fumbling with a previously unseen handle, a side door opened into a small WC and I was allowed my moment of relief...

Rejuvenated, I stumbled past the boxes in the cupboard, through another door and into a small exhibition room detailing the history of the camp. The man with the enthusiastic Hallo was enthusiastically awaiting me. As the sole visitor and user of his not so public toilet, I felt an obligation, despite my bad German, to try and speak to him. It turned out to be a good decision. He explained that the camp had only been operational for the final 9 months of the war, having originally been established to provide a workforce for a nearby airfield. The original runway was too short for the newly developed jet fighters and so a supply of free labour was needed. The SS duely obliged and prisoners were sent from the Neuengamme camp south of Hamburg. He explained that the exact number of prisoners to pass through the camp was difficult to pinpoint but that between 500 to 700 lost there lives there. Largely Russians, Poles & French, they died of hunger, disease and exhaustion. However, in Holocaust terms, Kaltenkirchen is a small fish in a big pond.

After politely pretending to read the German language information boards, I headed out to see the remains of the camp itself. Before the war, Kaltenkirchen had seen the Nazi's take 95% of the vote and the area was a National Socialist hotspot. As such, the populace didn't take too much interest in the camp during the war and especially not afterwards. In the 1970's it was completely torn down, nature was given free reign and the memories were buried away. In spite of this this I learnt from Herr Enthusiasm that an association is working to remember to various Holocaust sites around Schleswig Holstein including Ladelund, Husum and Ahrensbök.

The Kaltenkirchen result, white fencing outlines where the barracks once stood and towering pine trees cover the whole camp. I found myself being guided from tree to tree by information plaques marking areas where barracks, officers quarters and solitary confinement once were. The whole camp I covered in less than 10 minutes before I ended up in what was the parade ground. Here, daily role calls were held, sometimes hours long in wind, rain, cold and snow. A punishing daily ordeal for undernourished and inadequately dressed prisoners. Now, the only thing standing is a single stone pillar. Upon which, the words of a poem spiral round forcing several loops of the stone in order to read the entirety. I gave up trying to translate after the 5^th loop and instead made my way back to the car with a spinning head.

I negotiated the puddles again and got back behind the wheel. I put the radio on but couldn't listen to it. My head was awash with thoughts and still twirling from pillar. I couldn't drive away. Instead I sat motionless in the car in a slight state of shock. All I'd wanted was a toilet...

Ashes of Birkenau, Stephan Hermlin (The Poem on the Turning Stone)

Die an die Hoffnung glauben, Sehen die Birken grün,

Wenn die Schatten der Tauben Über die Asche fliehn:

Lied des Todes, verklungen,

Das jäh dem Leben gleicht:

Schwer wie Erinnerungen

Und wie Vergessen leicht

Hamvegas

whippin_picadilly — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 06:42:00 GMT

With a blood alcohol concentration of between 0.08 - 0.15%, the body is scientifically in a "risky state." Speech is slurred, balance and coordination impaired, reflexes slowed, emotions are unstable and there's a good chance you'll be making your own modern art in a toilet pan. Between 0.15% - 0.30%, a "high risk state," help is required walking, breathing is laboured, memory becomes blurred and, perhaps most alarmingly, loss of bladder control. At this point you should really be sitting out the next round. In fact at this point someone should be tucking you into bed and strategically placing a basin.

The following day is never pretty. Headache, weakness, light sensitivity, difficulty sleeping, all classic hangover symptoms. Between 25-30% of all people are allegedly resistant to hangovers, but for the majority of us, it means suffering. Alcohol depletes vital nutrients in the body, leaving us craving certain foods the next day. Bacon, eggs or anything protein rich normally on the menu.

The drunk in front of me, a classic example of the "risky state," has decided against the bacon and opted instead for a single carrot. He stands in line, swaying slightly, the stubbly vegetable cradled in his palm. His friend, recently denied the four beers he wanted, waits at the kiosk's door. The reason for this denial? He only has 10 cents. Carrot man is next to be served, he stumbles forward before coming to a halt by the shop counter. The exasperated female shop assistant weighs the vegetable and demands 14 cents. An uneasy pause ensues. Lines of concentration slowly appear across his face before he finally slurs something resembling the word "expensive".

It's 5.30am in Hamburg's St Pauli district and the shop assistant's jaw clenches slowly in frustration. Carrot man fails to clock this and instead resumes his silent concentration. What feels like a small eternity passes before he finally announces his decision with a lurch to the left and stumbling exit from the kiosk, devoid of carrot. Whether he was looking for a late night snack or breakfast is unclear. At this time in the morning, in this place, his night could be at an end or it might be just beginning.

St Pauli, dominated by the mile long Reeperbahn, is Hamburg's 24 hour district of sex, drugs, alcohol and any other vice you may be looking for, carrots included. Indeed if the city were personified by St Pauli then Hamburg would be an alcoholic nymphomaniac of the highest order. The district boasts enough bars to keep even the hardiest drinkers happy 24 hours a day. A simple Yellow Pages search immediately provides 140 possible venues of intoxication. A healthy number for an area of only one square mile. In addition to this, drunkards spoilt for choice are also pestered by hawkers for peep shows, sex shows, strip bars and even Amsterdam style "window shopping." The infamous Herbert Strasse, from which respectable ladies are forbidden, a replica of Amsterdam's red light district where lingerie clad mistresses coo seductively at passing males. All in the name of business.

However St Pauli, or The Kiez as it's known locally, also offers something prevalent throughout Hamburg, contrast. In spite of the degeneracy, the Reeperbahn and surrounding streets are home to some of Hamburg's finest theatres. The Imperial, the Schmidt and the St Pauli theatres offer everything from Sherlock Holmes to modern German performances. The TUI opera house also offers regular shows and for a taste of something bigger, a boat ride across the Elbe from St Pauli leads to the "Theatre in the Harbour," currently home to The Lion King. St Pauli is also sprinkled with a number of museums and numerous of live music venues, attracting artists from across the globe. The Docks, Große Freiheit 36 and perhaps most intriguingly Übel & Gefährlich, housed in a giant second world war concrete air raid bunker, provide regular opportunities to enjoy international musical talent.

Consequently, holidaying German families often find themselves caught between cultural attractions on the mile of sin. Inadvertently perusing sex shop windows filled with toys, gadgets, gizmos, plastic things, shiny things and everything one might possibly need for a night when there's nothing on TV. In fact the best time to appreciate this antithesis is during the city's Harbour Birthday celebrations, held annually in May. As the streets fill with bumbags, SLRs and guidebooks, the ladies of the night branch out from Herbert Strasse and the scene is suddenly awash with enough cleavage to make even Hugh Heffner blush.

Of course Hamburg's sex industry, and H&M's lycra sales, would be far from what they are today had it not been for generations of frisky sailors coming into port... Hamburg's harbour is the life blood of not only St Pauli, but the entire city. It's the pumping heart where Hamburg's wealth originated and upon which it's still largely dependant. Despite being over one hundred kilometres from the coast, Hamburg boasts the 3rd largest port in Europe and in 2008 handled over 9.5 million containers, creating tens of millions of euros worth of revenue for the city. Thus the annual birthday bash is more than merited. Although it's not only international trade that fills the Hanseatic coffers along the Elbe. Boat tours and souvenir shops selling sailor titbits abound along the Landungsbrücken in an attempt to give tourists a taste of being a salty seadog. It also offers an excellent vantage point to view the harbour at work and, as such, thousands of tourist cameras are drawn here every year. One plus point of this, from a Hamburgers perspective, is that the rest of city's plentiful waterside spots are left largely to the locals.

In fact a stones throw from the harbour cruises are a couple of Hamburg's best summertime secrets. Hamburg City Beach Club or Strand Pauli Beach Club embody that typical Hamburg theme of compatible incompatibility. A brown, sluggish, ugly river combined with the infrastructure demanded by an international port, doesn't exactly sound like an ideal location for a beach club. Soft white sand under bare feet, hammocks and bean bags strewn around under thatched beach umbrellas, house lounge music creating a soft, encompassing atmosphere, brown bodies leaning against a bar and at the same time a China Shipping container vessel slipping past in the background. It shouldn't work but somehow, in Hamburg, it does.

In fact the love of being near water is undeniably a constant throughout the city. From the beach bars on the banks of the Elbe to waterside cafes in the leafy districts around the city's much loved Außenalster lake, Hamburgers make a dash for the water at any given chance. Possibly with this in mind, it was decided in 1997 that the time had come to build some new waterfront property for the city's fine citizens. In addition to this, some public parks, squares, promenades, 10km of new waterfront, cafes, bars, restaurants, shops, supermarkets, a new underground rail connection, a cruise ship terminal and to top it all off a new philharmonic orchestra hall, all on the banks of the Elbe. The new Hafenstadt, Harbour City, is the largest inner city building project in Europe and at a cost of approximately €7 billion will increase the city centre by around 40% and create 40,000 jobs in the process. A daring project no doubt and not without it's critics. With the orchestra hall alone running approximately three times over the intial €75 million budget, with two years of construction remaining, Hamburgers are left questioning where the money will come from.

In spite of this, of city's 1.7 million inhabitants, the vast majority would willingly admit to dreaming of a house by the Elbe or the Alster lake. Those who don't are most likely to come from the city's bar and cafe laden alternative Sternschanze district. If St Pauli is Hamburg's nether regions, then the Schanze, is the city's warm bosom. Still a little cheeky with the chance of some fun but without getting too dirty. And yet again, contrast is ever present.

On a hot, lazy, sunny Sunday afternoon whilst relaxing with a beer outside one of Schulterblatt's many bars and cafes, you can watch the world go by. Hippies, hobos and the too cool for school crowd, all mingling happily and peacefully together. Browsing cafe menus or pondering over shisha pipes, kitsch t-shirts and art nouveau paintings in shop windows. A scene of urban tranquillity. Yet slowly and gradually the soft bass pumping from the cafes is replaced by a wailing noise. It gets louder and closer, allowing itself to be distinguished as a siren. But it's not alone, there's more than one. Suddenly, with screeching tyres, four police vans turn into the street and come to a stop. The back doors burst open and a stream of riot police pour out. The reason? Nobody is sure. Their target? The urine drenched, decaying edifice of the Rote Flora. The Schanze's "Autonomous, Occupied Culture Centre," specialises in social movements, political pressure and a couple of cafes as a sideline. As such, it's Hamburg's alternative heartland, and thus a quiet Sunday afternoon can swiftly turn into a street battle between Lefties and the local Polizei.

Although, despite the occasional riot, Hamburg is generally a safe and trouble free city. In fact, when asking any locals about dangers in their city, they tend to struggle for an answer before opting for drunkards on the Reeperbahn. In reality however, Hamburg's mile of sin is as dangerous as Kofi Annan on marijuana. Somehow Hamburg has avoided that almost automatic step from alcohol to violence. How? Perhaps the sex. Or maybe it's the attitude of tolerance Hamburg has nurtured. The acceptance of contrasts, black or white, straight or gay, ugly or beautiful, it doesn't matter, you're in Hamburg.

So whether you're looking for alcoholic adventures, theatres, museums, protests or a political chat with a transvestite, there's a good chance you'll find it in Hamburg. And after all, 14 cents for a single carrot isn't so expensive.

Driving in Morocco - Conduire au Maroc - القيادة في المغرب

whippin_picadilly — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 00:25:00 GMT

Ninety minutes. The length of a football match. Doesn't seem like very long. It's also the time it takes for the ferry from Algeciras in Spain to Tangiers in Morocco. Quite a short crossing. But with one problem. If you're travelling with a car, it's the exact time it takes for the highway code to be ripped into tiny little fish-food sized shreds and thrown overboard into the Mediterranean.

Upon disembarking onto North African soil, those who actually learned to drive are at a serious disadvantage. Thus a few points are important to keep in mind.

Abandon Good Driving Practice

Anything logical or useful previously learned through driving schools or experience on the road, should be completely forgotten. Any knowledge of road signs or fixed rules should also be cast aside like an unwanted Christmas puppy. Road surface markings especially should be ignored at all cost and despite years of proven safety success, it's best to abandon any form of lane discipline. Should you find yourself waiting at traffic lights, it's best to slot into any available space on the road other than staying within the silly white painted lines. If the said traffic lights are placed just before a roundabout then it is highly likely that they shall turn green at the same time as four other sets. This tends to result in what Westerners would observe as a scene similar to a demolition derby. However it pays to remember that when a queue, seven cars wide, is funneling into an exit with two lanes, never stop moving forward. Millimetres between cars is more than enough space and thus the brake pedal should be never be in use. Brake lights are a sign of weakness.

The Police

Although rules of the road are largely missing, the local constabulary feature heavily on Moroccan roadsides. These uniformed chaps are normally armed with two guns, one to instill fear in your mind and the other to instill fear in your wallet. Speed guns are a Moroccan policeman's best friend. There is therefore an extreme likelihood of coming into contact with Constable Mohammed as you pass through the country. Two tactics can be employed whilst dealing with these officials, the first being the standard "stupid tourist" routine. This is a simple 3 step process, firstly, offer a confused look at any question posed. When this fails, proceed to ask in very complicated English what the problem may or may not appear to be. Finally, when you are still without luck, deny all knowledge of any wrong-doing. It would be fair to say that this routine is very much dependant on the officer you incur. Should you be apprehended by a far thriftier version a second tactic must be deployed. Negotiation. As always, a Moroccans first price is highly inflated and it is likely a princely sum shall be demanded of you. Remain friendly, exit your vehicle and the said officer will likely guide you to a quieter side of the road. It's important not to offer a price yourself, he does afterall have two guns, but simply appear reluctant as he slowly drops his price. Within a minute or two you should save 80% on your original fine. Paperwork is always a pain...

The Horn

The horn on a Moroccan car is just as important as the engine. A vehicle without this necessary apparatus is the mechanical equivalent of a eunuch in a harem. Indeed it's highly likely that in your average Casablancan driving school, if such a thing actually exists, the students are taught situations which require the use of the horn. I would imagine examples are given of standard Western driving practice and subsequently disparaged as nonsensical. Someone is driving within a lane at the speed limit but is blocking your way? HONK. The traffic light is red but you expect it to change soon? HONK. The traffic is heavy with absolutely no sign of moving forward? HONK. There is a donkey and cart on the street? HONK. There was no couscous left at the market? HONK.

With these points in mind, do enjoy your journey!

Ullapool

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 23:42:00 GMT

International communist links, music bonanzas, tales of grand drug busts and enough nationalities to tempt Kofi Annan to hold a UN summit here, it’s what the Scottish highlands are all about - or more specifically, Ullapool in Wester Ross.

As a city boy from the southern end of this country of tartan and tweed I’d always envisaged the small coastal town of Ullapool as a backwater filled with country bumpkins. When I arrived I was convinced that any female looking my way was analysing my gene pool and sizing me up for fatherhood. However I’ve come to realise that as a child of suburbia, I’m the one that’s led a sheltered life. Ullapool has, in years gone by, been the centre of international attention on more than one occasion.

As a major fishing port it became a popular spot for the fish factory ships of the old Eastern bloc during the 70s and 80s. Our commie cousins were lured to the fertile waters of Loch Broom and beyond by the humble little mackerel. The boats came en masse. At one point it was common to have as many as 70 factory boats in the loch at one time and the resulting mass of fishy folk that came with these vessels became known as the klondykers. These chaps had a huge influence on the town.

Not only did the numerous nationalities give Ullapool a cosmopolitan air but the local economy boomed as the materialistically deprived Soviets went on retail splurges. Such was the extent of their capitalist outburst that special shopping buses were arranged to take the newly empowered consumers to Inverness, the epicentre of highland retailing.

The good times, however, couldn’t last forever. Mackerel prices plummeted and the USSR collapsed (possibly a connection…?). The klondykers stopped coming. Instead, Ullapool became the focus of one the largest ever drug-bust operations in the UK, Operation Klondyke!

A local of the village known as “Crazy Chris” found himself in company appropriate to his name and he became involved in a drug smuggling ring that had connections in Spain, Gibraltar, Venezuela and even Columbian drug cartels. The result was illegal narcotics being smuggled into the UK through Ullapool and surrounds. However, the boys in blue had it all in hand and subsequently Mr Crazy Chris is now behind bars at Her Majesty’s Pleasure after half a tonne of Columbian cocaine was caught on its way south to London.

These days Ullapool doesn’t offer international drug busts or any solid communist connections. It does however retain a touch of the cosmopolitan. Just the other night I found myself in a local ale establishment being served by a Slovakian barmaid whilst I chatted to a couple of fishermen from Mozambique and Spain. The town is now also a year round music venue with everything from ceilidhs to rock concerts. October sees the town holding its annual guitar festival and 2009 is the fifth year for the up and coming Loopallu festival, with previous headliners such as The View and last years Red Hot Chilli Pipers.

Drugs and the communist world aside, I’ll settle for some international banter and maybe a wee sing-song. There’s a lot to learn from these “country bumpkins.”

Do you spreche my sprache?

whippin_picadilly — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 21:11:00 GMT

The single act of travelling overseas is, for some, a daunting prospect. Organising flights, visas, vaccinations, packing and of course sizing up the possible longevity of your underwear. This however is only the start. What do you actually do when you arrive? If you decide to stay in one country for a longer period, how integrated do you become? It's possible to travel to even the most far-flung and exotic destinations and spend your days largely as if you were unemployed at home but with a splash of extra sunshine, watching movies, surfing the internet and drinking alcohol.

In many cases, it's also possible to lead your life of relaxation in foreign climes and speak only Queen Lizzy's English. In fact, it's also possible to live permanently in a non-English speaking country and get by without learning the local lingo. With English becoming the unofficial lingua franca of international business, travel & communications, does this mean that we of the English tongue don't need to learn other languages?

From a UK perspective, it would be fair to say that most of Her Majesty's subjects don't feel the need to learn the tongue of Johnny Foreigner. A slight irony considering the numbers now being launched onto the continent by the likes of Easyjet and Ryanair. Does this lack of interest therefore come from laziness? Ignorance? Or maybe we genuinely don't need to try as everyone else is learning English through notable language exporters like MTV and McDonalds?

The Germans have a tendency to refer to the British as "inselaffen," or "island monkeys." This isn't only a reference to the behaviour of the pub-dwelling inhabitants but also an insight into the continental view of the British, tucked away on their little island on the edge of the continent. This island mentality may account partly for Britons unwillingness to dabble with words and sentences of a foreign nature and may also explain why English people simply speak louder when a foreigner doesn't understand them. Not a very wise move when you consider some of the complexities, double meanings and idioms employed in English.

Even when the average Englishman has screamed his request, "Would you mind lending me a quid, I'm broke," loud enough so that a dictionary weilding German understands each single word, the man with the Deutsch tongue could be forgiven for mistranslating the word "mind," not finding the word "quid" at all and then finally glancing curiously at the Englishman's body to find out exactly which part is broken.

These language faux pas are, for me at least, the best parts of learning a language. A couple of weeks ago, a student completed an exercise I had given him and read out in front of the class with a completely straight face, "A mechanic is a person who works in a factory and screws on machines." Now, that's not exactly a perfect definition and sadly the student still doesn't know this as I was trying to hard to control my laughter rather than correct him. However my favourite is from a friend who was having dinner with her Spanish boyfriends family and innocently requested "pechuga de polla." The mother, to her credit, simply smiled and said "are you sure you want polla? not pollo?" A quick dictionary inspection later revealed her initial request to be for "breast of cock" (in the penis sense) and not chicken breast as she'd hoped for.

These embarrasing moments aside, English speakers have fantastic potential to learn other European languages. Due to English being a mixed Germanic and Latin language, with a simple a change of pronounciation we can be fluent in Spanglish when in Madrid, Franglais in Paris and Denglish in Berlin. As Eddie Izzard said, we just need to get out there and mix it up a little bit...

Adventurous Travel at Home - Vantastic

whippin_picadilly — Fri, 17 Jul 2009 23:17:00 GMT

"You Want to See Sahara?" (Part One)

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 19:41:00 GMT

The alarm startles me into a state of semi-consciousness. I focus through bleary eyes just enough to make out a 5, followed by some numbers, before collapsing back onto the bed with frightening velocity. I contemplate hitting the snooze button, reassuring myself that if god had intended me to be awake at this hour then surely he would have switched the sun on. However this is Morocco and the almighty sings from a different hymn sheet, or at least his disciples do. Aided by lofty, Sony surround sound minarets, the mosques wail across Marrakech, calling for the faithful to say morning to Allah. Despite mustering all my psychic powers, I fail to mentally hit the mosques giant snooze button and I’m slowly brought into a state of logical thought. Blessed by this, it dawns on me that I’d set my alarm for a reason and that the minutes are slowly ticking away until the departure of my Sahara bound tour bus.

I reluctantly remove the bed covers and the December chill instantly penetrates my bones. I sheepishly skip over the icy cold tiled floor and into the bathroom where the temperature puts me in mind of a documentary about penguins in Antarctica. It’s with a degree of hope that I turn on the hot water for the shower, knowing full well that despite being assured yesterday of the existence within the premises of this North African luxury, the likelihood of actually steaming up the bathroom mirror is slim. After 5 minutes of waiting for anything other than liquid ice to come through I decide to brave it. I immediately regret the decision. As the first droplets land on exposed skin, I lose control of my vocal cords and every following wave of cold water over my body is accompanied by a small involuntary wail. Vital organs quickly retract as though running in defeat from a far superior enemy and my skin turns milky white as the blood drains away. Just before losing consciousness, I stumble out of the shower and attempt to dry myself with yesterdays still soggy and slightly frozen towel. After achieving a state of dryness somewhere between dripping wet and damp, I throw on as many clothes as possible and reluctantly stuff the towel into the top of my rucksack, knowing full well the exuberant odour which will subsequently fester.

I tip-toe out of my room onto the balcony above the hostel’s inner courtyard and begin a tentative search for both the staircase and a light switch. I quickly give up on the latter and instead make my way down the narrow, pitch black set of stairs. Swiping my foot across every step first for fear of treading on a cat, for I know from experience that Moroccan cats carry the label “domesticated” only loosely. Were I to inadvertently rouse one into a state of anger on a dark staircase, the ensuing battle could only result in feline victory. Progress is slow until a previously unknown 40 watt bulb bursts into life overhead. Through the glare I make out the generously wrinkled proprietor watching me from the bottom of the staircase with a look somewhere between weariness and pity. She lightens me of my room key before ushering me out the door and slamming it behind me with nary a goodbye nor bon voyage. Clearly too early for hospitality.

I shuffle along the narrow alleyway, bordered on both sides by high sandstone walls, and onto one of the medina’s main thoroughfares. Normally the human traffic, food stalls, donkeys, beggars and open throttled scooters make for an assault course style stroll but, at five in the morning, the street is completely deserted. The relative squalor revealed by the streets emptiness is both visually and nasally impressive. I’m left pondering over the thought that only yesterday I was happily gorging on a mammoth sandwich from a street stall which, at the time seemed quite convivial, but now had an overwhelming aroma of cat piss and an abundance of top grade donkey shit. I forge on undeterred and, after a brief but unintended barter with a taxi driver and an offer of “spacey” marijuana from a shady character in a doorway, make it to my bus on time.

Despite the abundance of clothing, I’m still shivering from the cold as I board the bus. It’s with some hesitance but real necessity that I rearrange my scarf and hat to cover most of my face. However the mujahideen look isn’t such a good idea anywhere in the world, let alone a Muslim part, so I opt for some giant aviator sunglasses to give some Western Yin to the Eastern Yang. My fashion balancing act leaving me looking like Taleban in Los Angeles.

The bus is soon out of the city and after half an hour we’re ascending into the Atlas mountains. The landscape steadily changing from a patchwork of fertile fields into a strange Arabic-European alpine hybrid. The trees become more European in appearance and the snow takes away any idea that I’m in North Africa, yet the human marks on the landscape are a stark contrast. Clusters of simple, muddy looking houses, clinging to a mountainside or surrounding the tower of a mosque and any roadside activity near these settlements is normally of the “man & donkey” variety. We stop at a café somewhere high in the mountains and a handful of locals are given the visual spectacle of 16 Europeans shivering to death whilst trying to drink Berber tea. Inside the café, I give an example to Eurocrats in Brussels of how multi-lingual business should really be done by enquiring about the price of biscuits in a mixture of “Franglais,” “Spanglish,” pigeon English and a final splash of Arabic. My Moroccan counterpart in the bargaining process, failing to fully appreciate the linguistic benchmark that we’re setting, refuses to budge from his lofty 6 euro asking price for a packet of biscuits and I board the bus clutching only some dry bread.

We roll on through the mountains and slowly the snow starts to recede. Two hours after the café stop the temperature has climbed to 20C and we’re driving along palm fringed roads with occasional kasbahs offering some architectural style on the landscape. We stop for lunch in Ouarzazate and I remember why I hate doing organised tours when the bus driver gives us a strict two hour limit in town. A mere 120 minutes to find edible food, lose money to the locals and see or experience something noteworthy. It’s a challenge…

Kaffee und Kuchen

whippin_picadilly — Wed, 1 Oct 2008 06:45:00 GMT

Seldom am I tempted to travel long distances purely for food. There are of course exceptions, like the legendary Mrs Macs meat pie from Western Australia which, purely for the pastry and gravy alone, I might actually consider walking over hot coals and simultaneously sacrificing small woodland creatures, but as a general rule I try and avoid lengthy trips solely for culinary purposes. Taking this latter point into consideration, you may then understand my mild confusion as to why, on a wet, Friday evening whilst whizzing down the Cologne bound Autobahn at a velocity previously unknown to this Scotsman at ground level, I find myself feeling strangely excited at the prospect of my impending Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee & cake) weekend in a friends cosy, familial abode somewhere in the depths of Rhineland-Palatinate.

I must at this point confess that, if you were to put a map of Germany in front of me right now, my fingers would scan searchingly across the it, much in the same manner as a blind man reading brail, and would likely never find the said Bundesland of Rhineland-Palatinate. In fact, unless a city is on the coast or near the edge of the country, it will probably elude the geography department of my goldfish like memory for all eternity. This is unfortunately the same with most other populous nations boasting a hectic central core. England for example is jam-packed with industrious communities at its heart and yet, were I to try and pick out Birmingham or Leeds it would be like Stevie Wonder playing pin the tail on the donkey. But I diverge…

Of course the coffee and cake aren’t my only reasons for heading into the German heartland, the opportunity to visit Cologne and take in the visual splendour of Germany’s countryside are also important, but the sweet homemade delicacies which had been promised in advance definitely hold a lofty position on my list of expectations for the weekend.

After six hours of Autobahn driving we pull up outside my friend’s home in the town of Brachbach. I stumble out of the car and attempt to make use of my sleeping legs. It’s almost 2am and, despite being a novice with German culture, I’m pretty sure that it’s too late for my first slice of sugary sweetness. We head inside, are greeted by the parents and immediately offered some refreshments and sustenance in the form of coffee and cake. A smile starts to creep across my face, I love these people already. Just as my head starts to nod and my belly rumble, my ears catch wind of my fellow weary travellers saying “nein danke...” Unfortunately the curse of coming from a culture which classes having a biscuit with your tea as mildly excessive means that, despite hankering for cake, if nobody else is having some then I can’t either. A British mental barrier that I will sadly never overcome and no amount of counselling can help. As such, an hour later I find myself tucked up in bed with beer in my belly and cakes drifting into my dreams.

The next morning we all take up residence at the dining table for a big German breakfast of meat, cheese, dark weighty bread and gallons of coffee before making our way to the station for the Cologne train. I spend the hour long journey watching the landscape roll by through a dirty, rain-drop smeared window. It’s a bleak, grey day outside and the generous lathering of industry in this part of Germany combines with the weather to create a dull depressive atmosphere. However the downbeat feeling is soon swept aside and replaced by an excited state of anticipation as we enter the city. Never in my life have my nostrils been so open in expectation when stepping off a train. As the place which gave it’s name to macho perfume, I have, for years, believed that Cologne must be a musky but pleasant smelling metropolis. And as such, during the languorous meander from the platform to the central plaza outside the station my nose is pointed skywards and my nostrils to the fore as I waft Cologne in, so to speak.

My sniffing is soon halted by the sight of Cologne’s hefty gothic cathedral parked right outside the station. The main square surrounding this impressive, twin-towered piece of religious brickwork looks like it has been designed with a concrete football pitch in mind. Such is the contrast between the two that the cathedral looks slightly out of place and ill-fitting, despite of course being more visually appealing. We head inside to see if the innards are as impressive. After passing through the large arched doorway we’re immediately confronted by a sea of camera-happy tourists shuffling over every imaginable square foot of the open space. I spy a corner with a table of tea-tree candles flickering happily beneath some sculpted religious scenes and I involuntarily shuffle over and start taking pictures. Normally when I’m surrounded by tourists going trigger happy with their umpteen mega pixels I can’t bear the thought of taking my camera out and being one of the crowd but for some reason this moment is different. Maybe subconsciously I feel the need to be part of a bigger entity whilst in a religious building and, as I’d rather read a Lonely Planet than a Bible, I subsequently open my arms and camera lens to the tourist brethren.

We soon move onto a communal pilgrimage of sorts, marching upwards in a spiralling fashion, our aim being the top of the cathedrals towers. The staircase boasts over 500 steps, all of which lead you in a never ending clockwise twirling ascent. They’re the kind of stairs where if you were to take the roof off the cathedral and look down, you’d be faced with a large concrete washing machine with people inside on a very slow and tightly packed spin. Upon emerging from the cycle at the top, not only are you greeted by some impressive, heaven bound spires but also a generous helping of wire mesh hindering every possible view point. This leaves me slightly unnerved as, in my mind, there are only two possible reasons why the wire is there. Either the cathedral is a popular spot for suicide cases looking for an adrenalin rush before a squishy end or the birds of Cologne are very possessive of their airspace and the pilgrims need to be protected.

Now, if I were to lose my lust for life and thus see no future, I don’t think I’d put myself through a rigorous 500 step, spinning workout before leaping off a tower to meet my maker. I haven’t given suicide much thought but I imagine if I had to then I’d go for a much easier way that doesn’t leave a stain on the pavement. And so with this in mind I’m grateful for wire mesh, despite it hindering an otherwise clear view down towards the Rhine and central Cologne, for I do not wish to have my eyes pecked out by a demonic crow.

After 10 minutes of wandering around the top and reading the graffiti etched onto the historic walls we make for the stairs again. Going down is far more interesting than the upward slog as not only do you have the benefit of the wider side of the triangular, “wedge of cake style” stairs, complete with a banister and little windows, but also you get to watch others struggling whilst going up. About two thirds of the way down we pass an Indian family and for one of the uncles it is clearly a little too claustrophobic. He had stopped dead in his ascent and clung to the wall much in the same manner as a 3^rd class passenger to a lifeboat on the titanic. He doesn't look as if he's going anywhere in a hurry and so I refrain from telling him about the remaining 300 steps.

We stumble dizzily onto the streets outside the cathedral and weave our way down towards the Rhine. The sky is still hanging low like a grey blanket over the city and it makes the Rhine look suspiciously murky and unappealing. The tourist ferries are, however, still doing a bustling trade and the bars and restaurants near the river front are packed with happy, contented folks. There’s a weird feeling of seasonal confusion as the summer joggers bounce along the riverside promenade but in amongst the bars there is a Christmassy twinkle to the lights and the sense of an approaching winter as some outdoor drinkers sport scarves and various other winter regalia.

We walk along the water front before meandering into the old town and enjoying the sudden transformation in architecture. Such was the destruction of many German cities during the war, Cologne included, that in the post-war reconstruction period, architects who seemed to be primarily inspired by shoeboxes and concrete, were given free reign to design a new city. And so it is that when you suddenly find yourself in a world of cobbled streets and narrow lanes away from the modern Cologne of grey, square boxes it’s a highly unexpected pleasure. I find a beer museum on a side street but decide not to go in for fear of spending the entire day there. Instead I content myself with a quick photograph before continuing the exploration of the old world. We wander up a small narrow lane and step out into a large rectangular square the size of a football pitch. It’s surrounded on all four sides with bars and restaurants and when faced with such a plethora of establishments boasting beer taps, it’s difficult to say no. A small but refreshing Kölsch beer is soon quaffed and a plan of action is hatched involving a tour of the main shopping street, followed by a consolidation of drinking activity in the Cölner Hofbräu.

We subsequently do our best to enjoy a relaxing amble down Cologne’s main shopping thoroughfare but the density of shoppers means that it feels more like dodgeball than a leisurely stroll. By the time we reach the end of the street I’m more than happy to dive into the aforementioned beer house. As I step through the front door I have a strange sense of having been here before. However it’s not until we’ve ordered a round of beers from the particularly smarmy waiter that I realise this place is exactly like a small version of Munich’s legendary kitsch Hofbräu Haus, except here there are no buxom waitresses or lederhosen clad oompah band.

Another distinct difference being that in Bavaria a litre of beer will lighten your pocket to the tune of €7 whilst in this particular establishment you are bestowed a mere 200ml’s for €3. Now, maths is most definitely not my forte but when it comes to beer related numericals I know when I’m being had. However love, money and logic do not always mix well and as such I find myself ordering a second with a view to possibly stealing a glass. The waiter, a perfect example of arrogance personified, seems to be able to read my thoughts on this small matter of theft and he eyes me cautiously for the remainder of my patronage. He flicks a quick smirk as we leave and I instantly regret not smearing the table with mustard and accidentally spilling the salt and pepper.

Despite the unique brand of service in the bräuhaus, we’re in a happy, buoyant mood as we hop down the steps next to the cathedral and make our way over the plaza del concrete and on into central station. A quick scan of the departures board reveals that we are an hour too early and so we retreat back to the steps by the cathedral and join the youth of Cologne lazing outside in the weak autumnal sunshine. The hour soon passes and I’m slightly amazed at how quickly it disappears. Sitting on your backside doing nothing for 60 minutes should, by definition be boring. But when confronted with a large area packed with people happily minding their own business and shuffling from one unknown destination to the next, it takes on a zoo like quality. I had even started to think about information boards for some of the more permanent members of the exhibition. Nothing too fancy, maybe just a brief definition of the word “emo” or perhaps the daily habits and routines of an average tramp. It could be Cologne’s newest tourist attraction with guides and an interactive corner where you can prod at a drunken hobo. The kids will love it…

However I’m soon whisked away from my grand venture by one of Deutsche-Bahn’s double-decker trains and left to ponder what could have been. The landscape outside is slowly being covered by a veil of darkness and by the time we reach my friends house in Brachbach there is a definite chill in the air. His house looks warm and inviting from outside and as we step through the front door into a sea of warmth I hear those beautiful words, “Kaffee und Kuchen?”

Gallery: Germania

whippin_picadilly — Thu, 4 Sep 2008 19:04:00 GMT

Teutonic

The Woes Of An Addict (Part One)

whippin_picadilly — Thu, 4 Sep 2008 18:23:00 GMT

Travel is an addiction. It’s as simple as that. It shares with drug abuse and alcoholism all the major addiction symptoms. Withdrawal effects, desire for a bigger and better highs and, quite often, no real control over ones actions.

This latter point is very much on my mind as I sit in my Hamburg apartment, glued to my computer, scanning the outskirts of the city on Google maps. It’s a beautiful 30C summers day outside, there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the majority of the populace are doing the right thing by lounging in parks, relaxing and generally enjoying a lazy day. I, on the other hand, am hatching a plan involving four train rides, kilometres of physical labour on a bicycle and a morbid tourist attraction in the form of Neuengamme concentration camp. Like I say, it’s an addiction…

My tourist attraction of choice is actually so far from the city that it’s completely off my Hamburg map and as such I desperately resort to scribbling a route from Google onto a piece of paper. I turn the computer off, get myself ready and head off. I study my home-made map as I lock the front door and realise it looks like a treasure map drawn by a retarded pirate. The possibility of getting lost in suburbia looks quite likely.

I walk out of the apartment block into a wall of heat and make my way to the U-Bahn (underground) station. It’s an easy 2 minute cycle but by the time I get there I feel disgustingly hot and sticky. I take comfort from the chap standing next to me at a pedestrian crossing, his light grey t-shirt informs the world just how hot it is by being almost entirely dark grey with sweat. I haul my bike up the station stairs and onto the platform. A train pulls up almost immediately and I inwardly thank the public transport gods for the efficiency of the Germans. Three stops later I’m at Berliner Tor station and looking to change onto a suburbia bound S-Bahn train. I get lost in the myriad of tunnels and I’m forced to surface onto street level to hunt down the different section of the station.

I manage to find the adjacent S-Bahn quite easily but, my pride in my own simple accomplishments is soon shattered by the realisation that by breaking away from the rest of the human traffic, I’ve made myself more vulnerable to attacks from the clip-board and question wielding fraternity. I’m accosted at the entrance by a Frau armed with the board, a pen and a plethora of guilt inducing scenarios complete with monetary solutions stemming from my bank account. Being very aware of my own financial plight, it crosses my mind to strike the first blow and ask her for money but instead I claim complete ignorance of the German language and, with an apologetic look, walk straight past her. She shouts questions at me in fluent English and we have an increasingly distant conversation as I continue walking towards the platform.

The train arrives after a couple of minutes, I wheel my bike on and realise that outside it’s 30C but inside the compartment it’s 40C. Everyone looks like they're being cooked. It dawns on me that these carriages are almost completely air-tight for rain protection (Hamburg’s normal weather) and little thought has been given to the occasional hot summer’s day. Only two small windows at the front can be opened and air-conditioning is non-existent. Death by public transport, a novel idea…

The train driver announces each station we arrive at, but he does so with a very distinctive muffle, as though he might be eating socks for lunch. I resort to counting the number of stops to go instead of trying to understand what he might be saying. I slide off the train after 10 minutes of baking, 3 kilograms lighter and with a thoroughly soaked t-shirt, confirm that I can count by checking I’m at the right station and then make for the streets. As I walk out into the sunshine and hop onto my bike, I realise that my hastily drawn and increasingly retarded looking map has no directions from the station itself. Brushing any doubt about my navigation skills aside, I set off in search of the first street on my map. I quickly make my presence felt amongst the locals as I free-wheel along on the wrong side of the pavement. At least I think that’s why the old women are scowling at me. Or maybe I’m on the wrong side of the street too? Perhaps it’s a no cycle zone? Do I need a license to ride a bike in Germany? This is after all the spiritual home of bureaucracy. Whatever the reason behind the scowls, I flash them a big toothy smile that I hope they interpret as “Feck off crinkly!”

I find my first road on the treasure map after a brief but extensive tour of the local vicinity and I’m soon fighting my way past roadworks, building sites and throngs of shoppers. Not the leisurely country amble I had envisioned. I persevere nevertheless, perhaps because the idea of getting back on a sauna train so soon strikes sweaty fear into my core, and I’m soon wheeling my way down a large but mainly empty thoroughfare, skirted on either side by red brick houses, more reminiscent of Manchester than Germany. After 5 minutes of brisk pedalling I reach a sign for Neuengamme. I swing right onto the long straight countryside road toward the camp and begin my 6km slog in the afternoon heat…

Au Revoir

whippin_picadilly — Wed, 2 Jan 2008 18:20:00 GMT

And so it is. The time to take the Scotland flag off of the back of the ambassador shack has come. It’s an emotional moment. I’m tempted to try and runaway with the van and make tracks towards Alice Springs but it’s not exactly the kind of vehicle that you can hide in. Instead I have to hand her back and let some more smelly travellers enjoy her oil thirsty ways. And as I’m slightly lost for words here I’ll keep this short. Thanks to World Nomads for entrusting me with the van and all the gizmos that come with it, thanks to the folks who have left comments and, once again, thank you to Arnotts for making Tim Tams.

Happy Travels

Stuart

Life In The Southern Shires

whippin_picadilly — Sun, 30 Dec 2007 17:33:00 GMT

The MCG empties and thousands of cricket fans pour onto the streets of central Melbourne. At exactly the same time, Andy and I hit the streets of the CBD and the van takes on the role of a driving billboard. It’s an advertiser’s wet dream. We take the wrong lane and are forced to do two lengthy trips down Flinders Street where we subsequently subject thousands of people to the bright colours and company logos on the ambassador van. Not content with dazzling only the cricket fans, we roll past Flinders Street Station in the heart of the city and subject all and sundry to the visual advertising feast. We’re soon travelling down St Kilda Road and, as the road splits into three different sections, I suddenly remember why I hate driving in Melbourne. The two outside parts are for ordinary driving but the central sector looks like a battleground between car & tram, a scary prospect that has only one possible outcome and as such I stick to the outside lanes.

We make it to my friend’s house in Albert Park, unhindered by tram aggression, and soon make a beeline for the Espy in St Kilda. For those not in the know, the Esplanade Hotel, better known as the Espy, is a Melbourne drinking institution. With a funky interior, an assortment of ripped leather furnishings, a kitchen for those with the munchies and enough cool people to open a nightclub next door strictly for the hip and trendy, it’s a pub that’s shouting out to be drunk in. We spend the next couple of hours pretending to be cool in a corner of the Espy kitchen before retiring in true pensioner fashion around 10.30pm.

The following morning, Andy, myself and Nicole (the friend in Albert Park), hit the highway in the direction of Gippsland and more specifically, Leongatha. Despite being on the road to Wilsons Promontory, not many tourists stop in the Gatha and it clings onto its traditional country town feel. My only reason for venturing into this part of rural Victoria is that I know a very hospitable chap named Ernie who lives on a property a few k’s from town. We met in a pub in Bairnsdale a couple of years ago and after a few beers he asked if my girlfriend and I would like to look after his farm whilst he went to Sydney for the weekend. A lasting friendship was subsequently born and I’m now a huge fan of the Gatha and this corner of Australia.

An hour or so after leaving the busy streets of Melbourne, we get to Ernie’s place. I start to have one of those surreal moments where it feels like the two year period since I was last here was just a dream. Ernie is exactly how I remember him, the property is pretty much the same and the only hint of change is that Skipper the Labrador is slightly more spherical. And like many of my friendships with Australians, we pick up where we left off by going for a few beers.

After a thorough session of refreshment at a local hotel, we head back to Ernie’s and the BBQ is fired up. As food is piled onto the barbie, I start to feel sorry for Nicole. She’s a vegetarian but the hot plate is starting to look like a buffet for a carnivore’s convention. Whilst she’s waiting for a space to open up on the barbie for her veggie sausages, we head around to the back of the house in time for the sunset. I perch myself on top of a fence post and go trigger happy with the camera. It’s a stunning sight as the sky turns bright orange and the rolling hills in the foreground become silhouetted. It’s the kind of scenery that makes some people go all philosophical. Just as I’m about to put forward my theories on life, love and the reasoning behind why opal fruits were changed to starburst, an engine roars in the background and Andy comes flying up to the fence on a quad bike. I contemplate my options, admire the scene or jump onto the growling four wheeled monster. It’s an easy choice.

Seconds later I’m flying across fields on the back of the bike with Andy seemingly going over every large bump he can find in order to send my backside skywards. It works to the point where my bum loses contact with the bike and I’m clinging on by my finger tips. Andy stops the bike and I manage to convince him to let me go solo. I’m soon ripping open the throttle to the point where it sounds like the bike is about to explode. This isn’t to say that I’m going very fast, far from it. I’m just having great difficulties getting the thing out of first gear. My masculine credentials take a swift nosedive as I stall in a distant corner of a far-away field. Andy starts to make his way over to help out but is no doubt simultaneously preparing a barrage of verbal abuse toward my girly driving skills. I manage to stop him in his tracks by getting the bike started again and I’m soon screaming over the freshly cut field in second gear, my man credentials thoroughly restored. We eventually put the bike to bed and spend the rest of the evening quaffing cold beers and munching on snags, a sufficiently Australian evening.

I wake up the next morning, slightly hung-over and once again feeling like a Christmas turkey on slow bake. At the risk of sounding like a meteorological geek, the winds have changed and Victoria is basking in glorious outback heat from the north. As such the van is stiflingly hot all night and I’m more than happy when we hit the road toward the coast and Wilsons Promontory National Park. At this time of year accommodation in the Prom is scarce. Allocation of summer holiday camping spaces apparently works on a ballot system beginning as early as August and when I call to find out if there’s any space for one little campervan the park ranger on the other end of the line scoffs in laughter at me. We head down anyway. An hour later we’re sitting looking at the large digital sign at the park entrance stating that the Tidal River campground is full for the next month. I decide to try “the ignorant tourist” routine. We drive up to the ranger booth and I ask in as strong a Scottish accent as is understandably possible if there are any camping spaces. The girl looks at me and then the van. Within 2 minutes we have a camping spot. Ignorance is bliss!

We reach Tidal River, park up and head straight down to Norman beach for a refreshing dip. The water is, to put it nicely, significantly chillier than what I’ve become accustomed to up in Queensland. It is however just as picturesque as anything you’ll find up in the sunshine state. A long white beach with aquamarine water lapping gently at the sand, bordered at both ends by rocky headlands and the dominating presence of Mount Oberon in the background. It’s a scene that sells a thousand postcards. After 15 minutes in the water my nether regions feel sufficiently frozen to justify a lengthy spell of sun-baking on the beach. I get out and lay on the rocks just beyond the sand. The hole in the o-zone layer above quickly wreaks havoc with my pasty European skin and I’m forced into fleeing back to the campground for some shady relaxation. I feel like I should be doing something adventurous and exciting but the heat is making me lethargic and I use up the last of my energy reserves on a gigantic crossword before slipping into a mild unconsciousness in the back of the van. I wake up a short while later with Andy shouting at me to look at something. I rub my eyes into focus and see 3 men fighting with a gas bottle which has burst into flames. Their buckets of water make no real effect and it takes a chap wielding a fire-extinguisher to save the day.

I decide to take this moment as a sign that I should get out of my slumber and out into the Prom. Andy gets some fishing gear together and we make tracks towards the beach to watch the sunset and for Andy to try his luck with the local marine life. After some serious barefoot rock climbing, we’re out on one of the headlands with a rod in the water and the sky turning a pinky purple colour. The mountains behind have become dark and broody and the whole scene is stunning. As the light fades I become a bit concerned about traversing the rocks in the dark and I convince myself that I’ll end up stranded on the headland overnight. I’m almost convinced that I’ll be waking up in the morning with a snake nibbling curiously on a limb until I notice that the tide has gone out far enough to make it possible to walk back across the sand instead of having to hone my rock-climbing skills in darkness. We make it back to the campground and have to flee into the safety of the van as the mosquitoes attack in numbers. The night ends with the crossword unfinished.

The second and unfortunately final day in the Prom is a far more active one. We set off from Tidal River around midday and follow the 2.5km track across to Squeaky Beach. The trail still shows signs of the bushfires from a couple of years ago and seems a little devoid of wildlife. We see a couple of parrots perched in a tree, one of which sports an excellently ginger floppy Mohican, and one blue-tongued lizard sneaking through the undergrowth but other than that there’s little activity on the animal front. The views make up for this though and it’s spectacular looking down toward the bays and beaches. We clamber around the giant rocks at the southern end of the bay before walking the length of Squeaky beach. It’s the last surf beach I’ll be seeing in Australia for a while and I try to make the most of it. After taking in as much of the salty scene as possible, we retrace our steps back to Tidal River. There’s a monotonous 3 hour drive back to Melbourne ahead of us and the day is pushing on. It should be a sad moment when I catch my last glimpse of the bay but I know I’ll be back at some point. The Prom has that effect on you…

Hazy Days Of The City Hopper

whippin_picadilly — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 15:40:00 GMT

During the week prior to my departure for far and distant Australian shores I watched a lot of Globe Trekker on the Travel Channel. One such day I found myself glued to the TV watching the afore-mentioned show and for a change it wasn’t because the lovely Megan McCormack was presenting it. Instead, it was a different American traveller showing the world what Sydney has to offer. She said that practically every budget traveller stays in Kings Cross, lazes on Bondi Beach and aspires to climbing the Harbour Bridge. I felt special. Despite spending, accumulatively, around a month in Sydney I had never been to the two spots mentioned and had never really felt like hauling my backside up the old coat-hanger shaped bridge. This time in Sydney was different, in the Bondi sense, as I decided to base myself in the beachside suburb. Mainly due to the fact that two school friends live there but also to see what all the fuss is about.

I subsequently spent the next 3 days living a routined life more reminiscent of a package tourist than the independent, adventurous, charming, quick-witted and, if I may say so, extremely desirable traveller that I have become over the years. The 72 hours merged into a hazy memory of bacon & egg breakfasts, afternoon excursions, drinks of an evening and British & Irish accents around every corner. As excellent as it is to have a cooked breakfast every morning, it just doesn’t make for a good travel blog. It does however set you up nicely for the afternoon adventures, the first of which being the popping of my body boarding cherry.

Walking down Bondi road toward the beach with a board under your arm, the sun shining and not a care in the world leaves you with one of those permanent Cheshire cat grins that are difficult to remove. The beach was stunning, packed with enough beautiful people to back my ugly Australia theory nicely and the surf was absolutely perfect. I spent around 2 hours in the water but only managed to catch two decent waves. For me though it was more than enough. I’m not usually the type to venture into the sea as my brain has a tendency to play the Jaws theme tune and leave me with ever so slightly soiled underwear. So to be body boarding at Bondi was a beautiful moment.

The second day’s afternoon adventure saw me visiting some old haunts in the south of the city. I drove down to Kurnell on Botany Bay with my friend Andy (the Tim-Tam volunteer) and paid a visit to some folks who I stayed with the last time I was on this side of the planet. It turned out to be an excellent idea as after a long meander along the rocky shores of Botany Bay national park, we were fed an excellent roast dinner and plied with boutique beers from Byron Bay. We were both left with fixed grins after devouring our first roast dinner in months. Another beautiful moment.

On Christmas day, after a pig and chicken based breakfast, I walked with Andy down to the rocks at Bondi, passing hundreds of Irish people outside the catholic church clad in Gaelic football shirts, and spent some of the morning perched upon a rock watching the crowds go by. This was followed by an ambitiously priced Christmas lunch at a hotel by the beach and a long afternoon of killing brain cells with the assistance of the Hunter Valleys “finest” red wine. The party animal in me died around 5pm and I was ready for bed by 7pm.

So despite having an excellent three days in Sydney, my cholesterol level and liver are happy setting off from the city today. Due to time being a commodity that I don’t have much of at the moment, I set off from Bondi, accompanied by Andy, with the target of being in Melbourne in two days time. After another brief and unintended tour of the city centre we’re on the highway heading west towards the Blue Mountains. We’re soon ascending into the green and pleasant little towns to the west of the city. The van struggles on some of the climbs and even my verbal encouragement can’t get more power from third gear. We eventually reach Katoomba and head straight for Echo Point in order to get the classic holiday snap of the 3 sisters rock formation. The viewing point is heaving with camera-clutching tourists, I shouldn’t really complain as I’m one of them but it’s a natural reaction to think “bloody tourists…”

After a few happy snaps, including one of Andy almost playing full-on tonsil tennis with an Aboriginal guy who was busking with his didge, we continue westwards and get to Bathurst around an hour later. I make a sharp turn off the highway and after numerous roundabouts and several moments of self-doubt in the navigation department we reach the Mt Panorama racetrack. Famous for the V8 supercar races which take place here, the track is, for most of the year, a public road with a sedate 60km/h speed limit. I take a few photos of the van at the start line before jumping into the driver’s seat and making my assault on the track. I’d love to say that the speed limit went out the window and that a campervan has never looked so at home on a racetrack but I can’t. My verbal encouragement of third gear turns to abuse as the van huffs and puffs around the uphill first half of the course. As we start to downhill section the corners become much tighter and I’m left with my foot permanently on the break. By the time we get to the home straight, where illegal speeding becomes far more likely, there are three law-abiding cars plodding sluggishly in front of the van. We leave the track without having broken the law, I feel slightly disappointed.

The rest of the afternoon is spent abiding by the speed limits and making our way southward. We reach the town of Young by early evening and check into a campsite. I try and make some conversation with the woman behind the counter and her shifty looking man-friend but to no avail. They seem as if they want to talk but haven’t for so long that it’s a difficult process. I decide to spare them the pain and leave before someone hurts themselves. I settle in for the night with some beer and music and reflect over 3 festively hazy days in Bondi. I wonder if New Year in Melbourne will be similar? I could do with some more bacon & eggs…

The Tim-Tam Shooter

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 22:17:00 GMT

Southward Bound...

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 12:18:00 GMT

I don’t really believe in fate or the idea that you’re life is on a set course, but sometimes things present themselves in a way that you just have to accept as the way it’s meant to be. As I’m sitting on the internet, pouring over maps on Google, trying to decide which route I should take to Sydney, my phone rings,

“Hello…”

“Ja, Hallo, is that Stoooart?”

“Guilty as charged…”

“Vot?”

“Sorry, yeah it is.”

“Ah good. Man, I saw your advert for the rideshare from Brisbane to Sydney.”

“Ah…Sorry chief, I’ve already left Brisbane.”

“Ja, OK. But I’m not in Brisbane.”

“Righto, so where are you then?”

“I’m in Byron Bay now.”

“You’re in Byron?”

“Jaaa…”

“So am I.”

“Shit man ja? Where in Byron are you?”

“I’m sitting in Global Gossip just now.”

“Cool man, I’m outside I’ll be there in a minute…”

And so it is.

The trip from Byron to Sydney was set to be my first spell in the ambassador shack on my own. As such I had begun to devise my own route from Sydney, safe in the knowledge that I didn’t have to justify to anyone my bizarre destination choices. For example, I was starting to get excited about visiting the villages around Glen Innes, simply for the place names. Dundee sits just north of Glen Innes and is the name of my hometown in Scotland. I share my surname with the village of Matheson to the west of town and on the eastern side is the excellently named Bald Knob. The photo opportunities were set to be endless.

However, with Adrian the Germans phone call, it all changed. He had to get to Sydney as soon as possible and I had to decide which option to go for, splitting the cost of fuel and going direct to Sydney in a day or following a newly found dream of having a dozen photos of me smiling outside different retail outlets such as “Bald Knob Butchers” etc. My nationality and our chance meeting forced me into deciding the former.

The day after our initial meeting I find myself pulling the van into the potholed car park at the Arts Factory in Byron to pick up Adrian. As I park up I can’t see any sign of him. I jump out and head into the backpacker ghetto. I pass reception and head into the backyard area where backpackers in various stages of consciousness lay in hammocks. I see Adrian walking towards me, dripping wet and smiling inanely.

“Hey chief, good to go?”

“Ja. Man, let me just get my shit together and I’m ready. I’ll be two minutes man…”

We leave 45 minutes later. Adrian is still buzzing after a big night on the goon and only one hour sleep. He has the same kind of budgie-like chatter and enthusiasm of the crowd from the Normanby Hotel in Brisbane and I find it difficult to make an impact on the conversation aside from smiling and nodding. After half an hour we reach Ballina, Adrian spies an Aldi and we stop for a wurst fix (it sounds very stereotypical but it’s true!). Once back on the highway he swiftly passes out and it stays this way for the majority of the 750k’s south to Sydney. There’s a brief half-hour spell where we have a conversation which involves Adrian’s theory that English will be dead as a world language in 10 years time and that mandarin will become the new international tongue. I mull it over for a while but can’t picture Belgians & Brazilians chatting to each other on a Southeast Asian beach in mandarin…

As we approach Sydney it’s almost dusk and the sky is stunning. The entire scene looks as though it’s been painted and it gives the drive a surreal feel. We reach the city edges and I deposit the snoozing German in the northern suburbs. I head toward the city, all alone in the van for the first time since I picked it up in Cairns. It’s a strange feeling and I compensate for the silence by cranking up the stereo and singing like a drunken Japanese karaoke king. I reach the north shore area and turn on the radio, subconsciously wanting to hear someone’s voice. I find triple M at the exact point they start playing Sunsets by Powderfinger. For the past two weeks this song has been my soundtrack for travelling down the Queensland coast and as it plays it feels like a chapter in my travel story has come to an end. I start to feel emotional. I give myself a slap and quickly realise that I don’t have time to reminisce as I’ve taken the wrong lane and I’m headed into Sydney city centre. I’m supposed to be bound for Bondi but instead I’m steering the colourful little ambassador shack through the skyscraper lined streets of the CBD. I like to think that I have a decent sense of direction when it comes to making my way around Sydney but, like many other things in life, one-way systems confuse me a great deal. As such I find myself doing long, expansive laps of Hyde Park and surrounds before realising that I’m going round in circles. After covering most of the cities major roads, I manage to get the van on a street heading in the direction of Bondi. After ten minutes I’m out on Bondi road, parking the van and, like in Brisbane, exchanging g’days with a familiar face. I look at the odometer, 819k’s. I think I’ll be lazy at the beach tomorrow…

A Whistlestop Tour of Brisvegas

whippin_picadilly — Fri, 21 Dec 2007 14:25:00 GMT

The train is eerily quiet. The only noise is the high pitch squeal of the train wheels against the tracks, yet the carriage is packed with suburban types. It’s a sign that I’m in a city. It’s a bizarre concept that the more people you put in one place, the less they talk to each other. It’s a very un-Australian feeling, in fact it feels more like the UK as the clouds hang low and gray, threatening to open up at any moment. A few stops after I get on the train, a man in his mid-50s hops aboard and parks himself opposite me. I try not to stare, but it’s difficult. He’s wearing a tweed bonnet, a saggy yellowing vest with a pen clipped on, super short red shorts, high white socks and black, velcro-strap trainers. He looks very confused but, at this point, still in control of himself. I start to wonder how long it will be before he begins his unsuccessful train hijack attempt using the broken umbrella that he’s carrying.

The train pulls into Brunswick St Station and I get up to leave, hobo hijacker follows. He’s standing directly behind me and I’m convinced it’s only a matter of time before the back of my head feels the full brunt of a flying umbrella. I’m pleasantly surprised when the doors open and I step down onto the platform unhindered. I turn around and see him disappear into the crowd, which is quite an achievement considering his attire. I head up a set of stairs from the platform and come out into a large shopping mall where I proceed to spend the next 10 minutes lost, trying to figure out where the exit to the outside world is. I walk past a woman wearing a blue t-shirt with a large tourist information logo on it and “airport assistance” written across the back. I panic. Is Brisbane just one huge indoor shopping mall connected all the way out to the airport? I start following random people, hoping they know the way out. It dawns on me that I might be following people heading for the toilets and that I’ll subsequently look like a pervert as I stand looking confused and shifty outside a toilet cubicle. I decide to keep following anyhow and the decision eventually pays off as I stumble out onto Brunswick St mall.

Pleased to be in the outside world, I make my way up the mall toward Ann St and the city. As I’m nearing the opposite end of the street, hobo hijacker comes darting out of a shopping arcade, minus his umbrella and looking shiftier than ever. I’m curious to know what he might be up to but decide not to follow him incase he’s toilet-bound. I make my way along Ann St and can’t help but admire the surroundings as the road gets closer to the city. The architectural juxtaposition of old cathedrals and Victorian public buildings surrounded by shiny new skyscrapers is a novelty for those from the old world. I get to Queen St mall and am slightly taken aback by the number of people out and about on a Tuesday afternoon. Is anyone actually at work in Brisbane other than shop assistants? The electronic, merry Christmas tunes from a million Santa toys in a discount store remind me that it’s the festive shopping period and so I make a beeline for a coffee break at Southbank instead of fighting the yuletide crowds. By this stage I feel like I’m acting out a Lonely Planet mini-itinerary for Brisbane as I’ve briefly covered Fortitude Valley, the CBD and now Southbank in a mornings meandering.

Caffeine fuelled, I make my way over to the botanic gardens and then into the Queensland Parliament. I find myself in a tour group consisting of me and a very enthusiastic chap from Hong Kong who satisfies every possible cliché about Asian tourists, including the standard Hubble telescope-esque camera lens. We make our way around a few grand and ornate rooms before getting to the main chamber. The guide explains a little about the proceedings then goes on to tell us how there are 59 MPs in the Queensland parliament and that getting them all together at one time is a logistical nightmare. Granted Queensland is a larger than Britain but I’m left wondering what he’d think about trying to get 650-odd MPs down to London from every corner of the UK. I try and ask him but he’s in full-swing with his own spiel and by the time he stops the moment has passed.

Upon emerging from the Parliament, I realise that in a lot of Lonely Planet suggested itineraries there is something about going to a trendy spot for a drink. I decide that trendy isn’t necessary but refreshment of the beer kind is. I find an Irish bar on Queen St mall and head in for a healthy dose of European culture. As I settle down with my Guinness and big screen TV showing Bordeaux v Marseille I instantly regret my choice of pub. Directly behind me is a group consisting of one girl and two guys. The girl is English and set to “constant smelly chat” mode. Her voice fills the bar and her stories of travelling Australia are never-ending. The two guys she’s with have glazed looks that suggest they haven’t spoken in hours. I do my best to block her voice out but sentences like, “yeah, the outback’s really difficult but like, the tour bus was good and so everyone should go…” go straight to the “judge on first impression” section of my brain.

I quickly finish my pint and make a swift exit before the two guys drop-dead and she directs her chat toward someone else. Once out on the street, I realise I need to find some yin to balance the yang of the smelly pub chat. I make my way to the supermarket, stock up on supplies and head back to the suburbs for a healthy dose of Australian barbeque culture. The perfect remedy…

The Bright Lights of Brisvegas

whippin_picadilly — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 17:30:00 GMT

After spending the majority of the past few weeks in the bush and small country towns, driving towards the bright lights of Brisbane is a daunting prospect. Four lane highways, skyscrapers and enough surrounding concrete to keep a Bangkok building developer happy, it’s definitely a change from the long open roads I’ve become accustomed to. Fortunately though, it’s Sunday afternoon and the roads are quiet as the majority of the populace laze at home in the suburbs. I decide to follow their lead and I head into the vast expanse of sprawling suburbia.

Like Ronald McDonald and his hamburger wenches, you’re never too far from an Australian person no matter what country you’re in. This means that most travellers will inevitably have a friend or two from the land down under. As a result, I’m now having one of those surreal travel moments where despite being on the other side of the planet I’m greeted by a familiar face as I pull the van into a sleepy side-street and park up. The last time I saw Joel was only two months ago when we caught up for a couple of beers in the highland village where I was working, yet as we stand and exchange g’days and manly handshakes it seems like a world away. He gives me a quick tour of his welcomingly cool, air conditioned home and then decides we should pick up where we left off and head out for a few sneaky ales.

Shortly after I’m standing in what sounds like an aviary fill with steroid fuelled budgies. It’s actually the Normanby Hotel and the budgies in question are young 20-somethings squawking away to each other over drinks. The place is packed and there must easily be over 500 people here, all committed to making the most of their weekend with a good Sunday sesh. As I’m standing in the queue for the bar I start to feel like the country bumpkin that I’ve turned into these last three weeks. I can’t remember the last time I saw so much bare flesh and cleavage, I don’t know where to look. I decide to stick to my innocent, rural ways and start taking in the overall scene instead of perving on the ladies. The crowd is pretty evenly split in terms of male and female but the guys generally look as though they’ve fallen out of bed whilst the women have pulled out all the stops with summer dresses and, collectively, a tonne of make-up. As my “taking in the overall scene” progresses to the ladies legs on show I realise that I’m subconsciously perving. I focus on my beer whilst I wait for Joel to come back from the ATM.

Within five minutes of being here, Joel’s met a couple of people he knows and we’re quickly part of a small group of drinkers. I soon become aware of the fact that this is the first bar I’ve been to in a long time where you can be sure that there are no other backpackers. It’s too far from the city for the rucksack-hauling fraternity to get to and as such I’m a little shocked to find that I feel out of my depth. Conversations with other travellers have a number of built in safety aspects. Even if you’re speaking with the most boring backpacker on the planet you can always ask, “Where are you going? Where have you been?” etc etc… So when the conversation among our band of drinkers turns to rugby league and obscure Aussie sporting legends, all I can do is smile and nod. One of Joel’s friends senses my status as a simple northern European, devoid of sporting knowledge in the Australian sense, and tries to bring me into the conversation by asking me about sport back home. However, as I start to talk about my football team and the Scottish Premier League, the blank faces looking back make me realise that my sport chat is the culinary equivalent of a kebab stall at a vegan convention. I decide to shut up.

Obviously scared by the possibility of another sporting contribution from myself, the conversation moves onto tales of drunken debauchery. I’m soon in tears of laughter as the stories flow and the drunks around us pitch in their own performances. One guy stumbles over and proclaims, “I’ve blown a thong, I need some fack’n tape…D’ya reckon they’ll ‘ave some at the bar?” He lurches forward before readjusting and swivelling round to the direction of the bar. Ten minutes later he’s back with a fresh beer and his thong/flip-flop wrapped on his foot with a liberal helping of Sellotape. A security man walks by and the drunk stops, puts his fists up and starts taunting him. The security man looks at him, laughs, pats him on the shoulder and then walks away smiling. In the UK, someone’s nose would be broken at this point.

We leave an hour or so later and I go in search of greasy beer munchies. I find myself in Dominoes haggling over the price of a large pizza, to my surprise it works and I leave with possibly the cheapest pizza in the city. As we head back to suburbia, I ponder over the night’s events and decide that I might try and haggle over a Big Mac tomorrow…

An Aimless Day at Hervey Bay

whippin_picadilly — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 12:41:00 GMT

I wake up, yet again, at 7.30am. I feel like a Christmas turkey on slow-bake. As soon as the morning sun is high enough to reach the top of the van, the velcro type material on the ceiling takes on the attributes of a nuclear oven. Every morning it’s a struggle contorting myself out of the coffin-like top bunk and out into the fresh air. Today’s picturesque scene that I stumble out of the van to is Torquay beach at Hervey Bay. After a minute or two of adjusting to the light, wiping the evenings drool from my face and then taking in the beachfront scenery, I start to think about what to do today. Using your brain at this time of the morning is difficult enough but it slowly dawns on me that I have no idea what I’m going to do with myself here. Hervey Bay is the jumping off point for trips to Fraser Island and also a good area for whale watching. However the whales are on their summer holidays at the moment, I’m not too sure where but probably somewhere with cheap fish and plenty of good-looking lady whales, and Fraser Island is off the cards for two reasons. Firstly, for matters of a fiscal nature and secondly because I need to leave some new things to see when I next come back to Australia. So with Fraser Island now on my “to do” list, joining other notable spots such as Karijini, the Bungle Bungles & Kakadu, I start my aimless day by heading to the campsite office to pay for the nights accommodation. I’m greeted by a wrinkly hag who has a receding hairline and all the friendliness of a Gestapo trained Alsatian. She does, however, have reason to be pissed off as she barks down the phone to Dave, “They’ve put a fack’n peg through the bloody water mains again…” I’m left wondering whether Australians have the longest tent pegs in the world or if perhaps they should have laid the pipes a little deeper.

Encouraged by my first interesting encounter of the day, I head into town to hunt down some breakfast. I settle for some gigantic bananas, the fluffiest white rolls you’ve ever seen and a mandatory iced coffee. I grab a copy of The Australian and head down to the beach for a munch and a read. As I’m trying to decipher the main sport headline, “Kiwis Call Tait a Chucker,” and the reasons behind why it’s souring relations between the two nations, a man with a shiny bald head swims into my field of vision. He’s about 20 metres out and swimming in a line parallel to the beach. He’s the only person in the water and the longer I watch him the louder the Jaws theme tune plays in my head. I start to envisage the reconstruction of the scene for the TV documentary on shark attacks with me as the main witness, my 15 minutes of fame at shiny heads expense. I decide it’s a price worth paying and start scanning the watery horizon in the hope of spotting a tell tale fin. Once again though, my toothy friend fails to make an appearance and I retire back to the campsite, albeit feeling a tad guilty for wishing harm on shiny head.

I spend the rest of the morning with my feet up and do my best to become accustomed to my new status as a man of leisure. Doing nothing is more difficult than you’d imagine and, in my opinion, achieving a status of contentment through merely sitting on your arse is a skill in itself. However, once achieved, there comes a point when you do have to extract yourself from your vegetative state and go out into the world. I head out onto the main drag and plod along before finding myself in a second hand bookshop, chatting with an extremely spherical gentleman who sports a superbly bushy, white moustache. He starts off the conversation with, “I bet you’re glad you’re not in France, they use bloody horse fat for frying the chips in McDonalds...” and this sets the tone for the ensuing fact filled conversation over the next 5 minutes. He tells me that he’s reading a book about the effect of eating at McDonalds all the time and I become aware of the fact that if I were in a movie, this would be the point where a little red devil Stuart would pop up on one shoulder and an angelic Stuart would appear on the other. Fortunately, angelic Stuart wins and I refrain from suggesting that he looks in the mirror in order to find out the books conclusion.

Perhaps it’s the guilt from thinking these nasty thoughts or maybe it’s my growing obsession with how I could grow a moustache as bushy as his, either way I feel the need to cut the conversation short and flee the premises. I head down to the beach, get my toes wet then take a long walk along the squeaky sand, complete with a very loud iPod. Shiny head is still swimming.

As darkness falls, the fruit-bats come out in search of tucker and the backpackers go out to hunt down beer. I’m in the busiest pub on the main street and surrounded by jiving middle-aged Australians, yet I feel like I’m part of some kind of European Parliament beer drinking committee. My drinking partners for the evening, representing Norway, Germany and The Netherlands at this beer summit, are less than impressed at the boogying on display and the music being pumped out by the hillbilly band. Of course, as the Scottish representative and a lover of all things Australia, I have mixed emotions about the scene in front of me. I’m inclined to agree that the 40 year olds in “Mrs Claus,” red furry Christmas outfits should put away their disco fingers but I can’t help singing along to the bands cover of the Cold Chisel classic, Khe Sanh. We spend the next few hours polishing off pots and schooners of XXXX Gold and then make a beeline for the only nightclub in a 100km radius. As we walk into the Koala club I almost go into cardiac arrest. The management are clearly expecting a large contingent of polar bears to be clubbing tonight and as such, the air conditioning is set to “Arctic” mode. It’s so cold that I could easily cut diamonds with my nipples. The freezing conditions are combined with a fly-paper like floor that makes it difficult to move around without losing your shoes. We get a beer and go in search of a semi-warm spot. There’s one corner where the air conditioning is broken and the temperature is a mild -10C, we settle in and start shivering. After 10 minutes everyone is borderline hypothermic and I’m sure my fingers are going black so we decide to call it a night. On the way back to the campsite, I spot a sign above a kebab shop advertising “Kebab, Potatoes, Ice Cream.” Do the polar bears pig out on potatoes after a big night?

As I contort myself back into the top bunk in the van, I’m left thinking about how strange the world can be. Or maybe it’s just Hervey Bay?