We live in a kingdom of rains

2008-05-28T18:05:00.005+01:00

Much water has flowed under many bridges since the beginning of this blog in 2006. Then, the blog title was a warcry (albeit pinched from Bruce Robinson)
"We live in a kingdom of rains ... where royalty comes in gangs. Come on, lads. Let's get home. The sky is beginning to bruise. Night must fall, and we shall be forced to camp."
Now, though, we really do live in a kingdom of rains. We're back in Wales and learning to love the wet. Wales, too, has changed. We have a degree of autonomy; a parliament; a civil service. But you don't just pick up a hat and become a cowboy. Our little government has got the big picture alright but the details are very hazy indeed. Two baby blue-tits appeared outside our house today, in the pouring rain. Out of the nest early, they tried hard to fly, but the rain beat them back, so instead they made a lot of noise and their parents scooted to and fro feeding them grubs and watching out for cats. I put out a flowerpot for the fledglings to shelter in, but they preferred to get wet. Silly birds. Eventually, fed up with their ineffectual peep-peep-peeping, I picked them up and hid them in the hedge across the road. I'm sure they are just as noisy over there, but now only their parents have to listen.

And on the second day

2007-08-16T21:48:00.000+01:00

Surprisingly, we were not totally unable to function on the morning following the wedding. Faith and I were up first, and we had our breakfast outside the hotel in the sunshine, surrounded by the Sunday crowd of bikers and motorcyclists. Once again, the atmosphere was one of friendliness and back-slapping. The girls joined us as they surfaced and eventually we got ourselves together and headed back down the hill towards Arsicci where, today, the Manentes are hosting a carnival - a gathering of all the families, on home ground.
It is a fine affair. There are tables set in the sun and the shade, there is abundant food and drink and everyone is comfortable. As the day progresses, friendships occur and gentle teasing takes place. There is time to talk, to eat, to go for walks, to swim. As the night draws on, we five eventually return to the hotel where faith and I have a nightcap and the girls decide to stay up just a little later ...

Anghiari and afterwards

2007-07-15T18:23:00.000+01:00

The wedding ceremony itself is an informal and a good-humoured affair, set in a mediaeval (I'm having to use that word a lot!) chamber upstairs in the town hall. As we enter, the string trio, Helen and Dan's friends, are playing, and there's the customary confusion about who sits next to whom, whether we leave the front row empty and, "Whose idea was it to wear THAT hat?" The bridesmaids look more nervous than the bride and groom, and Fabio and Alun most nervous of all. The mayor, with a dashing red, green and white sash across his chest, conducts the business smartly in Italian, and Fabio provides a running translation into English. They make a good double-act, and I get the distinct impression that the Mayor is milking it for all he's worth, while Fabio does a good line in patter at his side; he two of them laugh and quip as the proceedings move on. The vows are given in Italian, and taken in English, the two mothers give readings, Sue's is from Louis de Berniere, while Sian reads a poem that she's written for the day (I notice a lot of Middle Earth imagery, which Helen loves). When, at last, the first married kiss comes, the Mayor has a wide grin, Fabio and he shake hands, and there,s general happiness all around. It's outside now, for photographs and posing and more chatter, before parading back up the hill and onto the coach for .... Castello di Sorci and the wedding meal. By now, it's warm early evening and in the courtyard there are two rows of beautifully set tables just waiting for our attention. The meal is gargantuan but, thankfully, staged into many courses, and there's plenty of wine to keep the conversation flowing. Just for the record, we ate: cold meats, gnocchi, soup, pasta, steak, duck, chicken, sausages, salad, sweet cake, wedding cake .... and fruit salad. By 11:00 p.m. we are enjoying happyand wide-ranging conversation (though I doubt if any of us can remember now what we are talking about), and at midnight Helen and Dan begin the dancing, to a Shostakovich waltz ..... and after that, it's every man for himself!

Arsicci

2007-07-14T10:46:00.001+01:00

Saturday is the day of Helen and Dan's wedding, but we don't need to hurry because the ceremony isn't until 5:00p.m.. So, we decide on a leisurely breakfast downstairs in the bar. It's buzzing now, with cyclists and motorcyclists. We have discovered that the hotel is well known anong the alpine touring cogniscenti as a stop-over on the Passo di Viamaggio. There are thin, wiry, bright-lycra painted cycle-fiends, mincing around in their strange pedal-gripping shoes that make them walk like storks. Around them are the motorcyclists; leather-clad, wild-eyed, rakish and oozing a miasma of testosterone. But the bonhommie, as well as the hormones, is palpable. There's a lot of laughing, hugging, joking, comparing of machines and careful assessment of cool. We settle happily on an inside table, munching panini of local cheese and ham. Outside the bikes roar by occasionally, the people chatter, cicada whirr and the sky is blue. We spend the rest of the morning doing not much else than sitting outside watching and enjoying.
By early afternoon, though, it's time to make the short drive over the pass and down the narrow road to Arsicci, where the rest of the families are staying. The Manentes have a villa here and the Williamses have rented two villas in the same tiny village - an interesting Ibero-Gallic melange results. The road down to Arsicci is lovely. We're driving through mountain pastures heavy with wild flowers and there are white alpine cows, a local breed (one of whose friends Faith and I had eaten the night before). I'm still cautious in the hire car as we nose around the tight bends on the single track road and so, when I see Arsicci it's a sudden surprise. On a left turn, there's a small group of houses, very reminiscent of the buildings in Languedoc - local stone, ochre roof tiles, old sun-dried wood. This was a village once, but now it's a cluster of second homes. Off the road, they all open onto what was once the small village square. There is shade, birdsong, sunlight, and white ribbons tied on the fences of gates in anticipation of the wedding. The Manentes are occupying their own villa; my mother, Auntie Joyce (her sister) and Margaret (a friend of the Manentes') have a small house at the end of a row that was once a nunnery and, later, the village school; the rest of the Williams clan - and other attendants - are lodged in Fattoria di Arsicci, an enormous, seven bedroomed house that had belonged to the landowner in the days when this was an agricultural settlement. The Fattoria is impressive. It swallows up the 15 or so people who are staying there, without any trouble at all, and hides them away among its reading room, bedrooms, cool patios, games room, arboretum and garden. We take our places with the melee who are preparing themselves for 3:30 p.m., when a coach will come to carry us off to Anghiari and the wedding. The hairdresser is here, set up in a laundry room, coiffuring bride, bridesmaids and others, there is last-minute pressing and ironing, cleaning of infants, panic over speeches, worries about Dan's older brother, who has become ill and won't now be able to attend the wedding, confusion as I spend two minutes talking to Dan's twin, Marco, under the impression that I'm talking to Dan. When the coach arrives outside, Fabio, Dan's father takes over. Suddenly he's become a drover! He shoos and cajoles and begs, but we are like cats and won't be herded, until he warns that others are waiting to join us in Anghiari. With counting and double-counting and a final cheer, we crawl off down the mountain towards the town. Fabio is sitting by me. I discover that he's not from this part of Italy, but from Venice. He bought the villa a couple of years ago and has been renovating it. He's obviously proud of becoming part of this area, though, and gives a running commentary about the landscape and the history until we are close to Anghiari, which now speaks for itself, and silences all of us with its beauty.
Walking down the hill from the piazza at the top of the hill, to the town hall, we make a procession that must have been repeated many times before. Our bouquets and suits, tiaras and gowns weave among the gabled houses and the steep, paved street. A few local people are sitting in their doorways, under awnings or in tiny gardens; there are some smiles and waves, and then we are outside the town hall and waiting for the bride to arrive! We talk in small groups, ogle the views, chatter and wait, but it isn't for long. Onlookers gather, we can hear the string trio warming up inside and Fabio, who's going to have to translate the Italian wedding ceremony into English, so that we visitors can follow it, is in conversation with the mayor, who's just arrived. There's a hush and an appreciative sigh and suddenly, Helen is here. She's welcomed by Marco, now the Best Man, who steals a kiss, and then, not needing to be ushered this time, we all move indoors.

Hotel Imperatore

2007-07-13T20:59:00.000+01:00

And so, here we are, at the end of a day's driving. The scenery is not what I'd imagined, We're 1000 m above sea-level, there are cows and cowbells, alpine pastures. And here's our hotel; the Imperatore, at the top of the Passo Viamaggio. There are a few powerful motorcycles outside, and we park our touristique hire-car among them. Inside the old hotel, all is wooden. There's a small counter, the inevitable postcard stand, hints of a restaurant behind, and a large display of cheese and hams at the far end of the room. No-one speaks English, but we launch in, "Familie Williams" we announce. "Ah si! Due camera - uno per due, e uno per tre." I may not have spelled the Italian correctly, or captured the grammar, but the gist is there. We hand over our passports for registration, and, as the girls are signed in, there's a smile and a question, "Tre gemella?". "Three twins?" I think. But Elen, Bethan and Rhiannon are ready for this, and smile. "Si," they say and, to us, "We've got used to this. There's no Italian word for 'triplets' so they say 'three twins'". We're led up two floors to our rooms - delightfully old-fashioned, with big beds and massy furniture. It's wonderful. A little later we come down and order beers, sitting outside to enjoy the late evening sunshine on the meadows. This is so like earlier holidays, when we've all been together in places like Braunwald or Roquebrun or the Algonquin. These occasions fill me with nostalgia, and I don't mind admitting to it. They're rosy and poignant; very romantic. It's a heady mix and, tasted all the more infrequently now, intoxicating. Eventually, as the light fades, we go inside to eat. A light meal, we think, but, oh dear, it doesn't turn out that way. The hotel specialises in MOUNTAIN FOOD. There's pasta, gnocchi and mounds of meat from the wood fire outside. The girls enjoy the pasta and salads and cheese. Faith and I tuck into smoky-tasting roasted meats, too. There's local wine, too, and grappa to finish. Around midnight, we amble contendedly to our beds but, as we're about to settle in, I open our window and look outside into the mountain darkness. There, in the black, tiny lights are dancing. We call the girls in to see, and our first day ends with fireflies.

Pisa, anyone?

2007-07-12T17:55:00.000+01:00

The Leaning Tower of Pisa isn't easy to see when your eyes are glued to side and rear mirrors in a desperate attempt to avoid collision with the motor-scooter riders who cut in from left and right. We had picked up our hire car - a wide, high, left-hand drive Lancia - moments before, and now here we were, tired after leaving home in Wales 6 hours earlier, at 5:00 a.m., weaving through the Italian traffic. We circled the Campo dei Miracolo - clockwise and anti-clockwise - drove past it and around it, but failed to close in. Faith barked desperate directions; Mel just barked. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, we were driving OUT of the city. Never mind, the tower would have to wait; we were on our way towards Arezzo, at last, to pick up the girls .... weren't we? Well, no, we were on our way towards Lucca, north instead of east! I won't share the scene that followed. Enough to say that we eventually glimpsed the tower from the city's ring-road, and began to talk to each other once more soon after we found the road to Florence and, by extrapolation, Arezzo. before all of this peregrinatory drama, though, we had arrived safely in Pisa International Airport, walked smartly off the plane and out into the terminal, because, for once we were travelling with cabin baggage only. We needed coffee, and so, while Faith found a table in the morning sun, Mel went off in search of sustenance. Buying coffee and pastries was a curious experience. I eventually deduced that you couldn't buy your wares from the pastry counter and the coffee bar, but had to go across the hall to the confectionery stand. There you place your order, paid and received a receipt. Taking this back across the hall, you jostled the other voyagers, waving the receipt, and, when you got to the front, placed your order. I swear that I walked between the two counters five times, memorising my order in Italian. At least I tried, unlike the woman in front of me who said to the classy young girl serving her, "No dear, I don't want tomato, Jessica doesn't like it. No, No. You don't understand, no tomato, please take it out. What? No. No tomato." She eventually bleated, "Oh never mind, leave it in, I'll give it to my husband." But by that time the girl had pointedly dropped the panini and turned away, to serve another customer.
We sat in the sunshine, munching our pastries and sipping our coffee, while the varied inhabitants of the airport milled around us. Many were overseas travellers like ourselves, but there was a good smattering of Italians, too, because the terrace opened out onto the town as well as in to the airport. We looked and listened; yes, the Italians were every bit as stylish and as voluble as we'd thought they'd be. The airport is a small one, with grassy waiting areas and "art", and many people were enjoying a mid-morning break.
By the time we drove into Arezzo, I'd begun to get the feel of the car and, parked safely behind the railway station, we left it to mee tup with the girls, who'd arrived in Italy the week before, to do some travelling on their own. We stood on a piazza and phoned them up. "We can see you"" they said and, in a few minutes, there they were, three seasoned voyagers by now, coming to meet us. We stayed long enough to buy some lunch and to talk about their visit to Florence. They'd even managed to buy a very nostalgic souvenir - a little bottle-stopper with a Pinocchio head on it. Very tacky, you might say, but Pinocchio had played an important in our earlier travels together, often protesting loudly from the luggage, or from the car boot, if he was neglected. It was good to see him, and he, too, was happy to be home ... he told us so!

Travelling without moving ...

2006-09-10T14:07:00.000+01:00

Around six hours ago we left George and Maryam at the domestic terminal in Perth while we headed for International Departures. Now we're in Singapore! We flew over the site of the wreck of the Batavia and, what's more, the route that the beleagured captain would have sailed in his open boat to Jakarta, where he raised the alarm - it was all open, blue sea.

As we approach home, it's beginning to sink in ... this has been quite an experience ... in all sorts of ways. As we stepped off the plane in Singapore, for example, there was the unmistakeable, warm, earthy smell of the rainforest; Before now, I couldn't have used the word "unmistakeable" to describe it, and close on its heels came a host of other sensations: recollectoins of Khao Sok arising from the smell itself, and of the desert in places like Uluru and mount Magnet, arising from the contrast between this damp smell and the dry, flinty air of that place.

There's much left to describe - the desert, our trip to Adelaide from Alice, the meal with the momks in New Norcia ... please keep watching!

U3AHA?

2006-09-07T13:31:00.000+01:00

Down in the deep south of WA we've stayed in a couple of youth"hostels". The truth is, though, that while these are still hostels, they no longer serving the younger voters. Although the hostels are perfectly adequate and comfortable, the buildings are old, and often have cold, distant ablutions rather than the en suite or close proximity suites that the modern young traveller craves. By staying in some of these places, our little group has succeeded in reducing the average age of the hostellers by a significant amount. Nevertheless, they're good value (the hostels), and we're continuing our travels and adventures.

The weather down here (we're in Walpole, near Albany on the south coast of WA) is decidedly raw, and we've been put off snorkelling by that and the many "blue bottles" in the water. Undaunted, we've taken to the forests, and spent much of this morning 40 m above the ground among the tingle-tree canopy. Here we saw black cockatoos and parrakeets while the walkway swayed alarmingly in the breeze. Sea-sickness isn't confined to sailors!

Evenings are spent playing pool (George and Maryam are surprisingly good) or trying to find restaurants that are still open for business later than 7:30 p.m. , and yesterday George surprised us all by eating a wobbegong - or at least part of one - in a local restaurant.

There are only a few days left before we fly home, and so we plan to make our way back up to Perth tomorrow and the day after, possibly taking in Busselton en route.

The beautiful south

2006-09-03T13:22:00.000+01:00

It's 8:00 pm and we've just finished supper in the New Norcia monastery guest refectory; the only sound is a small bell ringing outside in the darkness, and this probably means that the monks have finished mass. At 8:00 pm last night "Bad to the Bone" was thumping through the Mount Magnet Hotel as the four of us played pool in the bar at the Mount Magnet Hotel; it was quieter than the previous night, when a fight started because because the bar staff wouldn't serve an under- age aboriginal girl (though her family were in the hotel the following morning, and a full reconciliation seemed to be going on). Mount Magnet is less than 400 km from New Norcia, but a world away!

We left Denham (Shark Bay) and the sea on Thursday, to drive down the west coast as far as Geraldton, and then to turn east and inland. On our last day in Denham we found a very well-recommended beach for snorkelling, Eagle Bluff. We hadn't been in the water long, though, before we met up with two sea-snakes. Now, all the guide-books tell you that they're not aggressive, just curious, "they will even lick a diver's face-mask" and may wrap themselves around your arm or leg in a friendly hug. The guides also say that they VERY rarely bite, and even then, may not inject venom. The trouble is that their venom is extremely potent, and so we decided to leave the water "with some expedition, and a little fluttered". After we'd dressed we walked up to the top of the cliff to watch the sharks swimming around a bit further out from the shore, and felt much safer.

The drive south was uneventful, until we reached Northampton, where Maryam discovered that the backpackers' hostel is an ex-convent. There was no going further - we had to spend the night. And so the four of us shared the big old building (which still has crosses etched into the glass above each bedroom) with Rowland, an itinerant artist from Fremantle, who was on a painting expedition aboard his Hell's Angel style motor cycle.

The next day we headed on to Geraldton and then turned east for Mount Magnet. By this time, we'd discovered Monsignor Hawes, a Roman Catholic priest who built eccentric churches in the outback, and we saw his handiwork in Geraldton, Northampton, Mullewa and Yalgoo! By mid afternoon we'd arrived at Mount Magnet. It's a remote gold-mining town in the depths of the desert, but one of the friendliest places we've found. We met and talked to all kinds of people here, including, for the first time, aboriginals. After our first night, we decided to stay an extra day to explore the area, which included an abandoned town-site, hills and caves in the desert, aboriginal art inside a hollow rock and lonely graves out in the mulga-scrub. Very poignant.

We left Mount Magnet this morning reluctantly, getting a friendly send-off from the hotel owner - who made us bacon and eggs to see us on our way - and the volunteer lady that we'd talked to in the tourist information office (the old tin shed where the town ambulance used to be kept) the day before. Driving south again, we passed through Payne's Find and finally left the red-ochre desert behind us to enter the green, gentler, wheat belt. Suddenly roads were busier and less straight, fellow drivers didn't wave back any more and the little towns along the way didn't look as frayed as they did earlier in the day. New Norcia greeted us with grand church buildings, imposing monastic archiecture and fine trees. It's left us feeling a little displaced; comfortable, yes, but hankering a little for the red dust and the big smile that you get in a rough and ready desert town that doesn't see many visitors and so wants to make them as feel as much at home as it possibly can.

(By the way, I'm sorry there are no links or pics in this post. It's a free connection, but it'll only handle one internet site at a time, so I can't search for sites.)

Shark Bay WA ... harrrrrr!

2006-08-30T03:18:00.000+01:00

"Treat Tiger Sharks with great respect" it says on the information board just outside the internet cafe in Denham, where I'm posting this entry. As if anyone needs telling. Actually, we haven't seen one yet, but a bottle-nosed dolphin did surprise George while we snorkelling off the beach at Monkey Mia yesterday afternoon! It swam between him and me, though I didn't see it. George swallowed a great mouthful of saltwater in his surprise!

We joined up with george and maryam as planned in perth and we've driven here via Bagingarra, Billabong and Geraldton. People here on the mid west coast live life at a fairly slow pace, and it revolves around fishing, it seems. Also the night-life is limited. We went out to watch people catching squid on the jetty last night and, in doing so, seem to have missed a community "singing circle" that happened in the hall. A lady has just come in and said to the attendant here,
"There were 10 of us! And we sang mostly the old songs. Next week may have some dancing, too."
So you see, it may be worth us staying here a little longer.

Oh, by the way, I haven't forgotten about Uluru, but time presses.

Katatjuta

2006-08-25T11:33:00.000+01:00

When we arrived at Katatjuta it was mid-morning. This was a good thing. Many tourist companies bus people in to see daybreak at Uluru and Katatjuta. They were leaving as we arrived. and so we had the fortunate experience of walking for several kilometres in the mountain and desert almost alone. There are sacred Aboriginal places in the Katatjuta mountains, but, unlike Uluru, where the path goes close to them, here it stays well away and they don't tell you where they are, or anything about their story. What I CAN report is that Katatjuta is a very beautiful place. The rock here is red sandstone, weathered into domes; where the rainwater runs off the surface, wet gullies and flushes allow plants to grow, so imagine red rock and occasional green smears and smudges. Deeper in there is water; we found a waterfall trickling over a rock slab, small waterholes and a trickle of a brook, with dragonflies and kingfishers. the most noticeable sound is the birds (tzee tzee of Zebra finches wherever there is any moisture to be had, whistling of the honeyeaters, echoing scream of desert hawks) and the wind that blows gently and constantly through the valley. When we walked out onto the desert (which is scrubby, not bare sand), we saw camel tracks and spotted our first reptile, a tiny dragon sunning itself on a rock. By mid afternoon we were emerging again into the carpark, and evening visits were arriving ....
.. later the same evening, at the Yulara camp site, we watched from a distance as the sun set on Uluru, and then watched the stars in the darkness.

Meanwhile in Cervantes, we've explored Mount Leseur National Park - more than 800 different species of plant exist here, the diversity is similar to raiforests, but this in Mediterranean heath. It is a remote area, only recently opened up for visits, and the walking is really exciting. In the late afternoon we went snorkelling at Dynamite Bay. The visibilty wasn't great - too much sand and seaweed, but we saw sponges, tubeworms, a toadfish and many violet crabs. It's raining tonight.

Now, where were we?

2006-08-24T10:59:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, we picked up a hire car from the nice man at AVIS in Perth, and drove around 350 km northwards to Cervantes. It's a cray-fishing settlement that has a very good hostel (we've now discovered), wonderful beaches, very few people and the Pinnacles Desert! In the evening we wandered among the scattered limestone pillars as the sun sank into the Indian Ocean. We saw kangaroo and emu tracks in the sand and a celebrity chef being filmed cooking a meal on location(a dessert I presume, sa Molesworth, hem, hem!). We ate in the local tavern, discussed religion with a local and walked back along the beach in the dark. We saw the Magellanic clouds VERY CLEARLY, and the best shooting star I've ever seen - visible for at least 5 seconds, falling from NW to SE. Today we've swum, (almost, with a wild sea-lion - it appeared in the water where we'd been just a moment before; I don't know who was more surprised, it or us), explored a huge sand dune complex, seen two blue-tongues and visited Lake Thetis with its STROMATOLITES. What a day. We're staying here for another two nights, and we're off to look for stingrays in the light of the jetty tonight.

But what's happening as you drive to Uluru, I hear you cry. Fear not, the story unfolds ....
It's truewhat they say about driving in the desert, all the drivers wave to one another - well you never know when you might need to be remembered! We rattled along to Erldunda at a great turn of speed and managed to pick up petrol and beer there (both essential over the next few days). We also wondered at the Giant Echidna that was safely caged up outside. The, a right turn, and on to Curtin Springs! The road is edged by red, red desert and plants that are either irridescently green or luminously glaucous. It's a ravishing combination with the blue sky above. We weren't taken in by Mount Connor, which many mistake for Uluru as they approach, but it did signal that we were close to our overnight camping place. There's motel-style accommodation at Curtin Springs, and a restaurant, too, but we chose to use their free camping space (2$ for a hot shower, placed in an honesty box). So we pulled in among the few 4WDs, the caravans and the tents and slept soundly till morning.....

Red kangaroo and red centre

2006-08-22T11:54:00.000+01:00

Although I'm writing this entry in the YHA in Perth (a quite grand ex St John's Ambulance HQ), it's the time in the centre that i want to continue with (or I'll forget). For now though, just let me say that sleeping horizontally tonight is something that i'm looking forward to a lot after two nights attempting to sleep on a "red kangaroo day-nighter seat" that must have been designed by an engineer with the bodily proportions of a mountain gorilla - too short in the leg and too long in the torso!

... back to Alice Springs.

We spent the afternoon exploring the town - mainly the centre (Todd Mall) and Anzac Hill. As the shoppers disappeared from the mall, aboriginals stayed behind and some began selling small pieces of art, or asking for money to buy food,
"Brother and sister, help me with 5 dollars for some food."
We handed over some money to the middle-aged couple sitting on the edge of the walkway. The man's speech was slurred, but the woman quickly took the cash and said, "That's good, that's 'nuff to buy flour and meat. I'm gonna get a kangaroo tail with that."
As the sun set we walked up Anzac Hill, the memorial to the Australian fallen in the 20th century wars. There's a good view from there; out over the twon to the MacDonells and the desert. The place is doubly poignant because the hill is also a significant site in the local Aboriginal dreaming stories. ust for completeness, the local Macdonalds now stands guard over the Dog Rock, on of the most sacred Aboriginal landmarks in the area.
We walked back along the Todd River bank to the hostel in the gathering darkness. All through the stands of gum trees small groups of Aboriginals were sitting around fires, or wandering between them. They were noisy, and called to each other aggressively, but we'd been told that this was nothing to be too worried about so we carried on. There was probably a lot of drinking going on (and petrol-sniffing is a problem, too), but we weren't close enough to find out. The voices and smoke in the darkness were evocative, though. No point of contact seemed to exist between us and them. The groups that noticed us ignored us; individuals walking past either did the same or veered away. A strange and unsettling experience, but, like Bill Bryson, we found that when we got back to our own concerns - in our case joining in the barbecue at the hostel - the Aboriginals faded away.

The following day we collected our campervan and headed out for the desert!

The plan: drive south to Curtin Springs and camp there overnight; next day go on to Kata Tjuta (the Olgas) and then camp at Yulara to visit Uluru (Ayers Rock) the next day; camp in the desert somewhere between Yulara and Erldunda; return to Alice Springs briefly before driving out to the East Macdonnells to camp at Trephina Gorge for a night; return the campervan.

Driving off southwards down the Stuart Highway, we soon left the township behind. Next stop would be to re-fuel at Erldunda, 225 km south, and then a right turn along the Lasseter Highway for Curtin Springs.

Introducing Alice

2006-08-20T03:28:00.000+01:00

Alice Springs is everything and nothing. It's everything that you've read it will be, and nothing like you expect!
First impressions are always dangerous, but the airport is a spic and span bush airstrip, gone modern; a brightpiece of shiny chrome and glass air-conditioned technology planted in an awful lot of red ochre emptiness. It was fresh and friendlyand, after our walk across the sunny tarmac, we were picked up quickly and efficiently by the bouncy girl from Toddy's Backpacker Resort.
"Throw your luggage in the trailer, guys, it's all open over there," she said, "I'll be along in a jiffy, no worries." So we did, and she was.
There were a few other people on the bus - a group of three backpackers, two girls and a boy, comparing travel in a mixture of Spanish and English, a pair of Asian girls and a lone, quiet middle-aged woman traveller wearing a straw hat held on by a scarf. We talked to one another a little, but mainly as acknowledgement that we were all in the same bus, and anyway, the driver was giving us snippets of local information as we rolled along.
"Not much to see on this stretch of road, guys."
"This is Heavitree Gap, guys," pointing to the break in the hills where the road ran into town, "used to be that Aboriginal law only allowed men to come into town through here; women had to walk to a gap 7 km further around. Tough for the women, eh guys!"
"That sandy track's the Todd River, guys. It's full of water, guys, but you can't see it 'cos up here Mother Nature's been kinda clever, guys, and made the rivers upside down so the river bed protects the water from the heat. Neat, eh."
This phenomenon of tour guides and drivers using the word "guys" addressed to males and females during any kind of organised delivery or instructions is ubiquitous. It's interesting, though, that once you're talking to them on a one-to-one basis, it doesn't happen any more. Must be part of the uniform, along with the beanie and the khaki cargo pants.
The lone woman traveller was dropped off at the up-market Desert Palms resort while we trundled on to Toddy's on the other side of town. It's a big, friendly concern - something like Hotel Ali in Marrakech - dorms, double rooms, family suites, plenty of open areas, and lots of help to book on tours and spend your tourist-dollar! We left our rucksacs in our neat and tidy room and set off to eplore ...The Alice.
It's not a beautiful town. Functional describes it better. Mainly single-storey buildings line wide, sealed roads that intersect at right-angles to one another. There's a tired, run down atmosphere on much of the main drag and business is obviously not good for all of the entrepreneurs who've tried to ride on the back of the town's iconic image for tourists and travellers. Vacant units are scattered throughout the shopping areas. What is impressive, though, is the setting. The town sits in a huge shallow basin, with the MacDonnell Ranges running east to west and the Stuart Highway north to south. Heavitree Gap is the only way through the MacDonnells, to the south, and it's this gap that the road uses. What our driver hadn't told us is that the gap played an important in the local Arrernte people dreaming stories a long time before the town arrived. Men's business was carried out there, and that was why the women kept away.
Here, in Alice Springs we found Aboriginal people in evidence for the first time. If you read "Down Under" by Bill Bryson, you'll find a very accurate description. Some move through the streets as though they inhabit a different space from the white Australians and the visitors. Some are drunk or intoxicated on other substances than alcohol. Sometimes battered, they congregate in groups on corners and greens, or sit and talk loudly in family groups as shoppers and sightseers flow around them.
(more later)

From Orange to Red Ochre

2006-08-18T00:46:00.000+01:00

The road from Forbes to Orange is isolated and winding, and passes through the little township of Eugowra. It was near here that the Gardiner Gang (including Ben Hall) held up the gold escort coach and made of with the loot. We wandered off the modern road and managed to find the remains of the old trackway, where we could still see ruts made in the rocky surface by wagons. There, below a bluff covered with boulders and gun trees, we found Escort Rock, the spot where the hold-up took place! On to Orange, famous for wines and Banjo Paterson. It was dusk when we arrived there and so there was nothing much else to do but book into the Parkview Hotel and enjoy an unfeasibly large supper. And so we arrived back in Sydney the next day ... to find, in due time, that our departure for the Red Centre was one day earlier than we'd remembered! The next stage of our journey, by air to Alice Springs, and then in a BRITZ campervan to the desert follows asap!

I'm actually writing this (real-time) in Kangaroo Island. Yes, that's how far behind I am with the blog. Here we've seen seals, sea lions, koalas, wallabies and many fairy penguins. Last night, judging by the footprints, they tried to hijack our car from outside our room at the Penneshaw YHA - they certainly serenaded us to sleep, and awake, and to sleep ... all night!!

Listen, time passes.

2006-08-13T13:55:00.000+01:00

Here we are in Adelaide, weeks after the last blog entry, winding down after a hard day's wine tasting in the Barossa valley! Not only that, we've spent a gorgeous weekend on a houseboat on the Murray River, stroked a possum's tail and watched SouthernRight Whales lolling 50 metres offshore with their calves. All this thanks to the hospitality of family that we've hardly met over the years but who are, nevertheless, welcoming us into their homes and treating us like the closest of friends. But, I hear you say, "You're my eyes and ears there, what's happened, give me details." Well, dear reader (if indeed anyone still bothers to log on to this sadly neglected site), it's been thrills and spills all the way.
Let me enlarge ...

The Streets of Forbes.
Forbes is a small town in New South Wales, not a million miles away from Parkes where the famous radio telescope is housed. People in Parkes will tell you that Forbes is a rough sort of town, the kind of place that your in-laws might come from, but not a place to be born in yourself. I'll have none of that. Forbes is a fine place that deserves at least one whole day of any traveller's time. We started at the tourist information office where we were able to pick up plenty of information about Ben Hall(of whom more in a moment) and also some of the more interesting souvenirs that I've found since we've been here. For example, the women's institute here seem to turn out not only the usual woollen dolls, painted plant pots and padded clothes hangers, they also have a sideline of very tasteful dinky lingerie bags decorated with applique Victorian foundation wear. We bought one and were mightily delighted. Across the way from the tourist information centre is the Forbes Olympic Swimming Pool. Sadly, this fine facility was closed and so we made our way directly to the cemetery, a mile or so out of town, where we found the graves of Ned Kelly's sister, Captain Cook's great great grandniece and Ben Hall. A walk back into town took us past the Gaggin Oval (we'd seen the Gaggin graves in the cemetery, incidentally) and the to the splendidly veranda'd Albion Hotelwhere we had lunch. As we ate, the police surrounded the table next to us and quizzed the man sitting there. As they walked away he muttered, "You'll never take me alive!", but they heard him and told him that if he didn't come to the station with some haste, he'd be in trouble! A notice told us that the Albion Hotel was the venue for a Hall family gathering some years ago; still some of them around by the sound of things. The Forbes museum is a magpie's nest of all sorts of memorabilia and bric-a-brac, housed in the old town theatre (the bordello actually, so the curator told us). Here we found a display about Ben Hall, a collecion of Victorian ladies' underwear, a piece of a space vehicle that had landed in a local garden and a photo of Mrs Onions, one of the earliest female settlers of the Lachlan River hereabouts and not a woman you'd like to cross. Back at the car park outside the visitors' centre there's a wishing well that seemed to make the final statement about the legacy of Ben Hall in the town. A notice said, "Due to constant thieving, please make a wish at the store across the the road."
So then, who is this Ben Hall?
What better way to tell the story than in song:
Come all you Lachlan men and a sorrowful tale I'll tell,
The story of a decent man who through misfortune fell,
His name it was Ben Hall, a man of high renown,
Who was hunted from his station, and was like a dog shot down.
For years he roamed the roads, and he showed the traps some fun,
One thousand pounds was on his head, with Gilbert and John Dunn.
Ben parted from his comrades, the outlaws did agree,
To give away bushranging and to cross the briny sea.
Ben went to Goobang Creek, and that was his downfall
For riddled like a sieve was the valiant Ben Hall,
'Twas early in the morning upon the fifth of May
That the seven police surrounded him as fast asleep they lay.
Billy Dargin he was chosen to shoot the outlaw dead,
The troopers then fired madly and they filled him full of lead,
They rolled him in his blanket and strapped him to prad,
And they led him through the streets of Forbes, to show the prize they had.

Tragic stuff, you'll agree!

It's later than you think!

2006-07-25T12:41:00.000+01:00

There was a moment yesterday when a small voice from downstairs said a very expressive word and Faith came running up to announce that our flight to Alice Springs was one day earlier than we'd remembered. The result is that we're here in the Red Centre now instead of .. well, tomorrow. If you want to know more about Alice Springs you'll need to do a search because I'm typing against the clock in a public internet booth with a queue developing behind me. First impressions:
red desert; frontier feel; similarities with Khaosan Road, aboriginal people - on the streets and in the surrounding countryside.
More later, if possible, and I've still got to tell everyone about the TRUE centre of Australia ... Forbes.

Moving seaward silently, at a snail's pace

2006-07-13T01:41:00.000+01:00

I really need to begin this post with a piece of news from the Sydney Weekend Telegraph. It's about a week old, but you might be interested.

"Three strange shapes (pictured here), viewed at Shelly Beach, Manly last weekend, have still to be positively identified. Seemingly human-like, they shocked local residents who were out enjoying the unseasonal winter sunshine.

"At first glance," said Tommo 'Schooner' Riley, veteran sticky-beak, " they looked just like you and me, but when you got closer, Jeez."

This reporter pressed Mister Riley for more information - What were they, mate - mermaids, dragons, ghosts?
"Nothing at all like that, blue," insisted Mr Riley, adding that they seemed to be a queer sort of
mongrel he'd never seen before, not even on TV!
"Not true blue at all," he said.
Despite the growing crowd, nobody who was present is able to agree on a clear description of the creepy creatures, though all agreed that each one was different from the others even though they all moved together.
"Marvellous to look at," said Mrs Kazza Bungle, a Cabbage Tree Bay sunnie entrepreneur.
Asked to describe just one of them, Mrs Bungle's reply was a chilling,
'It's beyond me, darling.'
Others, though, were more forthcoming. Ibrahim Boticelli, proprietor of the nearby Bella Kebab Hot Ice Cream restaurant said,
"It was a Saturday, so there were a lot of people around to see the things. It was warm, too, for July, and business was slow because nobody wants to buy our tasty gelato and red onion pitta-pockets when the sun shines. I remember that the three things moved down the beach slowly - all together, though - and went into the sea, you know, carefully."
When quizzed as to whetheri anybody tried to talk with them, or if the creatures talked among themselves, Mr Boticelli became definite.
No, he said, they didn't talk, but the noises they made were not disturbing, more like muffled squeals, particularly as they moved towards the deeper water."

What do you think?

I'm interested because Faith, George and I went snorkelling in Manly the same weekend and we didn't see anything strange. Maryam stayed on the beach, too, but even she missed the spectacle! Faith's had a lifelong fear of putting her face underwater, so it was a real surprise to turn around and see her paddling about with us. She'd been so thrilled to see fishes swimming about at her feet that she braved all and found that snorkelling is not at all like trying to keep on your feet and in your depth. Now, there's no holding her back. We've had to go on a trip to the Sydney Aquarium to identify what we saw - mostly Gropers, Leatherjackets and Toadfish - and she can't wait to go back to Shelly Beach at least once more before we leave Sydney for the much less marine Alice Springs (though I did suggest that she could try snorkelling in the Todd River).

Our next adventure is an excursion to Parkes to see THE DISH. George has gone on ahead to do his stint searching the sky for pulsars, but he reports that there are lots of dead kangaroos along the road. This is a worry because I've just read the following report on the MSN (Au) website:

SYDNEY, Australia - Forget cute, cuddly marsupials. Paleontologists say they have found the remains of a fanged killer kangaroo and what they describe as a "demon duck of doom."
Professor Michael Archer said Wednesday that the remains of a meat-eating kangaroo with wolflike fangs were found, as well as a galloping kangaroo with long forearms that could not hop like a modern kangaroo.
"Because they didn't hop, these were galloping kangaroos, with big, powerful forelimbs. Some of them had long canines (fangs) like wolves," Archer told Australian Broadcasting Corp. radio.The species found had "well muscled-in teeth, not for grazing. These things had slicing crests that could have crunched through bone and sliced off flesh," Hand said.

The team also found large ducklike birds.

"Very big birds ... more like ducks, earned the name 'demon duck of doom', some at least may have been carnivorous as well," Hand told ABC radio.

Let's hope that the demon ducks and the killer kangaroos fight it out among themselves and leave us timid travellers to slip across the Woop Woop unnoticed.

Finally, the Mexicans have arrived in town, by way of this splendid tall ship here, called Cuautemoc. By chance, we were there to see them tie up and make fast, which they did to rousing Latin American music. Maryam shyly waved at one of the matelots, who was reefing a capstan or splicing a yarn or some such task, and got a flashing smile in return. Since then we've seen groups of the crew wandering about in the city in immaculate nautical uniform and Faith and Maryam have needed to be physically restrained on a number of occasions.

The Long Way Round

2006-07-07T03:59:00.002+01:00

The day before yesterday it took Faith and me four hours to walk to the nearest railway station (in Epping!), a trip that usually takes about half an hour. The reason? We didn't follow the customary route along the road, but took the path through part of the Lane Cove National Park that starts just down the road. It's just one of the fingers of bush that run through the suburbs and extend deep into the city, and it follows the course of a creek - called Terry's Creek, or Devlin's Creek depending on which bit of it you're walking along. To find the path, we went to the end of Vimiera Road (which looks just like it sounds) and passed under the M2 motorway through a grey-painted culvert; there on the other side we were among gum trees and smooth, weather-worn sandstone outcrops. Although we could hear the rumble of the motorway behind us, the most noticeable sounds were the creek below and the squawking cockatoos. A little way in I left the main track to climb onto a boulder for a better view of what was ahead and there, just down the hill, was an echidna! It trundled out from under the low vegetation, crossed the path and waddled off into the rocks and fallen wood on the other side! That sealed our fate, and for the rest of the way, we stopped so often to look around that a man who passed us on his way into Epping passed us on his way back an hour or so later, and we'd covered about 1 km of the 4 km route. We didn't see any more echidnas, but it was obvious that the birds have decided Spring is on the way. Galahs, cockatoos and rainbow lorikeets were paired up and hacking nestholes in the gum trees. Near the end of the track we emerged, unexpectedly, onto a street.
"Can we get to Epping Station from here?" we asked a couple of burly builders who were lightheartedly hurling huge chunks of concrete into a skip.
They looked at each other for a second.
"Yeah, your best bet is to take the track again, mate."
"Thankyou," we said.
"No worries," they answered together, "Whooah but look out, it gets thin!"
We hurried back into the bush to find the thin path.
From Epping we caught the train to the nearest ferry pier (Meadowbank) and so into Circular Quay along the same Parramatta River route that we took with George and Maryam on our first day here. We passed by the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House in a glorious sunset. Cameras were clicking all around, people in shirt-sleeves were eating ice creams and burgers, ibises flew overhead, startlingly white in a blue, blue sky ... and they call this winter! The free local paper this week has an article about how to beat the winter blues, "Sniffles, weight gain, lethargy and depression can all get us down at this time of year," it says, and goes on to encourage readers to start the day with hot porridge, and to eat lots of casseroles. What's more, I've just discovered that the coldest sea temperatures around Sydney match the warmest sea temperatures available in the UK. This is comforting because George and I plan to go snorkelling on Saturday.
So, after the walk around the outside of the Opera House, on through the Botanic Gardens to meet George and Maryam at the Art Gallery. Here we saw a marvellous collection of Japanese art and calligraphy, some grand nineteenth century Australian landscape paintings - just a few of which were painted by artists more used to depicting Dawn in the Dales or Stormy Weather on the Ouse, and who were obviously daunted by trying to capture scenes such as One Cow in 300 square miles of Emptiness and Natives in a Rock Shelter a Very Long Way Off Because I'm a Bit Nervous of Those Sharp Sticks They're Carrying.

The evening ended with the very bizarre experience of eating a Uighur meal in a restaurant in Chinatown. This little adventure whisked us away from Sydney along the Silk Road to the yurts and untamed horsemen of North West China. We drank pots and pots of tea (kok cay) because the restaurant serves no alcohol (being Muslim) and consumed awesome helpings of dishes such as hoxang (dumplings filled savoury meat), uighur polo (rice with lamb), kavab ( grilled lamb on skewers) and nan (onion bread).
Sadly, neither Faith nor Maryam would agree to to entertain us with wild and provocative Uyghurian dancing (see picture) of the kind that George assures us he experienced on trip to China's north west fontier.

Never mind, we're going to a karaoke club with Xiaopeng (one of George's students) next week.

Around the traps in Sydney.

2006-07-05T00:40:00.000+01:00

Odd contradictions abound here, and just as you think you're getting on top of things, something happens that throws out your perspective again. let me give you a few examples.

Imagine a cute, sandy bay, lined with gum trees, palms and very plush houses. The sun is bright, people are on the rocks having picnics, children are paddling in the gentle waves. It's just a mite too cold to swim, but , gosh, you really want to. There's a very prominent sign on the beach that says the waters are polluted after heavy rain and you should wait for 24 hours before bathing; there hasn't been heavy rain for ages, though, and the water is crystal clear. You think, just a quick dip, it would be chilly, but fun. Then you see, out of the corner of your eye, the net that's enclosing a portion of the beach. No-one seems to be paying much attention to it. "What's the net?" you ask. "It keeps the sharks out." WHAT? THERE ARE SHARKS? Nowhere is there a sign saying, "There may be a little pollution sometimes but, hey, never mind, you could get eaten!"

It's winter here (equivalent to January in UK), but the weather is mild, and the skies often bright blue, and there are swallows. However, it gets dark by 5:00 pm and people shuffle about on their way home from work in the dusk wearing scarves and woolly hats while multi-coloured parrots fly around and the greenery is alive with chirping frogs and tropical vegetation. Yet, the posties all stride around wearing VERY short shorts. Is it to ensure that they move briskly and deliver the mail with sufficient Australian vim and vigour?

The Ranch is a very popular restaurant near where we're staying. It gets full and you have to be prepared to wait for a table. Can you book? NO! The Ranch is an aircraft hangar or the biggest school canteen you've ever seen. tables of huge surface area are laid out in awesome banks, with fixed benches alongside. The way it works is this: stake a claim on a table (or a portion of a table if you have to); leave a scent marker or some other token of your occupation; join the queue of people laughing and joking as they shuffle past the food displays and order your meal (note, order your food, not collect it); collect a number on a stick and return to your table (if you can find your way back through the crowded hall); now go to the bar and buy your drinks, you can carry these back through the melee yourself, slopping foam and bestowing blessings of wine upon your fellow diners as you go; wait for your food to arrive (by which time you've finished your drinks and have to scrum your way back to the bar again). But here's the ting; it's really enjoyable. There are all sorts here - families, people on their way home from work, gangs in cocktail dresses and smart evening wear because they're eating here before going clubbing - and the whole thing sound likes a penguin colony. Fair dinkum, though, it's bonzer tucker, my steak was the ridgy-didge!

Finally, being in the suburbs, things look a lot like home. Three-lane traffic in both directions, driving on the correct (ie British) side of the road, regular buses, people looking glum and carrying plastic bags of shopping home, kids on school holiday jumping all over everything. And then, "What's that thing lying in the roadside ahead, is it some poor cat that's been run over?"
NO, it's a bloody huge fruit bat that's the size of a hang-gliding bedlington terrier. And they're not just road-kill either, they're in the trees - heavy, leathery, chirping bundles of bat, like little pterodactyls, waiting for dusk so that they can fly off and feast on someone's peach trees.

It's going to take a while to acclimatise!

Being and introduction to Sydney

2006-07-03T01:49:00.000+01:00

Our first three days in Australia ....

Day1: Arrived at 0610. Lady Bay is where the nudists go, although when we walked past on a day of cold wind and drizzle, there were only two nudists to be seen, and both were demonstrably male.

Day 2: Manly Bay is where EVERYONE goes and, the weather being warm and mild, it was full of energetic, radiant, golden-skinned Sydneyans. They bowled aong the walkways, bounced into and out of ice-cream parlours and fish and chip shops, jogged along the beach, were talkative and social, ate enormous picnics and surfed the Pacific waves confidently.

Day 3: Undercliff-Overcliff is what the hardy types (but again, that's everyone) do on a Sunday in the Blue Mountains where they brave airy heights and dizzying depths, wearing training shoes and skimpy vests in the winter weather, to view waterfalls and eat Lilly-Pilly flavoured ice-cream.

Next year, new name: Fawlty Towers in the Jungle. Tell your friends

2006-06-29T10:38:00.000+01:00

These words faded into the distance as the pick-up truck took our luggage and us down the track from Our Jungle House towards the bus stop a couple miles away. Faith wrote in one of her emails that "this is the kind of place you miss afterwards" and she's right. The six days that we spent in Khao Sok have been an interesting, amusing and heartwarming experience of how a community survives and prospers at the edge of what we call civilisation. There's no lack of any creature comforts at all, at a price, in fact the visitors demand them. For example, a family booked out of Our Jungle House after less than 24 hours because it has no air-conditioning in the houses. Most of the local people, though, live simply; they have satellite tv, electricity and running water, but their homes are small and simly furnished, most have smallholdings and grow fruit and vegetables, many make an income from the tourists.
Iat is a good example. He picked us up at SuratThani station on our arrival and drove us the 100 km or so to Khao Sok. On the way we learned that he was born and lived in the next village to khao Sok, went to the local primary school (walking the 6km each way along the developing Highway 401). He pointed out all the different crops growing around us - rubber, rambutans, papayas, durian, oil palm, and served us our supper in the restaurant that night. We saw him quite a lot on other days, too. He led a "night safari" for tourists, did some local driving and spent time with his friends and family in the village itself.
There's only one street, so it wasn't easy to miss people. The main thing that he pointed out in his conversation about how things have changed is that now most children go to and from school by motorcycle. This is true; every day the little fleet set off in the morning and returned in the evening.
We also became friends with a young man who's a deaf mute. We met when we were looking for a path to local wat. We managed to explain what we were looking for and he managed to explain how we could find it. After that we saw him most days, either in the plantations, the shops or passing on his motorcycle. He always waved exuberantly at us, and we even got to have a sort of discussion about whether a brightly coloured bird that we'd all been looking at was a kingfisher or not. He signed kingfisher by waving his hand like a fish swimming while dropping the other hand down to it very fast like a diving bird.
So you see, it was a very fascinating place - and that's even without the plants and animals!
We're in Bangkok airport now, just about to go through immigration and boarding for Sydney. We shared the sleeper train from SuratThani with many people, boxes of cured eggs, crates of live crabs etc. and spent this morning exploring the maze that is Chinatown.
Now I know exactly where to go if I want someone to mend ANYTHING I own that's broken.

Vampires of the Jungle

2006-06-27T11:51:00.000+01:00

Leeches are interesting creatures. They spend most of their time (up to six months at a time) hanging around on a leaf waiting for a meal to come along, and then, wouldn't you know it, two meals come along at once! We've been feeding leeches pretty successfully for the past few days. They make undemanding guests; you hardly know they're there until you're bleeding all over your shirt, and when you pick them off and throw them away, they are so very eager to come back that it's touching. However, we are in the rainforest, as Klaus, "our friendly manager" tells us, and this seems to account for everything that happens, both good and bad.

The people we're meeting here are of three types - locals, expats of various nations and visitors. We're firmly in the third category, you'ld think, but wait; our stay here is about three times longer than the usual visitors, who use the area as a one or two day stopover between Phuket and Kho Samui, or vice versa. The upshot is that people are beginning to recognise us as we amble about looking like something out of an Edgar Wallace story (or maybe it's because we wander about looking like ..... ).

In addition, Khao Sok village is VERY seasonal, and we're out of season. so the few vistors who are here are important to the local community. In the dry season (December - March) the place must be heaving, and there's a move to have Paradise Parties in the Jungle, Full Moon Parties etc. You can see the different factions as you walk around the village - some places have Bob Marley Posters, Che pictures and so on, and names like "Rasta Bar", "Freedom House", "Far Out Bungalows"; others have neat foliage, Thai flags and topiary and names like "Deep Forest Hideaway", "At Home with Nature" and "Green Mountain View". I'll leave you to decide where "Our Jungle House" fits into the picture, but a clue might be found in Klaus' house rule that the bar closes at 2100.

Today is our last full day here, and I'm making this entry in the village's tiny internet cafe, where the other computers are being used by local children doing their homework and Klaus doing his administration. In spite of the seasonal tourism, the village is still agricultural, and all those who run bungalow enterprises, guiding etc also have smallholdings where they grow bananas, papayas and rambutans and keep a few chickens, or work on the rubber plantations hereabouts. At this time of year, many of the little restaurants and shops are closed up.

Tomorrow we go back to Surat Thani and on to Bangkok by overnight train, but in the meantime, we're still taking in the fact that we saw Langurs (leaf monkeys) and Great Hornbills today!

Next post will likely be Bangkok or Sydney.

No suit, no life!

2006-06-23T13:02:00.000+01:00

Down most of the sidestreets that we found in Bangkok there were small tailors-shops, and often a tout standing outside would press a card in my hand and say that he could have a good suit ready for me in a day or so. How this would help me, a hot sweaty sightseer, I'm not sure. On our last morning, as we found our way to the river pier to catch a water taxi to Hualamphong Station and the overnight train to Suratthani the usual thing happened - tailors-shop; tout; card. I was carrying a rucsack, a smaller canvas shoulder bag and I must have looked very sweaty indeed, but I still managed to refuse politely, " Mai, khap khun khrap." I even managed a half-hearted wai (you'll have to look that one up if you don't know). He smiled a big smile and, with oodles of sincerity replied, " No suit, no life!"
If only you knew, I thought smugly.
So, then, more impressions.
Walking from the river pier to Hualamphong through Chinatown. We passed through the mechanics' soi (quarter). Store after store filled with reclaimed car-parts - whole shops full of gleaming cog-wheeels, others piled high with hubcaps or oiled drive-shafts, and everywhere the smell of mineral oil and diesel.
Hualamphong itself. Blessedly cool because it's air-conditioned, crowds of people - Thais, backpackers, seated around on the floor watching advertisements on a huge plasma screen while monks in orange robes mingled among them. ALL stood up to attention while the National anthem played at 6 pm!
The train was an experience. Imagine "Some like it Hot" played in a sauna and you'll have a good idea. We had our beds made up for us and we were plunged into darkness when the train-dude closed the blinds on the windows. Outside, Bangkok slid away and, before we fell asleep we glimpsed fireflies in the trees.
Just outside Surathani we were woken and our beds disappeared to become seats again! Lots of tired bemused travellers - we were, worryingly, easily twice the age of any other non-Thais in the train. The train disgorged us onto the platform where the touts homed in - "Koh Samui?" "Where you go?" "Best deal, honest" (you can decide on that last one for yourself). But we were being met, and so we looked for a sign with our names on it. There it was - a big smile, a handshake and Iat (we think that's how it's spelled) took us to the car, loaded our bags, bought us coffee and whisked us away from the chugging coaches and pick-ups.
Along Highway 401 and into the mountains. Iat pointed out rubber plantations (the price is good, apparently), his old school where he used to walk 4 kms from his village each day, "But now all have motorcycle." We saw lots of these - it was school run time as we drove along. The best I counted was a parent and four children (all in immaculate school uniform, and with school bags) on one motorcycle.
At Khao sok we turned off the road and down a track into the forest - plantations of banana, oil palm, rambutan. "Our Jungle House"was just as we'd imagined; a claearing in the plantations and low thatched buildings by the side of a river flowing beneath an immense cliff. Klaus, the manager met us and explained that we were welcome. He was, he said, trying to create a kind of Fawlty Towers in the Jungle. We'll see! Our tree house is charming - set about 4 metres above the ground, it looks out over the river and onto the limestone cliff where there is a nest of wild bees among the tropical vegetation. We immediately set off for a gentle walk in the national park where we were comprehensively mossied and leeched - but no harm came to us except for the bleeding. We heard gibbons! We heard gibbons! We heard gibbons!
We met a Canadian from Saskatchewan in the evening, and were entertained with a giant toad.
Internet is fickle here in the jungle, so I'm not sure when the next post will happen. Marjoribanks says that this is only to be expected, but we must keep a stiff upper.

Tuk-tuk boss? This you first time Bangkok?

2006-06-20T14:00:00.000+01:00

I woke suddenly at 6:00 a.m. this morning and, after Faith made it clear that she wasn't quite ready to get up yet, I went out for a walk in the early morning cool. The street outside was almost deserted, except for some ladyboys who were clustered around a derelict old hippy who was sat in the gutter - exactly where we saw himlast night. They were behaving very like kittens with a mother cat, just sitting around him and stroking his hair, putting their arms around his shoulders (which were very bony) and smiling together. He seemed to be happy about it, too. Across the road, the area of Banglamphu leads down to the river by the side of a wat (temple) and I wandered down there among crowds of children going to school, a few monks moving quietly between the temple buildings, noisy cockerels and bewildering bird-sound from the trees. The children were buying street-food from vendors outside the school gate - deep fried fruit, noodles, juice and slush-puppies. By the time I returned to the hotel, Faith was up and we were both ready for our breakfast ... and out into Bangkok.
After I'd dragged Faith over my early morning route (both ladyboys and school children had gone by now), we went down to the river and turned to follow a khlong and narrow alleys to the impressive Rama Bridge. It was a fascinating walk: wooden houses along the khlong-side, bo trees with scarves around them, and shrines at their feet, a fish hung up in abush to try, food satls on every corner, and many, many smiles.
Finally, bathed in sweat, we took an exhilirating river taxi rde to Wat Pho pier to find the Reclining Buddha Temple. I'm afraid to say that we gave in to a "friendly" shop owner (see title) who explained in great detail how to tell good tuk-tuk driver from bad, and "helped" us to get one. We went to see the Temple of the Black Buddha first, which was very interesting (with an old Buddha statue that had been almost black because people kept taking the gold-leaf for luck) and a guide who first told us the stories about the temple and then, yes, you guessed, said how lucky we were to be able to go to see the Siam Export House, today of all days - it's included in your fare, he said helpfully! Well, well, we said, what (or wat?) a surprise. We told the tuk-tuk driver that we'd be a VERY SHORT time in the Export House, "ten minute?" he offered. We were thirty seconds. " No-one ever come here before and buy nothing, " said the smart woman. "We're the first of many," I replied, as we smiled and left. The tuk-tuk driver looked relieved when we came back to him, and whizzed us back to Wat Pho along and across streets, by a khlong and through a market. So, he got his commission for delivering us to the Export House, and we got a scenic tour for only 40 baht (about 55p).
Wat Pho is every bit as impressive as the guidebooks say, and the reclining buddha is gargantuan. Little details pleased, though, as always. There's a school in the temple grounds, and it was brass-band-practice day. The children, were outside practising such fine old Thai tunes as Colonel Bogey and American Patrol. We felt sorry for the girl who was only allowed to play the mouthpiece of a saxophone. Perhaps one day, she'll improve enough enough to merit the rest of it, but it did lend an air of eldritch wildness to Marching through Georgia. We eavesdropped on a temple ceremony where monks in orange robes were chanting as monks are meant to, and then made our way back to Banglamphu through the University - where the students demonstrated for Thai democracy and freedom on a number ovccasions between the 1970s and 1990s. Back at our hotel, an American businessman who was swimming with 2 Thai women yesterday, was looking mightily pleased as he swam with 4 of them today. "I found a fourth for bridge," he said loudly.