Touching foot in nineteen different countries scattered over three continents in the last six months, it is good to be back in my favorite corner of the world. While Jules Verne's Phileas Fogg may have done something similar in eighty, even with more than twice that time I often felt like I was moving too quickly and I can't help daydreaming about a similar trip in the future, but next time with an open-ended return date. I arrived in Edmonton yesterday after a direct flight out of London - a little less than nine hours in the air - and hung out with friends before crashing at night after more than twenty-five hours without sleep.
Besides seeing a few sights and gathering a few stories, what I have noticed in six months are the changes back here: Relationships have grown stronger or dissolved altogether, people have switched jobs and moved locations and of course the snow has left. All that, and I am just a guy with longer hair and a full passport. A friend said to me while I was traveling to soak it all in and not to consider what I might be missing if I was still back home; that the mundane is all that was going on. While the day-to-day life of settled lives might be considered mundane, there is a magic to that sort of living as well, though I think it is easier to be lulled into considering the days rather unimportant. Getting into a new city or tasting some new food or deciphering a foreign language are all things that kept me keyed into living in the moment and soaking up everything that was right in front of me, and as I now head back into routine (as unsustainable as experiencing something new everyday is) I am going to try to maintain the sort of focus on the immediate. Even if it is something I am intimately familiar with.
While I can't point to any epiphanies that have struck me to my core or experiences over the last six months that have fundamentally altered the way I try to live my life, I am not surprised. I figured out a while back that it is only through reflection that I personally come to anything resembling certainty about pivotal life moments, and it will be in hindsight over the coming months (and not to be melodramatic, but maybe years) that I will be able to look back and reflect on how my trip around the world contributed to who I am.
This got a little deep. Thanks for reading along.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Over and Out
With the bass pumping through the floor of the eight-bed dorm literally causing my head to shake on the pillow Friday night, I questioned the sanity of trying to fall asleep before the bar below turned off its music. While the music had been discernible on the three previous nights, Friday nights apparently demand a further forty or so decibels. Eventually I did fall asleep, but I didn't wake up this morning feeling well rested.
After my lazy day on Tuesday in London, basically just puttering around Greenwich parks and daydreaming, I started my Wedneday sightseeing with a vengeance: A walk under the Thames and then west along the northern bank to Tower Bridge, then a tour through the Tower of London, checked out The Monument to those lost in the Great Fire of 1666, attended the evensong service at St. Paul's Cathedral, walked past The Globe Theatre, the London Eye, and finally Big Ben at the Place of Westminster. I estimate I covered about fifteen kilometers by foot, and the next day was more of the same as I climbed to the upper dome of St. Paul's for a fantastic view of the city, and then ambled through the National Gallery and the Tate Modern.
I was glad that admission to the museums was free, for while I enjoyed the National Gallery, I doubt I will ever be able to drum up any reasonable enthusiasm for modern art. Installations, like a Volkswagen van in front of a herd of sleds, each with a block of fat and a roll of felt, were interesting, though not something I could appreciate given my unfortunately bourgeoisie view of art. I did get to see my first Jackson Pollock though, which was special for me. Pollock is an old nemesis from a college art class where I had been assigned to write a paper about his life and work. This was after the teacher had been shocked by my treasonous assertion that his work would not be what I would consider art. I was one of this teacher's least favorite students for the rest of the year, just ahead of the guy who compared Monet's haystacks to finger-painting. I thought that seeing Pollock's paintings might change my opinion of him, but I still think it's crap. Who says with education comes appreciation?
At the end of Thursday to headed to Trafalgar Square where a stage had been set up to celebrate - you guessed it - Canada Day! The festivites had been going on all day, including a ball-hockey tournament, poutine, mounties posing for pictures and numerous travel booths extoling the beauty of Canada. I found a spot to sit as the concert full of imported Canadian talent started (Hawksley Workman, Sarah Harmer, Jully Black - and some others I didn't recognize) and afterwards made my way back over the now-familiar transit route to Greenwich after another long day.
I spent yesterday basically lazing around; going for a short walk and then polishing off a novel and starting another, and I expect to do more of the same over the next two days before my flight on Tuesday morning. I do want to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace - nothing more touristy than that I know, but hey, I embrace it - and there are a couple of more things to do, but nothing pressing. That being said, this will be last post from me outside of Canada - thanks for following along with what I am afraid were often rather rambling pieces of prose over the last six months, and if you're reading this from Canada, see ya there soon.
After my lazy day on Tuesday in London, basically just puttering around Greenwich parks and daydreaming, I started my Wedneday sightseeing with a vengeance: A walk under the Thames and then west along the northern bank to Tower Bridge, then a tour through the Tower of London, checked out The Monument to those lost in the Great Fire of 1666, attended the evensong service at St. Paul's Cathedral, walked past The Globe Theatre, the London Eye, and finally Big Ben at the Place of Westminster. I estimate I covered about fifteen kilometers by foot, and the next day was more of the same as I climbed to the upper dome of St. Paul's for a fantastic view of the city, and then ambled through the National Gallery and the Tate Modern.
I was glad that admission to the museums was free, for while I enjoyed the National Gallery, I doubt I will ever be able to drum up any reasonable enthusiasm for modern art. Installations, like a Volkswagen van in front of a herd of sleds, each with a block of fat and a roll of felt, were interesting, though not something I could appreciate given my unfortunately bourgeoisie view of art. I did get to see my first Jackson Pollock though, which was special for me. Pollock is an old nemesis from a college art class where I had been assigned to write a paper about his life and work. This was after the teacher had been shocked by my treasonous assertion that his work would not be what I would consider art. I was one of this teacher's least favorite students for the rest of the year, just ahead of the guy who compared Monet's haystacks to finger-painting. I thought that seeing Pollock's paintings might change my opinion of him, but I still think it's crap. Who says with education comes appreciation?
At the end of Thursday to headed to Trafalgar Square where a stage had been set up to celebrate - you guessed it - Canada Day! The festivites had been going on all day, including a ball-hockey tournament, poutine, mounties posing for pictures and numerous travel booths extoling the beauty of Canada. I found a spot to sit as the concert full of imported Canadian talent started (Hawksley Workman, Sarah Harmer, Jully Black - and some others I didn't recognize) and afterwards made my way back over the now-familiar transit route to Greenwich after another long day.
I spent yesterday basically lazing around; going for a short walk and then polishing off a novel and starting another, and I expect to do more of the same over the next two days before my flight on Tuesday morning. I do want to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace - nothing more touristy than that I know, but hey, I embrace it - and there are a couple of more things to do, but nothing pressing. That being said, this will be last post from me outside of Canada - thanks for following along with what I am afraid were often rather rambling pieces of prose over the last six months, and if you're reading this from Canada, see ya there soon.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Last Stop: London, England
When I was deciding on a title for this blog, I knew I was starting my trip in Sydney, Australia, and while my plan was to end up in London, England (as detailed by the blog byline) I was still hedging my bets with "Sydney-to-Somewhere" just in case something came up to change my final destination. As well, I was drawn by the obvious alliteration - "Sydney-to-London" just doesn't have the same ring to it. But, despite a rather vague and at times nonexistent itinerary, I have finally arrived in London.
I enjoyed my second-last day in Dublin getting a large dose of culture along with Madeline and Amy, two Trans-Mongolian friends whose travels had brought them to Dublin at the same time as me. Walking through both the Natural Museum of Ireland and the National Art Gallery of Ireland, I didn't have the time to come even close to soaking it all in, but the odd exhibit stuck with me. What I most enjoyed was learning a bit about the extensive viking culture that existed in Ireland so far into the past - in fact it was out of a viking settlement that the modern city of Dublin arose.
Back at my hostel another day, I woke up and walked across the hall to the showers, not bothering to bring along change of clothes and instead just grabbing my shower stuff and a towel. On the return trip, I could plainly see that the door that I had left open had been closed, and after knocking for a while, I realized whoever had done it hadn't done it on the way into the room. Standing in the hallway with nothing but a towel, I headed down the stairs, hoping that I would run into someone with a keycard before I had to walk into the lobby and ask for help. Unfortunately that is exactly what I had to do, and the lobby was full of a group of about thirty new faces. I feigned nonchalance and the desk clerk was quick, and I was soon hopping back up the stairs with reddish face. From the stories I have heard from other travelers who frequent hostels, walking around in a towel is often considered the height of modesty, so I doubt anyone was as uncomfortable as me.
On Monday I picked up my ticket to London, and boarded the bus out of Dublin at 8:15 PM. Apparently there are no Dublin to London services during the day, which made the overnight trip my only option. The Irish leg of the bus trip was short, but the ferry ride to Wales was considerably longer than the ferry I had taken from Scotland to Northern Ireland, and when we reached the UK I was exhausted, especially as I had started my day much earlier than I have been in the habit of doing. We all got off the bus after a ten-minute ride to customs, and then waited in haphazard lines as we shuffled past the cheery British officials. Back in Britian, I dozed off intermittently before we rolled into the Victoria Coach station twelve hours after we had departed Dublin. Yawning, I purchased a week's pass on London public transit and then made my way to my hostel in Greenwich. I stored my bag in expectation for the afternoon check-in and then walked down to the park, spending most of my time on a bench watching the clouds scuttle quickly across the sky, enjoying the rapidly shifting combinations of sun and shade on the Thames while thinking deep thoughts.
With a week to explore London and the surrounding area before heading home, I am excited to catch my flight back to Canada but at the same time I have gotten pretty used to this unsustainable habit of world traveling. A bed that will allow me to strech out and permanent access to laundry facilities are big draws, but they don't quite eclipse the allure of crossing a border and hearing another new language or sitting down for a pint with someone with a background so different from my own.
I enjoyed my second-last day in Dublin getting a large dose of culture along with Madeline and Amy, two Trans-Mongolian friends whose travels had brought them to Dublin at the same time as me. Walking through both the Natural Museum of Ireland and the National Art Gallery of Ireland, I didn't have the time to come even close to soaking it all in, but the odd exhibit stuck with me. What I most enjoyed was learning a bit about the extensive viking culture that existed in Ireland so far into the past - in fact it was out of a viking settlement that the modern city of Dublin arose.
Back at my hostel another day, I woke up and walked across the hall to the showers, not bothering to bring along change of clothes and instead just grabbing my shower stuff and a towel. On the return trip, I could plainly see that the door that I had left open had been closed, and after knocking for a while, I realized whoever had done it hadn't done it on the way into the room. Standing in the hallway with nothing but a towel, I headed down the stairs, hoping that I would run into someone with a keycard before I had to walk into the lobby and ask for help. Unfortunately that is exactly what I had to do, and the lobby was full of a group of about thirty new faces. I feigned nonchalance and the desk clerk was quick, and I was soon hopping back up the stairs with reddish face. From the stories I have heard from other travelers who frequent hostels, walking around in a towel is often considered the height of modesty, so I doubt anyone was as uncomfortable as me.
On Monday I picked up my ticket to London, and boarded the bus out of Dublin at 8:15 PM. Apparently there are no Dublin to London services during the day, which made the overnight trip my only option. The Irish leg of the bus trip was short, but the ferry ride to Wales was considerably longer than the ferry I had taken from Scotland to Northern Ireland, and when we reached the UK I was exhausted, especially as I had started my day much earlier than I have been in the habit of doing. We all got off the bus after a ten-minute ride to customs, and then waited in haphazard lines as we shuffled past the cheery British officials. Back in Britian, I dozed off intermittently before we rolled into the Victoria Coach station twelve hours after we had departed Dublin. Yawning, I purchased a week's pass on London public transit and then made my way to my hostel in Greenwich. I stored my bag in expectation for the afternoon check-in and then walked down to the park, spending most of my time on a bench watching the clouds scuttle quickly across the sky, enjoying the rapidly shifting combinations of sun and shade on the Thames while thinking deep thoughts.
With a week to explore London and the surrounding area before heading home, I am excited to catch my flight back to Canada but at the same time I have gotten pretty used to this unsustainable habit of world traveling. A bed that will allow me to strech out and permanent access to laundry facilities are big draws, but they don't quite eclipse the allure of crossing a border and hearing another new language or sitting down for a pint with someone with a background so different from my own.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Belfast to Dublin
Getting into Belfast after a day of travel by bus, ferry and then bus again from Scotland, I walked out of the bus station and started off on the short walk to my hostel. Situated just off the infamous Sandy Row in the heart of Belfast, I couldn't help but notice the numerous union jacks and republican slogans lining the street. Later I would walk up to the start of the Sandy Row to take a picture of the two-storey mural declaring the loyalist roots of the Protestants, complete with a balaclava-clad militiaman holding a rifle. I found this brazen show of allegiance chilling, but it is seemingly par for the course in Belfast.
One of my roommates in the hostel was a Scottish guy who was in Belfast to conduct some interviews for his Master's thesis on non-governmental organizations in post-conflict zones, and talking to him gave me some insight into what the people of Belfast have been through in recent history. While Belfast is technically a "post-conflict zone," as this Scottish academic termed it, the night before I left there was a fire-bombing, and the tension in the streets was almost palpable in some places. I may have been imagining this tension after spending a couple of hours in the Ulster museum, looking through displays highlighting The Troubles, the time of armed conflict between Irish republicans and the British army, but there is no denying that The Troubles are something that you do not bring up in casual conversation in Northern Ireland if you want to make friends.
The Ulster Museum, and its free admission, was the highlight of my time in Northern Ireland, and I really didn't do much else besides wandering the streets and getting a feel for the city. Only two nights in Belfast, and then I headed south by bus to Dublin.
A number of people I got to know on the Trans-Mongolian trip that I was a part of are in Dublin as well, and it has been nice to have some ready-made friends as it were, and we have been meeting up for meals and drinks in the evening.
Dublin is the home of so many famous authors - James Joyce, Frank O'Connor, Oscar Wilde and Jonathan Swift to name just a few that I am familiar with - and I spent a few hours wandering through the Dublin Writers' Museum, proud of the fact that my background in English literature got me my money's worth from the displays. It is interesting that while Dubliners claim Joyce as a native son, he toiled in self-imposed exile for most of his career, writing about the city he knew from memory. One of the books I have read on this trip was Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" as well as his collection of short stories "Dubliners," and it has been interesting to walk the actual streets that Joyce's characters walk. While there are posters, a bridge, even a statue, all drawing attention to Joyce's work, I was most struck by his inclusion at the Guinness factory. The seventh floor Gravity Bar, encirled by three hundred and sixty degrees of plexi-glass allowing for panoramic views of Dublin seemed an unlikely place for literary allusions. However, I read excperpts from "Ulysses," "Finnegan's Wake," "Dubliners," and "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" pasted to inside of the windows as I knocked back my complimentary pint of Guinness.
Besides the Guinness factory, the other tour that I went on was at Jameson's Distillery, and I was one of the lucky eight among the tour group that got to do a taste test at the end of the guided tour. It was comprised of three shots; one of Jameson's, one of Jack Daniel's and one of Glenfiddich Scotch. They were all half-shots, as well as being diluted with water, but nonetheless the American woman sitting beside me quickly decided I was considerably more interesting than I actually was and we chatted about this and that as her husband continually interjected with the suggestion that she might like something to eat. "I know I'm drunk, but we are having a very nice conversation," she said, and it wasn't until a bit later that he was able to convince her that it was time to leave.
I am composing this post at seven in the morning after walking a friend back to her hostel in the wee hours of the morning and realizing that internet access here is free. While the bars here stop serving at 2:30 AM, three of us decided that the night was still young and stayed up - and got to see the significantly light full-moon night turn into day. The hostel that I am poaching internet from also has a free continental breakfast which includes ham, sausage, hash-browns and a serving of fruit salad, so I think I will stay here a bit longer and help myself to the feast, that is if I don't fall asleep first.
One of my roommates in the hostel was a Scottish guy who was in Belfast to conduct some interviews for his Master's thesis on non-governmental organizations in post-conflict zones, and talking to him gave me some insight into what the people of Belfast have been through in recent history. While Belfast is technically a "post-conflict zone," as this Scottish academic termed it, the night before I left there was a fire-bombing, and the tension in the streets was almost palpable in some places. I may have been imagining this tension after spending a couple of hours in the Ulster museum, looking through displays highlighting The Troubles, the time of armed conflict between Irish republicans and the British army, but there is no denying that The Troubles are something that you do not bring up in casual conversation in Northern Ireland if you want to make friends.
The Ulster Museum, and its free admission, was the highlight of my time in Northern Ireland, and I really didn't do much else besides wandering the streets and getting a feel for the city. Only two nights in Belfast, and then I headed south by bus to Dublin.
A number of people I got to know on the Trans-Mongolian trip that I was a part of are in Dublin as well, and it has been nice to have some ready-made friends as it were, and we have been meeting up for meals and drinks in the evening.
Dublin is the home of so many famous authors - James Joyce, Frank O'Connor, Oscar Wilde and Jonathan Swift to name just a few that I am familiar with - and I spent a few hours wandering through the Dublin Writers' Museum, proud of the fact that my background in English literature got me my money's worth from the displays. It is interesting that while Dubliners claim Joyce as a native son, he toiled in self-imposed exile for most of his career, writing about the city he knew from memory. One of the books I have read on this trip was Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" as well as his collection of short stories "Dubliners," and it has been interesting to walk the actual streets that Joyce's characters walk. While there are posters, a bridge, even a statue, all drawing attention to Joyce's work, I was most struck by his inclusion at the Guinness factory. The seventh floor Gravity Bar, encirled by three hundred and sixty degrees of plexi-glass allowing for panoramic views of Dublin seemed an unlikely place for literary allusions. However, I read excperpts from "Ulysses," "Finnegan's Wake," "Dubliners," and "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" pasted to inside of the windows as I knocked back my complimentary pint of Guinness.
Besides the Guinness factory, the other tour that I went on was at Jameson's Distillery, and I was one of the lucky eight among the tour group that got to do a taste test at the end of the guided tour. It was comprised of three shots; one of Jameson's, one of Jack Daniel's and one of Glenfiddich Scotch. They were all half-shots, as well as being diluted with water, but nonetheless the American woman sitting beside me quickly decided I was considerably more interesting than I actually was and we chatted about this and that as her husband continually interjected with the suggestion that she might like something to eat. "I know I'm drunk, but we are having a very nice conversation," she said, and it wasn't until a bit later that he was able to convince her that it was time to leave.
I am composing this post at seven in the morning after walking a friend back to her hostel in the wee hours of the morning and realizing that internet access here is free. While the bars here stop serving at 2:30 AM, three of us decided that the night was still young and stayed up - and got to see the significantly light full-moon night turn into day. The hostel that I am poaching internet from also has a free continental breakfast which includes ham, sausage, hash-browns and a serving of fruit salad, so I think I will stay here a bit longer and help myself to the feast, that is if I don't fall asleep first.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunny Scotland
Off the airplane and into the brisk air of England, I thought that I might have to steel myself for the stereotypical weather of Scotland: Wet, cold and windy. That estimation proved to be far from the mark and I enjoyed beautiful sunny days during my stay in Glasgow and Glencoe.
I had thought at one point that flying from London to Glasgow would be the best way to head north, but I decided to take the (significantly) cheaper option and go by bus. My flight from Istanbul landed just after noon and I made my way into the city centre to catch the next available bus. Unfortunately my first available option was the 10:30 PM overnight bus that would get me to Glasgow at seven in the morning, so I hunkered down in the bus station for a long wait. I can't think of a better place to people-watch than a bus station, and I did just that for a while, until I struck up conversation with the old guy sitting next to me. With his shapeless felt hat and shoulder-length grey hair, he looked to be an ageing hippy, and after we got to talking it turned out he was pretty much that. The lead guitarist for Manfred Man, he had stepped out of the band after the drugs got too hard (from the little I gleaned they would have had to be pretty hard for him to qualify them as such) and is now operating a hemp farm outside of London that was passed down to him by his grandfather. "Of course, a little weed somehow slips in there now and then," he said, grinning as he told me how he was still sticking it to The Man. I thought that would be my most interesting conversation, but after - well, I never did get his name - the musician-turned-farmer left, a dazed skinhead sat down near me and tried to get me to buy a FIFA Playstation game. He had apparently blown all his money on booze and cocaine over the course of forty-eight hour rave and didn't have bus fare to get to the airport for his flight. He did have a litte baggie of coke that he checked to see was still safely tucked away his sock, but no cash. And if that wasn't enough, he had a new eight-inch tatoo on his forearm: "Cynthia." "Who's that?" I asked. "I dunno." he slurred. "But my girlfriend is not goin' to like it." When I finally caught my bus he was sleeping, hunched over his bag, apparently having given up hope of selling his Playstation game.
I rolled into Glasgow where I stayed for two nights, walking around the city and seeing the sights. There really wasn't that much happening, at least not much that I was interested in, and after wandering through the parks and the free museum of Kelvingrove, I headed further north up to small town of Glencoe where I stayed with family friends.
Vilma and John Deighton, grandparents of friends I grew up next door to in Fort McMurray, fed me to the point of bursting and made me feel so welcome that I stayed for the rest of the week. It was a great way to catch up on years-worth of stories as well as recharge my batteries for the last two weeks of the trip. I really did precious little, seeing a bit of the town and going on a hike up the glen one day, though most of the time I spent eating, reading and sleeping. Fantastic.
On Monday I caught a bus from Glencoe, then another bus, and then a ferry, and then one last bus to arrive in Belfast in the evening. Stay tuned for an Ireland update to follow.
I had thought at one point that flying from London to Glasgow would be the best way to head north, but I decided to take the (significantly) cheaper option and go by bus. My flight from Istanbul landed just after noon and I made my way into the city centre to catch the next available bus. Unfortunately my first available option was the 10:30 PM overnight bus that would get me to Glasgow at seven in the morning, so I hunkered down in the bus station for a long wait. I can't think of a better place to people-watch than a bus station, and I did just that for a while, until I struck up conversation with the old guy sitting next to me. With his shapeless felt hat and shoulder-length grey hair, he looked to be an ageing hippy, and after we got to talking it turned out he was pretty much that. The lead guitarist for Manfred Man, he had stepped out of the band after the drugs got too hard (from the little I gleaned they would have had to be pretty hard for him to qualify them as such) and is now operating a hemp farm outside of London that was passed down to him by his grandfather. "Of course, a little weed somehow slips in there now and then," he said, grinning as he told me how he was still sticking it to The Man. I thought that would be my most interesting conversation, but after - well, I never did get his name - the musician-turned-farmer left, a dazed skinhead sat down near me and tried to get me to buy a FIFA Playstation game. He had apparently blown all his money on booze and cocaine over the course of forty-eight hour rave and didn't have bus fare to get to the airport for his flight. He did have a litte baggie of coke that he checked to see was still safely tucked away his sock, but no cash. And if that wasn't enough, he had a new eight-inch tatoo on his forearm: "Cynthia." "Who's that?" I asked. "I dunno." he slurred. "But my girlfriend is not goin' to like it." When I finally caught my bus he was sleeping, hunched over his bag, apparently having given up hope of selling his Playstation game.
I rolled into Glasgow where I stayed for two nights, walking around the city and seeing the sights. There really wasn't that much happening, at least not much that I was interested in, and after wandering through the parks and the free museum of Kelvingrove, I headed further north up to small town of Glencoe where I stayed with family friends.
Vilma and John Deighton, grandparents of friends I grew up next door to in Fort McMurray, fed me to the point of bursting and made me feel so welcome that I stayed for the rest of the week. It was a great way to catch up on years-worth of stories as well as recharge my batteries for the last two weeks of the trip. I really did precious little, seeing a bit of the town and going on a hike up the glen one day, though most of the time I spent eating, reading and sleeping. Fantastic.
On Monday I caught a bus from Glencoe, then another bus, and then a ferry, and then one last bus to arrive in Belfast in the evening. Stay tuned for an Ireland update to follow.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Rockin' the Casbah!
Sitting on the west side of the Bosphorus, Istanbul is a gateway between Europe and Asia and the ancient city shows a variety of influences in its long and complex history. My flight arrived in the morning, almost due south from Kiev, and I grabbed a cab and headed into the city. I stayedin the Orient Hostel, the biggest hostel in Istanbul, and my room alone had thirty beds in it. As we drove into the oldest part of the city we passed crumbling ancient city walls as the traffic got more and more dense. Eventually I started thinking that walking might be faster and would have been tempted had I any idea where we were.
As soon as I checked in I went for a walk, exploring the city by foot - my usual mode of transit - and found my way to the Grand Bazaar. The labyrinth of shops was built in the 15th century and covers more than 54,000 square meters. I didn't make my way through the twenty-one gates or even come close to exploring the nearly four thousand shops, though I did find my way into a leather-working shop and decided that a custom-made leather jacket would make a good souvenir. I have finally started getting the hang of the constant bartering that seems to be a part of every culture except North America and managed to get the vendor down roughly fifty percent off his original price. Every time I have success like that though I start second-guessing myself, assuming that the price was artificially inflated for the purpose of fleecing tourists. Which in this case it probably was.
In checking in at the hostel, the guy at the front desk told me that there was a tour the next day on the Bosphorus and that I could get in on the group rate if I was interested. I signed up then and there and only slighted regretted the decision as rolled off my top bunk in the morning to make my way to the pick-up point at the front of the hostel. I had mistakenly thought that the group was going to be composed of solo tourists like myself, but it was actually a Dutch high school trip and I was the only one who had been suckered into the group rate discount. Still, it was a fun day as the boat picked its way north, stopping in Europe, then Asia, then back again, finally anchoring in the Black Sea where we spent an hour or so swimming, jumping off the upper deck of the boat into the cooling water. On our second stop another solo tourist joined the group, and so Hiba, a Pakistani woman, and I hung out for the day as the Dutch kids stuck to themselves.
The next day I again wandered the city, finishing at the Hagia Sophia, the famous cathedral-to-mosque-to-museum. Built in the fourth century, the building was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a century. When the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople in the 1453, the cathedral was naturally changed to a mosque. An interesting mix of Byzantine architecture and Islamic scripts, it was a great experience to explore the building along with all the other tourists. Definitely not just another bloody church!
That night, I headed back to my hostel and watched the World Cup game between Australia and Germany. Every single sidewalk cafe had big-screen TVs lining the street, and everyone regardless of their heritage was finding a spot to watch the match. All of us commonwealth types - Canadian, Kiwi, and Aussies - were cheering for the Aussie underdogs as we sat around the hookah and drank our turkish draft. A very unique soccer experience, though I call it football in conversation to avoid confusion with everyone but Americans. It was a depressing loss despite our best efforts to change the fact that the Australian team were heavily out-classed, with the game ending up 0-4. I caught a few hours of sleep before heading out to the airport the next day and flying on to London, England. Three weeks of traipsing around the British Isles with no real plan to speak of - why start planning now? - and then home.
As soon as I checked in I went for a walk, exploring the city by foot - my usual mode of transit - and found my way to the Grand Bazaar. The labyrinth of shops was built in the 15th century and covers more than 54,000 square meters. I didn't make my way through the twenty-one gates or even come close to exploring the nearly four thousand shops, though I did find my way into a leather-working shop and decided that a custom-made leather jacket would make a good souvenir. I have finally started getting the hang of the constant bartering that seems to be a part of every culture except North America and managed to get the vendor down roughly fifty percent off his original price. Every time I have success like that though I start second-guessing myself, assuming that the price was artificially inflated for the purpose of fleecing tourists. Which in this case it probably was.
In checking in at the hostel, the guy at the front desk told me that there was a tour the next day on the Bosphorus and that I could get in on the group rate if I was interested. I signed up then and there and only slighted regretted the decision as rolled off my top bunk in the morning to make my way to the pick-up point at the front of the hostel. I had mistakenly thought that the group was going to be composed of solo tourists like myself, but it was actually a Dutch high school trip and I was the only one who had been suckered into the group rate discount. Still, it was a fun day as the boat picked its way north, stopping in Europe, then Asia, then back again, finally anchoring in the Black Sea where we spent an hour or so swimming, jumping off the upper deck of the boat into the cooling water. On our second stop another solo tourist joined the group, and so Hiba, a Pakistani woman, and I hung out for the day as the Dutch kids stuck to themselves.
The next day I again wandered the city, finishing at the Hagia Sophia, the famous cathedral-to-mosque-to-museum. Built in the fourth century, the building was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a century. When the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople in the 1453, the cathedral was naturally changed to a mosque. An interesting mix of Byzantine architecture and Islamic scripts, it was a great experience to explore the building along with all the other tourists. Definitely not just another bloody church!
That night, I headed back to my hostel and watched the World Cup game between Australia and Germany. Every single sidewalk cafe had big-screen TVs lining the street, and everyone regardless of their heritage was finding a spot to watch the match. All of us commonwealth types - Canadian, Kiwi, and Aussies - were cheering for the Aussie underdogs as we sat around the hookah and drank our turkish draft. A very unique soccer experience, though I call it football in conversation to avoid confusion with everyone but Americans. It was a depressing loss despite our best efforts to change the fact that the Australian team were heavily out-classed, with the game ending up 0-4. I caught a few hours of sleep before heading out to the airport the next day and flying on to London, England. Three weeks of traipsing around the British Isles with no real plan to speak of - why start planning now? - and then home.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Back in the (former) USSR
Arriving in Kiev, it felt like I was back in Russia: The signs were again in Cyrillic; passerbys did not smile at one another; the women were all wearing high heels and the hammer-and-sickle was plastered everywhere. Still, I was told that if I were to mention to a Ukrainian how similar I found their country to Russia, it would be severely offensive. I never did, though I did fish for Ukrainian's opinions about Russia over a couple of beers and my ears were blistered by vehement anti-Russian sentiments.
I arrived at my hostel after navigating the metro system and, while sipping the customary free beer at check-in, was told that I had the opportunity to head out to an old Soviet army bunker. The bunker is now owned by a Ukrainian gun club and there are a variety of experiences available to anyone with a couple of extra bucks and a club member as a contact. The Norwegian hostel owner, a former NATO soldier, regularly takes backpackers out to the range, and I decided I would make the trip. While driving an armored vehicle or firing a grenade-launcher were both a little out of my price range, I was able to justify firing an AK-47. I have had past opportunities - in Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Mongolia - to go nuts with an automatic weapon, and my resolve finally broke in Ukraine. There was a herd of goats that I was told I could have my pick of for target practice for the right price, though I politely refused and instead opted for a bloodless paper target. With the clip full of thirty rounds, I aimed down the indoor range at the target approximately 25 metres away. At first squeezing off one round at a time, I finished off the clip with two long bursts, quickly perforating the target despite my rather erratic shooting. There was surprisingly little recoil, or so I thought immediately after while still full of adrenalin, but I still have a slight bruise on my upper chest where I held the butt of the rifle.
The rest of my time in Kiev was a little less exciting as I made my way around the city by foot and with the use of the metro, just sightseeing and enjoyig the city. What I most enjoyed was Pecherska Lavra, an underground monastery that has been in use since 1015. The catacombs have now become crypts, housing the bodies of mummified saints, and I wasn't sure what to expect as I stooped to make my way into the white-washed tunnels. I felt like an interloper as devout Ukrainian Orthodox slowly filed past me, bending over each of the glass coffins as they crossed themselves and kissed the glass. None of the mummies' faces were exposed, but I did see one shriveled skeletal hand which made me glad of the cloth covering their faces. Grimacing saints staring up at me through their transparent coffins might have been a little too much.
While the original plan - as much as I could call it a plan - had been to head down to Sevastapol and from there catch a ferry across the Black Sea to Istanbul, I found out that there was just one problem: The ferry only runs once a week. This would have meant I would have arrived in Istanbul just in time to fly to London, so I opted to fly to Istanbul from Kiev instead. I arrived in Istanbul this morning, and in three days I take my second-last step back to Canada, flying into London from where on July 6th I will be heading home.
I arrived at my hostel after navigating the metro system and, while sipping the customary free beer at check-in, was told that I had the opportunity to head out to an old Soviet army bunker. The bunker is now owned by a Ukrainian gun club and there are a variety of experiences available to anyone with a couple of extra bucks and a club member as a contact. The Norwegian hostel owner, a former NATO soldier, regularly takes backpackers out to the range, and I decided I would make the trip. While driving an armored vehicle or firing a grenade-launcher were both a little out of my price range, I was able to justify firing an AK-47. I have had past opportunities - in Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Mongolia - to go nuts with an automatic weapon, and my resolve finally broke in Ukraine. There was a herd of goats that I was told I could have my pick of for target practice for the right price, though I politely refused and instead opted for a bloodless paper target. With the clip full of thirty rounds, I aimed down the indoor range at the target approximately 25 metres away. At first squeezing off one round at a time, I finished off the clip with two long bursts, quickly perforating the target despite my rather erratic shooting. There was surprisingly little recoil, or so I thought immediately after while still full of adrenalin, but I still have a slight bruise on my upper chest where I held the butt of the rifle.
The rest of my time in Kiev was a little less exciting as I made my way around the city by foot and with the use of the metro, just sightseeing and enjoyig the city. What I most enjoyed was Pecherska Lavra, an underground monastery that has been in use since 1015. The catacombs have now become crypts, housing the bodies of mummified saints, and I wasn't sure what to expect as I stooped to make my way into the white-washed tunnels. I felt like an interloper as devout Ukrainian Orthodox slowly filed past me, bending over each of the glass coffins as they crossed themselves and kissed the glass. None of the mummies' faces were exposed, but I did see one shriveled skeletal hand which made me glad of the cloth covering their faces. Grimacing saints staring up at me through their transparent coffins might have been a little too much.
While the original plan - as much as I could call it a plan - had been to head down to Sevastapol and from there catch a ferry across the Black Sea to Istanbul, I found out that there was just one problem: The ferry only runs once a week. This would have meant I would have arrived in Istanbul just in time to fly to London, so I opted to fly to Istanbul from Kiev instead. I arrived in Istanbul this morning, and in three days I take my second-last step back to Canada, flying into London from where on July 6th I will be heading home.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I saw Warsaw*
Almost completely razed to the ground during World War II, only 15% of Warsaw's infrastructure was still standing at the end of the war. Varsovians, instead of taking the opportunity to start afresh, decided that they should rebuild - in many cases creating exact replicas - what had existed before the bombings. The Old Town, very similar in looks to Tallinn and Riga, has a bit of a movie-set feel to it because of this rebuilding; the walls are a little too straight, the cobblestones a little too even. Still, granted the status of a UNESCO World Heritage site (is every town centre in Europe a World Heritage site?) the historic centre of the city, Nowe/Stare Miasto, is a beautiful place, if a little too picture-perfect for my now wordly eyes.
I spent my three days in Warsaw catching up on sleep and hunting down all the note-worth sites according to my Warsaw guidebook, covering as much ground as possible on foot in the hot summer sun. I won't bore you by recounting all the different castles and parks I wondered through, though if you do ever make your way to Warsaw I would recommend checking out the Warsaw University Library. Only university students are allowed inside, but the real attraction is the 21,000 square foot rooftop garden. Winding paths defined by trellises covered in ivy lead up and over the the library, looping around the glass cupolas, including catwalks arching over the glass ceilings. The mottled green copper-plated walls blend into the profuse greenery, and my walk overtop the library was my favorite in three days of long walks. In many cases too-long walks, but that is another story entirely.
My sightseeing took me back and forth over the Vistula River, a river that has overun its banks in many places in Germany and Poland, and while it was unthreatening from what I could see, there were still endless lines of sandbags lining the banks in case of emergency. Usually there are steps along the river, but the waters have risen even with the sidewalk bordering the river, lapping at the numerous bicyclists and pedestrians making their way along the banks.
On the day I caught my train to Kiev, I tagged along with Fraser, a Scotsman on holiday, and Eric, an American who had studied in Warsaw a few years back. We walked over to the Warsaw Uprising Museum, a rather grim reminder of the impact of German and Russian occupation (Poland has only been free of Communism since 1989) and then followed Eric as we traveled by tram, metro and bus to the Wilanow Poster Museum. This was a much more cheery and light-hearted affair than the previous cultural experience and enjoyable all the more given the free admission on Mondays.
Back to the hostel and then a brisk walk to the train station, I caught the 4:20 train out of Warsaw to Kiev where I am now after a relaxing seventeen hour overnight trip. There were no English-speakers to engage in conversation, but one of my carriage mates, Igor, a Ukrainian now working in France, made a valiant effort to scale the rather imposing language barrier. His English, significantly better than either my French or Russian or Ukrainian, still wasn't that good, but I appreciated him working so hard to hold a conversation with a Westerner. Especially one who speaks only one language. "Only one?" Igor said, before laughing at my joke. I just smiled widely and nodded. "Really, only one?" Igor's face clouded as he realized what an idiot I was. "Yeah, it's crazy," I said and he looked relieved that I recognized how handicapped I was, rapidly nodding his agreement.
*Worst rhyme (and blog title) ever
I spent my three days in Warsaw catching up on sleep and hunting down all the note-worth sites according to my Warsaw guidebook, covering as much ground as possible on foot in the hot summer sun. I won't bore you by recounting all the different castles and parks I wondered through, though if you do ever make your way to Warsaw I would recommend checking out the Warsaw University Library. Only university students are allowed inside, but the real attraction is the 21,000 square foot rooftop garden. Winding paths defined by trellises covered in ivy lead up and over the the library, looping around the glass cupolas, including catwalks arching over the glass ceilings. The mottled green copper-plated walls blend into the profuse greenery, and my walk overtop the library was my favorite in three days of long walks. In many cases too-long walks, but that is another story entirely.
My sightseeing took me back and forth over the Vistula River, a river that has overun its banks in many places in Germany and Poland, and while it was unthreatening from what I could see, there were still endless lines of sandbags lining the banks in case of emergency. Usually there are steps along the river, but the waters have risen even with the sidewalk bordering the river, lapping at the numerous bicyclists and pedestrians making their way along the banks.
On the day I caught my train to Kiev, I tagged along with Fraser, a Scotsman on holiday, and Eric, an American who had studied in Warsaw a few years back. We walked over to the Warsaw Uprising Museum, a rather grim reminder of the impact of German and Russian occupation (Poland has only been free of Communism since 1989) and then followed Eric as we traveled by tram, metro and bus to the Wilanow Poster Museum. This was a much more cheery and light-hearted affair than the previous cultural experience and enjoyable all the more given the free admission on Mondays.
Back to the hostel and then a brisk walk to the train station, I caught the 4:20 train out of Warsaw to Kiev where I am now after a relaxing seventeen hour overnight trip. There were no English-speakers to engage in conversation, but one of my carriage mates, Igor, a Ukrainian now working in France, made a valiant effort to scale the rather imposing language barrier. His English, significantly better than either my French or Russian or Ukrainian, still wasn't that good, but I appreciated him working so hard to hold a conversation with a Westerner. Especially one who speaks only one language. "Only one?" Igor said, before laughing at my joke. I just smiled widely and nodded. "Really, only one?" Igor's face clouded as he realized what an idiot I was. "Yeah, it's crazy," I said and he looked relieved that I recognized how handicapped I was, rapidly nodding his agreement.
*Worst rhyme (and blog title) ever
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Old Towns and New Views
As the northern hemisphere quickly approaches the summer solstice, St. Petersburgians continue to celebrate the White Nights. These White Nights are six weeks worth of high culture and all-night partying by less high-minded residents as a dusky half-light is as dark as it ever gets. Sitting just south of the 60th degree, approximately 330 kilometers further north than Fort McMurray, St. Petersburg simply does not sleep. After more than my fair share of late nights, I was happy to catch up on sleep as I crossed the border into Estonia.
Exiting Russia by bus, I arrived in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia and suddenly felt very much alone. Three weeks of being told where to go and when to go there, tickets bought in advance and meals recommended had blunted my self-reliance, and when I got off the bus in Tallinn I realized I had no idea where to go. Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I started walking down the nearest main road and eventually found a hotel where I used the free internet in the lobby, oriented myself, and made my way to a hostel. By this time it was fairly late, and while I had eaten a box of duty-free Toffifee I had bought with some of my last roubles at the border, I hadn't had supper. I found my way to a 24-hour bistro easily enough, given the long daylight hours this time of year in Tallinn, though a few degrees south of St. Petersburg, and then made my way back to the hostel.
The Gidic hostel where I was staying is situated just outside of the Old Town, and the next day I made my way past the ancient guard towers to explore the town centre. Human settlement can be traced back five thousand years by shards of pottery found in routine excavations, and as I made my way through the circuitous cobble-stone streets, I gawked at buildings that have histories stretching back centuries. I fell in with a free walking tour of the city given by students, and by the end of the tour I thought that I had never been in an older city in my life. Along the way the guide pointed out a church that allowed tourists up into its steeple, and I took note of it with the plan to climb it the next day.
The next day, with my bus not leaving until the afternoon, I made my way into the Old Town to climb St. Olaf's. Apparently the tallest church in the world during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, St. Olaf's has now been eclipsed by other more grandiose testaments to God and actually stands a little shorter than its former self. After several fires, the Gothic spire is now approximately a hundred feet shorter than it used to be but the view from the top after the long climb was worth it regardless. The Old Town, hemmed in by battlements and guard towers, could be clearly seen, and while the walls no longer fully enclose the town centre and twenty of the original towers are no longer standing, with a bit of imagination it is possible to imagine what the city would have looked like a few thousand years ago. On the previous day the guide had mentioned that on a clear day it was possible to see the coast of Finland, and while I would be lying if I said I did, I imagined that the indefinable blur at the horizon line was in fact another country on the other side of the Gulf.
On the bus out of Estonia, I enjoyed the view from the window as we moved through the lush countryside at a leisurely pace, covering the 310 kilometers in about four hours. The terrain is flat, with the fields a vibrant green, and the forest, though with fewer deciduous trees than home, reminds me of Fort McMurray. When we pulled into Riga, I was fully prepared, having booked my hostel in advance, and I pulled my hand-drawn map out of my pocket and made my way directly to my hostel.
Riga's Old Town is in many ways very similar to Tallinn's, at least to my uneducated eyes, and both have been declared UNESCO World Heritage sites. The Old Town of Riga apparently has unparalleled examples of Jugenstil (German Art Nouveau) architecture, and after spending today walking along the river through Old Town and following the Australian A.B.C. mode of sightseeing (Another Bloody Church), I have to confess that I will have to take that UNESCO fact on faith. Just another moment where I have wished I knew more about art, architecture and history.
Tomorrow evening I catch a bus that will take me through Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, but I won't be stopping until I arrive in Warsaw where the plan is to from there catch a train east to Kiev, Ukraine. My flight out of Istanbul to London is on the 14th, so I will be covering a lot of ground over the next twelve days. While I had originally thought I would be able to make my way through northern Africa on this trip, skipping through the Middle East along the way, that has been exposed as a pipe dream given my self-imposed time limits. Nonetheless, a reason to come back to this part of the world without a return ticket.
Exiting Russia by bus, I arrived in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia and suddenly felt very much alone. Three weeks of being told where to go and when to go there, tickets bought in advance and meals recommended had blunted my self-reliance, and when I got off the bus in Tallinn I realized I had no idea where to go. Throwing my backpack over my shoulder, I started walking down the nearest main road and eventually found a hotel where I used the free internet in the lobby, oriented myself, and made my way to a hostel. By this time it was fairly late, and while I had eaten a box of duty-free Toffifee I had bought with some of my last roubles at the border, I hadn't had supper. I found my way to a 24-hour bistro easily enough, given the long daylight hours this time of year in Tallinn, though a few degrees south of St. Petersburg, and then made my way back to the hostel.
The Gidic hostel where I was staying is situated just outside of the Old Town, and the next day I made my way past the ancient guard towers to explore the town centre. Human settlement can be traced back five thousand years by shards of pottery found in routine excavations, and as I made my way through the circuitous cobble-stone streets, I gawked at buildings that have histories stretching back centuries. I fell in with a free walking tour of the city given by students, and by the end of the tour I thought that I had never been in an older city in my life. Along the way the guide pointed out a church that allowed tourists up into its steeple, and I took note of it with the plan to climb it the next day.
The next day, with my bus not leaving until the afternoon, I made my way into the Old Town to climb St. Olaf's. Apparently the tallest church in the world during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, St. Olaf's has now been eclipsed by other more grandiose testaments to God and actually stands a little shorter than its former self. After several fires, the Gothic spire is now approximately a hundred feet shorter than it used to be but the view from the top after the long climb was worth it regardless. The Old Town, hemmed in by battlements and guard towers, could be clearly seen, and while the walls no longer fully enclose the town centre and twenty of the original towers are no longer standing, with a bit of imagination it is possible to imagine what the city would have looked like a few thousand years ago. On the previous day the guide had mentioned that on a clear day it was possible to see the coast of Finland, and while I would be lying if I said I did, I imagined that the indefinable blur at the horizon line was in fact another country on the other side of the Gulf.
On the bus out of Estonia, I enjoyed the view from the window as we moved through the lush countryside at a leisurely pace, covering the 310 kilometers in about four hours. The terrain is flat, with the fields a vibrant green, and the forest, though with fewer deciduous trees than home, reminds me of Fort McMurray. When we pulled into Riga, I was fully prepared, having booked my hostel in advance, and I pulled my hand-drawn map out of my pocket and made my way directly to my hostel.
Riga's Old Town is in many ways very similar to Tallinn's, at least to my uneducated eyes, and both have been declared UNESCO World Heritage sites. The Old Town of Riga apparently has unparalleled examples of Jugenstil (German Art Nouveau) architecture, and after spending today walking along the river through Old Town and following the Australian A.B.C. mode of sightseeing (Another Bloody Church), I have to confess that I will have to take that UNESCO fact on faith. Just another moment where I have wished I knew more about art, architecture and history.
Tomorrow evening I catch a bus that will take me through Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, but I won't be stopping until I arrive in Warsaw where the plan is to from there catch a train east to Kiev, Ukraine. My flight out of Istanbul to London is on the 14th, so I will be covering a lot of ground over the next twelve days. While I had originally thought I would be able to make my way through northern Africa on this trip, skipping through the Middle East along the way, that has been exposed as a pipe dream given my self-imposed time limits. Nonetheless, a reason to come back to this part of the world without a return ticket.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Out of Russia and into the Baltic States
After Yekaterinburg, the last two stops of the tour were Moscow and St. Petersburg, and since it has been so long since I have posted I don't even know where I should start. In Moscow we stayed in one of the hotel blocks constructed for the athletes of the Moscow Olympics of 1980, which was five tram stops from Red Square. The Moscow subway serves more people each day than the New York and London systems combined - approximately 9 millions riders every twenty-four hours. The system is necessarily very efficient, with cars stopping every thirty seconds at the major stations. Many of the stations are gorgeous, with vaulted ceilings, marble tiling, mosaics, bronze statues and chandeliers to name just a few of the features. Unlike Beijing where stops and exits were additionally labeled with English, the Moscow system is solely in Cyrillic which makes getting around a little bit difficult. Not being able to speak the native language is one thing, but being unable to read anything is even more limiting.
On the first day in Moscow we headed into Red Square, saw the world-famous St. Basil's Cathedral, and then Mike and I headed west of the square and caught a river cruise that took us through the city centre on the Moscow river. During the rest of time in Moscow I toured the Kremlin, including its numerous cathedrals and armory; a couple of art galleries; saw Gorky park; watched the changing of the guard at the Kremlin and walked through Lenin's mausoleum. I've missed the trifecta of preserved communist leaders as I didn't get in to see Mao in Beijing or Ho Chi Minh, but after viewing Lenin I don't think I have missed much. The body could be a wax figurine given its high sheen, and as I don't exactly revere Lenin or subscribe to the communist agenda, it wasn't an experience high on my list of things to do. As we walked down into the black marble crypt there were soldiers every few meters standing at attention making sure that no one entered with a hat on or with their hands in their pockets. There were a few people ahead of me filing by Lenin who were quietly whispering, and they were sternly hushed by the guards. I don't think it would be the sort of duty that would brighten one's day; standing by human remains that have essentially become a major tourist attraction.
Catching the night train at 11:30 in the evening out of Moscow, we covered the approximately 700 kms in about seven hours, the fastest we had traveled as the trains before had a top speed of about 80 km/hr and an average speed of 60 km/hr. I got off the train beyond tired, but we jumped into the day, going on a four-hour walking tour of the city, and then three of us went and climbed to the top of St. Isaac's cathedral. This vantage point provides a 360 degree view of the city, and as I made my way around the outside of the upper dome on the catwalk along with other tourists I was highly impressed. If that wasn't enough, that night most of our group headed to the Mariinsky Theatre to take in the Sleeping Beauty ballet. I can appreciate the athleticism of the dancers, but it is such a highly refined and formalized art form that I really couldn't get into it. Still, the experience was a unique one, which is what I continually reminded myself as I perched on the edge of my cheap seat, craning my head to see around the pillar that I was almost directly behind. You get what you pay for. Other highlights of my time in St. Petersburg were touring the Hermitage, the second-largest art collection in the world after the Louvre; seeing the place where Rasputin had been poisoned; walking through the Church of Spilled Blood and staring awe-struck at the mosaics covering every square inch of the walls and ceilings; traveling by hydrofoil out to the Peterhof Palace, the Russian Versailles where hundreds of water fountains and countless gardens made it seem like walking through a fairy tale; exploring the Peter and Paul Fortress and simply walking the Nevsky Prospekt, the main street of St. Petersburg.
I stayed two nights after the end of the tour to take in the St. Petersburg day festivities as dozens of open-air stages, street performers, and performance art troupes closed down the main drag, all marking the 307th anniversary of St. Petersburg.
Now in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, after my seven-hour bus ride, my plan is to head south for Istanbul and from there fly into Edinburgh and begin traveling through the United Kingdom before I catch my flight out of London on the sixth of July. The time left in my trip doesn't leave much time for dawdling, so I will be moving covering ground quickly. It is a bit odd to be on my own again after being so well taken care of on the Trans-Mongolian tour, but also freeing at the same time to again be solely in control of what I will be doing and where I will be going for the next forty days or so.
On the first day in Moscow we headed into Red Square, saw the world-famous St. Basil's Cathedral, and then Mike and I headed west of the square and caught a river cruise that took us through the city centre on the Moscow river. During the rest of time in Moscow I toured the Kremlin, including its numerous cathedrals and armory; a couple of art galleries; saw Gorky park; watched the changing of the guard at the Kremlin and walked through Lenin's mausoleum. I've missed the trifecta of preserved communist leaders as I didn't get in to see Mao in Beijing or Ho Chi Minh, but after viewing Lenin I don't think I have missed much. The body could be a wax figurine given its high sheen, and as I don't exactly revere Lenin or subscribe to the communist agenda, it wasn't an experience high on my list of things to do. As we walked down into the black marble crypt there were soldiers every few meters standing at attention making sure that no one entered with a hat on or with their hands in their pockets. There were a few people ahead of me filing by Lenin who were quietly whispering, and they were sternly hushed by the guards. I don't think it would be the sort of duty that would brighten one's day; standing by human remains that have essentially become a major tourist attraction.
Catching the night train at 11:30 in the evening out of Moscow, we covered the approximately 700 kms in about seven hours, the fastest we had traveled as the trains before had a top speed of about 80 km/hr and an average speed of 60 km/hr. I got off the train beyond tired, but we jumped into the day, going on a four-hour walking tour of the city, and then three of us went and climbed to the top of St. Isaac's cathedral. This vantage point provides a 360 degree view of the city, and as I made my way around the outside of the upper dome on the catwalk along with other tourists I was highly impressed. If that wasn't enough, that night most of our group headed to the Mariinsky Theatre to take in the Sleeping Beauty ballet. I can appreciate the athleticism of the dancers, but it is such a highly refined and formalized art form that I really couldn't get into it. Still, the experience was a unique one, which is what I continually reminded myself as I perched on the edge of my cheap seat, craning my head to see around the pillar that I was almost directly behind. You get what you pay for. Other highlights of my time in St. Petersburg were touring the Hermitage, the second-largest art collection in the world after the Louvre; seeing the place where Rasputin had been poisoned; walking through the Church of Spilled Blood and staring awe-struck at the mosaics covering every square inch of the walls and ceilings; traveling by hydrofoil out to the Peterhof Palace, the Russian Versailles where hundreds of water fountains and countless gardens made it seem like walking through a fairy tale; exploring the Peter and Paul Fortress and simply walking the Nevsky Prospekt, the main street of St. Petersburg.
I stayed two nights after the end of the tour to take in the St. Petersburg day festivities as dozens of open-air stages, street performers, and performance art troupes closed down the main drag, all marking the 307th anniversary of St. Petersburg.
Now in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, after my seven-hour bus ride, my plan is to head south for Istanbul and from there fly into Edinburgh and begin traveling through the United Kingdom before I catch my flight out of London on the sixth of July. The time left in my trip doesn't leave much time for dawdling, so I will be moving covering ground quickly. It is a bit odd to be on my own again after being so well taken care of on the Trans-Mongolian tour, but also freeing at the same time to again be solely in control of what I will be doing and where I will be going for the next forty days or so.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
From Russia with Love
Gently swaying on our feet with our backpacks on, we waited for the train to come to a halt as it pulled into the station at Yekaterinburg. In the heart of the Ural Mountains and situated on the imaginary line separating Asia from Europe, Yekaterinburg has only been open to foreign visitors since 1991 as it was a bastion of Soviet cloak-and-dagger carrying-ons during the Cold War. None of us cared about this though as we took the four steep steps down to the station platform, thankful to be off the train after nearly fifty hours in transit. Yekaterinburg is our second stop in Russia, the first having been Irkutsk in the heart of Siberia. We spent only one night in Irkutsk, with each of us staying with Russian families scattered along the shore of Lake Baikal, the largest (volume-wise) lake in the world. Mike and I were hosted by a Russian lady who didn't speak a word of English, so we got by doing a lot of pointing while smiling widely.
On the train along with us from Irkutsk was another group which was traveling from Irkutsk straight to Moscow, and they were jealous of me as I hopped off in Yekaterinburg as they still had another twenty-four hours or so to go. While most of them felt they were beginning to come down with cabin-fever, one of them said he felt "cabin-comfortable." He did say this while sipping a beer at nine in the morning though, which may have had something to do with his placid comment as he made his way to the space between the carriages for a smoke. Also on the train was a group of young Russian soldiers who had just finished their one-year mandatory military service and who were understandably excited to be heading home. Sittng up late one night drinking vodka with some of the Russian officers and some of the members of the other tour group, one of the Aussies asked Alexander (a Russian Captain) if we could see his side arm. Poking his head around the corner to see if any of his superiors might be walking by, he pulled his pistol from its holster, emptied the clip and handed it around. I thought that was pretty cool until one of the Aussies said that he had gone into the compartment where all the arms were stored and the soldiers had let him mess around with an AK-47. A very different set of safety standards in this part of the world.
We went on a walking tour of Yekaterinburg today with some of the highlights being beer on tap at little sidewalk stands; a Communist Party member ranting away over a loudspeaker at the base of a statue of Lenin in the town square and the numerous pieces of world-renowned architecture lining the wide streets. We also got to see the rocket that shot down the American spy Francis Gary Powers at the height of the Cold War. It is in many ways surreal to come face to face with pieces of history that I am familiar with only from books - so much of what I have seen and touched makes me wish I had an extensive background in history, biology and geography. I pick up snippets of things that I copy down with the intentinon of learning more once I get home, but to have known beforehand would be even better.
Yekaterinburg, named after Peter the Great's wife Catherine, is a beautiful city. The streets are clean and wide and lined with tall trees, and with summer nearly here the trees are almost completely in leaf. The difference in the weather from Irkutsk to Yekaterinburg has been stark: We left with the temperature around 12 C with ice rimming the rivers and hiding in the underbrush, even passing through a snow storm a few hours after departure, and here in Yekaterinburg the grass is green with the temperature in the high twenties. We Canadians in the group have been constantly wearing shorts, but now even the Australians in the group are feeling warm again.
On the train along with us from Irkutsk was another group which was traveling from Irkutsk straight to Moscow, and they were jealous of me as I hopped off in Yekaterinburg as they still had another twenty-four hours or so to go. While most of them felt they were beginning to come down with cabin-fever, one of them said he felt "cabin-comfortable." He did say this while sipping a beer at nine in the morning though, which may have had something to do with his placid comment as he made his way to the space between the carriages for a smoke. Also on the train was a group of young Russian soldiers who had just finished their one-year mandatory military service and who were understandably excited to be heading home. Sittng up late one night drinking vodka with some of the Russian officers and some of the members of the other tour group, one of the Aussies asked Alexander (a Russian Captain) if we could see his side arm. Poking his head around the corner to see if any of his superiors might be walking by, he pulled his pistol from its holster, emptied the clip and handed it around. I thought that was pretty cool until one of the Aussies said that he had gone into the compartment where all the arms were stored and the soldiers had let him mess around with an AK-47. A very different set of safety standards in this part of the world.
We went on a walking tour of Yekaterinburg today with some of the highlights being beer on tap at little sidewalk stands; a Communist Party member ranting away over a loudspeaker at the base of a statue of Lenin in the town square and the numerous pieces of world-renowned architecture lining the wide streets. We also got to see the rocket that shot down the American spy Francis Gary Powers at the height of the Cold War. It is in many ways surreal to come face to face with pieces of history that I am familiar with only from books - so much of what I have seen and touched makes me wish I had an extensive background in history, biology and geography. I pick up snippets of things that I copy down with the intentinon of learning more once I get home, but to have known beforehand would be even better.
Yekaterinburg, named after Peter the Great's wife Catherine, is a beautiful city. The streets are clean and wide and lined with tall trees, and with summer nearly here the trees are almost completely in leaf. The difference in the weather from Irkutsk to Yekaterinburg has been stark: We left with the temperature around 12 C with ice rimming the rivers and hiding in the underbrush, even passing through a snow storm a few hours after departure, and here in Yekaterinburg the grass is green with the temperature in the high twenties. We Canadians in the group have been constantly wearing shorts, but now even the Australians in the group are feeling warm again.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Spring in Mongolia
Waking up after my first night sleeping on the Trans-Mongolian railway (after we cross into Russia we switch onto the Trans-Siberian line) I looked out the window for a first glimpse of the Gobi Desert. As I unfolded myself from the top bunk, I realized that much of the desert had made its way into our sleeping compartment through the open window. Looking at the sand storms through the window was good enough for me, but until we got off the train in Ulaan Baatar, the capital of Mongolia, we had a much more intimate experience with the desert as the sand coated our hair, faces and clothes.
I am now traveling with a group of people for a total of three weeks in an organized tour, and being told where to go, when to catch the next train and which restaurants are the good ones has been very relaxing. After spending over three months taking care of my own itinerary, it is nice to be coddled. Whenever I feel that we are being herded around like imbeciles, I just remind myself that I am basically without any responsibilities, which is a trade I am currently willing to make. There are eleven of us in total, including our Uzbek guide, Laziz. Laziz speaks seven-and-a-half languages (his Cantonese is a little rusty so he doesn't give himself full credit for that one) and has made this trip more times than he can count. His estimate is 49 times. One word to describe Laziz: Capable.
To give you a quick run-down of the rest of the group: There are four Canadians including me: Mike (40), from Vancouver, Nicky (43), also from Vancouver and Jenn (32) from Montreal. Y.K. and Marjie are a retired Chinese-American couple who travel to China every year, and we have two women from Australia; Amy (25) and Madeleine (43). Rounding out the group are more solo travelers; Helgar (59), a South-African, and Elizabeth (27), an Austrian. Everyone is traveling solo except for Y.K and Marjie, and we have all gotten along well in the last week. It has been good to trade stories and hear about such wide-ranging life experiences that are found in a group like this. There are other groups on the train as well, and if anyone ever needs a break from constant company they can just walk to the next carriage to visit someone new. One of these other groups that is following our exact itinerary is a young, hard-drinking Aussie group, and they have extended me an open invitation to their carriage where it seems there is always a party going on.
Pulling into Ulaan Baatar, the most remote capital on earth, reminded me quite a bit of Fort McMurray in the spring. The grass has a slight green tinge in certain places, but most of it is grey and brown, and the dirt and garbage hidden by the winter's snow is being blown up and down the sidewalks. Outside the city there is still ice in the calm shallows of the rivers and snow is hiding in the shade of some of the trees. Still, the weather is beautiful, and I am comfortable in shorts and sandals. We stayed two nights in a hotel in U.B., as the locals call it, and last night we headed out to Terlej National Park where we stayed in a Ger camp. The stark countryside has a wild beauty about it and when I climbed up into the hills north of our camp, the view was breathtaking. It would be great to come back in July when the grass is completely green and the trees are in full leaf, but the scenery is fantastic nonetheless.
Tonight we catch the train at nine in the evening and spend two nights and one day in constant motion. The train travels at an average speed of 60 km/hr, not exactly a blistering pace, but when you are on it for forty hours at a stretch the distance seems to melt away. We will cover over six thousand kilometers as the crow flies - I haven't had the heart to figure out how many hours I will be on train - but the train is actually quite comfortable. We sleep in second-class carriages, so four beds to a berth, and while I can't quite stretch out, I only remind myself what it is like to travel by air and that makes me feel significantly better.
I am now traveling with a group of people for a total of three weeks in an organized tour, and being told where to go, when to catch the next train and which restaurants are the good ones has been very relaxing. After spending over three months taking care of my own itinerary, it is nice to be coddled. Whenever I feel that we are being herded around like imbeciles, I just remind myself that I am basically without any responsibilities, which is a trade I am currently willing to make. There are eleven of us in total, including our Uzbek guide, Laziz. Laziz speaks seven-and-a-half languages (his Cantonese is a little rusty so he doesn't give himself full credit for that one) and has made this trip more times than he can count. His estimate is 49 times. One word to describe Laziz: Capable.
To give you a quick run-down of the rest of the group: There are four Canadians including me: Mike (40), from Vancouver, Nicky (43), also from Vancouver and Jenn (32) from Montreal. Y.K. and Marjie are a retired Chinese-American couple who travel to China every year, and we have two women from Australia; Amy (25) and Madeleine (43). Rounding out the group are more solo travelers; Helgar (59), a South-African, and Elizabeth (27), an Austrian. Everyone is traveling solo except for Y.K and Marjie, and we have all gotten along well in the last week. It has been good to trade stories and hear about such wide-ranging life experiences that are found in a group like this. There are other groups on the train as well, and if anyone ever needs a break from constant company they can just walk to the next carriage to visit someone new. One of these other groups that is following our exact itinerary is a young, hard-drinking Aussie group, and they have extended me an open invitation to their carriage where it seems there is always a party going on.
Pulling into Ulaan Baatar, the most remote capital on earth, reminded me quite a bit of Fort McMurray in the spring. The grass has a slight green tinge in certain places, but most of it is grey and brown, and the dirt and garbage hidden by the winter's snow is being blown up and down the sidewalks. Outside the city there is still ice in the calm shallows of the rivers and snow is hiding in the shade of some of the trees. Still, the weather is beautiful, and I am comfortable in shorts and sandals. We stayed two nights in a hotel in U.B., as the locals call it, and last night we headed out to Terlej National Park where we stayed in a Ger camp. The stark countryside has a wild beauty about it and when I climbed up into the hills north of our camp, the view was breathtaking. It would be great to come back in July when the grass is completely green and the trees are in full leaf, but the scenery is fantastic nonetheless.
Tonight we catch the train at nine in the evening and spend two nights and one day in constant motion. The train travels at an average speed of 60 km/hr, not exactly a blistering pace, but when you are on it for forty hours at a stretch the distance seems to melt away. We will cover over six thousand kilometers as the crow flies - I haven't had the heart to figure out how many hours I will be on train - but the train is actually quite comfortable. We sleep in second-class carriages, so four beds to a berth, and while I can't quite stretch out, I only remind myself what it is like to travel by air and that makes me feel significantly better.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Travel by Rail
Never before in my life have I felt so tall and so white. Chinese stop on the street and ask for my picture, grabbing my arm after I agree and then making those ubiquitous rabbit-ear signs. They have no qualms about staring at me, turning to those near them to say something and then staring again. While I will nod and smile, many times I get no reaction. I am apparently a freak.
Getting into Beijing at six in the morning on the red-eye from Bangkok, I checked into my hotel with the intention of getting some sleep. I had spent the night before on the train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok and two nights of traveling had nearly incapacitated me. After catching a second wind, I decided that it would be a shame to miss a day of sightseeing in Beijing so I headed out to The Temple of Heaven. Chatting with some Kiwi girls in line, I spent the next few hours with them walking through the temple. By the end of it I was again exhausted and so I said goodbye and got on the metro back to my hotel. The group meeting was at six that evening so I sat my alarm for 5:45 and promptly fell asleep. I slept right through my alarm and got a call from Laziz, the Uzbek tour leader at ten after and rushed down to meet the rest of the group that I will be spending the next three weeks with. A great first impression. What really solidified that impression was being the only one who did not have a Mongolian visa, so the next day Laziz and I headed for the Mongolian embassy. It turned out Laziz needed to get his visa as well, and since he told me he has traveled this route approximately 49 times, I felt assured that my application would be processed in time.
I have spent my time in Beijing rabidly sightseeing, taking in Tienanmen Square, The Forbidden City, Jingum Park, Olympic Park (including The Aquatic Centre and The Bird`s Nest), The Lama Temple and of course The Great Wall. Most of the time I have been moving solo as my visa application meant missing the guided tours, but the off-shoot of that is that I have become quite adept at navigating the metro system. What I did do with the group was the trip out to The Great Wall which was incredible - there are four sections of the wall that can be traveled to from Beijing, and we headed to Mutianyu, the second-furthest section from the capital. I tried to cover as much of the wall as possible, and by the end of the trek I had covered about five kilometers and I don't know how many hundreds of steps. One thing that shook me to my core was finding out that The Great Wall is not visible from space, contradictory to everything I had ever read or heard before. It is by far the most disappointed I have been on this trip. While the "fact" does show up in the occasional school textbook, the smallest thing discernible from the moon would have to be seventy meters wide, and the Wall is approximately six meters at its widest points. Regardless, seeing the Wall stretch on and on, winding its way over hill after hill was one of the most impressive sights of my trip to date.
The day after seeing the Wall, we caught our train out of Beijing the next morning at 7:35 AM, beginning the trip on the Trans-Mongolian Railroad. This track will take us north-west through Mongolia until we intersect the Trans-Siberian line which will take us to our final destination of St. Petersburg. I am currently in Ulaan Baatar, the capital of Mongolia and apparently the most remote capital in the world. And does it ever look it.
Getting into Beijing at six in the morning on the red-eye from Bangkok, I checked into my hotel with the intention of getting some sleep. I had spent the night before on the train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok and two nights of traveling had nearly incapacitated me. After catching a second wind, I decided that it would be a shame to miss a day of sightseeing in Beijing so I headed out to The Temple of Heaven. Chatting with some Kiwi girls in line, I spent the next few hours with them walking through the temple. By the end of it I was again exhausted and so I said goodbye and got on the metro back to my hotel. The group meeting was at six that evening so I sat my alarm for 5:45 and promptly fell asleep. I slept right through my alarm and got a call from Laziz, the Uzbek tour leader at ten after and rushed down to meet the rest of the group that I will be spending the next three weeks with. A great first impression. What really solidified that impression was being the only one who did not have a Mongolian visa, so the next day Laziz and I headed for the Mongolian embassy. It turned out Laziz needed to get his visa as well, and since he told me he has traveled this route approximately 49 times, I felt assured that my application would be processed in time.
I have spent my time in Beijing rabidly sightseeing, taking in Tienanmen Square, The Forbidden City, Jingum Park, Olympic Park (including The Aquatic Centre and The Bird`s Nest), The Lama Temple and of course The Great Wall. Most of the time I have been moving solo as my visa application meant missing the guided tours, but the off-shoot of that is that I have become quite adept at navigating the metro system. What I did do with the group was the trip out to The Great Wall which was incredible - there are four sections of the wall that can be traveled to from Beijing, and we headed to Mutianyu, the second-furthest section from the capital. I tried to cover as much of the wall as possible, and by the end of the trek I had covered about five kilometers and I don't know how many hundreds of steps. One thing that shook me to my core was finding out that The Great Wall is not visible from space, contradictory to everything I had ever read or heard before. It is by far the most disappointed I have been on this trip. While the "fact" does show up in the occasional school textbook, the smallest thing discernible from the moon would have to be seventy meters wide, and the Wall is approximately six meters at its widest points. Regardless, seeing the Wall stretch on and on, winding its way over hill after hill was one of the most impressive sights of my trip to date.
The day after seeing the Wall, we caught our train out of Beijing the next morning at 7:35 AM, beginning the trip on the Trans-Mongolian Railroad. This track will take us north-west through Mongolia until we intersect the Trans-Siberian line which will take us to our final destination of St. Petersburg. I am currently in Ulaan Baatar, the capital of Mongolia and apparently the most remote capital in the world. And does it ever look it.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Chiang Mai
Climbing up to the seventh floor in the forty degree heat, I questioned the worth of getting the cheapest room at the hotel. Each floor is subsequently cheaper as you ascend since there is no elevator and for those who decide that the seventh floor is what their budget dictates, there is no air conditioning either, just to make the lower rooms more attractive. No one else has a room on the top floor, which makes the shared bathroom pretty easy to take and after I booked two-days-worth of tours through the front desk, I got about a 30% discount on my room - from about five dollars to about three dollars. Not too bad. Still, most of the savings goes towards water as I have been sweating buckets at night, laying under the fan and dreaming about Canadian winters.
Yesterday I went on an all-day tour which included a visit to an orchid farm, an elephant ride, a hike into a waterfall where we went swimming, white-water rafting, a bamboo raft ride and a tour of a Burmese hill tribe village. Instead of quality, the tour operators have decided to aim for quantity. The most underwhelming of all of the activities was the the elephant ride, closely followed by the "white-water" rafting. For the elephant ride, I was told that we would have the opportunity to ride on the neck of the elephant and basically bond with it over the course of the morning. Part of the "Getting to Know Your Elephant" included swimming with it in the river and helping the mahout wash it. The reality was a far cry from what was promised. We showed up and were quickly brought over to a raised platform where we hopped on to each elephant in twos. Sitting side-by-side in a tiny raised seat behind the mahout, I and Ling, a Chinese guy in my group, struggled to balance the seat that was leaning precariously to one side. Our mahout didn't speak any English and so was unable to tell us anything about the elephant or being a mahout. Still, our ride was lumbering down to the river, and I was excited to be able to get to help wash it. What the tour operator meant when she said "help wash the elephant" was "stay perched on the back of the elephant as it takes a break at the river to gather some water into its trunks and spray itself." This was a disappointment, but it wasn't a shock as it was for a German couple in our group. Their elephant was considerably more energetic than ours, and spouted equal amounts of mud and water onto itself, though mostly onto the shrieking tourists.
After the elephant debacle and a hike into a waterfall-fed pool, it was time for the white-water rafting. While Thailand has just edged into the rainy season, it has not yet made a difference to the water levels. I admire the perseverance it takes for the raftsmen to continue their operation in the dribble called a river. Our zodiac had five people in it, plus our guide, and by the time the ride ended we were all exhausted. Not from paddling and braving the pounding water, but from continually having to heave ourselves from side to side to extricate the raft from yet another rock that it had gotten hung up on. It was fun enough as we splashed the occupants of other boats as we got jammed on the same series of rocks and laughed at the tedious rate we were making our way downstream.
Today I went into the highlands for a half-day tour through the rain forest, and it turned out to be exactly what it was billed as. Called The Flight of the Gibbon, the tour uses a series of zip-lines to take customers on a two-and-a-half hour trip through the canopy. Sweeping through the branches a hundred or so feet off the ground, it was a great way to see the forest and assumedly get a taste of what it might be like to be a gibbon. The tour is on private land and picks its way through the territory of a family of gibbons; hence the name. While we heard them on occassion, we didn't get to see any. Our leader who takes three tours a day through the trees and has been working there for over a year has only caught sight of a gibbon ten times, so I think we were fortunate just to get close enough to hear them.
Tomorrow I take the overnight train to Bangkok where on Saturday I fly out to Beijing. I got a sleeping berth, so hopefully it will be an easier trip than the overnight bus I took earlier in my trip.
Yesterday I went on an all-day tour which included a visit to an orchid farm, an elephant ride, a hike into a waterfall where we went swimming, white-water rafting, a bamboo raft ride and a tour of a Burmese hill tribe village. Instead of quality, the tour operators have decided to aim for quantity. The most underwhelming of all of the activities was the the elephant ride, closely followed by the "white-water" rafting. For the elephant ride, I was told that we would have the opportunity to ride on the neck of the elephant and basically bond with it over the course of the morning. Part of the "Getting to Know Your Elephant" included swimming with it in the river and helping the mahout wash it. The reality was a far cry from what was promised. We showed up and were quickly brought over to a raised platform where we hopped on to each elephant in twos. Sitting side-by-side in a tiny raised seat behind the mahout, I and Ling, a Chinese guy in my group, struggled to balance the seat that was leaning precariously to one side. Our mahout didn't speak any English and so was unable to tell us anything about the elephant or being a mahout. Still, our ride was lumbering down to the river, and I was excited to be able to get to help wash it. What the tour operator meant when she said "help wash the elephant" was "stay perched on the back of the elephant as it takes a break at the river to gather some water into its trunks and spray itself." This was a disappointment, but it wasn't a shock as it was for a German couple in our group. Their elephant was considerably more energetic than ours, and spouted equal amounts of mud and water onto itself, though mostly onto the shrieking tourists.
After the elephant debacle and a hike into a waterfall-fed pool, it was time for the white-water rafting. While Thailand has just edged into the rainy season, it has not yet made a difference to the water levels. I admire the perseverance it takes for the raftsmen to continue their operation in the dribble called a river. Our zodiac had five people in it, plus our guide, and by the time the ride ended we were all exhausted. Not from paddling and braving the pounding water, but from continually having to heave ourselves from side to side to extricate the raft from yet another rock that it had gotten hung up on. It was fun enough as we splashed the occupants of other boats as we got jammed on the same series of rocks and laughed at the tedious rate we were making our way downstream.
Today I went into the highlands for a half-day tour through the rain forest, and it turned out to be exactly what it was billed as. Called The Flight of the Gibbon, the tour uses a series of zip-lines to take customers on a two-and-a-half hour trip through the canopy. Sweeping through the branches a hundred or so feet off the ground, it was a great way to see the forest and assumedly get a taste of what it might be like to be a gibbon. The tour is on private land and picks its way through the territory of a family of gibbons; hence the name. While we heard them on occassion, we didn't get to see any. Our leader who takes three tours a day through the trees and has been working there for over a year has only caught sight of a gibbon ten times, so I think we were fortunate just to get close enough to hear them.
Tomorrow I take the overnight train to Bangkok where on Saturday I fly out to Beijing. I got a sleeping berth, so hopefully it will be an easier trip than the overnight bus I took earlier in my trip.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Koh Phi Phi (Island Turtle Turtle)
Having now dived the Great Barrier Reef and what some say is some of the best water in Thailand, I realize that I have been spoiled. Terribly spoiled. Madagascar was better than any dive since then, though the problem might be that I am not spending enough time and money to get away from the daily tourist dive sites. My two dives at Koh Phi Phi were not really that exciting in terms of wildlife or the visibility, though I did get to see a Giant Moray Eel and a Hawksbill turtle. What I was really hoping to see were some reef sharks, but unfortunately we couldn't find any. Instead, nudibranchs - colourful little sea slugs - are what the two divemasters leading the dive pointed out again and again. I tried to summon the same level of enthusiasm, but the sea slugs were still just kind of... underwhelming. The divemasters, eyes wide and gurgling unintelligibly through their regulators, would point at a blot of fluorescent colour two to four centimeters long and then clap their hands. I will consider myself a seasoned diver when slugs elicit the same sort of reaction from me.
After catching the ferry to mainland Thailand and then the bus to the next ferry on the west coast to take me out to Koh Phi Phi, I arrived at about 2:30 in the afternoon and made my way directly to Blue View Divers. A friend I met on Koh Phagnan had highly recommended them, so I decided that I would head out for a day with them. I was glad for the recommendation, as the island has a plethora of dive shops - about seventeen at last count - and I had no idea which one I should give my business. The thing that makes Blue View unique is that they dive off a Thai longtail. A longtail is basically long wooden boat with a fairly shallow draft propelled by what looks like a retired two-liter engine. The prop sits at the end of a shaft about eight to ten feet past the stern, hence the name "longtail." All the other dive companies do their trips with bigger boats that dock at the main pier, and with ferries needing the space during the day, all boats docked at the pier have to be launched before eight in the morning. The longtail gives Blue View some flexibility in terms of departure times, and we headed out around noon for the two dives. I was thankful for the late start as I have come down with a sore throat and I am trying to catch up on my sleep before the beginning of the Trans-Siberian leg of my journey.
At the dive shop I asked to be pointed in the direction of the cheapest hostel on the island. I was given directions to The Rock where I foolishly booked a night before actually looking at where I would be sleeping. The seventeen-bed dorm looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years, and graffiti on the wall gave a detailed and graphic history of each mattress in the room. This sort of reading did not make for sweet dreams. The next day I went looking for another place to say, and lo and behold, across the street from The Rock (which I now refer to as The Hole) there was another hostel, for the exact same price, and significantly cleaner.
I spent a lazy day after my diving day catching up on rest, and on my last day on the island I went kayaking to some of the less-visited beaches. I rented an open-hulled sea kayak with Alex, a Swede I met in my new hostel, and we spent the morning on the water. We found our rhythm after fifteen minutes of paddling, and after that I am sure we were the envy of every tourist on the yachts and catamarans docked in the harbor. Our first stop was Monkey Beach, though there were unfortunately no monkeys to be seen, and then we paddled across the mouth of the harbor to Maya Beach. The snorkeling at each beach was stunning, and I saw nearly as much snorkeling as I did diving.
I caught the ferry to Phuket in the afternoon where I am now, and tomorrow I fly north to Chiang Mai. I hear that the weather up north is significantly cooler give the higher elevation, especially at night, and I am looking forward to the change. Especially with this burn I now have from three hours on a sea kayak without a shirt on.
After catching the ferry to mainland Thailand and then the bus to the next ferry on the west coast to take me out to Koh Phi Phi, I arrived at about 2:30 in the afternoon and made my way directly to Blue View Divers. A friend I met on Koh Phagnan had highly recommended them, so I decided that I would head out for a day with them. I was glad for the recommendation, as the island has a plethora of dive shops - about seventeen at last count - and I had no idea which one I should give my business. The thing that makes Blue View unique is that they dive off a Thai longtail. A longtail is basically long wooden boat with a fairly shallow draft propelled by what looks like a retired two-liter engine. The prop sits at the end of a shaft about eight to ten feet past the stern, hence the name "longtail." All the other dive companies do their trips with bigger boats that dock at the main pier, and with ferries needing the space during the day, all boats docked at the pier have to be launched before eight in the morning. The longtail gives Blue View some flexibility in terms of departure times, and we headed out around noon for the two dives. I was thankful for the late start as I have come down with a sore throat and I am trying to catch up on my sleep before the beginning of the Trans-Siberian leg of my journey.
At the dive shop I asked to be pointed in the direction of the cheapest hostel on the island. I was given directions to The Rock where I foolishly booked a night before actually looking at where I would be sleeping. The seventeen-bed dorm looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years, and graffiti on the wall gave a detailed and graphic history of each mattress in the room. This sort of reading did not make for sweet dreams. The next day I went looking for another place to say, and lo and behold, across the street from The Rock (which I now refer to as The Hole) there was another hostel, for the exact same price, and significantly cleaner.
I spent a lazy day after my diving day catching up on rest, and on my last day on the island I went kayaking to some of the less-visited beaches. I rented an open-hulled sea kayak with Alex, a Swede I met in my new hostel, and we spent the morning on the water. We found our rhythm after fifteen minutes of paddling, and after that I am sure we were the envy of every tourist on the yachts and catamarans docked in the harbor. Our first stop was Monkey Beach, though there were unfortunately no monkeys to be seen, and then we paddled across the mouth of the harbor to Maya Beach. The snorkeling at each beach was stunning, and I saw nearly as much snorkeling as I did diving.
I caught the ferry to Phuket in the afternoon where I am now, and tomorrow I fly north to Chiang Mai. I hear that the weather up north is significantly cooler give the higher elevation, especially at night, and I am looking forward to the change. Especially with this burn I now have from three hours on a sea kayak without a shirt on.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Island Life
After making it across the border from Siem Reap to Bangkok without a hitch, I was back with the McLatchers again for a few nights before I took the overnight bus down to Koh Phangan, one of the islands in the Gulf of Thailand. Leaving Bangkok at eight o'clock in the evening, I spent eighteen hours in transit before arriving at my beach house. The first leg of the trip was by bus, which was more suited to Thai-sized people, and while I searched for a way to get comfortable, I never found one that let me get any sleep for more than ten minutes. At three in morning I realized that the aisle might be the most comfortable option and stretched myself out between the seats. This was quite successful, and aside from getting kicked in the head once, it let me get a little bit of shut-eye. The transfer from the bus to the ferry went smoothly, and then island taxi ride (a ride in the back of a pick-up truck) ended my time in transit. A friend I had made in Siem Reap, a Brit named Alex, had an extra bed in his beach bungalow, so I didn't have to spend any time looking for accommodations. This was a good thing for me, because the island becomes flooded with backpackers every time the full moon approaches, and I saw many people wandering along the beaches, backpacks on and looking forlorn.
The reason that the full moon is such a draw is because of the Full Moon Party, a beach party that attracts between ten and fifteen thousand people to Sunrise Beach every month. The majority of revelers last long enough to watch the sunrise, and the party usually ends sometime around noon the next day. The Full Moon Party is by far not the only thing to do here though, and on my first full day here I went on a snorkeling trip with Alex and Mara, a Dutch girl who is also traveling solo. The boat brought us all the way around the island, making stops for lunch as well as swimming and snorkeling along the way. I was amazed at how good the snorkeling was, as the coral was in pristine condition and there were dozens of different types of fish swimming about as well.
The night before last the three of us went to watch Muay Thai, a style of Indochinese kickboxing and it was something to see. The arena probably held fifteen hundred seats, these being plastic lawn chairs sitting on dirt, and every single one was filled. There were no walls, but the sheet-metal roof did a surprisingly good job of keeping in the thick clouds of cigarette smoke. There were seven matches, and the first one was an exhibition fight between two eleven-year-olds. I didn't really enjoy that fight, but it wasn't as if they were two rank amatuers. Muay Thai fighters start training at the age of six, and the two boys already had about a dozen fights apiece and definitely knew what they were doing. The second fight was a female fight which I also didn't enjoy, and it seemed the crowd didn't really either. The adult men's fights began in the third fight, and the announcer, an old London ex-pat, started to really get into it, promising that now we were really going to see some guys kick the hell out of each other - and that there would be blood.
We had bought the cheapest tickets, which meant that we should have sat furthest from the ring, but as all of these seats had filled by the time we arrived. A new row was made right behind the ring-side announcers table, so we ended up sitting only about six feet from the ring. It was a great view, and the smell of cigarettes was at times overpowered by the smell of the liniment that the trainers rubbed onto the fighters at the end of each round. Still, the closeness of our seats started to worry me when the announcer began raving that blood was going ruin the clothes of any people sitting near the ring. Blood was only drawn in one fight after a series of elbows opened up two cuts on one of the fighters' faces, but thankfully there were no showers of blood splattering us spectators. The last fight of the night was a farang (foreigner) fight between a Swiss and a Latvian, and it was a fun way to end the evening. Neither of them had even close to same level of technique as the previous fighters, and while Muay Thai fighters prefer to kick, as this is the most damaging and far-reaching strike, the Europeans almost solely preferred roundhouse punches. It was basically a backyard boxing fight with a half-a-dozen kicks sprinkled throughout, with the Latvian finally connecting with a punch to the side of the Swiss's head that had the referee stop the fight. Fights usually go for five two minute rounds, with women going for four rounds, and five of the fights went the full distance, which meant that it was well after midnight by the time we left.
Last night was the infamous Full Moon Party, and Alex had a well-thought out plan: He was going to have a nap in the afternoon, a late supper, and then establish a meeting point where all us who had met one another in the last few days on the island would meet if separated every odd-hour until the sunrise. I thought that seeing the sunrise would be a pretty cool experience, but I need my sleep, and didn't make any promises. I ended up going to bed around three in the morning, as did Alex, despite his plan to see the sunrise. When I woke up around twelve today, there were still people dancing on the beach. Red bull does that to you I guess. The beach was wild, as you can imagine, with body paint, glow sticks and fluorescent colours being the primary fashion choices of the partyers. There were also many people dancing with fire pois - flaming kerosene orbs on the ends of rope - as well as a gigantic flaming skipping rope. Each end of the thirty-foot rope was held by a guy on raised platforms, and those brave enough would time their run and then see how long they would last before being tripped. The guys holding the rope were intent on having as many people trip as possible, and I only saw two people safely exit as every other skipper tripped and, writhing on the sand, tried to extricate themselves as quickly as possible from the flaming rope. One guy I talked to was sure that the guys with the rope were in cahoots with the medical centres, as he had been treated for burns he suffered a week ago and had been surprised at how expensive it had been. I wasn't convinced myself. I think there are enough drunks around getting hurt in stupid ways that the medical centres don't need more business.
Tomorrow I leave for the west coast, and hopefully do some diving at Koh Phi Phi before I make my way into the mountains of northern Thailand. Today was the 101st day of my trip, and I can't believe how quickly the time has gone. My trip is about halfway done, and it feels like I have been only gone for a month. While I will be back by the end of July at the latest, I can see how time can just get away from you as you travel. I met a Dutch guy about a week ago who had left Holland planning on being gone for three to four months. It was his thirteenth month on the road.
The reason that the full moon is such a draw is because of the Full Moon Party, a beach party that attracts between ten and fifteen thousand people to Sunrise Beach every month. The majority of revelers last long enough to watch the sunrise, and the party usually ends sometime around noon the next day. The Full Moon Party is by far not the only thing to do here though, and on my first full day here I went on a snorkeling trip with Alex and Mara, a Dutch girl who is also traveling solo. The boat brought us all the way around the island, making stops for lunch as well as swimming and snorkeling along the way. I was amazed at how good the snorkeling was, as the coral was in pristine condition and there were dozens of different types of fish swimming about as well.
The night before last the three of us went to watch Muay Thai, a style of Indochinese kickboxing and it was something to see. The arena probably held fifteen hundred seats, these being plastic lawn chairs sitting on dirt, and every single one was filled. There were no walls, but the sheet-metal roof did a surprisingly good job of keeping in the thick clouds of cigarette smoke. There were seven matches, and the first one was an exhibition fight between two eleven-year-olds. I didn't really enjoy that fight, but it wasn't as if they were two rank amatuers. Muay Thai fighters start training at the age of six, and the two boys already had about a dozen fights apiece and definitely knew what they were doing. The second fight was a female fight which I also didn't enjoy, and it seemed the crowd didn't really either. The adult men's fights began in the third fight, and the announcer, an old London ex-pat, started to really get into it, promising that now we were really going to see some guys kick the hell out of each other - and that there would be blood.
We had bought the cheapest tickets, which meant that we should have sat furthest from the ring, but as all of these seats had filled by the time we arrived. A new row was made right behind the ring-side announcers table, so we ended up sitting only about six feet from the ring. It was a great view, and the smell of cigarettes was at times overpowered by the smell of the liniment that the trainers rubbed onto the fighters at the end of each round. Still, the closeness of our seats started to worry me when the announcer began raving that blood was going ruin the clothes of any people sitting near the ring. Blood was only drawn in one fight after a series of elbows opened up two cuts on one of the fighters' faces, but thankfully there were no showers of blood splattering us spectators. The last fight of the night was a farang (foreigner) fight between a Swiss and a Latvian, and it was a fun way to end the evening. Neither of them had even close to same level of technique as the previous fighters, and while Muay Thai fighters prefer to kick, as this is the most damaging and far-reaching strike, the Europeans almost solely preferred roundhouse punches. It was basically a backyard boxing fight with a half-a-dozen kicks sprinkled throughout, with the Latvian finally connecting with a punch to the side of the Swiss's head that had the referee stop the fight. Fights usually go for five two minute rounds, with women going for four rounds, and five of the fights went the full distance, which meant that it was well after midnight by the time we left.
Last night was the infamous Full Moon Party, and Alex had a well-thought out plan: He was going to have a nap in the afternoon, a late supper, and then establish a meeting point where all us who had met one another in the last few days on the island would meet if separated every odd-hour until the sunrise. I thought that seeing the sunrise would be a pretty cool experience, but I need my sleep, and didn't make any promises. I ended up going to bed around three in the morning, as did Alex, despite his plan to see the sunrise. When I woke up around twelve today, there were still people dancing on the beach. Red bull does that to you I guess. The beach was wild, as you can imagine, with body paint, glow sticks and fluorescent colours being the primary fashion choices of the partyers. There were also many people dancing with fire pois - flaming kerosene orbs on the ends of rope - as well as a gigantic flaming skipping rope. Each end of the thirty-foot rope was held by a guy on raised platforms, and those brave enough would time their run and then see how long they would last before being tripped. The guys holding the rope were intent on having as many people trip as possible, and I only saw two people safely exit as every other skipper tripped and, writhing on the sand, tried to extricate themselves as quickly as possible from the flaming rope. One guy I talked to was sure that the guys with the rope were in cahoots with the medical centres, as he had been treated for burns he suffered a week ago and had been surprised at how expensive it had been. I wasn't convinced myself. I think there are enough drunks around getting hurt in stupid ways that the medical centres don't need more business.
Tomorrow I leave for the west coast, and hopefully do some diving at Koh Phi Phi before I make my way into the mountains of northern Thailand. Today was the 101st day of my trip, and I can't believe how quickly the time has gone. My trip is about halfway done, and it feels like I have been only gone for a month. While I will be back by the end of July at the latest, I can see how time can just get away from you as you travel. I met a Dutch guy about a week ago who had left Holland planning on being gone for three to four months. It was his thirteenth month on the road.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Phnom Penh to Siem Reap
Sobering. That is the one word that describes well one of my days in Phnom Penh. In a full day of incredibly somber sightseeing, I toured The Killing Fields of Choeung Ek and then the Tuol Sleng Prison. Thousands were killed at Choeung Ek in the most brutal manner, and while many of the eighty-some mass graves have been exhumed, there are still numerous graves that have been left. A graphic reminder of the lives lost under Pol Pot during the Khmer Rouge regime is a seventeen-level stupa; a large square tower, that contains approximately five thousand skulls of those murdered. After standing quietly alongside other tourists in the museum at Choeung Ek and taking in a short documentary that detailed how even children were executed by the Khmer Rouge, my next stop was Tuol Sleng Prison. This prison was the main holding-area for dissidents, members of the middle-class and anyone who ran afoul of Pol Pot during his time in power in the 70s. The cells have been left exactly as they were when the prison was shut down, and pictures on the walls of the room show how bodies were found chained and rotting to steel bed frames when the Khmer Rouge was overthrown. If prisoners were not killed during months of torture in Tuol Sleng, they were sent to Choeung Ek just a few kilometers away to be executed.
After that full day, my hostel showed "The Killing Fields," a 1984 British drama that details well what the Cambodian people went through during the rule of Democratic Kampuchea and the role the American military played in exacerbating the situation. While the day was educational and informative, it wasn't an experience that was easily digested, and my reaction was mirrored by most of my fellow travelers quietly taking in the same history.
Siem Reap, where I am now, is west of Phnom Penh, and its main function is as a gateway to the ruins of Angkor Wat. Angkor Wat, brought to the attention of the west by a French explorer in the mid 1800s, is a vast city of temples, all of them in various states of disrepair, with some more decrepit than others. Angkor Wat, which in english means City Temple, is the largest of the temples and the one that is best preserved, though the Angkor Wat Archaeological Reserve includes over a thousand other temples. I spent a day climbing over and through walls and scultures of various temples, marveling at the effort it would have taken to construct the buildings with nothing but man-power. While Angkor Wat is the biggest of all the temples, I enjoyed exploring the other lesser-known sites more; climbing hundreds of feet up a ziggurat or picking my way through the ruins of enormous walls with buddha after buddha looking out through the root systems of trees hundreds of years old. It was a warm day, near forty degrees, and by the end of it Alex, Otwin and I, guys who I met in my hostel and went to Angkor with, were soaked in sweat but unanimous in the opinion that it was well worth it.
Tomorrow I spend the day relaxing here in Siem Reap and then catch a bus the next morning for the long eight-and-a-half bus ride across the Cambodia-Thai border back to Bangkok. Right now I am trying to decide between either heading south to the Gulf of Thailand to spend some time diving and to take in the Full Moon Celebration, or heading north to Chiang Mai. Life is full of such tough decisions.
After that full day, my hostel showed "The Killing Fields," a 1984 British drama that details well what the Cambodian people went through during the rule of Democratic Kampuchea and the role the American military played in exacerbating the situation. While the day was educational and informative, it wasn't an experience that was easily digested, and my reaction was mirrored by most of my fellow travelers quietly taking in the same history.
Siem Reap, where I am now, is west of Phnom Penh, and its main function is as a gateway to the ruins of Angkor Wat. Angkor Wat, brought to the attention of the west by a French explorer in the mid 1800s, is a vast city of temples, all of them in various states of disrepair, with some more decrepit than others. Angkor Wat, which in english means City Temple, is the largest of the temples and the one that is best preserved, though the Angkor Wat Archaeological Reserve includes over a thousand other temples. I spent a day climbing over and through walls and scultures of various temples, marveling at the effort it would have taken to construct the buildings with nothing but man-power. While Angkor Wat is the biggest of all the temples, I enjoyed exploring the other lesser-known sites more; climbing hundreds of feet up a ziggurat or picking my way through the ruins of enormous walls with buddha after buddha looking out through the root systems of trees hundreds of years old. It was a warm day, near forty degrees, and by the end of it Alex, Otwin and I, guys who I met in my hostel and went to Angkor with, were soaked in sweat but unanimous in the opinion that it was well worth it.
Tomorrow I spend the day relaxing here in Siem Reap and then catch a bus the next morning for the long eight-and-a-half bus ride across the Cambodia-Thai border back to Bangkok. Right now I am trying to decide between either heading south to the Gulf of Thailand to spend some time diving and to take in the Full Moon Celebration, or heading north to Chiang Mai. Life is full of such tough decisions.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Careful in Cambodia
Though first holding on for dear life, by the time I and the scooter driver reached the Cu Chi tunnels, I was getting used to passing and being passed with consistently less than a hands-breadth to spare. The drive from Ho Chi Minh City out to Cu Chi took about an hour and a half, though it is likely we would have made better time if the driver hadn't stopped six times to ask for directions. After the second time he asked directions, he turned back to me and said it had been a couple of months since he had been out this way. I was not impressed.
The Cu Chi tunnels, used during the Vietnam War, allowed six Vietnamese villages to live completely underground as the American military razed the forest with B-52s and numerous troop incursions. At one time there were as many as 16,000 Vietnamese living in the 250 kilometers of tunnels, directly beneath the feet of the American soldiers who for the longest time had no idea how the Vietcong were able to disappear so quickly into the jungle. The network of tunnels housed infirmaries, armament centres and dining halls in three levels' worth of tunnels. The first level, approximately 3 meters below the surface, could be penetrated by the bombs dropped from the air, though the second and third levels could only be breached by men brave enough to climb down into the pitch-black darkness to fight the Vietcong hand-to-hand.
My tour guide showed me around what has now become a well-known tourist attraction, pointing out the various traps the Vietcong had devised for American soldiers. These traps were designed to maim rather than to kill, slowing down a full unit as they would have to attend to the injured soldier. There were numerous points, camouflaged in termite mounds and slight rises in the earth, that allowed the Vietcong to pop out of the ground like gophers to shoot and then retreat. There were some surprises built into the tour, the best one being a land mine that went off only a few steps away from a group of tourists. I don't think it was a coincidence that the group was American. It was a dummy mine of course, though the noise alone was enough to get some of the group clutching their chests. I was much further away from the explosion, but even at a distance of thirty feet it gave me quite a start.
The highlight at the end of the tour was being allowed to go below ground, and I followed my guide down into one of the tunnels and hunkered along for what he said was forty meters. I had my doubts about that, because it felt more like a hundred to me. My guide was about 5'5'' and he didn't have any trouble at all, bending at the waist and walking along with his back parallel to the ceiling of the tunnel. Being a foot taller meant that my legs couldn't straighten, and I improvised a sort of hopping-shuffle as best I could. With my thighs burning and dripping sweat by the time we reached daylight, I couldn't imagine living like that for months on end. And that was before my guide told me they had enlarged that section of the tunnel-works for gangly tourists like myself.
I traveled out to the Mekong Delta the next day, which didn't turn out to be as much of an experience as all the alluring advertising made it seem to be, and today I crossed the border into Cambodia. One of Cambodia's distinctions is being the most heavily-mined country in the world, so I plan to stay on well-beaten paths when I venture out to Angkor Wat.
The Cu Chi tunnels, used during the Vietnam War, allowed six Vietnamese villages to live completely underground as the American military razed the forest with B-52s and numerous troop incursions. At one time there were as many as 16,000 Vietnamese living in the 250 kilometers of tunnels, directly beneath the feet of the American soldiers who for the longest time had no idea how the Vietcong were able to disappear so quickly into the jungle. The network of tunnels housed infirmaries, armament centres and dining halls in three levels' worth of tunnels. The first level, approximately 3 meters below the surface, could be penetrated by the bombs dropped from the air, though the second and third levels could only be breached by men brave enough to climb down into the pitch-black darkness to fight the Vietcong hand-to-hand.
My tour guide showed me around what has now become a well-known tourist attraction, pointing out the various traps the Vietcong had devised for American soldiers. These traps were designed to maim rather than to kill, slowing down a full unit as they would have to attend to the injured soldier. There were numerous points, camouflaged in termite mounds and slight rises in the earth, that allowed the Vietcong to pop out of the ground like gophers to shoot and then retreat. There were some surprises built into the tour, the best one being a land mine that went off only a few steps away from a group of tourists. I don't think it was a coincidence that the group was American. It was a dummy mine of course, though the noise alone was enough to get some of the group clutching their chests. I was much further away from the explosion, but even at a distance of thirty feet it gave me quite a start.
The highlight at the end of the tour was being allowed to go below ground, and I followed my guide down into one of the tunnels and hunkered along for what he said was forty meters. I had my doubts about that, because it felt more like a hundred to me. My guide was about 5'5'' and he didn't have any trouble at all, bending at the waist and walking along with his back parallel to the ceiling of the tunnel. Being a foot taller meant that my legs couldn't straighten, and I improvised a sort of hopping-shuffle as best I could. With my thighs burning and dripping sweat by the time we reached daylight, I couldn't imagine living like that for months on end. And that was before my guide told me they had enlarged that section of the tunnel-works for gangly tourists like myself.
I traveled out to the Mekong Delta the next day, which didn't turn out to be as much of an experience as all the alluring advertising made it seem to be, and today I crossed the border into Cambodia. One of Cambodia's distinctions is being the most heavily-mined country in the world, so I plan to stay on well-beaten paths when I venture out to Angkor Wat.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Good Morning Vietnam!
Up at 5 AM, I slipped quietly out of Ro and Chris' house, hopped the locked gate and caught a cab out to the airport for my early-morning flight. After a hiccup in the visa process that was quickly taken care of, I boarded the plane out of Bangkok, touching down in Ho Chi Minh City just after nine o'clock. The weather is no less sweltering here, but I made the most of my day, first dodging the grossly inflated fare of the airport taxi service and catching a bus into the city. When the man at the taxi stand inside the airport asked me "You want get you taxi?" I told him no thanks, that I would be catching a taxi outside. "It's a better deal out there right?" I said. He looked a trifle abashed. "Yeah, it cheaper." It turned out the taxis outside were nine American dollars less compared to the twenty he was charging inside. And that was still highway robbery compared to the fifty cents for the bus, which I decided was my best option. After getting into the city centre, I got a scooter taxi the rest of the way to my hotel, and the only reason I wasn't positive I was going to die was because the driver's own life was at stake too. The roads here are much more congested than in Bangkok and the scooters are all over the road; dipping and weaving through traffic; up on the sidewalks; on the opposite side of the road against traffic - basically aiming for wherever they can see a hole or believe one will appear before they get there.
I got a bike-powered rickshaw to take me around to the sites of the city, though that is a little misleading: I finally succumbed to the countless offers to take me wherever I wanted to go by every second person who saw a white guy on the sidewalk. Sung, the driver, sat on the bicycle seat behind me, alternately puffing fiercely at his cigarette and then tapping me on the shoulder to direct my attention to the various landmarks that we passed. I didn't pick up much, as his commentary was largely unintelligible, though I caught the gist of it usually. I think. Sung was picking his way through a traffic jam of taxis while saying something about his vehicle being so much better than a car when a scooter, with two business men on it, zipped around one of the taxis. The scooter was driving perpendicular to the curb against traffic on a crosswalk, which I assume gave Sung the right-of-way. Sung ploughed into them, coming to a dead stop. The front of his rickshaw was reinforced for just such eventualities, which I was grateful for as I was perched on the front. The scooter driver caught most of the impact on his leg and was examining his torn pants and bloody leg as Sung leaned his weight into the pedals to get us up to speed again, yelling abuse over his shoulder through his cigarette.
Sung and I stopped at a variety of tourist highlights, though the one I found the most gripping was the Vietnam War Museum, previously know as the American War Atrocities Museum before Vietnam-American relations became more amicable. There were numerous pieced of weaponry, including tanks and aircraft, all of which had been seized by the Vietcong during the Vietnam War. The exhibit that really made the museum unique, and that I found disturbing, was the one focusing on documented cases of American human-rights abuses during the war. These deeply graphic pictures left nothing to the imagination and made me very glad to be a Canadian.
Tomorrow I will get another taste of recent history as I head out to the Cu Chi tunnels. It was this extensive network of tunnels that gave the Americans so much trouble in engaging the Vietcong during the Vietnam War. I'm don't know if there is the opportunity to go down into the tunnels, but if there is, hopefully I will be able to squeeze myself in.
I got a bike-powered rickshaw to take me around to the sites of the city, though that is a little misleading: I finally succumbed to the countless offers to take me wherever I wanted to go by every second person who saw a white guy on the sidewalk. Sung, the driver, sat on the bicycle seat behind me, alternately puffing fiercely at his cigarette and then tapping me on the shoulder to direct my attention to the various landmarks that we passed. I didn't pick up much, as his commentary was largely unintelligible, though I caught the gist of it usually. I think. Sung was picking his way through a traffic jam of taxis while saying something about his vehicle being so much better than a car when a scooter, with two business men on it, zipped around one of the taxis. The scooter was driving perpendicular to the curb against traffic on a crosswalk, which I assume gave Sung the right-of-way. Sung ploughed into them, coming to a dead stop. The front of his rickshaw was reinforced for just such eventualities, which I was grateful for as I was perched on the front. The scooter driver caught most of the impact on his leg and was examining his torn pants and bloody leg as Sung leaned his weight into the pedals to get us up to speed again, yelling abuse over his shoulder through his cigarette.
Sung and I stopped at a variety of tourist highlights, though the one I found the most gripping was the Vietnam War Museum, previously know as the American War Atrocities Museum before Vietnam-American relations became more amicable. There were numerous pieced of weaponry, including tanks and aircraft, all of which had been seized by the Vietcong during the Vietnam War. The exhibit that really made the museum unique, and that I found disturbing, was the one focusing on documented cases of American human-rights abuses during the war. These deeply graphic pictures left nothing to the imagination and made me very glad to be a Canadian.
Tomorrow I will get another taste of recent history as I head out to the Cu Chi tunnels. It was this extensive network of tunnels that gave the Americans so much trouble in engaging the Vietcong during the Vietnam War. I'm don't know if there is the opportunity to go down into the tunnels, but if there is, hopefully I will be able to squeeze myself in.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
First Impressions
While soldiers and red shirt protesters regularly clash in the streets, I haven't actually experienced any of the chaos personally. I had foolishly thought that I could go to some of the demonstrations and get some pictures, but with people dying - including a journalist in the last bout of fighting, I've decided that it would probably be wiser to just keep inside the gated compound of the school where I am staying, leaving the heroics to people who are getting paid for them. As long as I am aware of which parts of the city are safe and give minimal attention to my wardrobe (no red shirts), I feel that there is little danger here in Bangkok. The protesters are upset with the current government, so farang (foreigners) are not targets.
I haven't done much sightseeing yet, and probably will leave touring Bangkok until the end of my time in Southeast Asia, but it is exactly what I expected. Busy streets, with lines more of a suggestion of where vehicles would drive in a perfect world; families riding on one scooter dipping in and out of traffic, and a potpourri of smells created by the myriad street vendors, mangy stray dogs and garbage. I am looking forward to getting into the country and seeing the rural side of Thailand as well, but I don't mind the busy city streets either, though the 100% humidity and near-forty degree heat do take a toll on me.
Last night, I went out with Ro and Chris to a nearby shopping centre to see a movie, but when we got there a little before nine in the evening, it seemed there were people coming out but no one going in. We asked one of the doormen what was happening, but we weren't able to communicate with him - he simply smiled and nodded at all of our queries - until a passerby acted as an interpreter. The red shirt threat had apparently caused the shopping centre to shorten their hours, so we came home, feeling a bit annoyed at the inconvenience. In the morning, after hearing about the more than fifty deaths and nearly one thousand injured (and I hear that these numbers are usually gross underestimates, and that the rule of thumb is to double the official numbers) I felt a bit guilty for being even slightly bothered the night before. Hopefully missing a movie is the worst thing I will suffer because of the rioting in the streets here in Bangkok.
I haven't done much sightseeing yet, and probably will leave touring Bangkok until the end of my time in Southeast Asia, but it is exactly what I expected. Busy streets, with lines more of a suggestion of where vehicles would drive in a perfect world; families riding on one scooter dipping in and out of traffic, and a potpourri of smells created by the myriad street vendors, mangy stray dogs and garbage. I am looking forward to getting into the country and seeing the rural side of Thailand as well, but I don't mind the busy city streets either, though the 100% humidity and near-forty degree heat do take a toll on me.
Last night, I went out with Ro and Chris to a nearby shopping centre to see a movie, but when we got there a little before nine in the evening, it seemed there were people coming out but no one going in. We asked one of the doormen what was happening, but we weren't able to communicate with him - he simply smiled and nodded at all of our queries - until a passerby acted as an interpreter. The red shirt threat had apparently caused the shopping centre to shorten their hours, so we came home, feeling a bit annoyed at the inconvenience. In the morning, after hearing about the more than fifty deaths and nearly one thousand injured (and I hear that these numbers are usually gross underestimates, and that the rule of thumb is to double the official numbers) I felt a bit guilty for being even slightly bothered the night before. Hopefully missing a movie is the worst thing I will suffer because of the rioting in the streets here in Bangkok.
Christchurch to Bangkok
Just to forewarn readers - this post ended up being a fairly dry itinerary recitation. Read the most recent post if you want to get a feel for the mayhem and death in the streets. Not a first-hand experience, but there is mayhem and death. Mom, I'm being safe.
Waking up in Christchurch just after five in the morning, I was greeted by something I hadn't seen in all of my traveling so far - frost! Since our van has trouble starting most mornings, I was a little bit anxious that I wouldn't be able to get to the airport in time. We had parked just down the road from the terminal though, and I pulled up to the drop-off point with plenty of time to spare. Jordache stayed huddled in his sleeping bag in the back of the van until we pulled up to the airport and then pulled himself out, gave me a hug, and announced his plan to drive back to last night's parking spot and get some more sleep.
I flew into Wellington, getting in just before eight, grabbed the shuttle into the city and then found my way by foot to the Chinese Embassy. I had phoned twice to confirm that my passport had arrived from the Russian Embassy where I had arranged to have it sent to the Chinese Embassy, yet when the receptionist couldn't find it after searching for a while I was starting to get nervous. It was there though, and I feel a lot more comfortable having it in my possession - it is really the only thing that I have that I can't afford to lose.
My flight left the next morning, but as I had to check in at four in the morning, I didn't see the point in getting a hostel so I headed back out to the airport in the afternoon. I was excited to find that the airport had showers in the bathroom, so I cleaned myself up and then scouted the airport for a good place to roll out my sleeping bag later in the evening. I found a cushioned bench opposite the airport bar that I claimed, and then I settled in to watch the bar television. As the staff where cleaning up and preparing to leave, one of them noticed that I was still there, obviously with no intentions of leaving. He kindly gave me the television's remote control and told me to shut it off whenever I went to bed.
After finally turning in after enjoying my fill of "Criminal Minds" and the NZ news, I enjoyed some sleep before getting up in time to check in two hours before my flight. There had been a delay however, but they more than made it up to me by providing me with a fifteen dollar breakfast voucher. Since my lay-over in Sydney was an all-day affair, I wasn't in a hurry and enjoyed my free breakfast and then the complimentary breakfast on the flight to Sydney. I hung out all day in the Sydney airport, getting on the plane after four and then flying just under ten hours to arrive in Bangkok at 11:00 PM local time. After catching a taxi, I got into Nonthaburi, a city just outside of Bangkok. Given that it is inside the limits of Greater Bangkok, it is functionally a suburb of Bangkok. Feeling rather jet-lagged given that I had been up for over twenty-four hours, I clumsily dialed Roshali and Chris' number and Ro and her mom, along with one-month old Cadence came to pick me up.
I know Ro and Chris from my time at King's when we were students, and they have been living here in Thailand and teaching English since 2006. The Mclatcher family is growing in number, as Jaya, their oldest daughter, is now a very busy 1 1/2 years old, and their newest addition, Cady, is just four weeks old. As you can guess, a busy household! They have graciously invited me to stay here for as long as I want, and their home will likely be my home base for trips through the rest of Southeast Asia.
Waking up in Christchurch just after five in the morning, I was greeted by something I hadn't seen in all of my traveling so far - frost! Since our van has trouble starting most mornings, I was a little bit anxious that I wouldn't be able to get to the airport in time. We had parked just down the road from the terminal though, and I pulled up to the drop-off point with plenty of time to spare. Jordache stayed huddled in his sleeping bag in the back of the van until we pulled up to the airport and then pulled himself out, gave me a hug, and announced his plan to drive back to last night's parking spot and get some more sleep.
I flew into Wellington, getting in just before eight, grabbed the shuttle into the city and then found my way by foot to the Chinese Embassy. I had phoned twice to confirm that my passport had arrived from the Russian Embassy where I had arranged to have it sent to the Chinese Embassy, yet when the receptionist couldn't find it after searching for a while I was starting to get nervous. It was there though, and I feel a lot more comfortable having it in my possession - it is really the only thing that I have that I can't afford to lose.
My flight left the next morning, but as I had to check in at four in the morning, I didn't see the point in getting a hostel so I headed back out to the airport in the afternoon. I was excited to find that the airport had showers in the bathroom, so I cleaned myself up and then scouted the airport for a good place to roll out my sleeping bag later in the evening. I found a cushioned bench opposite the airport bar that I claimed, and then I settled in to watch the bar television. As the staff where cleaning up and preparing to leave, one of them noticed that I was still there, obviously with no intentions of leaving. He kindly gave me the television's remote control and told me to shut it off whenever I went to bed.
After finally turning in after enjoying my fill of "Criminal Minds" and the NZ news, I enjoyed some sleep before getting up in time to check in two hours before my flight. There had been a delay however, but they more than made it up to me by providing me with a fifteen dollar breakfast voucher. Since my lay-over in Sydney was an all-day affair, I wasn't in a hurry and enjoyed my free breakfast and then the complimentary breakfast on the flight to Sydney. I hung out all day in the Sydney airport, getting on the plane after four and then flying just under ten hours to arrive in Bangkok at 11:00 PM local time. After catching a taxi, I got into Nonthaburi, a city just outside of Bangkok. Given that it is inside the limits of Greater Bangkok, it is functionally a suburb of Bangkok. Feeling rather jet-lagged given that I had been up for over twenty-four hours, I clumsily dialed Roshali and Chris' number and Ro and her mom, along with one-month old Cadence came to pick me up.
I know Ro and Chris from my time at King's when we were students, and they have been living here in Thailand and teaching English since 2006. The Mclatcher family is growing in number, as Jaya, their oldest daughter, is now a very busy 1 1/2 years old, and their newest addition, Cady, is just four weeks old. As you can guess, a busy household! They have graciously invited me to stay here for as long as I want, and their home will likely be my home base for trips through the rest of Southeast Asia.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Last Stop: Christchurch
After living on the beach for three nights in Dunedin, we got our van into the shop as the muffler had pretty much disintegrated. The weld that was holding it together broke on the rough gravel roads between Bluff and Dunedin, and we learned after the diagnosis that all of the heavy driving had apparently broken the second stage as well. So, a $500 fix, and with our house on the hydraulic lift six feet off the ground we didn't have a place to sleep that night as the mechanics weren't too keen for us to use it as a tree-house. Thankfully, the O'Flynns, a family that had lived next door to us growing up in Fort McMurray and now in Dunedin, offered us a place to stay as long as we needed. It was great to have a warm, dry place to sleep and warm showers every day, but what was even better was to catch up with the O'Flynns who we hadn't seen in over ten years. We spent most nights talking until late at night/early in the morning, trading stories and reminiscing about Fort McMurray. It was amazing how quickly we were brought up to speed on what they have been doing over the last decade and when we finally left after four nights with them it was as if it had less than a year since they had moved to NZ, not over ten times that long. Except for the fact that the youngest ones had grown up to have their own unmistakable personalities since we had last seen them as toddlers!
Driving northward, our van was purring as we made our way to Mount Cook. The exhaust system had obviously had some cracks in it when we had gotten it welded the first time, and it was a great feeling to be in a quiet cab for once. As we drove out to Mt. Cook we were wondering if we would even be able to sight the peak, as I had heard stories about people making as many as three trips out to see it and having cloud cover obscure Mt. Cook every time. We had clear skies and a great view, and we camped that night just off the road. Nursing the last bit of gas in the tank, we rolled into Lake Taupo in the morning and got into Christchurch later that day. We had time to hit the surf, and I can now safe with no fear of embarrassment that I can actually surf. Consistently standing on each decent wave, the only thing left to get a hang of is reading the ocean, as the current carried us a far way down the beach necessitating a long walk back to the van. Still, shredding or green facing - surfing parallel with the wave as it breaks - has yet to happen, and I may just have to save working on that until Tofino.
Jordache and I took in a Easter Sunday service today, but by the time the new pastor was dedicated and congratulations given to the outgoing pastor, they decided that time had run out for a sermon. An interesting church, but the potluck lunch was good nonetheless. The outgoing pastor shook my hand as I stood beside him picking up some finger sandwiches and said "Good to see you again!" He apparently mistook me for someone else, or it's his go-to line. I must not have looked like someone who lived in their van though, so that's good.
This is my last stop in NZ as on the 8th I fly into Wellington to pick up my passport and from there I start my journey through Asia, flying into Bangkok on the 9th. There has been little culture shock so far what with traveling in English-speaking countries, so I may be in some senses easing into the whole traveling thing. I'm sure Thailand will be quite a different experience from NZ an Australia though, especially since I will begin the solo portion of my trip. Jordache is staying in NZ for a few more days after I leave, basically just waiting on selling our van before he either heads home to Canada or takes a bit of a detour through Fiji and/or the Cook Islands.
Alright, I will probably be putting up my next post from Thailand - until then, enjoy spring in Canada - or the weather in whatever part of the world you find yourself in.
Driving northward, our van was purring as we made our way to Mount Cook. The exhaust system had obviously had some cracks in it when we had gotten it welded the first time, and it was a great feeling to be in a quiet cab for once. As we drove out to Mt. Cook we were wondering if we would even be able to sight the peak, as I had heard stories about people making as many as three trips out to see it and having cloud cover obscure Mt. Cook every time. We had clear skies and a great view, and we camped that night just off the road. Nursing the last bit of gas in the tank, we rolled into Lake Taupo in the morning and got into Christchurch later that day. We had time to hit the surf, and I can now safe with no fear of embarrassment that I can actually surf. Consistently standing on each decent wave, the only thing left to get a hang of is reading the ocean, as the current carried us a far way down the beach necessitating a long walk back to the van. Still, shredding or green facing - surfing parallel with the wave as it breaks - has yet to happen, and I may just have to save working on that until Tofino.
Jordache and I took in a Easter Sunday service today, but by the time the new pastor was dedicated and congratulations given to the outgoing pastor, they decided that time had run out for a sermon. An interesting church, but the potluck lunch was good nonetheless. The outgoing pastor shook my hand as I stood beside him picking up some finger sandwiches and said "Good to see you again!" He apparently mistook me for someone else, or it's his go-to line. I must not have looked like someone who lived in their van though, so that's good.
This is my last stop in NZ as on the 8th I fly into Wellington to pick up my passport and from there I start my journey through Asia, flying into Bangkok on the 9th. There has been little culture shock so far what with traveling in English-speaking countries, so I may be in some senses easing into the whole traveling thing. I'm sure Thailand will be quite a different experience from NZ an Australia though, especially since I will begin the solo portion of my trip. Jordache is staying in NZ for a few more days after I leave, basically just waiting on selling our van before he either heads home to Canada or takes a bit of a detour through Fiji and/or the Cook Islands.
Alright, I will probably be putting up my next post from Thailand - until then, enjoy spring in Canada - or the weather in whatever part of the world you find yourself in.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Detours
After the Nevis bungee, Jordache and I were scheduled for the Canyon Swing on the following day in Queenstown. Swinging from steel ropes attached to either side of a canyon, the ride starts with a 60 meter free-fall that accelerates you to 150 km/hr and then flings you out through a 200 meter arc. While it may sound as frightening as the bungee (or more so) it didn't have quite the same psychological effects on me. Jordache handled it even more easily than the bungee, smiling widely as he pushed off the platform backwards for his first swing. Unlike the bungee, where jumpers need to dive out from the platform, the swing allows all sorts of different jumps. Jordache did two swings while I did three, as neither of us could pass up the opportunity for following swings for only twenty bucks. The first swings we each did were simply backwards jumps, while the second was what is called a "cutaway." Suspended upside, the operators swing you out over the canyon where you look straight down at the cliff face before they pull the bolt that sends you falling head-first. My last jump was a gainer, a back-flip while moving forwards, and each time the adrenalin rush was as strong as the previous jump.
After the Canyon Swing we hit the road, traveling out toward Milford Sound in Fiordland. The only problem was that we didn't check to see if the wash-out that had closed the road earlier in the week had been cleared up yet. And it hadn't. We parked in a gravel parking lot at the "Closed Road" sign, only a scant 60 kms from our destination. We phoned the road information line that evening, and they said that we should check back in the morning in case things might have changed overnight. We did, and they hadn't. Backtracking south, we decided that we might as well go toward Stewart Island which was next on our itinerary. We got into Bluff on the coast, the town the ferry departs from, and booked our tickets for the following day.
Jordache had high hopes that Stewart Island would be where he would finally set his eyes on a kiwi bird, and while we kept our eyes peeled throughout the day and even went on a guided bird walk, the nocturnal flightless bird eluded us. We should given more thought to fact that it was a nocturnal bird. We arrived on the island mid-morning after the quick one-hour ferry ride and took the first hour or so to get over the trip. The waves were quite choppy and left both me and Jordache feeling slightly seasick. I had ridden the first bit of the trip at the front of the boat, standing while holding on tightly to the hand rails, feeling the ferry alternately drop from underneath me and push me into the air and felt great. It was only after I staggered back to my seat and observed a number of other passengers depositing their breakfasts into little paper bags that I began to feel sick myself. The ride back was much of the same, so Jordache and I spent most our time outside on deck in the fresh air.
After getting back to mainland, we spent the night in the same spot we had the night before, that being the local cemetery, and then headed out in the morning. A farmer observed us pulling out of the parking lot in the morning and just shook his head at us. Other than him, I don't thing we disturbed anyone else with our choice of parking spot. We headed into Invercargill where we used the internet and the public bathrooms and before we left, Jordache spotted a clothing sale and went into check it out. After a long talk with Peter, the owner of the store, Jordache and I each got an item off the sales rack, and Peter gave us a complimentary bottle of wine. By far the best perk I have ever gotten with a purchase.
We drove throught the Catlins along the south-east coast of the South Island towards Dunedin, stopping at the well-known Porpoise Bay. Hector Dolphins regulary frequent the bay, swimming alongside humans, and I went for a swim hoping some would come to see me. None did unfortunately, though while I was rinsing off back on shore, Jordache watched a sea lion surf in on a wave and chase the kids off the beach. When I got there it was sunning itself on the beach, oblivious to us tourists leaning on the fence taking pictures. We left the sea lion to itself, aiming to get into Dunedin by dark, and after making ourselves supper along the way, we realized that our muffler had come undone again. Ears ringing, we pulled into Dundedin around eight and quickly found a place to park for the night. Given the noise of the muffler, it is difficult to move quietly.
Surfing this morning was great, even if it was quite cold, and what was even better was that we found some beach showers. We are entirely self-sufficent except for a way to wash ourselves, so we may hang around here for a while and just enjoy being clean for a few days. Then, off to Mount Cook and Christchurch, unless there is another wash-out.
After the Canyon Swing we hit the road, traveling out toward Milford Sound in Fiordland. The only problem was that we didn't check to see if the wash-out that had closed the road earlier in the week had been cleared up yet. And it hadn't. We parked in a gravel parking lot at the "Closed Road" sign, only a scant 60 kms from our destination. We phoned the road information line that evening, and they said that we should check back in the morning in case things might have changed overnight. We did, and they hadn't. Backtracking south, we decided that we might as well go toward Stewart Island which was next on our itinerary. We got into Bluff on the coast, the town the ferry departs from, and booked our tickets for the following day.
Jordache had high hopes that Stewart Island would be where he would finally set his eyes on a kiwi bird, and while we kept our eyes peeled throughout the day and even went on a guided bird walk, the nocturnal flightless bird eluded us. We should given more thought to fact that it was a nocturnal bird. We arrived on the island mid-morning after the quick one-hour ferry ride and took the first hour or so to get over the trip. The waves were quite choppy and left both me and Jordache feeling slightly seasick. I had ridden the first bit of the trip at the front of the boat, standing while holding on tightly to the hand rails, feeling the ferry alternately drop from underneath me and push me into the air and felt great. It was only after I staggered back to my seat and observed a number of other passengers depositing their breakfasts into little paper bags that I began to feel sick myself. The ride back was much of the same, so Jordache and I spent most our time outside on deck in the fresh air.
After getting back to mainland, we spent the night in the same spot we had the night before, that being the local cemetery, and then headed out in the morning. A farmer observed us pulling out of the parking lot in the morning and just shook his head at us. Other than him, I don't thing we disturbed anyone else with our choice of parking spot. We headed into Invercargill where we used the internet and the public bathrooms and before we left, Jordache spotted a clothing sale and went into check it out. After a long talk with Peter, the owner of the store, Jordache and I each got an item off the sales rack, and Peter gave us a complimentary bottle of wine. By far the best perk I have ever gotten with a purchase.
We drove throught the Catlins along the south-east coast of the South Island towards Dunedin, stopping at the well-known Porpoise Bay. Hector Dolphins regulary frequent the bay, swimming alongside humans, and I went for a swim hoping some would come to see me. None did unfortunately, though while I was rinsing off back on shore, Jordache watched a sea lion surf in on a wave and chase the kids off the beach. When I got there it was sunning itself on the beach, oblivious to us tourists leaning on the fence taking pictures. We left the sea lion to itself, aiming to get into Dunedin by dark, and after making ourselves supper along the way, we realized that our muffler had come undone again. Ears ringing, we pulled into Dundedin around eight and quickly found a place to park for the night. Given the noise of the muffler, it is difficult to move quietly.
Surfing this morning was great, even if it was quite cold, and what was even better was that we found some beach showers. We are entirely self-sufficent except for a way to wash ourselves, so we may hang around here for a while and just enjoy being clean for a few days. Then, off to Mount Cook and Christchurch, unless there is another wash-out.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Westcoast
Cape Foulwind actually has nothing to do with the seal colony found there but was in fact named by Captain Cook after his ship met with day after day of strong seas in the 1800s. Live and learn. We got to the Cape in the late afternoon and made the walk up the bluff where we could look down on the seals lolling on the rocks below. There were about twenty or so full grown seals and about a dozen seal pups that we could see. The pups were gamboling after one another, slinking awkwardly from rock to rock as the adults, assumedly the mothers, basked in the sun. After checking out the seals we walked back down to the beach and surfed for about an hour and then headed down the coast. The rip tide was the strongest we had experienced so far, and we got into the water at the south end of the beach and in thirty minutes we had been pushed about 250 meters north - a good reminder to pay attention to what the water is doing.
We left Cape Foulwind and headed south, parking outside of Barrytown in the dark. Along the drive, I added another possum to my tally - unintentionally if you are wondering - bringing my total to two. With possum skins fetching thirty dollars in the tourist stores, it might actually pay to start aiming for them along the side of the road. I'm kidding of course. Really. Barrytown is a tiny little hamlet, and in the morning we slipped into the hostel in town to brush our teeth and then headed on down the road.
Arriving at the town of Franz Josef Glacier, we booked a half-day hike for the following day and then drove down a track near the river to find a place to park the van. We woke in the morning to mist rising from the water and low-lying cloud wrapped around the mountains - a magical view, and all the more enjoyable for having spent the night cocooned in our warm van as rain pelted down. Looking carefully, we could just make out the Franz Josef Glacier up the valley as we headed back into town for the 9:15 AM departure of our hiking tour. We spent the morning and a few hours of the afternoon walking through the rain to, on or from the glacier, though occasionally the sun would break through, making a great view spectacular.
After getting back into town, we again headed south, stopping briefly at the Fox Glacier where we ran to the lookout point in the rain, snapped a picture, and then ran back to the relative dry of the van. We kept on driving, getting into Queenstown at night. After driving around in the city for forty-five minutes looking for a place to park and being foiled by a night watchman in our attempt to sneak into a campsite bathroom, we found a promising-looking parking lot where we bedded down for the night.
Today we headed out to the Nevis Bungy, the biggest jump in NZ at 134 meters, where I had a bad case of the shakes before I threw myself into thin air. You rest the soles of your feet on the thighs of the attendant as she attaches the straps above your ankles, and I had what she termed "a little bit of Elvis going on." My legs were shaking so strongly that I was in turn causing her body to shake. Hobbling to the edge of the platform, I looked down as my toes peeked over the edge, and the ground seemed much further away than it should have been. As the countdown reached "ONE!" I turned off my brain and leapt away from the platform. After the tension of the line pulled me up for the first time, I relaxed and enjoyed the sensation and the fantastic view of the canyon, albeit upside down.
We left Cape Foulwind and headed south, parking outside of Barrytown in the dark. Along the drive, I added another possum to my tally - unintentionally if you are wondering - bringing my total to two. With possum skins fetching thirty dollars in the tourist stores, it might actually pay to start aiming for them along the side of the road. I'm kidding of course. Really. Barrytown is a tiny little hamlet, and in the morning we slipped into the hostel in town to brush our teeth and then headed on down the road.
Arriving at the town of Franz Josef Glacier, we booked a half-day hike for the following day and then drove down a track near the river to find a place to park the van. We woke in the morning to mist rising from the water and low-lying cloud wrapped around the mountains - a magical view, and all the more enjoyable for having spent the night cocooned in our warm van as rain pelted down. Looking carefully, we could just make out the Franz Josef Glacier up the valley as we headed back into town for the 9:15 AM departure of our hiking tour. We spent the morning and a few hours of the afternoon walking through the rain to, on or from the glacier, though occasionally the sun would break through, making a great view spectacular.
After getting back into town, we again headed south, stopping briefly at the Fox Glacier where we ran to the lookout point in the rain, snapped a picture, and then ran back to the relative dry of the van. We kept on driving, getting into Queenstown at night. After driving around in the city for forty-five minutes looking for a place to park and being foiled by a night watchman in our attempt to sneak into a campsite bathroom, we found a promising-looking parking lot where we bedded down for the night.
Today we headed out to the Nevis Bungy, the biggest jump in NZ at 134 meters, where I had a bad case of the shakes before I threw myself into thin air. You rest the soles of your feet on the thighs of the attendant as she attaches the straps above your ankles, and I had what she termed "a little bit of Elvis going on." My legs were shaking so strongly that I was in turn causing her body to shake. Hobbling to the edge of the platform, I looked down as my toes peeked over the edge, and the ground seemed much further away than it should have been. As the countdown reached "ONE!" I turned off my brain and leapt away from the platform. After the tension of the line pulled me up for the first time, I relaxed and enjoyed the sensation and the fantastic view of the canyon, albeit upside down.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
South Island
Catching the ferry on Tuesday from Wellington, we arrived in Picton on the South Island around nine in the evening. The plan was to catch the ferry on Monday, but I had some issues with collecting my Russian and Chinese visas. I needed a longer NZ visa before I could get my Russian Visa, and after I got that taken care of they had closed their consulate. I wouldn't mind the 1:00 PM close if I worked there, but it didn't give me much time to run down to Immigration and get a six-month NZ visa. The next day I was prepared, or so I thought, but was told that I needed a full receipt for my lodgings in Russia. I ran down to the nearest internet cafe, and luckily Jared was online - he phoned my travel agent in Edmonton for me, and she sent the information I needed five minutes later. I got back to the Russian Embassy with twenty minutes to spare and dropped off the necessary documents and my passport. When they are finished processing it they'll send it on to the Chinese Embassy in Wellington where I will have to pick it up on my way out of the country. Oh bureaucracy.
After getting off the ferry in the dark, we found a spot to sleep in a gravel parking lot in Picton and then headed west to Abel Tasman National Park. We pulled into the little town of Marahau in the evening and planned the next day for our hike. The Tasman Trail is 52 kms long and can be done in 3-5 days, but we don't have a tent - or the interest in spending a bunch of nights sleeping in the woods. There is a fee for every night you spend in the park as well, so we decided the best way to do it would be to do an all-day out-and-back hike.
This didn't seem like such a good idea at 6 AM as we pulled ourselves out of the van the next day, but we had managed to find a mattress at a second-hand store the day before which made the sleep significantly more restful. Getting on the trail just as the sun was rising, we headed out with backpacks full of food and water with the plan to cover as much distance as possible. What we had not taken into account that it has been nearly two months without wearing shoes, and about mid-morning our feet reminded us. Jordache ended up finishing the day with blisters all over his feet, none of them smaller than a thumb nail, while I was lucky to only limp through a pulled groin muscle I had injured surfing a few days ago. We did still manage to cover over thirty kilometers though, getting back to the trail head around six in the evening. The highlight for me was Cleopatra's Pool where I went for a swim in the cold water and gave the natural rock water slide a try.
Getting back into Marahau, we parked our van down the street from a campground and slipped in the front gate with our towels and soap for a quick shower. Jordache had tried the same thing the night before but had found out that the showers were coin-operated, so we were prepared this time with some coins. A legitimate camper was using the bathroom at the same time and was surprised to see that he needed to go and get a dollar to use the shower. He turned to Jordache and said "What? You have to pay for showers here? I already paid for a campsite!" Jordache nodded his head in sympathy and said "Yeah, I know what you mean man." Our dirt camping skills are becoming more and more advanced.
The hike was yesterday, though by the end of the day it could only have been termed a shuffle, and we are now on our way to see the seal colony at Cape Foulwind (Hopefully the name isn't too apt). Our plan is make a counter-clockwise circle of the South Island and then end in Christchurch, though the plan is more of a rough sketch than a set itinerary.
After getting off the ferry in the dark, we found a spot to sleep in a gravel parking lot in Picton and then headed west to Abel Tasman National Park. We pulled into the little town of Marahau in the evening and planned the next day for our hike. The Tasman Trail is 52 kms long and can be done in 3-5 days, but we don't have a tent - or the interest in spending a bunch of nights sleeping in the woods. There is a fee for every night you spend in the park as well, so we decided the best way to do it would be to do an all-day out-and-back hike.
This didn't seem like such a good idea at 6 AM as we pulled ourselves out of the van the next day, but we had managed to find a mattress at a second-hand store the day before which made the sleep significantly more restful. Getting on the trail just as the sun was rising, we headed out with backpacks full of food and water with the plan to cover as much distance as possible. What we had not taken into account that it has been nearly two months without wearing shoes, and about mid-morning our feet reminded us. Jordache ended up finishing the day with blisters all over his feet, none of them smaller than a thumb nail, while I was lucky to only limp through a pulled groin muscle I had injured surfing a few days ago. We did still manage to cover over thirty kilometers though, getting back to the trail head around six in the evening. The highlight for me was Cleopatra's Pool where I went for a swim in the cold water and gave the natural rock water slide a try.
Getting back into Marahau, we parked our van down the street from a campground and slipped in the front gate with our towels and soap for a quick shower. Jordache had tried the same thing the night before but had found out that the showers were coin-operated, so we were prepared this time with some coins. A legitimate camper was using the bathroom at the same time and was surprised to see that he needed to go and get a dollar to use the shower. He turned to Jordache and said "What? You have to pay for showers here? I already paid for a campsite!" Jordache nodded his head in sympathy and said "Yeah, I know what you mean man." Our dirt camping skills are becoming more and more advanced.
The hike was yesterday, though by the end of the day it could only have been termed a shuffle, and we are now on our way to see the seal colony at Cape Foulwind (Hopefully the name isn't too apt). Our plan is make a counter-clockwise circle of the South Island and then end in Christchurch, though the plan is more of a rough sketch than a set itinerary.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Surfing, Sheep, Southward
Waking up in Raglan to a rapping on the side of the van, we were accosted early in the morning by what we later thought was a By-law officer. At the time we were too sleepy to ask exactly what position he held. He told us that we were on private property and that the farmer had complained and, while he wouldn't ticket us, we would have to leave immediately. We had parked in a cul-de-sac down a street that didn't have any houses on it, but apparently a farmer was developing a section of his land - and "had his guts full" with tourists parking on his property. Yawning, we made the short drive down to the beach and grabbed our boards for our second attempt at surfing in NZ. Unsurprisingly, the water was just as cold as it has been at Piha and we walked out of the surf after just an hour, seriously considering wetsuits. We actually picked some wetsuits up later in the day - last year's models, so that along with the strength of the Canadian dollar made them a pretty good deal. So excited after buying the suits, we went right back into the water, but a storm was rolling in and the waves weren't as good as they had been in the morning. Still, the suits worked perfectly, though Jordache complained he was too warm. Better than hypothermia I always say.
In the afternoon we headed out of Raglan and got into Rotorua where we parked just outside the city. The next day we got up and headed to the Zorb hill. A Zorb, for those of you have better things to do then waste time on YouTube, is a large clear ball, approximately twelve feet high with another smaller ball suspended by bands inside the first sphere. Basically a human-sized hamster ball. Climbing through the side and into the centre sphere, one to three riders attempt to maintain their balance as the Zorb rolls down a hill. You can elect for an unsecured ride with about 5 gallons of water to make sure you don't stick to the sides, or you can have yourself strapped in securely and maintain one position - basically one somersault after another. Jordache and I each took a solo ride in the unsecured Zorb, careening down a zig-zag track, running inside the Zorb, falling, and then diving forward to lend the Zorb more momentum. As one onlooker said, it is definitely not a spectator sport, but quite fun for the rider. I asked one of the operators how much a Zorb cost, with visions of putting a track together in Canada, but when he said it cost about 13,000 bucks I decided it just might not be worth it.
After zorbing Jordache and I went over to the luge track just down the road, taking a gondola up the mountain just outside of Rotorua and then racing each other down on concrete tracks. The track is four carts wide at some points, and by our last ride we were speeding down the runs, cutting in and around the slower learners as we bumped and cut one another off. The three-wheeled carts probably aren't made for it, but on many corners we were up on two wheels, leaning way over to counter-balance ourselves, and once I over-balanced, rubbing my ankle raw and rocking back upright as Jordache sped by laughing his head off.
Just outside of Rotorua is a camp site called Waikite Springs, and along with your camp rights comes full access to the natural hot springs. We soaked there last night, and then climbed into our van to sleep. The nights are significantly colder here in NZ, and my +3 sleeping bag isn't really doing the job. Even Jordache in his -7 bag is finding it uncomfortably cold at nights. I had another poor night's sleep and woke up this morning at 5:30. After almost an hour of attempting to convince myself that I was sleepy enough to fall back asleep, I unfolded myself out of the van and went into the pools. There are a number of them, each with a different temperature, and I made my way to the warmest one, about 42 C, where I quickly warmed up and waited for Jordache to wake up.
After having breakfast, we headed back into Rotorua for the world-famous Agrodome sheep show where we made it just in time to catch a shearing demonstration. The presentation was well-polished, as expected when there are three shows a day seven days a week, and it was very well worth it. We stayed around afterwards, looking at the filthy expensive merchandise and then leaning on a fence outside as a sheepherder (staff and all) worked a trio of sheep through a series of gates and into a pen with his dog. An interesting thing to us that we learned at the Agrodome is that New Zealanders have begun incorporating possum hair with wool to create a new blend of natural fabric - a good use for the non-native possums as there are over 80 million of them in the country and each of them a much-hated pest. Their carcasses litter the roads, and I've even squished one myself. They are nocturnal, and in some night driving last week one froze in front of me with its saucer-wide eyes staring up in shock as the grille of the van bore down on it. Just doing my bit to get rid of those invasive species again.
Writing this in Taupo now, we are getting back on the road and aiming to get into Wellington tonight. I have some visa applications I need processed for countries coming up, and then we are catching the ferry to the south island where we will have approximately another three weeks.
In the afternoon we headed out of Raglan and got into Rotorua where we parked just outside the city. The next day we got up and headed to the Zorb hill. A Zorb, for those of you have better things to do then waste time on YouTube, is a large clear ball, approximately twelve feet high with another smaller ball suspended by bands inside the first sphere. Basically a human-sized hamster ball. Climbing through the side and into the centre sphere, one to three riders attempt to maintain their balance as the Zorb rolls down a hill. You can elect for an unsecured ride with about 5 gallons of water to make sure you don't stick to the sides, or you can have yourself strapped in securely and maintain one position - basically one somersault after another. Jordache and I each took a solo ride in the unsecured Zorb, careening down a zig-zag track, running inside the Zorb, falling, and then diving forward to lend the Zorb more momentum. As one onlooker said, it is definitely not a spectator sport, but quite fun for the rider. I asked one of the operators how much a Zorb cost, with visions of putting a track together in Canada, but when he said it cost about 13,000 bucks I decided it just might not be worth it.
After zorbing Jordache and I went over to the luge track just down the road, taking a gondola up the mountain just outside of Rotorua and then racing each other down on concrete tracks. The track is four carts wide at some points, and by our last ride we were speeding down the runs, cutting in and around the slower learners as we bumped and cut one another off. The three-wheeled carts probably aren't made for it, but on many corners we were up on two wheels, leaning way over to counter-balance ourselves, and once I over-balanced, rubbing my ankle raw and rocking back upright as Jordache sped by laughing his head off.
Just outside of Rotorua is a camp site called Waikite Springs, and along with your camp rights comes full access to the natural hot springs. We soaked there last night, and then climbed into our van to sleep. The nights are significantly colder here in NZ, and my +3 sleeping bag isn't really doing the job. Even Jordache in his -7 bag is finding it uncomfortably cold at nights. I had another poor night's sleep and woke up this morning at 5:30. After almost an hour of attempting to convince myself that I was sleepy enough to fall back asleep, I unfolded myself out of the van and went into the pools. There are a number of them, each with a different temperature, and I made my way to the warmest one, about 42 C, where I quickly warmed up and waited for Jordache to wake up.
After having breakfast, we headed back into Rotorua for the world-famous Agrodome sheep show where we made it just in time to catch a shearing demonstration. The presentation was well-polished, as expected when there are three shows a day seven days a week, and it was very well worth it. We stayed around afterwards, looking at the filthy expensive merchandise and then leaning on a fence outside as a sheepherder (staff and all) worked a trio of sheep through a series of gates and into a pen with his dog. An interesting thing to us that we learned at the Agrodome is that New Zealanders have begun incorporating possum hair with wool to create a new blend of natural fabric - a good use for the non-native possums as there are over 80 million of them in the country and each of them a much-hated pest. Their carcasses litter the roads, and I've even squished one myself. They are nocturnal, and in some night driving last week one froze in front of me with its saucer-wide eyes staring up in shock as the grille of the van bore down on it. Just doing my bit to get rid of those invasive species again.
Writing this in Taupo now, we are getting back on the road and aiming to get into Wellington tonight. I have some visa applications I need processed for countries coming up, and then we are catching the ferry to the south island where we will have approximately another three weeks.
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