placematt?

North India

2007-10-25T06:34:00.000-07:00

It's another long haul journey. My first plan had been an east-west bus ride across Nepal to reach the Kumaon region of northern India. However, the absence or cancellation of buses means I have to retrace my steps back to Sounali and across to Delhi before heading north to the mountains.

The bus to the border and the crossing a pretty uneventful. Immediately on arrival a man with paan-stained teeth asks if I need a taxi to Gorakhpur station, he can get me there in two hours. Jammed into the boot seat of a four-by-four I quickly lose feeling in my left foot as my legs are entangled with those of the three other passengers, the four of us stuffed into a space meant for two (if meant for anyone at all!).

It also becomes apparent that the two guys running the operation are a little hazy on directions as they have to stop and ask a few times. I'm told the short cuts are to avoid the main bridge which will be hectic and also any police checkpoints. We end up getting stopped three times and because the driver has no papers or driving licence we have to wait whilst they negotiate the charitable contribution they will make. The stout police officer with dark patches under his arms scratches his nuts pensively with one hand whilst cupping his jowl with the other. Deciding it's not worth the hassle he settles for a 200 rupees payment. Dismissing them with a flick of the head, he pulls his belt up to get a better purchase and sets about tackling his persistent itch.

With a unreserved ticket that took me 40 minutes to get I set my rucksack down on platform 5 to wait for the Delhi train which will arrive at midnight. Boys scavenge the platform looking for plastic bottles. Wearing oversized shirts tied around their waists and tucked into their pants, bottles are stuffed under their armpits and collected in the bulge at the back causing each to look like a hunchback as they wander up and down the platform and along the sleepers.

The train inches into Old Delhi station and finally grinds to a halt at 4.30pm. By 5.30pm, 36 hours after leaving Pokhara I'm back at Hare Krishna guesthouse to book a seat on the sleeper bus for the next day to Dharamasala.

Dharamasala

The home-in-exile of the Dali Lama, this north Indian town is a popular destination for travellers, devotees and pilgrims, and also hosts a significant population of Tibetan refugees. The sleeper bus pulls in around 8.30am and it's shared taxi ride up the hill to the McLeod Ganj settlement area where most of the guesthouses are located. Rather than stay in the immediate area I follow the guidebooks advice and head a bit further along the road to Bhagsu village. In the pouring rain I find Zilon Kagyeling Monastery. It has very simple rooms with beds and not much else, but it is clean and the balcony walkways look out over the hillside.

A smiley monk appears, he is the 'manager'. He welcomes me and asks my name and where I'm from. He seems friendly and later I'll discover he has a good sense of humour when after a couple of days he asks "how long you stay?" I tell him "maybe for another couple of days, until Friday evening if that's ok?" He looks at me with a completely earnest and concerned expression and says "No, no that's not ok" and leaves it just long enough for me to begin fumbling a response "oh, er... I..." before roaring with laughter and saying "no problem" walking away chuckling to himself probably more in surprise than anything else that the old chestnut worked.

Free Tibet?

At the Tibetan Welfare Office a recently filmed documentary is shown called 'Team Tibet' following the attempts by a group of campaigners to organise and send a national squad to the 2008 Bejing Olympics. It includes a series of interviews with leading figures of the Free Tibet movement based in McLeod Ganj and various awareness raising stunts and efforts including unfurling a banner at Everest Base Camp and on the Great Wall of China, as well as a football match played in Delhi. Despite having a large audience for viewing there was disappointingly little debate afterwards about any of the issues raised by, not least about how this would affect the freedom struggle.

Afternoon debates

The Tsug Lakhang temple contains impressive mandalas and statues surrounded by votive offerings of food oils and money. Outside in the courtyard the monks are paired off to debate. Whilst topics and issues may vary the actual ritual of debate follows fairly consistent patterns only slightly embellished by the idiosyncratic movements of individuals. One monk sits whilst another paces before them and putting an argument or statement to them they make a step towards and clap their hands together as thought the dramatic movement emphasises the point to elicit a response or is intended to stir the mind.

As I'm sitting on a bench overlooking the courtyard a middle-aged monk sits down beside me and smiles. He is holding a thermos flask and unscrewing the lid pours himself a cup. He also ponders the scene for about 5 minutes and then reaching inside his crimson robe produces a very new looking Nokia phone and starts fiddling about texting and playing games. Ah the ascetic life!

The Tibet Museum leaves me with mixed feelings. The video footage of Lhasa uprisings in March 1988 and 1989 are very interesting historical records, however this and the other materials on exile, military events and repression, are presented with very sparse accompanying background information, for example the social organisation and culture of Tibet and the greater region it encompassed at points in the past. There are virtually no references to any studies or research and the only statistics given are embedded in prose describing how over 1 million people have been killed or displaced by the occupying regimes since the mid-20th Century. (As a historian and an empiricist this is particularly frustrating.)

Fat as a pancake

Takhyil Peace Cafe is a very serene place to watch the world go by, which is pretty good really because after trying one of their pancakes I'm assaulted by a ton of carbohydrates so much so that I can barely move and want to fall asleep. They're plate-sized and more than an inch thick with huge chunks of apple, banana and papaya inside. I spend my time reading Jared Diamond's 'Guns germs and steel' which attempts to make sense of why Europeans conquered the South Americans and not the other way round, apparently it has a lot to with cows and latitudinal versus longitudinal axes.

Vashisht

Should that be hashisht? There's a haze of charas smoke in almost every cafe in this inert little hillside village a few kilometres from the razzmatazz of Manali, India's premier mountain retreat and honeymooning destination. I only stay for a day or so, just long enough to book a busride to Ladakh, meet a couple of Scandinavian socialists, and visit the Habimda temple.

According to the guidebook, Habimda is Hirma Devi, wife of Bhima and considered to be a 16th Century incarnation of Kali. The temple is a three-tiered pagoda, wooden with ghoulish looking carvings, mounted ibex skulls, and a glowing red inner-sanctum area where people leave offerings. As ever, there is a bell hung above the door-archway to announce your presence.

I circle round the outside of the building and sit down on the simple stone bench to the side, daydreaming for a moment. As I do a short and rotund woman arrives holding a flapping chicken upside-down by it's legs. She's accompanied by a younger man, possibly her son, who is carrying a hatchet. She holds the chicken across a wooden block and with one blow the young man decapitates it. She quickly takes the body which has begun to spurt blood and sprinkles it against the temple walls. The darker stained patches suggest this is not an uncommon event. I'm still trying to work out if this is a sacrifice or they're intending to eat the chicken for dinner and thought they'd kill two birds with one stone (sorry!). As I get up to leave one of the stray dogs that are hanging around steals up to the chopping block, snatches the chicken's head still laying there and scurries off appearing to swallow it whole on the run. I think I'll go back to the guesthouse and lie down...

Manali to Leh

The road from Manali to Leh is something of a traveller's rite of passage, a two day 485km journey climbing up through the Himalayas and passing over the second highest road in the world (the highest awaiting in Leh), on a rickety bus bouncing along rough stone passes, bending around mountain-sides with steep falls and scree slopes with a tendency towards landslides.

The Rohtang Pass is a notorious stretch for accidents and according to the guidebook the name literally means "piles of dead bodies".

Having negotiated the precarious navigation of high altitude rocky roads in the late evening we enter a valley plateau, passing through a moonlit otherworldly landscape, reflections of stars bouncing across the uneven ripples of the river. The valley walls shaped by the elements morph into recognisable shapes like a crowd of giant and slender beings reached towards the skies, waving us on.

Despite assurances from the ticket seller of a fixed price, the camp-site offers dingy tents at more than double the cost. I find allies in two medical students from Scotland and we decide to sleep on the bus. It's definitely false economy but and interesting experience wearing virtually all the clothes I've got, huddled on a poorly padded seat with irregular frosty blasts of ice-cold air piercing my multi-layered protection.

Taglang La, 5360m, is the highest point on the planet on which I've stood. Fortunately I don't experience AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness) but my head feels a bit of dizzy as we take a short break to admire the surroundings. Around 6pm we arrive in Leh, the final stretch of the journey passing by straw fields and patches of green trees overhanging streams, all warmed by the bright yellow glow of a setting sun. We're here at last and certainly it feels like an accomplishment as fellow passengers smile and bod to one another. It's surprising how adventurous it feels and what a sense of achievement considering our part involved little more than sitting down for 36 hours.

Palu Guesthouse

Pink-purple, white, orange and yellow flowers surround the garden chairs and table set below a homemade canopy. It's 9.30am and I sit down to munch toast and drain a milky sweet coffee. The guesthouse is off Changspa Road and away from the noisier areas of town, so the only sounds are the murmurings of people strolling along the streets and the bees going about their tasks in what seems to be an unhurried manner. Over the next few days I spend most mornings and some afternoons sitting here, reading Nehru's 'Discovery of India' and playing long games of chess against an Italian man called Romano, who supports Milan but I manage not to hold it against him.

The Ladakh Festival runs for two weeks from the 1st of September. It's essentially engineered to extend the tourist season before the cold weather kicks in towards the end of the month and roads become impassable for the winter. The parade through town involves local people and school-kids dressed in 'traditional costumes'. The people involved look a little disconcerted, like this is not a particularly genuine gathering, and they aren't helped by a mass of amateur photographers, dressed in khaki or safari gear, sporting sunburnt legs and often with more than one camera lens dangling below one their chins, all jostling to get right in their faces to take snaps (what's the collective noun for such a group? a 'skidmark' perhaps? ... based on all the stumbling around). Robbie's assessment that the parade was 'rubbish' was perhaps a bit harsh. In the afternoon, I join Kevin and Robbie, the two guys from Scotland, to climb up to the gompa above Leh palace. Sitting atop of the gompa gives us an impressive panorama view of Leh and the Himalayan mountains in the distance.

Stok Kangri ascent (or how we nearly got to 6000m)

In a small, crumbling roadside cafe a shop in the early evening of 5 September 2007, a rag-tag group of travellers huddle around a table covered with a fading laminate cloth, sitting on unsteady plastic garden chairs, and swigging down spicy chai. Spirits are high with excitement as we discuss the preparations for attempting to climb Stok Kangri, a 6135m Himalayan mountain only 20km from Leh.

With a little asking around sleeping bags and an additional tent are hired together with crampons. The morning bus leaves at 8am and we'll be on it. The air is crisp and with only a hint of cloud pretty soon we're warming up as the bus trundles towards the village of Stok where we'll begin our trek to base camp.

The valley is lush with trees and bushes and a scattered river flowing between boulders and pebbles left from years of glacier melting. From Stok we'll hike about 6-7 hours to about 4450m and set up camp for the night besides a tee-pee style tea-tent. The gap-toothed man grins as he pours parafin into a small stove and cooks up Maggi (the ubiquitous packet noodles), dal and rice, followed by sweet milk chai. His home is a stone shack built close into the hillside. Full and tired we nestle into the two, three-man tents for an early bed-time. It's a cold, cold night and I guess we're all thankful for the extra warmth from sleeping alongside someone.

The morning of Day Two we have our first casualty. Mark decides he is under-equipped to continue having shivered all night in the tent without much sleep. There's a half-hearted attempt to dissuade him but fact is he's not got any pants only shorts and long-johns and wearing puma trainers. Now five we set off after a similar breakfast of Maggi and chai to reach the base camp.

Anders is suffering with the runs which slows us considerably, however the journey only takes 3 hours. Luck doesn't seem to be with us today as we find that the tea tent has closed as the season is nearng an end. Without carrying many supplies we're looking forward to surviving on a few sugary biscuits and cold tsampa (a kind of barley porridge). However, Anders asks around amongst the dozen or so other trekkers and manages to locate snacks and the promise of some cooked food later from some generous campers. Our evening meal consists of a littl pasta with white sauce, three slices of pizza, some kofta, corn and nut snacks shared between us. It's not really a full meal but we wolf it down and save a few chocolate biscuits for the summit attempt.

'The Bastards'

couple and The summit attempt would have to begin in the early hours with 4-5 hours before sunrise so thesnow would be firm enough. Our simple map photocopied from a guidebook and laminated in Leh showed that it was a steep climb up a ridge and the following a rough path before crossing a glacial morain riddled with large crevasses (perhaps it should be renamed the New Labour pass?) A dangerous prospect in the dark without a guide therefore an important task was to findsome who had a guide and follow them. We found a guide who was going to lead a middle-agedwilling to allow us to tag along provided his clients agreed. Although we offered a payment they refused saying they did not want to be responsible for our climbing as they did not know how fit we were. Therefore they immediately got given the tag 'the bastards'. Thismight seem a little unreasonable but they would go on to earn this and other stronger terms.

Undeterred, we'd found out they were setting off at 1am so we reckoned on being able simply to follow them at a convenient distance so as to see the route they took. However, waking at 12.30am we could make out lights on the ridge, 'the bastards' had set off early! Fixing headtorches we set off to catch up what was probably a 30minute start. Aviv took the lead and showed deft skills tracking over rocky terrain where the footprints in the snow can disappear for metres at a time. Fortunately it doesn't snow much as zig-zag across the glacier following the deep-tred bootmarks. The next ascent towards the summit ridge is a steep scree-slope which certainly seemed the most dangerous and scary as we scrambled upwards.

It's a slow process with temperatures at minus 10-15 degrees and although bodies are warm all the extremities are bitterly cold as toes and fingers have long since gone numb. It's harder to breathe and stops become more frequent as Alex especially is gasping short-breaths and has mild nausea.

Confirmed! The headlights above us are descending. Having tracked them for almost 5 hours 'the bastards' seem to be descending, but why? They couldn't have reached the summit yet. They're near now and passing below us about 30 yards to the left. Without shouting we attempt to hail them. Raising voices we get a reply after five attempts from their guide who says it's too dangerous to reach the summit as it is whited-out with a wind and snow storm. Proving they deserve their title, the two climbers with him had obviously seen our lights, knew we hadn't a guide and yet were prepared to allow us to continue without any warning... bastards!!!!

After a conference we decide on descending to base camp. As if to reward our sensible decision the falling snow becomes less and turning around the sunrise yawns and casts a reddish glow across the peaks which brightens the skies quickly, dotted with orange and yellow clouds, a revealing the contours of the peaks and the glacier. Descending in the first-light is much easier and we're all happier despite not achieving the peak. We all find more energy as we retrace our steps, surprised at the terrain that looks so different now and marvelling at how much distance we covered. A sense of achievement replaces the cold and weary thoughts as we reckon to have reached above 5,900m maybe even 6,000m. It's been a tough climb but we've survived it without succumbing to the cold or any serious AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness), although photographic evidence suggests we may have had some mild dozes.

Back at Base Camp Anders takes it upon himself to express our collective distaste at the selfish climbers who seem pretty uncomfortable with his articulate and sarcastic comments delivere with a dry Scandinavian accent, "I just want to say thank-you for all the support and help you have given us, especially for considering the safety of fellow climbers and warning us of the dangerous conditions, thank-you" (either that or they couldn't work out if he was being serious)
Back at base camp we sleep from 9am to 11am before the long downhill journey back to Stok, which can be done in an afternoon, to catch the 6pm bus back to Leh.

Namaste Primary School

2007-08-13T03:53:00.001-07:00

It's been almost six months on the road. So far it's been exciting, exploring new places, meeting a variety of cool, interesting and/or odd people, and having shed responsibilities of work and earning enjoying the freedom of travelling. However, as much as I'd like to tell myself it's just a hangover from previous experience there is also a sense of being un-employed, lacking purpose other maybe being a passive observer. Perhaps it's time to do something but what?...

By chance, asking Shekhar about possible volunteer opportunities in Pokhara I find out that he is a trustee/governor of Namaste Primary School and he can arrange for me to do volunteer teaching there. The school was founded by two women from Delft, Holland who had worked with children at a nearby state school and decided there was a need for more provision. They managed to raise funding for land and building and opened in April 2007.

It's 45 minutes walk from lakeside, passing through the main road junctions, dodging buses transporting schoolkids wearing pristine white shirts, following a rough-road alongside canal trenches and two-storey breeze-block houses built amidst saturated fields, skipping puddles and climbing the embankment to get out of the way of enthusiastic motorcyclists, finally reaching a colourful and friendly looking building with a crowd of kids mingling awaiting morning assembly.

First Day

I'm introduced to Anne Bosch the current Dutch volunteer teacher trainer who will show me around. Lessons start at 10am and at 9.45am every morning there is a whole school assembly in the playground. Students from each class form a line for the morning exercises. This involves clapping, standing to attention, raising hands above your head, and although at first it seems a little militaristic the kids smiles suggest it's a lot of fun.

This is followed by morning prayers. Three students are 'volunteered' to stand in front and lead the assembly in reciting the morning prayer by saying a line which is repeated by the rest of the students. With great enthusiasm the kids shout out the lines attempting to set a rapid pace for everyone to try and keep up. It reminds me how at primary school some hymns became more like football chants... "WALK in the light, WA-AW-AWK in the light, WALK in the lie-ight, walk in-the light of-the lord!"

Anna shows me to the staff room where I meet all the teachers - from left to right, [top row] Priya, Nirmila, Savitri, [bottom row] Arjun, Hari, and Dhana (school principal).

It's decided perhaps the best way I could help out is to work with teachers and students on English grammar and pronunciation. Anna sets about devising a schedule for me to rotate between the teachers and I join Dhana for my first lesson with Class Two.

Initially Dhana suggests I can just observe and get a feel for how the lessons go. Standing infront of 18 wide-eyed kids staring at me is a bit daunting not least as they afford me the same status as a teacher and wait for a signal "you can sit down" (which Dhana has to prompt me to give).

Getting to sit at the back of class with the cool kids eases the butterflies. However, having settled down to watch for a while Dhana obviously decides a plunge is the best policy and starts quizzing me on grammar points of conjugating the verb "to be" and suggesting I read a dialogue from the textbook so the kids can hear how I pronounce "croak" (ah the irony!). From this point on I'm classroom support and reference on most English language things.

I follow Dhana to her next lesson with Class One. They are just beginning to learn basic sentences and grammar. However this does not deter conversation and questions. Practically every kid in the class crowds round and wants to know my name, where I come from, do I have brothers and sisters, what are their names, do I like Nepal. It's fun being the centre of attention in such an enthusiastic bunch although not much lesson teaching gets done in this first meeting.

Anna pops her head round the door and asks if I would like my picture taken with the kids - cue mad scramble so everyone can get in on the photo (this could be my favourite travel picture, not least for the Kes impersonator in the front-row!)

Organisation of School Day

There are six classes at the school into which the kids are placed depending on their age and previous school experience, so there's a mix in classes 2-4 ranging from kids aged around 9 years old to 14 years old. The school-day is 10am to 4pm divided into 45 minute periods with a Tiffin (lunch) break at 1pm which means 7 lessons throughout the day. The daily schedule is fixed so everyday the kids will get lessons in English, Nepali, Maths, Science, Health/General Knowledge, Social Studies, and Games.

For fairly obvious reasons we decide there's not much point me attending Nepali or Maths lessons (which is just as well really as seeing quadratic equations on the blackboard sends a cold shiver down my spine!) I'll end up spending most time in Classes 2-4 and working with Arjun and Hari.

Class Four

After a couple of days I've got a schedule of my own to follow devised by Anna. The first lesson of the day is English with Class Four taught by Arjun. I'm sitting on the back row next to Pradeep and Bishal.

Infront, Pooja, Anu and Renuka are exchanging whispers looking over their shoulders and giggling. I wonder what's so amusing. Then Bishal says "Matthew" with and huge cheeky grin (yellow/green t-shirt) "you like half pants?!" I dawns that wearing shorts as an adult and a teacher is not conventional and worthy of a few laughs. "Of course, in England everyone wears half-pants to school", an eruption a laughter from others who've been listening in.

Surviving Nursery

Anna explains that she is due to spend some time observing Hari's teaching in the afternoon and suggests that rather than us both be in the same classroom why don't I join another class instead. By this point I've sat in on most classes except nursery and kindergarten so why not give them a try.

Anna had warned me on my first day that the younger kids could be a little boisterous. I'm greeted very courteously by a class of wide-eyed little people what I mistake for shy smiles "good afternoon". I wave and good afternoon back and as a girl in the front row leans forward and wants to shake my hand, very polite! I smile and say 'hello' and shake hands and all of a sudden I'm surrounded by the entire class all wanting to join in. This could've gone on for quite a while but fortunately Nirmila calms them down and they settle back into their seats for lesson.

At the back of the classroom is a drawn curtain that hides the play room. After an English lesson it will be time for Games. The curtain acts as fortress gate, impenetrable to the kids, but as it is drawn back a whoop of delight rings around the class, the defences have been breached! I blink as a stampede rushes past. At my feet are are pile of shoes expertly removed on the move and looking inside the quiet colourful room that was unoccupied two seconds ago is a full swing party with kids waving games and toys in the air, jumping around manically and waving their hands in the air to imaginary music!

Over the next hour I show them how to play dominoes, help out with a dozen or more jigsaws, and get dragged all round the room to be shown each and every toy by very enthusiastic coterie of connoisseurs. The younger kids finish one period earlier so by 3.30pm I'm sat in Dhana's office that doubles as a small staff room. Anna walks in, takes one look at my obviously exhausted and shocked state and laughs, "you've been in nursery!!"

Quiz-time

On my last day Arjun decides to liven things up with a quiz on general knowledge. Class Two is divided into Team A and Team B. There's an odd number of kids so I make up the extra person on Team A which they (prematurely) celebrate as a guarantee of winning. The General Knowledge questions are taken from their coursebook that includes a wide range of things from geography, animals, Nepali history and Culture and some particularly random literature facts and references. For example, what was the name of the very first children's printed periodical? Deepak on Team B is scoring heavily and knows this one. It's from the 18th Century.... no? why the 'Lilliputian' of course! Afterwards I ask if he likes Gulliver's Travels, (I saw a couple of kids versions in the library) he shrugs, he's not read it.

In the afternoon Hari suggests I do a quiz for Class Three, which ends up being an extended session of 'hangman' (without the hanging man cartoon) by popular demand. Durga's (front row centre blue t-shirt) team lead by a considerable way and even granting a bonus 20 points for the final puzzle isn't enough for the other team to catch up.

Fond farewells

Once the kids have left for the day the other teachers gather to present me with an unexpected gift, a book on Nepali Culture with farewell messages from each person. It's a very thoughtful gesture and although I've only been at the school three weeks it's left a big impression on me, not least that teaching is very rewarding and very tiring! I joke with Arjun that I might be able to answer some of the quiz question next time. It's a bright afternoon as I walk back towards Giri Guesthouse... what's next?

Trekking the Annapurna Himalayas

2007-08-13T03:41:00.000-07:00

Day One - Pokhara to Jomsom to Ranipauwa (Muktinath)

Washed, packed and ready to go, feeling just a little bit dazed at 5.30am. Shekhar, the manager of Giri Guesthouse where I'm staying, gives me a life on the back of his motorbike to Pokhara airport, east of the Baidam lakeside area.

The Gorkha Airlines flight is due to take off at 6.30am but due to cloudy and rainy weather conditions we don't depart until 7.30am and I almost miss it by dozing in the cafe whilst waiting. The plane bounces of the clouds shuddering with the winds, which causes a mild panic for a couple of fellow passengers, whereas it's rocking me to sleep. We land just over half an hour later in Jomsom, 2700m. From here it's a 1,000m hike up to Ranipauwa village just below the Muktinath monastery.

Leaving the built up surrounds of Jomsom's guesthouses and restaurant strip, the first stage is a long walk across a wide riverbed of pebbles and branching streamlets. It takes 2 hours to arrive at Kagbeni where I stop for breakfast. There are number of guesthouses and homely cafes in the village but I'm swayed by Mustang Gateway which has 'borrowed' the golden arches logo and named it's restaurant 'Yac Donald's'. The thukpa soup is a bit bland but the homebrewed cider is potent and warming!

Well breakfasted I set off again on what proves to be a lactic acid inducing, calf-busting climb. The environment is windswept and fairly barren on the exposed roads with greener valleys below. It's mid-afternoon when I reach the village settlement of Ranipauwa. Reading a book by it's cover again I choose the Bob Marley Guesthouse to stay the night. It's quiet and peaceful with colourful rooms, but the boiler doesn't want to work so the hot showers are a bracing experience!

Day Two - VIP Lama visit

The temple at Muktinath is just beyond the village and a short steep climb. On the roadside infront of houses and shops tables have been laid out with bowls of food including rice and fruits, flowers, and incense. There is a gathering of monks and local people on a plateau halfway up the path and a troop of mules and horses descending the mountainside following the outer-wall of the temple compound.

A VIP lama is visiting the Mustang region and it is coincidence that today he is here to inaugurate a new monastery building which has been recently built in the village. A parade is held from the temple to the new building. Villagers congregate at the archway to greet the Lama accompanied by a musicians, flower-bearers, people dressed in elaborate and colourful attires and an entourage of horse-riders. The gathering moves to the monastery and following a short ceremony inside the temple hall the throng of spectators and villagers enter a large assembly room. Along with a handful of other trekkers, we're invited to join a communal dinner with 300+ people seated on plastic chairs, sharing Dal baht meals (rice, curried vegetables, lentil soup) with locals and monks wearing orange and crimson robes, some sporting Nike trainers, and gold wrist watches.

Afterwards outside the neighbourhood gathers to watch young guys and a few older ones race horses up and down the main muddy road. Not racing in the sense of a joint start, the competition seems to be who can ride quickest whilst performing equestrian-handling skills including leaning back as far as possible in the saddle or reaching down either side to touch the ground in mid-gallop.

The guidebook entry says of Muktinath temple 'the Mahabharat mentions Muktinath as the source of mystic shaligrams... a Newar-style temple '. The temple itself is relatively small. The square courtyard surrounding has 108 shoulder high waterspouts that channel the streams into a trough on 3 sides. The mid-afternoon skies are bright clouds which provide a kind of hazy light. This accompanied with the wispy white spores of popular trees floating gently around the grounds like snowflakes (or for the more imaginative flight of fancy, faeries,) gives the temple compound a detached, other-worldly feel.

Day Three - Muktinath to Marpha

Fuelled by mountain water and trekker granola bars, I arrive at Jomsom just after midday and after lunch head further on down the track to Marpha. Before the village is a mhane prayer wall meeting travellers. It's a interesting village with an uneven paved road turning between rows of differently shaped buildings leaning above you, which reminds me a little of Czeky Krumlov.

I stop for a breather and something to drink. However, having tasted the apple juice and cider at the small restaurant/guesthouse I decide to rest here. My host is a very-friendly woman who offers me to try some of the apricots that are being drying, both on the balcony and inside the simple bedroom where I'm staying. This small guesthouse is possibly the most rustic living I've experienced so far, complete with an outdoors shower - a brick-walled hut with wooden roof at the back of a rear farmyard, to get to which you walk across the straw-strewn ground past a bemused looking goat loosely tethered in an adjacent overlooking shed.

Day Four - Marpha to Ghasa

On the outer edge of the village I meet Tiffany and Lamore, two fellow trekkers from the US who were also in Ranipauwa. We set out together to reach Ghasa. The landscape is becoming greener now with hillsides rising either side and waterfalls as we wind our way following the contours of the descending river-valley. Landslides render parts of the route tricky and at times nerve-racking, particularly when occasional gangs of workmen point to what proves to be a precariously narrow temporary walkway circling round a mound of rubble and earth with a sheer drop of a few hundred feet below.

Day Five - Ghasa to Tatopani

I'm walking quicker so spend most of time by myself. It's a significant descent to Tatopani which lies at around 1000m. By now the surroundings are covered in thick vegetation, many trees and wild grasses. The route cuts across the river a number of times to bypass landslides, each time passing over steel wire, rope and wooden planked suspension bridges that give me that familiar Indiana Jones sense of adventure.

The menu at Bob Marley cafe Tatopani lists 'special bread' for a significantly inflated price compared with other items. Smiling, the woman chef explains it is because it contains 'Bob Marley medicine', good for what ails you, although she adds promptly that it is better to consume by smoking. Wild cannabis plants cover the hillsides at this altitude and it seems this menu serves as a conveniently indirect way to advertise sale of hashish.

'Pani' means water and 'tato' hot, referring to the hot mountain springs in the village. We spend a good hour or more sitting in the steaming pool, soothing aching muscles and salving hiking blisters. Waking up the next morning the benefit is dramatic, not having to stamp out the nagging feet pains in the first 10 minutes of walking is welcome (although it doesn't last all day).

Day Six - Tatopani to Birenthanti

A group of other trekkers choose to go back via Beni, which involves a 2-3 hour hike to the next settlement where they can get jeep to Beni and then a shared taxi 5 hours back to Pokhara. Having only been trekking for 5 days I decide it would be more fun to go the alternative route via Ghorepani, which involves a 1700m climb to near the summit of Poon Hill and then a long walk down to Nayapul where a taxi back takes 1 hour. The trekkers' guide estimates it will take two days, more than 8hours to reach Ghorepani and a further 6-7 hours to get to Nayapul. Feeling in good condition from the hot springs and setting off at 7am I decide to see if I can do it one day...

The trail is beautiful, a steady stone path meandering steeply up a hillside enveloped in mist with persistent rain that refreshes. However, the going is tough, lugging my rucksack probably 18-20kg, the path becomes a series of short goals and frequent stops to catch a breath. My first proper pit-stop for a hot drink is at Sauta, maybe halfway up, 10.15am for 45minutes. I reach Ghorepani, legs burning and soaked to the bone at 2.30pm. The town seems deserted with hardly any of the guesthouses open as it is out of season. The only place I find serves hot drinks but the kitchen is not open. A hot chocolate later I set off at 3pm on the way down to Nayapul. The checkpost guards shake their heads and say it's at least 6 hours. Unswayed I continue on the path at a pace enjoying the reward of being able to go downhill. This turns into a different kind of challenge beyond Ulleri, the steps. More than 3,000 uneven stone steps weaving down the mountain that strain knees and joints regardless of speed. Around 7.30pm I arrive at Birenthanti, only half an hour away from Nayapul, but the dusk has given way to night and unable to see the path anymore I concede to common sense and stop at a small guesthouse for a welcome hot evening meal and warm bed.

Beni-ficial route?

The olive-green 1970s Toyota Corolla whisks me back to Pokhara from Nayapul. I wonder if I'll meet the trekkers somewhere by lakeside to tell them how I nearly made it in one go from Tatopani. I bump into Tiffany and Lamore a day later. As it turns out, their route was severely hindered by landslides that made it slow-going and prevented jeeps so they ended up staying over-night in Beni and only made it back late in the afternoon.

Pokhara Part One

2007-08-13T02:29:00.001-07:00

It's early evening and walking northwards along the lakeside road there's a buzz of activity, restauranteers standing outside hoping to attract diners, old Tibetan woman sitting-down and opening out shawls to lay pendants and necklaces on the pavement, and other visitors wandering about. Soon, passing the shops and cafes, buildings become sparse again. The road bends round the hills to where areas of the lake are being reclaimed gradually for paddy fields, irrigation steps up the delta inlets in neat rows. As I pass by, a family drives a plough knee deep in water and work the mud into dam ridges. The road peaks at a corner with views across the lake. I sit down and watch a fisherman drag nets close to the shore's edge, Nick Drake singing 'Pink Moon' as the sun sets in the far hills.

Peace and leeches

It's a long walk round Phewa Tal (lake) to climb the hill and reach the World Peace Pagoda. On my way I'm met by a young Nepalese lad, Souli, who says I'm going the long route and offers to show a shorter route. He leads a way, rising more steeply, cutting behind cottages and small farms, following narrow pathways and occasionally along a stone-wall line. He tells me about landholding and farming, how his family leases from an owner for the cost of 50% of their crop yield and that buying a decent-sized farm costs about $4,000 which is beyond the means of most. At the ridge summit the World Peace Pagoda stands, a kind of sorry sight up close with a mangled barrier preventing people from climbing the steps and masonry rubble littering the ground around it. Souli explains that not so long ago some visitors were badly injured, one killed, when the balcony gave way and they fell. Now all the marble is being replaced with more sturdy materials.

The views of Phewa lake are stunning though. We walk further on up the ridge passing water buffaloes wallowing in muddy puddles and children playing on the hillside. Back at the Pagoda there's a route down to the lake from which it's possible to get a boat back to the other side. However, the boatman wants to charge 250 rupees and I've not got that in my wallet so ignoring his warnings I set out to circumnavigate the heavy wooded shoreline. More than two hours later, having pushed past face high brambles and spiders webs, clung to rock faces and slid down muddy hills that gave way underfoot, I arrive back at the guesthouse. Kicking of shoes and removing socks I slump into a chair feeling exhausted. It's only spotting some small red specks on bottom of the bed's valance that causes me to look down and realise the boatman was right, I've taken 15 little freeloaders back with me. These bloodsuckers are tiny, able to crawl through your shoelace holes and you don't feel a thing. Some scrubbing later I'm leech-free but my feet look like they've been savaged by Dracula's baby.

Gonna climb that hill no matter how steep...

The Khahare hills to the north have interesting looking rock formations jutting out like giant fingers high above the lakeside below. Emboldened by the pagoda-leech experience and feeling like a challenge I set off walking to find a route up to the ridge. The south-facing hillside gets the early afternoon sun and as the initial canopy of trees disappears it soon becomes a very steep incline of shrubs and rocks without any pathways.

After fun climbing for 45 minutes all of a sudden the hillside plateaus and I'm standing on a well-trodden path. (There's an established route that I missed on the way up which proves far easier to follow on the descent.) From here the route leads through hilltop farms, occasionally going directly through the cornfields.

In places the pathway seems overgrown with brambles and disused, although the fresh buffalo pats suggest otherwise. Walking past a few village settlements and finding sidetracks to keep along the ridge line eventually I reach the rocky outcrops. The reward is panoramic views of the lake and surrounding hills.

Finding Kathmandu

2007-08-11T22:47:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to be leaving Lucknow. My short stay in the city unfortunately tarnished by poor accommodation and, as it turn out, not having time to view any sights as it takes a long time to sort out my train ticket to Gorakhpur. However, I did find a decent bookshop nearby the hotel and bought three cheap books which will keep me busy for while:

The Argumentative Indian, Amartya Sen

The Jungle, Upton Sinclair

Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

The train pulls out of the station and soon the city is behind us. I'm resting against the berth dividing panel, looking pensively out of the grilled window and listening to the rhythmic clatter of wheels on the track. The night sky is lit by strong moonlight defining the contours of clouds, like a sombre painting, contours of clouds defined with celestial shadows like brooding titanic boulders. A strong sense of relief.

We arrive in Gorakhpur at 3.45am. Finding a bus to Sounali takes no time and soon we're bumping along a country road on a 3 hour journey to the border town. At the border Indian cycle rickshaw drivers have formed a barricade 200 yards from the border impeding traffic from the Nepal-side. A man tests my reaction saying 'Nepal is a dirty country, why do you want to go there?'. I decide pointing out that he is standing on the street by an open gutter and a pile of rubbish and excrement would not be the best response so I smile and say 'that's your view, I've never been' and walk past.

Getting a visa stamp and exchanging currency is relatively simple and after 30 minutes I've arrived in Nepal and on a bus towards Kathmandu. The landscape is noticeably greener and reminds me of the journey through hills between Krakow and Budapest. The mountain road is spectacular, following the winding course of a river, passing suspension bridges and cables traversing the water, gaining altitude. After a 9 hour ride we arrive at Kathmandu and a short taxi ride later I'm at Hotel Elite in the Thamel District. I set off from Lucknow at 7pm and 22 hours later I'm in Kathmandu, tired but excited at arriving in a new country at the roof of the world!

Sen relaxation

I'm recovered from the journey after a good night's rest in clean, comfortable room and not bothering to get up til noon. The Thamel District in Kathmandu has evolved to meet the needs of the 'tourist /traveller market' and as such you can find Internet cafes, clothes shops, camping and trekking equipment, restaurants all along a couple of main streets. It's a welcome relief some time insulated in this traveller bubble, and I pass a couple of days spending hours in Chikusa Coffee House reading Amartya Sen's 'The Argumentative Indian ', which is a series of essays looking at Indian history, identity and politics. He offers an alternative view of the religious / spiritual characterisations of India and examines its rich traditions of scientific and rational philosophy along with a remarkably heterodox culture of different religions co-existing and interacting.

Swayambhu Temple

Across the river 2km west of Thamel, weaving up a hillside, steps come into view as I turn the corner to the east entrance of Swayambhu. It's a steep climb up to the temple, declining offers of a guide and watching monkeys with amusement as they walk in front of tourists. At the summit, the giant stupa stands with reliefs and sculptures of Buddha at four points to symbolise the elements of earth, wind, fire, and water. On top is the white dome painted with the eye symbol of enlightenment and crowned with a golden spire from which strings of prayer flags are tied.

Walking clockwise round the stupa there is a large bell-frame and mhane row (cylinders inscribed with prayers that rotate). Set back and to the right is a cemetery of headstones and shrines with votive offerings honouring long-since deceased worshippers. Around the central stupa, stone and wooden buildings have become converted into shops peddling brass-ware, handicrafts and artwork as well as soft-drinks.

Further to the west are other shrines and the world peace pond, an unremarkable circular trough with bronze figures at the centre, into which people toss rupees coins, perhaps for luck? Here families of monkeys wander about munching on leaves and tit-bits offered by visitors. They are surprisingly unbothered by human interlopers and if you sit down they walk past or very occasionally over you without a care.

Looking back at the main temple there are thousands of prayer flags strung over an impressive distance all fluttering in the light breeze, a rainbow array above the tree tops.

Mo-mos and Tongba

Across from Elite Hotel is a small restaurant off the side-street, 'the New Kavreli'. Here I try mo-mo for the first time, steamed dumplings containing veg and ginger served with a fiery sauce. Tongba is Tibetan beer. It arrives as a metal tankard filled with millet seeds and herbs and a flask of warm water. The water is poured into the tankard until saturated and using a metal straw pinched at one end to prevent sucking up seeds you drink the mildly fermenting liquid. It can be refilled 3-4 times. The taste is kind of like home-brew and takes some getting used to.

Freak Street?

Jnoche, better known as 'Freak Street', is one of those places that have acquired status in a canon of classic hangouts. However, this is due to the experiences of travellers in the 1960s and 1970s,what remains today is a pretty sanitised and commercial road with few outward signs of whatever made it 'hippie' in days gone by. A little disappointed by the spectacle, I decide to explore the area instead and get lost in some of the streets behind, finding myself wandering through a very different looking part of Kathmandu with few tourists and old crumbling buildings. I re-emerge at the main Durbar and Hanuman Square which is crowded with visitors and local teenagers congregating on the building steps.

Conversations and Cocktails

It's my final evening in Kathmandu, tomorrow I head for Pokhara. Rather than head back to the hotel I decide to try and find a fruit juice bar I'd seen nearby. Unfortunately, they've run out of all citrus fruits apart from lime, which isn't very appealing. As I'm leaving a voice calls to me. A man sits on a stool outside by a table. He's fairly plump, messily dressed with a stubbly face and warm smile. He introduces himself as being from Lebanon and invites me to sit down. We talk for about an hour. He tells me about his home in the south near the Litani river and we discuss the current political situation. He is firmly convinced of 'Syria's meddling causing violence', but reserves biggest criticism for George Bush and Tony Blair. He says they have blinkers and cannot see they are ruining the region, as he puts it "Iraq there are many deaths and now Iran is more powerful. Why? Why do this when this (invade) when this is what happens? No sense!" Hard to disagree.

After a good hour on Middle East politics, I say goodbye and head back towards the hotel, but on the way decide to stop of at a restaurant bar. They offer a free cocktail with each meal so I order enchiladas with Mojito, Nepali hecho México. The barman takes an interest in 'The Motorcycle Diaries', which Aubrey gave to me once she'd done with it, possibly because of the revolutionary symbols on the cover. I offer him the book and in return he insists on pouring me a tall glass of the 'house cocktail' that leaves me feeling just a little tipsy and feeling like another beer. A few extra drinks, nicely toasted, I'm chatting away merrily with all the other barflies, including a Nepali man who claims to have just returned from the West Indies after leaving his wife and pursuing a woman only for it to all fall apart, and Marek a Czech traveller with a passion for India. Much later in the evening I say goodbye, leaving healthy tip, and stumble back to the hotel. I must wake up at 6am to catch a bus to Pokhara and there's a dim sense I'll rue this in the morning but for now the bed is very, very comfortable!

No luck Lucknow

2007-08-11T22:03:00.000-07:00

Lucknow is basically a stopping point for me before long haul trip to Kathmandu. Still it's a chance to see another city in India, maybe some of the landmarks associated with the great mutiny of 1857. However, after a pleasant train journey things start to deteriorate...

Outside the railway station the familiar ambush of rickshaw drivers awaits. This time it feels more irritating. Having managed to negotiate a fare and destination to a cheap hotel recommended in the Rough Guides book (not easy as drivers can receive commissions by taking tourists to other, usually more expensive, hotels) and reached the rickshaw (which turns out to be cycle rather than motorised) and placed my bags on the seat the driver changes the price and demands 33% extra. When I ask what for he says to cover the railway 'parking fee'. I protest that we agreed a fare and this is a charge that shouldn't be passed onto me. I take my bags out of the rickshaw. The driver protests at first, holding onto my rucksack and I say 'let go' as firmly as possible without swearing, and then he consents to the original fare. But feeling almost cheated and not a little stubborn I shake my head and say 'why should I trust you now' whilst walking away. I'm pursued for a few hundred yards by the driver on his rickshaw trying to convince me but to no avail.

The long walk to the hotel is a chance to stretch my legs after the train journey and also clearing my head somewhat. On reflection, I feel bad about the encounter. We had agreed a fare so to some extent my stance was legitimate. But the amount was so small, only 10 rupees, and walking the distance over 50 minutes, I know it would've been a big strain on his legs to haul me, my rucksack and guitar all that way, through hot, dangerous, noisy and fuming traffic, for only 40 rupees (50 pence).

Maybe it was a reaction to being surrounded by people and having to be on guard and assertive to avoid being tricked? Maybe reading too much into warnings from the guidebook? Maybe because this is the first time alone in India? Maybe all of the above. It was one of those moments where you forget what you know to be reasonable and focus on feeling aggrieved. Anyway, the walk gives me chance to think and resolve to stick to what I know i right, be more flexible in the future and less curt with someone trying to make a living in very difficult conditions who doesn't need extra crap from me, sorry man!

The hotel adds perspective. Rickshaw drivers are trying to earn a tough living by eeking out favourable fares, but these guys can be far more dodgy with their margins. Chowdhury Lodge Annexe is behind a restaurant which you have to walk through, passing the kitchens to the reception hidden in a back-room that looks like it doubles as a storage facility. It's 9.30pm, I'm tired and it's dark. The po-faced man at reception doesn't even shrug as he tells me that the only room he has available costs 500 rupees a night and I won't find anywhere else cheaper in Lucknow as it is the holiday season.

I pause trying to look like I'm unconvinced and maybe a discount will be offered. But the reception man just stares blankly with an 'I couldn't give a .... what you do' look. The room is large but the walls are yellowing, the bathroom is decrepit, and insult to injury there is a condom floating in the toilet that refuses to flush away. Thessaloniki youth hostel has a new partner in my worst places to stay league!

Orchha

2007-08-09T08:09:00.000-07:00

The main fort and palace at Orchha is across a bridge over the Betwa River, which at this time of year has shrunk to a series of fluorescent green pools scattered along the riverbed. Walking through a giant spiked wooden door we head towards a raised terrace.

At one end a strange mass of rises from beneath stone steps. Branches seem to melt and wilt in the heat and it appears to be a number of trees intertwined but on closer viewing it is only one tree from which branches have grown floor-wards and secured roots.

From the main courtyard of Jahangir Mahal you can survey the domed towers and turret walkways. Centrally placed are sunken bathing pools surrounded by stone benches. A few women are using the only pool filled with water to do laundry.

Ascending the main stairway from the courtyard you gain access to the turret walkways and ramparts that have precariously few railings and excellent landscape panorama views of temples, green fields and trees stretching to the horizon.

Railing support brackets are built into the side of the walls and they include foot high stone carvings of elephants bearing the load (a nice touch!) Inside the low-ceiling rooms are filled with materials and equipment for renovation works, bamboo ladder and scaffolding along with piles of rubble. The outer-walls have stone window frames shaped into various detailed geometric patterns.

Raj Rama cafe is just across the bridge back towards the village. They make very good thali, a mixture of spicy lentil-Dal, vegetables, papads and rice. Afterwards we try the Internet place but the connection is down so instead 'plan B', beer in the guesthouse garden. We manage to buy an Indian brew called 'something 5000', which has a very odd taste. Consulting a guidebook it says that brewers use glycerin as a preservative, which might explain why the sunset view of the fort appeared to be an especially dazzling pink!

Jhansi to Lucknow

Jhansi railway station is 18km away from Orchha. From here the train takes 7 hours and despite the apprehension of not having confirmed a seat it turns out not to be a problem. Asking if the seat is free a friendly looking guy nods and invites me to sit down. Vire is 31 years old and lives in a town just before Lucknow. We move from polite conversation to chatting about background and experiences, passing the time. I learn he has a degree in metallurgy and works in the steel industry. He explains that Goa and Bihar both contain large mineral and ore deposits that are mined and then sent to regional centres for processing. He also has a passion for cinema and an encyclopedic knowledge of older classic films. Without noticing time passes quickly and saying goodbye I realise it's only another hour until arriving in Lucknow.

Khajuraho

2007-08-07T06:52:00.000-07:00

The night train from Varnasi takes 9 hours. I wake up 6am, my bare-arm sticking to the blue plastic seat-covering. The landscape is noticeably greener outside as we roll past farm-land easing into Satna railway station. We arrive 6.30am and catch an auto-rickshaw to the depot just in time to get on the late-running 6.30bus departing to Khajuraho and saving a 3 hour wait. Although the journey is less then 100km it takes 4 hours due to the road condition and stops. Three people crammed on a two-seat bench it is a knee-jarring bowel-bouncing experience made infinitely more testing by overhead speakers blaring unrequested high-pitched Indian pop music at decibels to prevent rational thought. We're dropped off 11km away and make the final stage in a landcruiser-style truck made to seat 8-9 but which holds 21 (I am convinced they are competing with Cairo cabbies for some world record, 'how many passengers in a...') Tired, aching, with slightly worse hearing, we arrive at Surya hotel, Khajuraho. Sitting down for a late breakfast in the hotel garden I notice we're joined by a distant cousin of Zebedee who is obviously curious about our choice of food but opts instead for the insects crawling about lower down the tree-trunk.

Athletic animal lovers

The 10th and 11th Century temples at Khajuraho are unique across India and the world. Incredibly intricate carvings and sculptures adorn all the walls and steeples. Lying within a compound that has been cultivated and preened to create a feel of well-kept public gardens, the vast monuments depict armies of warriors, elephants, gods and goddesses.

However, the Western Group is probably most famed for the very sexually explicit figures and scenes, including the south-facing wall of the Lakshman temple, over 1100 years old, which has a embossed frieze 1-2 feet high and 3-4 feet wide, 6 foot above the ground illustrating a man getting personal with his horse to the shock of onlooking women. This is alongside some truly athletic 'mithuna' scenes that suggest the Chandellas were committed to exploring possibilities from all angles.

The sheer volume of carvings is at times too much to take in. Just looking at one face of a building in full detail would take hours. Inside the temples are more statue sculptures and shrines for worshipping that catch the late afternoon sun and seem to come to life.

Whilst walking between temples I hear a rustling overhead and a very large monkey is chewy on some leaves. As I raise my camera to take a photograph the monkey bares its teeth and hisses loudly. Apparently home-sapiens share something like 98% same DNA as monkeys, which I can believe as I got that message clearly 'feck off!'.

It's almost sundown and perhaps a chance for a ambient photo of temples bathed in orange-red light. Unfortunately a stubborn gray cloud blocks the light and is joined by some equally moody friends. We consider staying for the sound and light show but it means paying the entrance fee again so instead we look for a restaurant for tea. For a while I'm distracted by a gecko stalking insects in the corner of the room when I notice that outside we're getting a show for free. A sharp crack not of thunder but lightening fills the air. For the next 30 minutes and electric storm rages above us, sheets and bolts streaking across a crumpled a crumpled indigo-violet canvas.

Varanasi

2007-07-24T00:26:00.000-07:00

Smarter than your average guesthouse

Varanasi train station is awake and busy, I'm still sleepy-eyed, stretching and trying to adjust to the morning brightness. We wander outside and meet the waiting throng of rickshaw-drivers and hotel touts. On another day it might seem stressful to have 15 people surrounding you all talking at once trying to persuade you to follow each of them, but somehow it's not, in fact it's almost amusing as I'm disorientated by multiple questions and decide just to smile until there's a chance to speak.

Half asleep I'm barely able to communicate but in the end we negotiate a ride to Yogi Lodge recommended in the guidebooks. It turns out this isn't the same one but 'Old Yogi Lodge', the qualifying prefix not actually denoting precedence merely an embellishment. However, the place is clean, inexpensive and the guy who greets us, Bhai is friendly and welcoming.

Muslim silk district

Our first morning and a glimpse of the monsoon rains. After ditching our bags and a brief rest we set out with Bhai to explore the famed Varanasi silk district. About 10,000 people, predominantly Muslims, form a concentrated 'cottage industry' in Varanasi for the production of silk items. Although famous for the quality of garments and fabrics it is not a network of independent artisan craftsmen. The production process is divided into parts and most workers are involved in repetitive tasks to generate significant quantities of material.

We get a walking tour of the district, passing along the uneven and broken flag-stone paved, narrow streets. Our guide describes how production involves distinct stages and processes, some sequential others parallel. Processing of raw material and extraction involves regular dunking and removing of matted material in large vats of boiling water and chemicals to soften 'threads'. We pass by open doors and windows where foot and hand loom weavers, quite a few appearing to be young, sit hunched at the manual-power machines. Clustered together are tiny workshops for repair and maintenance of machinery and labourers used metal plates and hand chisels to punch holes in boards that will be used to weave elaborate and ornate patterns into fabrics.

At the end of our tour we're brought to a merchants house who offers us tea and displays some of the finished articles. Curious about how many merchants there are I ask about how many people he employs - 600-800 depending on orders and demand. He pays mainly a hour-rate but sometimes this can be topped up by piece-rate for specific work. He explains earnestly how he has done away with monthly wages and instead pays his workers each week so there's less chance they'll run out of money and need to borrow because if they do it will at most be a couple of days before they're paid again, very thoughtful!

Brahmin ceremonies and burning ghats

In the evening we head towards the riverbank to view the performance of a nightly ceremony. Sitting on the concrete steps overlooking a raised platform we're in the company of hundreds of spectators and worshippers, many visitors from other part so India and the world, travellers, as well as local people. Seven priests dressed in striking orange robes perform highly synchronised rituals under a delicate canopy of silk sheets and flags, involving chants, candles and oil lamps, chiming bells, and shaking of incense sticks to produce a thin haze through which you can make out reflections on the Ganges and the silhouettes of boats. A little girl, less than 10 years old, passes through the crowd anointing people with a red tikka on the forehead for good luck, and a few rupees donation.

Afterwards we walk along the twilight riverbank towards one of the main burning ghats, which appears only as a dim glow in the indistinct distance. Here an almost ceaseless process of constructing funeral pyres and cremation takes place, only pausing briefly in the early morning hours to enable bathing. We climb up the step nearby to reach an overlooking building. Here a volunteer from one of the ashrams approaches and offers to explain what is happening.

The Ganges at Varanasi is considered to be source of great power, one of the most important crossing points between this world and the spiritual world, where the devote can transcend the cycle of physical reincarnation. When a person dies the burning ceremony should take place within 24 hours. Even with modern transportation methods this is not possible for many further away regions. So people, elderly or infirm though also some people wanting to simply live out their life in the holy place, make a pilgrimage to Varanasi in order to die. Those with little or no money stay at ashrams where they are cared for by volunteers and via charity donations.

Watching a blackened form glowing as an whit-robed eldest son throws handfuls of sandalwood on the pyre, a heavy-scent burning and musky rises and sort of sticks in my nostrils. Head-hair is shorn from the deceased and gathers in an untidy pile amidst the logs, ash and mud. I'm aware of seeing this as an outsider and as such the experience seems strange. Some people feel reverence witnessing this process and I can sense the religious meaning but as well there is a growing uncomfortable feeling of witnessing something else, raw and real. In the darkness, watching ragged-clothes men sweating to drag logs and construct pyres seemingly oblivious to anything but their physical exertion, the burning bodies, the piles of human-hair, these images of death demand attention and there is something haunting about them which remains after we leave.

Buddha speaks!

In 6th Century BC, Siddharata Gautma, Buddha, uttered his first teachings at Sarnath. Here excavations have uncovered the remains of a monastery, alongside later stupas and temples. The Dharma Chakra Stupa, a cylindrical tower of bricks and carved inscriptions, is claimed to mark the exact spot of the sermon. Nearby the main grounds is a garden with a large statue of Buddha raised on a central podium.

Ganges at sunrise

An early rise at 5am we head to the river to see the sunrise on the Ganges. We're driven in an auto-rickshaw by the brother an older man, maybe late 40s, who seems to be either the owner or main manager of the guesthouse (who has a distinct aroma of alcohol that accompanies his cheery smile). Our boatman paddles gently along the river pointing out various ghats and buildings on the bank (mostly just reading the names written in large painted letters on the walls). Expanding on his list of sights he tells us something about the burning ghats explaining that it requires at last 20 kilos of wood and three hours to properly cremate a body. Based on what the ashram volunteer told us this would be 3000 rupees just for the fuel to perform a funeral. It is not surprising that many poorer families are unable to afford this expense and instead wrap their deceased relatives in cloth and set them in the river. As if to prove the point an anonymous white parcel floats past with an emaciated leg jutting out from a tear in the cloth.

Afterwards we're taken on a tour of the local temples, including: the Rama temple, a single, elegant and quiet building with marble floors, central shrine, and large scale inscriptions from the epic Ramayana on walls; the Durga temple with its brightly painted shrine and bells for worshippers to announce their presence as they bring gifts to the goddess; and the Hanuman 'monkey god' temple, which perhaps unsurprisingly has many monkeys walking about to which Hindu worshippers give gifts of fruits and nuts. In the story of Rama's exile in a forest and searching for his wife Sita who has been kidnapped by the emperor Ravana, Hanuman helps Rama by leaping across a vast ocean to find her. For this, as well as other examples, the monkey god is revered for his strength. This temple is by far the busiest and Bhai later explains that this Saturday 16 June, is a particularly important religious date and maybe 85% of all Hindus in Varanasi and around will attempt to visit the temple during the day. (Unfortunately, though understandably photography is not permitted in these temples)

Classic evening

Triveny Music House is not what was expected. Leaving shoes outside on the street step, we enter a small ground-floor room which has a few cushions lining the walls and at the 'far' (2-3 metres away) end sit a tabla and sitar player. We're part of an audience of 6 people. A synthesiser provides background waves of sound, alternating E and B notes, as the musicians start playing, slowly at first then gradually building the layers of melody and rhythm to a pulsating blur of hands, rapid notes, string bends and beats. They play for almost an hour a medley of songs. Then a woman in the audience sitting closer to the musicians begins to sing, holding the synth notes and then, just like the musicians, adding detail and intricacy. After an hour and half the concert is finished and the sitar player and singer leave to warm applause from his small yet thoroughly impressed audience. The tabla player then invites each of us to join in, providing extra drums and for me a Spanish-guitar. We play for another 45 minutes to an hour, learning rhythms and creating melodies, maybe not quite the same level of skill as before but in my humble opinion not half bad, and immense fun!

Agra - Taj Mahal

2007-07-23T23:21:00.000-07:00

The train is waiting at platform 3, Nizammudin railway station, less than half full with 15 minutes before departure. We find our seat quickly and manage to secure baggage space for rucksacks and my guitar on the upper berth. Future experiences of train travel will not be this easy! The carriage is arranged with door-less cubicles on one side with lower, middle, and upper opposing berths, perpendicular to the gangway which has a parallel row of lower / upper berths separated by riveted metal sheet. The faded blue seat-beds (bunks) in cubicles usually have the middle down during the day to from a backrest and enable 5-6 people, sometimes more to share the seat.

During the journey the cabin fills with passengers, mainly men with student travel passes commuting to/from Delhi. The gangway has a steady flow of traffic including non-reservation passengers searching for a spot to sit down and various people selling food, services, or begging. A young boy, maybe 10-12?, squatting down so his haunches almost touching the floor kind of waddles-cum-bounces along carrying a plastic bag offering to shine shoes. In his well-worn polythene bag are two brushes, a tin of dubbin, one of tan-polish and a mouldy looking cardboard box about 10cm long, 5cm wide, and 2.5cm thick, containing a soot-like powder. Stopping for a passenger in our cubicle he sets about his task first using his index finger to mix powder with a blob of dubbin and polish,then taking and rotating the shoe with one hand he swiftly buffs the surface with a rapid, rhythmic motion of the other hand, like a fiddle player, regularly tapping the brush against the floor possibly to remove excess. From start to finish he's done in less than 10 minutes and from across the cabin it looks like a good job, for which he earns 3 rupees (about 4 pence).

The baggage check guard allows me to keep my camera but my journal is not permitted and I have to store it in a free locker outside, random? We enter through the gate and stroll into the courtyard then turn right through the outer-building and get the first unimpeded view of the Taj Mahal. Perhaps wanting to savour the experience, or maybe wanting to avoid the crowds, I wander to the left and casually browse the displays of Indian architecture and photos of important sites. Rather than approach directly down the central hedge lined avenue, walking along the side paths you find fewer other tourists and catching glimpses of the dome framed through the flowers and trees feels a more personal 'discovery'.

To reach the raised level of the mausoleum and the two mosques that flank either side you must first remove your shoes or cover them with a gauze. Walking barefoot on the warming marble floor, with its geometric patterns, may not be the most hygienic option, but is certainly a vivid tactile experience that adds to the visual splendour. Inside the chapel natural light breaks through diaphanous covers over lattice-stone windows, and a low-output orange glow emits from a light bulb within the sole chandelier suspended centrally above the tomb, which may at one time have burnt oil. The shape of the interior produces unusual acoustics from reverberating whisper-voices; overlapping, rising and falling in volume, indistinct sounds that feel like a distant rumbling thunderstorm.

We started at 8am and by midday the sun is scorching the stones and light dazzling off the facades if the Taj. We return to the backpackers guesthouse to escape the intensity of the heat for a few hours before a lengthy overnight journey from Tundla to Varanasi.

Delhi Daze

2007-07-13T02:19:00.000-07:00

We touch-down at Indira Ghandi International Airport at 5am. Stepping off the plane it feels more like midday than early morning, but it's only a brief taste of things to come as the terminal is air-conditioned. Having spent an hour queuing to clear immigration and customs and collecting my backpack I'm stood looking puzzled trying to work out where the ATM is, conscious that just beyond the desks waits an avenue lined with taxi touts signalling. Fortunately I meet a fellow traveller, Aubrey from California, and she has a guidebook so we can find the main backpacker area.

Aubrey has a reservation at a hotel in the Parahganj district but our taxi driver says he doesn't know it but he can find out where by stopping at a official tourist office, which is actually a private operator. (This is a scam listed in the guidebook which we avoid, sort of, by luck). After some discussion he drops us at a metro station and we get another ride in a rickshaw to the main bazaar where the guesthouses and hotels are located.

First impressions, the main bazaar is a constant flow of traffic, pedal or motor rickshaws, mopeds and motorbikes slaloming to avoid stray dogs, cows and water buffalo, accompanied by the sound of a bell or horn, stealthily approaching then announcing an impending collision with a ear-drum piercing siren. Some of the motorbikes have an altogether different-sounding horn which is employed almost constantly, which could provide a clue to the sound that is like a duck which has smoked too many cigarettes, an evil emphysemic quack.

However, very quickly you become accustomed to the noise, and side-stepping fresh-pats. Walking along the bazaar towards New Delhi station the road is lined shops selling cheap cotton shirts, sandals, breakable souvenirs and ephemera, street-carts sell fresh lime juice. The place smells, a mix of dust and exhaust fumes, methaney dung, sweet mangoes and occasionally a potent hit of chilli and spices from a roadside takeaway kitchen. Overhead, a mass of wires bend and loop between buildings forming Gordian knot intersections. It's possible to escape the excitement and heat of the streets to one of the numerous roof-top restaurants attached to guesthouses and hotels. As with other places it seems a tourist can confirm their inflated economic status by retreating to higher ground, the poor literally remaining to the gutters.

'Ninja Budgies' (a.k.a. auto-rickshaw)

Getting around to the further away places usually requires transport. On hand at all times are the fleet of motor rickshaws. These green and yellow carriages fly around the main roads and back-streets of New Delhi at improbable speeds, their stuntman drivers accelerating and breaking sharply in turn, deftly dodging pedestrians with consummate skill (luck), like souped-up canaries, displaying contortionist ability to dart between other vehicles, with cars and buses blaring horns indignantly to try and assert their superior size but unable to match the agility of these ninja budgies, flying in a bee-line to your destination.

Lal Qila - the red fort

Lal Qila, the red fort, is about an hours walk from the Main Bazaar (at least if you're not sure of the directions) passing through the old city. The contrast with the tourist-oriented areas becomes apparent as English signs disappear and the shops selling cheap-made cotton clothes and trinkets are instead selling cooking ingredients, vast piles of spices and cylindrical wads of ghee, kitchenware pots pans and knives, the streets densely packed with people and snack vendors selling bhajis and pakoras, and shop-keepers watching you walk past with a smile or a look of curiosity, or possibly indifference, rather than trying to attract you to purchase something.

At the booth we buy our tickets and a smiling woman stood next to the barrier beckons and pins a mini-India flag to our tops, which is done so smoothly as if to be part of the official entry process only to be asked for a donation to the 'Delhi High School' she represents. It may be genuine but definitely a slick routine to generate small contributions.

We pass through the Lahore Gate and along the main chowk with expensive souvenir shops to reach the interior grounds. The War Museum has a ground-level passage through to the gardens before the Diwan-i-Am, 'Hall of Public Audience', where an emperor would meet common people. The impressive scalloped arches are repeated along the pavilion passages, resembling clouds or the way kids (and some adults still) draw thought bubbles in cartoons. Inside is an intricately sculpted marble seat which is a popular draw for crowds of visitors wanting photos. Around the gardens trees occasionally provide shade and a chance to spot some of the wildlife, including chipmunk-like squirrels and well camouflaged green parrots that suddenly swoop from a tree if they spy a stray morsel left over by picnickers.

Fan-assisted oven (adjust sleeping [cooking] time accordingly)

The day-time temperature is reaching45 degrees and at night it's only marginally cooler. It turns out that getting a room with fan only is false economy. Loud-whirring blades rotating and precariously hanging from a decaying wire that only serve to circulate the heat feels like I'm being slow roasted whilst trying to sleep. After maybe 3-4 hours broken and restless sleep, getting up at dawn and opening the door to the balcony is like stepping out of an oven, quite a neat trick for winter months but in summer unbearable! During the afternoon and evening the guesthouse experienced power-cuts, which it turns out happened all over the city due to record energy consumption in the heat-wave.

Purana Qila

We catch a rickshaw in the late afternoon heading towards the Nizammudin area, which has a number of monuments, but we've no specific plan. Along the way we pass an interesting looking collection of buildings and stop the driver to go an check them out. The compound is the Jam-at Khana Masjid. We climb through a knee-high door within a fortress door and find ourselves in an old mosque grounds with two old men sat apart praying at the farside.

Across the main road there are signs for the national zoo and Purana Qila. We had intended to find the Humayen Tomb and gardens as described in the guidebook, however this fort looks interesting. Inside there are buildings dotted about large garden, including towers and a centuries old hamman building.

Ticket to ride

Travel Philosophy Musings - recurrent question: is it better to plan or to go with the flow (so to speak)? Getting a train ticket to Agra could (should?) have been a simple process but turned out to be something else....

PART ONE - MORNING

There are plenty of adjectives and phrases that could be used to try and describe New Delhi Railway Station - fascinating, crowded, confusing, major travel hub, over-burdened infrastructure, bastion of resilient administration, meso-cosm of Indian life? Our experience was maybe these and more. Despite arriving at 7.45am to buy tickets (the listed opening time is 8am) we find that there are already hundreds of people inside queuing. We join the 'enquiries line' and find out possible train numbers and where to get a necessary form to fill in, from the cloakroom outside (obviously!). The young woman helping us is patient but looks flustered, it's only 8.15am, gonnna be a long work day! Because Aubrey's here she can join the women only queue which is smaller and moving somewhat quicker. It is a curious phenomenon to watch as women sit on benches perpendicular to the counter waiting their turn and men sit opposite, husbands or male relatives presumably. Whenever a woman reaches the counter a man jumps up and issues instructions, which seems to result in a rapid threeway exchange as information is passed: male relative - female queuer - female counter clerk - female queuer - male relative. Sometimes the women-only rule is transgressed and the man tries to deal directly with the female counter clerk only to receive a rebuke from one of the wandering officials walking up and down behind the clerks. It takes 45 minutes but eventually we have tickets for travel this afternoon.

PART TWO- AFTERNOON

Back at the station loaded with back-pack, ruck sack and guitar, we're scanning the boards or clues as to which platform our train departs. Though we're there in good time before the minutes count down and it's not looking good. Something is bugging me, I think I read in the guidebook, sure enough when I check the ticket it confirms my concern, trains to Agra depart from Nizamuddin station not New Delhi... our train leaves in 10 minutes and the station is 40 minutes by rickshaw crosstown... bugger! There is a 'reservations and cancellations' office outside the main station building. It's smaller than the office we booked the tickets from and feels like a sauna inside. Trying to salvage something if we can we join a queue and spend half an hour edging forwarding, trying to keep guard to prevent various attempts to muscle ahead by all kinds of characters amidst noise and general pandemonium of people anxious for tickets. About two people from the counter a young guy finally gives in to what has, it seems, been vexing him for a while queuing behind us and says "you know, there's a foreigners office with air-conditioning where you can get your ticket inside". We're unsure, it seems a risk to give up our place now we're so close so we stay only to be told exactly the same. Upstairs on the first floor of the station building is the foreign nationals ticket office. It is heavily air-conditioned and for the first time since arriving in India I feel something close to being cooled. A very helpful clerk immediately understands our request to cancel and rebook for tomorrow and is a bit puzzled why we didn't just come here first. We're also able to book onward tickets to Varanasi from Tundla (near Agra) so the next destination is also covered. Two hours after we should have left we return to the guesthouse to dump our bags and go to Golden Cafe for food and a much needed, under-the-counter beer. Try again tomorrow....

I believe in Syria!

2007-06-18T01:40:00.000-07:00

Elizabeth and Jason live in an 4th floor apartment on a pleasant leafy road in the embassy district, just off Rawda Road and nearby the Lotus Restaurant, which judging by a letter left on the side in the hallway is how the post is how addresses are written, presumably with the postie knowing who lives in what building? Elizabeth is studying in Damascus for a PhD on a Fulbright Scholarship and seems to be collecting research grants for fun. For the first weekend of my stay she goes to Beirut (just before the fighting beaks out in the Tripoli refugee camps) and Jason is host, showing me around. I'll end up staying here for almost three weeks, exploring the old city, applying (waiting ) for an India visa, watching two cup finals, and celebrating my 27th birthday with an 'interesting' trip to the baths.

Damascus Old City

With the Citadel to our left we enter the grand doorway through the old city walls, headng down Hamidiyeh Souq. We merge into the flow of human traffic, young men wandering with arms hooked over each others shoulders eager to show their friendship to young women linking arms, children in prams waving arms for attention, families walking tgether all enjoying eating ice-creams. Either side a panoply of cloths, spices, brass-craftsmen, hookah peddlers, bristling with energy and optimism for a sale, all under a domed roof.Taking a turn off the main thoroughfare down one of the side-streets, overhead the cover is removed and flags swoop across between buildings. Shops are organised into clusters selling particular items, such as sweets, or gold jewellry, or in some places household utilities and plastic toys. Posters of President Bashir Assad's image over the national flag are taped to most shop fronts, occasionally also a picture of Hasan Nasrallah or rarer still yet found in a few places a Lebanese Flag.

Ummayad Mosque

The masoleum for Salahuddin is a small building to the left as you enter the side of the complex. It's understated surroundings are surprising as the shrine itself is very ornate. From the masoleum its a short walk to the entrance of the courtyard, (we carry our shoes rathe than put them on again for these few steps.) Inside is marble-floored, oblong open space with three free-standing monuments, an ablution fountain, the octagonal Al-Mal (dome of treasury) and Al-Sa'at (Dome of Clocks).

The walls and arches are painted in gold and verdant paints showing leafy patterns and scenes. It might feel palatial, somewhere people silently move around in reverence admiring the achitecture and maintaining the air of assumed conventions of respect, however it's much more familial.

Groups of people sit in shady areas chatting whilst children have fun sliding and polishing the floor in their socks. Above a frustrated flock of birds zip around unwilling to chance diving down to the courtyard floor where a feast awaits of seeds, snacks left-over from people picnicking scattered underfoot.

The interior room near the clocks dome contains the shrine for Hussein, a shiite martyr of 8th Century Battle of Karbala whose head was taken by Caliph Ali and is supposedly kept here behind a silver-grilled box. It's certainly an attraction for visitors, some who maybe are pilgrims, with people having their photograph taken besides and others touching the grille, eyes shut in concentration and prayer.

The main hall of the mosque has overlapping crimson patterned carpets, some worn others looking as if newly laid. Men sit against walls, looking relaxed, contemplative, or some just tired, one arm resting on a bent knee, the other leg tucked beneath in a half-crossed position. One man is praying with a young boy watching closely and copying the movements for kneeling and bowing. A group of people sit in semi-circle listening to an older man to whok they alos appear to direct questions, behind them some kids are playing games jumping rope-chains and hiding behind pillars. In the middle of the hall is the shrine. According to written testimonies, whilst foundation works were underway centuries ago a basket was found containing a preserved head which was claimed to be that of the John the Baptist, which is now kept there.

FA Cup Final 2007 (Give me back my two and a half hours!!!)

Kick off is at 5pm local time. Jason's guidebook says the 5-Star Sheraton Hotel has an 'authentic British Pub complete with red pillar boxes'... well whatever, but it's a fair bet they'll be showing the match so lets go! The cab driver doesn't seem to know exactly where it is and although he drops us off nearby on a parallel road the place he directs us to a building where we're met by guards carrying guns... quick excuses later we're walking round behind to the correct building across the busy highway. Walking through the lobby, aware that our appearance and attire is perhaps not what is usual for patrons of this establishment we turn a corner and find what we're looking for. There's a large flat-screen TV behind the bar and deep-cushion chairs, we order a beer and settle down to watch. It's a dour game and after 60 minutes, despite Man Utd being the marginally better side it seems painfully likely this 0-0 snore-fest is going to extra-time. Just to rub it in Drogba scores in the 116th minute to deny penalties which had been the minor excitement I'd started to look forward to. The commentators say something about the long-walk, an architectural feature of the new Wembley stadium there are more steps to collect the trophy, relying on inane facts to enliven events... tell me Mottie, how many winning captains have had first names beginning with 'T'... no wait a minute, don't bother! On our way out we pass a woman dressed in a black evening gown who sits down at a grand piano in the lobby and starts to play what sounds like Beethoven... ah well now that's something you wouldn't get down the Whalley!

Elections - One Big Party

On the journey into Damascus posters portraying the Syrian President Bashir Assad on the background of the national flag seemed to be on posters and billboards lining the streets every 100 yards. Walking around the capital city there are banners, flags and posters everywhere, cars drapped in flags and windows covered with posters. The presidential elections for 2007-14 are being held and along with the posters and flags there are marquees and public events taking place all over the city with music, dancing, speeches and a lively atmosphere. At night some of the main roads are illuminated with golden lights wrapped around palm trees. Amongst the various election paraphrenalia two stand out for me, the brilliantly simple campaign slogan "I believe in Syria", and the massive picture in the main shopping boulevard of Bashir dressed in full Adidas tracksuit and trainers doing some gardening with the Adidas logo at the bottom. It may be a matter of contention whether he has been officially endorsed by the sports manufacturer, personally I don't think he'll be appearing in an advert alongside Beckham. The official public celebrations and partying last over a week until the results are announced, Assad gains 97.6% of the vote, impressive, though in the absence of any opposition candidate it seems a bit careless to drop 2.4%.

Mount Kaisson at Night

Together with Jason, Elizabeth and a woman she met at the museum, Aisha, we go to dine out on the hill. It's a winding taxi journey taken at the obligatory white knuckle speedto reach the summit. There are many similar roadside cafe and restaurants all with patios and tables with give panoramic views overlooking the city at night. From here it's possible to make out the towers of the old city mosque although it's easier to orientate using the major new buildings, the Blue Hotel and the Four Seasons.

Athens denied

Wednesday 23 May 2007, Champions League final kicks off in 45 minutes. I get a text from Ruth, although I don't recognise it at first as she's not given me her new mobile number, to ask if I'm watching the match and to fly the flag in Syria (figuratively speaking). We're back at the Sheridan, sipping the luxury import beers (i.e. a can of Carlsberg) and munching peanuts and rice-crackers. It's a tense game, having finished off the table snacks in the first half, my nails by 60 minutes, I'm nibbling my fingers as Inzaghi slots home Milan's second goal with only 10 minutes or so to go. A good friend, who self-confessed "learnt his lesson" two years ago, now starts the text-message lauding... he's right, pan-continental mocking makes it worse. At the weekend I speak with James who was in Athens on holiday with some friends for the final. They got to meet John Aldridge and Ian Rush, and someone spotted Ian Wright but no-one cared.

Film

DVDs of the latest movie releases are remarkably easy to get here and as such during my stay I watch a fair few films, including:

Pirates of Caribbean II & III - amusing especially the Dali-esque surrealist scenes in third
Spiderman III - superhero gets an ego problem
Blades of Glory - another Will Ferrell outing of 'ironic' boufant chauvanism (good use of the kick in the groin gag though)
Children of Men - implausible concept of world infertility pandemic with impressive cinematography
and Hot Fuzz - kinda funny but a bit weak overall (more like luke-warm lint)

Very Intense Stressful Action (VISA) extension

I need to extend my initial 15-day tourist visa whilst waiting for my India visa to be processed. The Hijra wa Jawazet (Passport & Travel Office) makes the border visa process look like a pampered and effortless stroll in the park. Three floors, seven desks, application form for an extension in triplicate, buying a stamp at the 'office' outside the building, countersigned 3 times including once by an important looking military guy in a big yet sparsely furnished upstairs room surrounded by piles of paper he barely looks at as he marks and with a large tot of what looks suspiciously like scotch and water (but who's gonna question him?!) with many multicoloured badges and stripes on his left breast, and a trip to the closet backroom 'for the supervision of foreigners' which operates a card index system in dusty boxes, and finally submitting my passport and forms to be told I have to collect it tomorrow. The eventual stamp turns out to be illegible, Elizabeth, who speaks Arabic and without whom I don't know if I'd have ever figured out the system, cannot work out how long it is for or if it is a multiple entry and neither can anyone else we ask.

The Ugarits started it

After less than an hour we're out and thankful for a mercifully short experience. One plus is we're really close to the national museum. On the way we try a popular street snack at one of the many open-air shops, sponge cake soaked in watery syrup which sits on top of melted mozarella cheese in a big circular pan, the calorie count must be frightening but it's really good!

The museum entry is 150 Syrian Pounds [SYP] and has a gardened area dotted with benches and sculptures and to the right-hand side a cafe with wicker chairs, tree-stump tables and a thatched roof. The entrance hall has paintings on the walls from 20th Century artists showing particular not especially subtle interpretations of events in the Middle East, such as the 'Palestinian tragedy' with three ogre figures in the bottom left corner wearing hats bearing the national flags of Britain, USA, and Israel. Amidst the collections of pottery and artifacts of the ancient world, the wing to the east has exhibits extracted from Dura Europa close to the Iraq border in eastern Syria, including a fresco from the synagogue which has intricate and colourful depictions of biblical stories including Moses turning the Nile to blood and the test of Abraham's faith. In the west wing is the Alphabet of Ugarit stone (c.1400-1300 BC), the earliest known complete alphabet record anywhere in the world with 30 cuneiform signs inscribed left to right on a small tablet only about 2 inches by one inch.

Travel Plans

My intention had been to go to Lebanon, with the hope of doing volunteer work there helping refugees, also to see Baalbeck and Beirut. However, the escalation of fighting in the north, fingers being pointed at Syrian involvement to distract from or derail investigations into the assasination of the Lebanese PM Rafik Hariri in 2005, and the troubles in Gaza with an increasingly bellicose Israeli government maybe considering another summer' incursion' beyond the Litani River with the relevant approvals (go-aheads) from foreign governments, means a rethink.

The 'Silk Road' plan (missing out Afghanistan) is a contender but watching BBC world news is like playing conflict bingo - Lebanese Army intensifies efforts against entrenched militants, Iran threatened with UN sanctions following IAEA reports, bombings and riots in Pakistan, explosion in Hyperbad India - that's line! Actually, most conflicts or tensions are very localised (though Lebanon is definitely out for now) the real issue is administrative, getting visas. Going via Iran to Pakistan then India would require a minimum of one months wait whichever country I choose to apply at embassies. Finally I settle on India as the most plausible option, just need to find the embassy in Damascus...

UN-successful

Whilst searching for the Indian Embassy, I find the UNHCR (United Nations High Commission for Refugees - or Refugee Agency) office. Syria has an estimated 3 million refugees, mostly from Iraq, a large proportion living in camps near to the border. It seems there's a reasonable chance they'll have some information about volunteering opportunities to work with refugees in some capacity. However, after being told to return twice because there's no-one available to speak to, on my third and final trip, the guard acting as gate-keeper who also claims to be the receptionist after saying I can leave a CV eventually relents to my requests to speak with someone about volunteering e.g. which NGOs are working here, opportunities etc, and tells me to wait outside. 15 minutes later he emerges with a form, 'National Competitive Recruitment Examination 2001'. Maybe I'll just try the internet instead...

Palmyra - pillars and pancakes (29-30 May 2007)

The morning sun is already asserting it's presence and wavering lines of heat and dust hover in the distance above the cobbled road to the ruins. Inside the fort-walls the cella (temple) of Bel is set-back from the entrance and central, with various masonry and rubble clustered in a roughly organised manner around the interior. The stones seem ossified like ageing bone relics with facture lines scorched into furrows by desert winds, sun and sand, or else disintegrating slowly hollowing out columns and pillars like half-eaten Blackpool rock.

A main avenue runs between the temple and the Diocletan Camp fortress along which are numerous sites, including the market and roman baths, an amphitheatre which has been mostly preserved and restored, and occasionally a Bedouin man asleep in the shade against a pillar or otherwise inviting you to check out his trinkets and headscarves. In the centre is a raised platform with eight columns of which only one is original the rest constructed using rose-coloured cement, a feature which doesn't please some people wanting 'authentic ruins' but gives asense of what the monument would've been like (it's also a good vantage point to take a photo of the main archway.)

The ruins stretch out across the plains, following a roughly straight avenue, and wandering about gives a greater the sense of scale than the Pharonic temples at Kom Ombo or Erfu. At the far end, before the hillside rises to the fort, the raised platform at Diocletan's camp gives a view of the whole ruins which dazzles reflecting the midday-sun. It's getting far to hot to continue walking around so I head back to town looking for a place to eat.

A recommended place is the 'Pancake House', but it's not easy to find. I'm fortunate a young guy on a motorbike wearing an Argentina football shirt with 'Maradonna' on the back, offers me a lift (I'm only carrying a day-pack the rest is back in Damascus -I don't think it would've worked with back-pack and guitar). A short ride, weaving along back roads and dodging pedestrains, he drops me off at the restaurant. The savoury chicken pancake is excellent and afterwards my new friendly motorcyclist gives me a lift to the bus-station to catch a ride back to Damascus.

Birthday (Bath) Boy! (31 May 2007)

Hurray, it's my birthday, 21 years young!... honest... Ok, 27, but it's not the years it's the mileage, (speaking of which I wonder how may miles have been travelled so far?) anyway, last year I was in Bordeaux, drinking moonshine rum at a bar with a college friend and the Jamaican owner which seemed pretty exotic, what could I do this year to match that?...

Damascus is a good start, I wouldn't have guessed I'd be here, so I should try something that is a local experience - the Hamman Nur-ul Din is to the south of the Umayyad Mosque and is the oldest steam baths in Damascus. Inside a ticket-box man issues a shaving bag sized pouch to place my valuables in and locks them in an individual drawer behind him. Walking past a fountain an attendant indicates to remove my shoes and socks which he puts in another locker.

I'm wrapped in large, thin cotton towel and wearing out-sized wooden sole sandals, with a birds-nest fibrous sponge and soap block and a green plastic tag attached to my wrist with an elastic band. Inside the steam room you have to stoop to avoid the scoulding heat from standing straight. Around the main chamber are wash basins at knee-height with taps and metal bowls. Cleansing consists of lathering-up with soap and then using the bowls to pour water over yourself, although looking around the convention seems to be this is a two-man job with burly blokes soaping each others back.

Just as I'm pondering this, a large man strides over and checks my tag then signals for me to follow him outside the main steam room to a side-chamber. He indicates for me to lie on the floor as he dons an exfoliating mitten and proceeds to scrub my back and front, next sitting upright he covers me in soap suds and then using the metal bowl pours warm water over me. It's an odd baptismal feeling of being thoroughly cleaned. After all this he removes the wrist tag and slaps me on the shoulder with a smile and a nod to say "'that's how it's done", sure enough there's another man getting the same treatment in the opposite side chamber.

I'll be honest, it was a somewhat unnerving experience of being scrubbed by a big, hairy man whose language you don't know, especially as I had no idea this was what the green tag was for! But afterwards, sat is the relaxation room on cushioned seats drinking sweetened chai, wrapped up in fresh towels, I defintely felt invigorated. However, in response to friends with more furtive imaginations, I'm sorry to disappoint but I won't be holidaying with Dale Winton, in San Fransisco, wearing arse-less chaps, anytime soon... he's busy.

In the evening I meet up with Jason and Elizabeth and wander around quieter streets in the old city, stopping at a small bookshop to buy a inexpensive copy of Said's 'Orientalism'.

After a couple of drinks aty the Marmar Cafe and Oxygen, both pretty empty but interesting places, we go for a meal at Elissar Restaurant, a relatively expensive place set inside a decorative old building. We get a combinations of hors d'ouevres and dishes to share, the muhamurrah is my favourite, a spicey red-pepper houmous and white-cheese dip. We get a 5 SYP microbus ride back, all of us feeling pretty stuffed but with just enough room for a white russian to round-off the night - the dude abides.

Salaams Syria

Finally my India visa is processed. A morning and afternoon of searching travel agents and airline companies and I manage to find a fairly cheap flight from Damascus to Delhi, via Kuwait City. The night before we all go out for a farewell meal and afterwards a Barada beer at a small local bar that keeps a low profile. Thanks to Elizaebth and Jason who've been great hosts and friends, who I'm sorry to be leaving. But I'm heading onwards, swapping the hot days in Damascus for Delhi where the temperature is a mild 42 degrees, here goes....

The road to Damascus

2007-06-18T00:56:00.000-07:00

It's a short taxi ride from the Hotel to the main service cab junction. It's 1.45pm and I'm thinking a conservative estimate 2-3 hours drive and 1 hour at the border I could be in Damascus at 6.30pm at the latest. I eventually arrive at 8pm and with a large element of luck thrown in...

To get a Syrian visa at the border, I know from reading a fellow travellers guidebook that I'll need to pay in US dollars and there isn't the facility to exchange money there so I need to go to a bank in Amman. There are a number of banks near the service cab stand so it should be easy but it takes half an hour because the ATMs are broken, however in that time I have an interesting conversation in French with a young Iraqi refugee who has been deported here after six years in Marseilles, wanting to know if it is possible or easier to seek asylum in the UK... désolé mon ami, pas une chance des boules de neige dans l'enfer!

With $40 in wallet, I'm prepared, and finally set off in a Hyundai saloon car along with three other passengers at around 2.30pm.

Departure Taxing
The first border post is for leaving Jordan. After making my way to the desk I'm told I need to pay a departure tax, which is a small stamp affixed to your passport costing 5 dinar (why the bother?!). This is a problem, I have no dinars left and there are no cash machines here... fortunately I discover the 5 pound note change from the breakfast meal I bought at Liverpool airport, 108 days ago, and there is a money exchange.

A short drive and we reach the Syrian visa offices. It's around 5pm now, maybe a little after. First I need a green application form and complete with all my details, including a residence address in Syria or name of hotel (which I don't have but my fellow passenger asks around for the name of somewhere which he scribbles down). A stern clerk in army fatigues sits scrutinising a tiny-type print out of numbers and data, studiously ignoring me or so it seems until he feels like looking at my form. 10 minutes of waiting he finally picks up my form and after a quick glance fills out and issues two slips (yellow and white) which determine the cost of my visa, $52.... merde!!!

I now have to go to an exchange desk in another building to convert my dollars into Syrian Pounds and receive an 'official' receipt for this transaction and then go to a small hut between the two buildings to exchange the Syrian Pounds for the necessary visa stamps. I'm desperately hoping there's an ATM in the exchange building... there is.... it's broken.... (bite lip!!)... Ok, so visa is $52, I have $40 and 2 dinar, which is about $44 in total and a VISA card,, which won't do any good.... aide!!

A Dutch (i think) couple come to my rescue. They offer to pay in Euros and accept the dollars and dinar in return. I ask where they're staying in Damascus so I can pay them back the remainder but they say it's a gift and don't want to make a big deal of it, so we wish each other a good trip and I hurry to find the stamp hut as it's getting dark. It's no problem getting the stamps and I run back to the first desk, on the way meeting a fellow passenger, a Jordanian businessman - they're all waiting as their process has been considerably quicker. At the desk the gruff clerk says I'm missing a stamp. Cursing, the Jordanian man takes me back to the hut and in a curt exchange get the extra stamp, and on the way back explains they were trying to pocket it themselves (seems an pointless thing to do as I'll obviously have to come back and claim it). Finally, around 6.30pm, I get my visa certified and we're on the way to Baramka station in Damascus where I'm going to stay with Elizabeth and Jason, the travellers I met in Petra.

Our man in Amman

2007-06-07T04:03:00.000-07:00

The journey to Amman takes 5 hours crammed into a Toyota truck with Lucy, Pip, and Alex, three travellers also staying at the Petra Gate. Approaching the city centre the sandstone coloured housing blocks and hilly terrain gives way to bright and busy streets. The Palace Hotel is located in the heart of a shopping district, surrounded by small clothing stores, perfumes and souvenirs, and fruit juice vendors. Recommended in the guidebooks this place is cheap and very relaxed with really smiley staff.

In the evening we eat out at the 'Cairo Restaurant'. I try chicken freekeh, slow roasted chicken served with a type of bulgar wheat, topped with almonds and a yogurt sauce, a new favourite! Afterwards we look for somewhere to get a drink. Nearby to the hotel is the 'eco-tourism cafe', though nothing about it indicates why it should be called as such. It's a quite a male-oriented place with guys sat around tables playing cards, chess or backgammon and smoking apple sheesha in hookahs, the only women there it seems are Lucy and Pip. We sit out on the balcony and watch shoppers bustling about. There's a flash and loud thunderclap as it starts to rain heavily.

Go up Moses

I'm sharing a room with Gareth, by coincidence a Supported Housing Manager from Cheltenham UK. Honestly, you go to another continent and still find yourself talking about homelessness strategies! (though I'm dubious about his claim to a no evictions record and sure enough it involves "relocating" some clients). We book a day-trip with the hotel to visit the Dead Sea and a couple of other places.

Mount Nebos is where an ageing Moses is meant to have climbed towards the end of his life so he could see Jerusalem and the 'promised land' before dying. There's no burial site been discovered but there is a Basilica and small museum of mosaics and artifacts, as well as some overgrowing gardens with small lizards basking in the blazing sun and darting for cover as people walk past.

Our driver asks if we want to do a 70km round trip to visit the supposed site of the baptism involving John and Jesus. It's a vote and I'm in the 'meh' category, not least as our driver didn't really sell it by saying there's nothing there but a sign. So instead we decide to go straight to the Dead Sea.

To enter the 'Amman Tourist Beach' costs 5 dinar. Once past the gate its about 100 yards down steps and skipping across burning sands to reach the shore. The first few steps are tentative into the water, it feels kind of oily, when it reaches my waist line I lean back and feel my entire body-mass shift to the surface, so this is what weightlessness might feel like. Despite the high mineral content the water is still very transluscent and you can see the grey-white ridges of crusted salt on the bottom.

Two things are important to know about the Dead Sea (from my experience). First, the warnings are true that if you get any water in your eyes your temporarily blinded and need to go ashore to wash out the salt and stop the stinging. Second, just as when repairing a bicycle tyre you can pump it up and rotate in a bucket of water so hissing bubbles will reveal where there's a tiny puncture not visible to the naked eye; well, in the Dead Sea, if you have any cuts or scrapes, even ones you're not aware of, you'll soon know about it!

Petra

2007-06-04T05:32:00.000-07:00

Petra Gate Hotel is built on the side of a hill. Entering you're faced with the reception and welcome foyer / social room, downstairs are the bedrooms which have views overlooking the town. The room is cosy and most importantly the bathroom shower works! The owner is really friendly and in the evening serves Maklobah, a meal all cooked in a large pot, a layer of meat first, then vegetables, and finally rice, when cooked it is turned upside down and served on a huge communal plate. The only drawback is they seem to have carted rocks from the canyon in order to fashion pillows, which I discovered when falling back onto the bed and almost knocking myself out!

Canyon of the Crescent Moon

It's a short-taxi ride down the hill to reach the site entrance for the canyon. I join Elizabeth and Jason, a couple from America I met the previous evening, to go and explore. It's been raining overnight and feels fresh this morning, a fairly novel experience after 6 dry weeks in Egypt. We start off early to get there for opening at 8am. Across from the ticket booth and tourist office there are a bunch of souvenir shops office displaying genuine Petra rock carvings and t-shirts, along with soft drinks and snacks. The best has to be the store selling everything fake whips and hats, complete with a huge copyright infringing sign showing Indiana Jones.

The Siq ('shaft') is the name for the gorge by which you enter the city from the east. The path narrows, canyon walls rise and lean over above you, and a sense of being comparatively small amidst this vast place, steeped in history, exciting exotic reveries of adventure, is immediately amplified. It's a wonder more people don't walk into each other as necks are constantly bent backwards marvelling at the scale.

At waist height, carved into the rock are irrigation channels. An earlier sign at the entrance explained how the Nabataeans designed a water management system to control flooding using dams, and in recent years these have been shored up after flash flooding endangered tourists. Flecks of moisture in the air become more frequent and noticeable. The sudden downpour catches everyone and people scurry for shelter in hollowed bends protected by overhanging rocks. Puddles form quickly and soon a small yet growing stream bubbles along the path towards us gathering momentum until its flow is halted by a sagging in the earth. Large puddles of red-rust water form leaving only patches for people to skip over at risk of soggy-shoes.

After 10 minutes admiring the shower, checking to see if the water channels work, and wondering if many people get to experience rain when they visit Petra, it eases enough to continue onwards. Al Khazneh ('the Treasury') comes into view, carved in the side of the mountain facing, and a throng of digi-camera snappers half-block the way all vying for the optimum shot. Walking past them and up to the steps the sheer size is daunting, so much so that it takes me a while to notice just to the right of the steps, I'm stood only a few yards away from a camel taking a rest. She looks bored and unimpressed. I can't tell if it's with me or the monument.

Donkey work

The monastery is further into the canyon following a route of 750 steps unevenly spaced out on a weaving pathway ascending up the mountains. At certain corners and on brief plateaus, Bedouin women and sometimes small children sit by makeshift stalls asking of you would like to buy trinkets and bracelets. Rides are offered by guides who stress the time it takes to reach the summit. At one point on the climb, we're passed by a small caravan of donkeys walking down one after the other about 10 paces apart. I'm expecting to see an owner following after them from round the corner but no-one's there. I wonder are they training donkeys able to undertake journeys by themselves no need for guides to follow? Or, maybe inspired by Orwell they've organised themselves into a radical independent cooperative to provide transport and ensure decent work conditions by getting rid off whip-handling guides? Either way it looks a precarious way to go up or down steps.

The Monastery was not actually a place for a religious order but a tomb, however, possibly due to the inscriptions of crosses inside it acquired this tag. A couple of hundred yards away is a conveniently located Bedouin cafe selling coffee and chai. After a brew and sit down we push on towards the nearby summit for the recommended views. A number of signs are dotted about, 'view' with arrows pointing to different rocks, hmm, which to choose... we spot a bold sign (from some enterprising individual) that reads 'the view', complete with definite article this must be the best, solved!

Spread out across the mountain-sides are tombs and structures, imprints from of Nabataean and later Graeco-Roman period of influence. These monuments are impressive remnants of the civilisations which once thrived here.

However, the natural landscape is equally staggering, with fascinating terracotta caves, rough, hollowed out arches with fingerprint patterns of ruddy swirling rock veins.

It's a fairly long trek back to the site entrance and a visit to a pub on the walk back up the hill is welcome, even if the Guinness sign outside is only "for decoration" as the bartender explains.

A night in Aqaba

2007-06-03T02:33:00.000-07:00

The low buzz of air-conditioning aboard the ferry keeps me from falling asleep. It's an uneventful journey, dozing, looking out the window, occasionally interrupted by a couple of Jordanian businessmen wanting to see if I'm an investor. The ferry pulls into Aqaba port and I look for the desk for getting my passport stamped and visa issued. It turns out this is something you're meant to do in transit and one of the police officers aboard the ferry. has to take me to the port office, which is closed so he opens it up and issues the stamp himself.

The cab driver insists on 10 dinar to drive into the city, citing some port-zone standardisation of fares which means he cannot budge. Having been informed by the ferry guards that I should pay no more than 3-4 dinar I attempt to argue, but my bargaining position is weak given that (a) I have no money and need to find an ATM the nearest probably being in the city (b) I don't know which direction I need to go (c) all the guards have disappeared now for the evening. Reluctantly, I agree and after a 25 minute ride I'm in the city centre handing over the cash and facing a hotel which the driver says is "cheap".

The man at Beach Hotel reception smiles, "25 dinar a night, two nights minimum, 50 dinar". Hmm, first impressions of Jordan, it seems expensive. I explain this is too much for me, and he says he cannot shift his price, so I say thanks and make to leave looking out for signs of any willing to negotiate, he just smiles goodbye and returns to his TV.

A short way up the hill and along a sidestreet I spy another hotel, it's significantly cheaper, a quick look inside and I decide to take the room, still a bit more than I'd want to pay but it means I don't have to carry my bags anymore and can rest for a while.

Outside the street is busy with shoppers and people dining out. After strolling around looking for the bus-station for tomorrow morning I stop at one of the fresh fruit-juice and snack stalls, order orange juice, and sit down at one of the small plastic garden tables arranged outside on the corner of the street. It's a good way to chill out and watch passers-by.

Lesson from Thessaloniki, always check the bathroom! I gave it a cursory glance, tiled, looked clean, mistake! Waking up at 6.30am to catch an early bus to Petra, there's no hot water in the shower, or more accurately there's no water at all. The sink is the same. I try flushing to toilet to see if it's all the plumbing, nothing. Removing the lid to the check the tank reveals a family of cockroaches living in a water-free ceramic house. Ok guys, sorry to disturb you, don't mind me , I'll shower in Petra.

Egypt

2007-05-06T06:03:00.001-07:00

[sorry to family, friends, colleagues for the delay in posting - here is Egypt from 28 March to 10 May 2007...]

It's just before midday, I'm stood in Cairo International Airport before the VISA checkpoint puzzled. I can buy VISA stamps for $15 or 90EP (Egyptian Pounds) but I have no money, my final Euros went on an overpriced coffee and cardboard sandwich at Athens before boarding my flight. I can see the ATMs helpfully positioned just beyond the checkpoint where many people are queuing, but I need a VISA to get through. After explaining this predicament to an unimpressed security guard I hand over my passport and I'm allowed through. Stamps purchased I pass through the controls and draw breath… ok now what?... erm, which way is central Cairo and does anyone know a good cheap place to stay… anyone?

There's a friendly looking couple who are also looking for a ride into Cairo, Tam & Laura from America. I ask if I can share a taxi with them. Immediately outside we are greeted by a dozen offers of a lift. After turning one down because it was too small to carry all our luggage we then find another that is not only larger but charges 20EP less.

The journey is eye-opening. The only experience that comes close was being driven into Sydney by a manic Cabbie. There are road-markings and there are traffic signals, but they may just as well be decorations for no-one observes them. The lines denote 3 possible lanes, I count 5 lines of traffic, all moving at varying speeds depending on whichever has spaces for eager drivers to weave into. Despite the sense of chaos there is a bizarre logic to the traffic, it has a life of it's own as if there is a pact between all the battered 1970s Peugeot Estates to drive on the edge of their wits but never topple off. The rule seems to be if there is a space ahead either side go into it with a swift pip on the horn – manoeuvre, signal (horn), mirror (if you want check your hair). In fact, the order is maintained through a system of communication relying on the horn, a quick pip meaning I've seen you are changing lanes, three rapid blasts to say I'm going at 60km you're only doing 50km so you' d better pull over and let me past. I'm betting there's at least one anthropology student at the American University in Cairo carrying out field research into this phenomenon.

Ismalia Hostel is just off Midan Tahir, the central roundabout at the heart of downtown Cairo. We're only a few hundred yards from the National Egyptian Museum and later in the afternoon I join Tam and Laura to go explore. A cheerful young security guard nods as we pass through the sensors setting them off, "no guns in your bag" he grins, I shake my head earnestly, "why not?" he asks and then laughs waving me away without checking the contents of my rucksack.

The Museum is like a time-warp, a fascinating building with displays that look like they haven't altered in many years. Besides the various statues and tablets are small crib-cards with typewritten notes describing the objects alongside other handwritten cards in Arabic. It reminds me of the old index-reference system in John Rylands, something that feels very academic. Marveling at some of the pieces I get a feeling of adventure and excitement that will recur more than once, as if I'm in the middle of an Indiana Jones film. I resist the urge to hum the tune out load.

In one sense there is too much in the Museum. Anywhere else a small number of these treasures would be enough to provoke wonder, but here with countless pieces you find yourself skipping past things, 'yep, there's another 3 foot alabaster carving of Nefertiti'. However, a few things stand out including the Akhatemen and Nefertiti room showing the Armanean Pharaoh's brief foray into naturalism with pot-bellied statues and carvings, and of course the Tutankhamen room with spectacular sarcophagi and death-mask.

After dining out at GAD with Tam and Laura, a take-away / restaurant recommended in the Lonely Planet guide (and one that will be frequented on more occasions), we visit the Hotel Odeon, which has a roof-top bar overlooking Cairo and serves ice-cold Egyptian brewed Stella for 8EP or about 65pence.

Eating out in Cairo - a sample day

Breakfast is included at the hostel, two rolls, fig jam, butter, a wedge of Dairylea, coffee, and a boiled egg. A short walk down one of the roads branching off Midan Tahir is Crystal bakery, beneath the Canadian Hostel, where you can stock up on crunchy Cinnamon biscuits, pastries, and cookies for the day. Lunch is a trip to Felfela on Talaat Harb Street, tamia and foul pittas followed by Kushari - boiled noodles, rice and black lentils, covered in spicy tomato sauce, topped with dry-fried onions and meat of choice (optional) and for afters Mahalabia, a sweet rice-pudding type dish in a potato pie sized round foil tray served cold. It's then a challenge to stay awake in the afternoon having overloaded on carbohydrates. Dinner around 9pm at GAD, where menu includes pizzas, kofta and chicken dishes, and for the truly adventurous you can try a 'viagra sandwich' for 14 EP, honest, take that MacDonalds!

The 5th International Cairo Conference and 3rd Cairo Social Forum

Thursday 29 March to Sunday 1 April a conference and social forum is organised by a coalition of movements for democratic reform in Egypt and hosts over 350 international delegates from 17 different countries. The conference is to share experiences of worldwide anti-war movements and building links between organisations for campaigning against conflict in Iraq and potentially elsewhere and support for freedom struggles in Palestine and across the Middle East. It's held at the Journalists Syndicate building and the organisers arranged for translation to be provided at all the main meetings using infra-red headsets and translators in a side-booth impressively coping with fast-talking speakers of Arabic and English.

It is an inspiration event, a chance to talk about how ordinary people are trying to improve their lives and make a change in the world: the young Egyptian students telling about how they are fighting for changes in their Universities to allow proper, free representation in student unions; the Mahalla factory workers who went on strike for better pay and conditions and the right to form independent trade unions free from the corruption of state controlled syndicates; and the peasant occupations of people at Dekerness, granted land under the Nasser reforms, which at the time were considered to be wastelands but through generations of toil they are now productive and they find themselves in conflict with former landlords demanding they leave so they can reap the benefits.

Amongst the speakers at the event is Rose Gentle. Her son Gordon was a British soldier who was killed in Iraq. She formed Military Families Against War, a organisation which has grown massively and is committed to campaigning for bringing troops home from Iraq and Afghanistan so not another son or daughter is killed. She has written to Blair and asked to meet him so he can explain why her son died in an illegal war, unsurprisingly the responses have been negative, cold and curt. Rose is amongst the foremost peace campaigners in the UK, in particular challenging army recruitment in disadvantaged neighbourhoods by talking with young people and persuading them not to enlist.

Many of the most stirring and significant contributions were from women speaking about struggles for freedom. Meysalun from Venezuela shared experiences of the social movements there under a Hugo Chavez government which are experimenting in alternative forms of economic democracy. A female professor from Iran blasted the false 'feminist' concerns of Western leaders for women's rights in her country saying "we are fighting for our rights, in Lebanon, in Iran, in Iraq, without your help, we don't need you. I say to Condeleeza Rice, Laura Bush, Cherie Blair, don't hijack women's rights, get off our backs!"

A Clash of Civilisations??

The small room has seating room for maybe 60, there's easily double that. Suzanne Weiss, a small Jewish woman almost 70 years old, a Holocaust survivor whose parents fought in the French Resistance, is speaking about the situation in Palestine and the issue of Zionism, arguing passionately that this is the key to Middle East peace and the only way to end conflict must be a single state that recognizes freedom of all and the rights of Palestinian refugees. Afterwards many people are discussing the issues, some young Muslim women are asking Suzanne for a paper-copies of the presentation, a young-ish man is trying to shepherd people out to prepare for the next meeting. Watching people share ideas, swap email and telephone contacts, inviting each other to continue discussions over a cup of tea, it feels a world away from our UK media talking of separate, isolated and, by connotation, incompatible cultures. It would be great if more people could be here so they can go back to the UK and share this with friends and colleagues.

Beating Physics E=MC² ?... Egypt = Matt x Cairo (and around) in 2 jam-packed days

After the conference, perhaps naively, I'm expecting less intensive days, more time for relaxed sight-seeing and spending time with friends... but on Monday 2 April 2007, 3.38pm, begins two and a half days of impossibly crammed experiences...

Coptic Cairo ... 2.4.07... 1600hours....

Josh suggests visiting Old (Coptic) Cairo and we set off from Hotel Luna on Talaat Harb Street at 4pm. Getting to Coptic Cairo means us taking the metro to Mir Girgan station about 5 stops from Midan Tahir. The platform is very, very busy and as the train pulls in we're greeted by a carriage with a mass of people crammed in at all angles. Confident in my secondary school physics, "there's no-one getting on this" I predict to Josh, wrong! The doors spring open and there is a simultaneous surge from within the train and the platform which temporarily defies Newtonian laws of irresistible forces and immovable objects. A human chain is formed of people forcing their way out, linked arms, and at one point a middle aged woman disappears amidst a crowd of men only to resurface being dragged / winched out by her left arm. Whilst they disembark, the platform heaves forward as the men form a rugby scrum and pile into the carriage. All this occurs in the space of 14 seconds before an alarm sounds and the doors shut with one man stuck half-in the carriage as the train pulls off and other commuters have to grab and pull him free. We decide it's our turn next and position ourselves closer to the edge and ready for boarding the next train. Disappointingly it is far less busy.

We enter the area via steps and walk along narrow passageway lined with cellophane –wrapped books and old photographs. After this makeshift souvenir street we round a corner to find a church. As people enter the building they make discrete cross signs on their chests with thumbs. Behind the church, there are a few crumbling buildings and a trench of rubbish. Walking further we realize we've entered the cemetery and everywhere are avenues of mausoleums and crypts. There are strangely remote statues and sculptures perched on-top of walls and building and the whole place has a very unnerving quality about it with the wilting flowers and vaults that creak gently as the loosely padlocked doors part slightly. A partially-toothed old woman shuffles over and leads us to her family resting place pointing out with pride the St George mosaic. Giving some small change as we depart earns us a kiss on both cheeks and a blessing. After a few hours we're heading back on an almost empty train to Sadat station (Midan Tahir).

Nile Cruise - Taxi ... 2.4.07 boat estimated time departure 2200 hours ...

Josh, Jamie, Graham and I have been invited to join some Canadian friends from the Conference on a Nile Cruise. It's essentially a fancy floating buffet (not the food the place) with in-ship entertainment. First we have to get from hotel to boat, requiring a taxi ride, my second in Cairo, brace myself.... Ok, I may have learnt something about sleeping on trains, buses and in cars across Europe, but this is Egypt, time to find out how to fit 5 passengers plus driver into a creaky old Lada with room for 4 people and still be able to drive. After wedging ourselves in we set off at 9.16pm, beginning with a U-Turn across 7 lanes of traffic and then hurtling down the main road. A cough... a splutter... a mutter from the driver... and we're slowing down and pull to a stop at the side of the road, car whizzing past. The car-battery is dead. It's an old vehicle and we must be the metaphorical final straw, although that's a bit generous as our combined mass probably counts for a few bails. It's 9.38pm and looking unlikely we'll make the boat. Our driver flags down another taxi to try jump-starting the engine. I'm not a mechanic, but watching the guy use trial and error to work out which crocodile clip goes where and swearing as he was partially electrocuted in a shower of sparks at least twice, was enough to convince me we may need alternative transport. 9.46pm we pile into the other taxi and speed off towards the boat. There's a worrying smell of gasoline in the back seat.We make it 9.57pm only to discover the other driver who we left struggling with his engine has the tickets. After some phonecalls and negotiation by our Canadian friends we board and settle down for the night's entertainment.

... 2.4.07 2200 to 2345 hours ...

The boat is impressive, carpeted and furnished with large wooden tables and pristine white table cloths, wine-red upholstered chairs, complete with dance-floor and stage. The buffet is really good but the entertainment borders on the surreal. First is a young woman singing a few show tunes and thanking the audience in a woeful American accent. Next up, a buxom young woman done up to look like Salome performs what can only loosely be described as a belly-dance but is probably far closer to an Egyptian version of a burlesque strip show. With an iron-on smile that poorly her complete disinterest she coaxes unwilling audience members to get up and dance. On on table are a group of men, some of them chain-smoking, most of them leering, looking like a stag party. A few tables down sit a group of stoney-faced women glaring at the performance, which the young woman wisely avoids as she circulates around the room. The next act is superb. I don't know if he was a Darwish but he definitely whirled for at least half an hour. He fashions patterns and pictures as he spins, first with seven concentric tambourines, then using two 'skirts' he creates the effect of a Mexican spinning top, followed by a rainbow egg-timer. Then in a moment of pure surreal comedy he hooks the back of one garment over his head whilst wrapping the other into the shape of a baby in swaddling clothes, a bizarre vision of the Virgin Mary complete with OTT dramatic wide-eyed expressions of adoration. His finale is to raise the garment spinning above his head on one hand and carry it round the room still spinning above the audience heads. (I'm gutted I forgot my camera!!!) Plenty to talk about when we finally get back to the hotel around 1am.

Alexandria ... 3.4.07... 0700 hours depart hotel

Having slept for 4½ hours we're up early to catch the train to Alexandria. We're meeting Hassan, a friend from the Conference who is a teacher. We want to catch the 8am train but it's fully booked so we're waiting until 9am, a chance to get some foul and tahini for breakfast at one of the street-vendor stands.

Our first stop is a Roman Amphitheatre, where standing on the circle addressing an imaginary crowd your voice reverberates and amplifies dramatically. We're so impressed we encourage two elderly Japanese woman to try and get a few verses of 'love me tender' sung in an operatic style. Next is the Pompeii Pillar and other ruins with ongoing archaeological excavations taking place whilst we're wandering around. After lunch of Fatir and the strongest salted cheese I have ever tasted we walk up past the pillar site to see the Carrac Catacombs, sampling a glass of pulped sugar-cane juice along the way. The catacombs are fascinating, with elaborate carvings of serpents and wooden plank walkways where the sections reach below the water table. It's like being in Tomb-Raider, sadly I don't bump into Angelina Jolie.

Hassan takes us to the building and museum of one of his favourite authors, Cavafi, who at one time he and E.M.Forester lived together and were lovers. Unfortunately the room isn't open for visitors so instead we go to Alexandria library. It is a magnificent building, shaped like a crescent half-moon (or cheese-wedge), with windows designed in such a way that would maximise natural light inside the building yet avoid the intensity of overheating from the midday sun. Inside it stretches upwards with tiered floors like Spanish Steps and regular columns. They have a collection of manuscripts and presses showing the development of the printed word and some impressive art exhibitions in the lobby.

After a stomach-stretching meal at a local fish restaurant and a visit to the main mosque we sit out on the seafront drinking tea and coffee until it's time to catch the 10pm train back to Cairo. It takes almost 3 hours to get back and it's not until 2am we all stumble into our room, shattered but with more to follow tomorrow....

Giza Plateau Pyramids ... 4.4.07 0845 hours depart

The journey to the Pyramids involves a simple metro ride, some negotiation, wrong turns, and excuses in a taxi-ride, but when we arrive around 10am it is amazing. The sun is blazing as we walk up the causeway towards the second pyramid of Khafre (Chephren), passing the Sphinx on our right. I think we're all pretty happy to be here, especially Jamie (far left, ha!) hence the huge grin.

It costs 15 EP to enter a pyramid. After collecting a ticket and depositing our cameras, we hunch double to descent the wooden walkway. Inside I expect it to be cooler but the humidity causes clothes to cling to you almost immediately. After crouching on the way down perhaps 50-60ft there's a central passageway, maybe 6ft high and 3ft wide, which leads to another crouching walk upwards to reach the central burial chamber. Standing beside the sarcophagus inside this colossal structure, thousands of years old, is incredible and I feel a curious sense of pride, miles from home on an adventure. We head back down to get some photographs of the Sphinx and around 2pm, before the heat becomes too oppressive, we catch the bus back to Cairo arriving back at the hotel around 4pm, thoroughly exhausted after 48 hours of frantic cab rides, fabulous monuments, delicious food, and enough memories to last for ages!

Due South...

Josh, Graham and Jamie, all have gone home and after two weeks in the company of friends from the UK, I'm alone as a traveller again, so time to do some more travelling. The train to Aswan takes 13 hours overnight. I'm sharing a cabin with a businessman and a fellow traveller from Canada, Megean. The seats are comfortable but the air-conditioning overcompensates and we can't figure out how to lower it so spend the night wrapped up in jumpers and jackets.

True to the guidebook, we're asked if we want a felucca ride within 5 minutes of walking down the road from the station. The Youth Hostel is frightening, no windows and metal-frame beds make it look more like a youth detention centre, we make excuses and leave. The Hathor Hotel is only 10 minutes away, it's clean and friendly so we dump our stuff and go for a wander along the Nile front. The Ferial Gardens are a short distance away, small but very pleasant and overlooking both the Nile and the refined 'Old Cataract Hotel', where Agatha Christie stayed and part-penned her Novel 'Death on the Nile'. Across the river is Elephantine Island, with two small Nubian settlements, a museum and ruins of old Roman settlements. Inside the museum they have collections of Nubian art and sculpture including delicate miniature statues.

Horse play or highwaymen?

In the evening after eating out Medena Restaurant, which does good grilled chicken and rice, we find a cafe on the Cornice to have ahwa and chai sat amongst locals puffing away on sheesha waterpipes. Whilst watching people passing by, a disagreement breaks out between two carriage-drivers. Words are exchanged with increasing anger until a fist is thrown followed by plenty of pushing. One driver walks away gesturing and shouting, it looks like it's over but he reaches his carriage, takes off his garment now dressed only in white underclothes, this can't be good. He grabs an empty sprite bottle from the side of the road and smashes it against the wheel of the carriage then charges after the other driver swinging wildly. Fortunately some other drivers intervene and after a while it is calmed down with one driver leaving. Too much excitement for one evening we decide to head back to the hotel.

Behold my mighty cartouche!

Was that sleep? I shut my eyes and four hours passed. At 3.30am we get up to catch a minibus to Abu Simbel to see the temples of Ramses II. To get there the government demands that all foreigners have to follow a convoy for security reasons. So that's, a mass of foreigners, all travelling at the same time, along the same road, with a police escort that consists of one vehicle speeding ahead at the front 100 other coaches and minibuses, through the desert... I can see anyone planning a security breach would have a tough time with the logistics, hmm...

Four seated goliaths guard the main entrance staring out towards Africa to inspire awe and fear in any Southern invaders. Inside intricate hieroglyphics adorn the walls and ceilings. The detail is meticulous and the colours remain impressively after so many years. Multiple side-rooms have further paintings, and scenes both engraved and embossed of his military campaigns, defeating enemies with his chariot and longbow. In the second temple a smug-looking American man with a backwards baseball cap has his hefty looking camera confiscated after three times ignoring the warden that no photos are allowed.

Temple of Isis

The temple is on Philae Island, a short ferry-boat ride from the mainland. It is very peaceful here, surrounded by Lotus flower trees, its many columns casting long shadows in the passages ways with sidewall carvings, and the main temple chamber flanked by large sculptures.

Sailing along on the river...

Two days and two nights spent sailing North up the Nile on a felucca boat heading for the village of Kom Ombo. The felucca can take 8 passengers plus the captain and his assistant. The deck is laid out with rainbow-striped matresses and a multi-coloured canopy, with bags stored beneath. You remove shoes before boarding. Our fellow sailors are Justin (Aus) and Catherine (Yorks) a couple from the UK living in London, Toni and Frank from Valencia and Barcelona. We set off early in the afternoon, our Captain Mohammad skillfully navigating the boat, zigzagging across the river .

Lying down is like being on a fairground as you feel you stomach move as the boat tilts and your head dips towards the water and legs rise above and a few minutes later the reverse and your shoulders rise and you feel body weight shift towards your legs. Meals consist of eggs, rice, vegetables, felefal, oranges, cheese, cucumber and tomatoes, always accompanied with plenty of stone-backed bread kind of like pitta sourdough and followed by sweet chai. At night we moor at an island and sleep on the boat under the stars.

Camel Market

We're taken round the back of mud-brick huts to a enclosure lined by bails of straw. There are about 50 camels kept together and the local boys herding them encourage everyone to have a bare-back ride around the pen. Our camel is fairly scraggy looking and I suspect it isn't in great condition. One by one, clinging onto the hump, we're hoisted a good 6-7 feet off the ground and paraded around for a minute or so. That evening we're treated to camel meat stew on our felucca, its taste and texture is somewhere between beef and lamb, though I've a guilty feeling there's now a humpless camel getting teased by his mates back at the market.

Pharonic fatigue?

The temple at Kom Ombo is packed with tourists, probably more because it has a dock for Nile Cruise ships adjacent to the entrance. We've seen a lot of temples, masses of hieroglyphs, but I'm wondering if soon they will start merging together into an indistinguishable mass in my head. Fortunately, the Horus temple at Erfu is less busy and has distinctive statues and sculptures and the way the light falls through the ceiling in Kom Ombo like golden pillars reminds me again of Indy, although we're talking Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Luxor - touts, tombs and trains

We arrive by minibus from Erfu in Luxor around 2pm. The Princess Hostel is comfortable and cheap, only 15 EP for a room with ensuite, (although the toilet suffers from the same plumbing defect as Nick and Elaine, and here there's not twigs to hand!) Worn out from travel, we decide to just wander along beside the river. Despite the handmade signs saying 'welcome to Luxor, no hassle, no worry!' every 20 yards someone approaches with a request for you to buy something or take a felucca ride... "no thanks we've just spent 48 hours on a felucca"... "ah, but you haven't sailed on this part of the river"... after 20 minutes rather than talking it's a smile and assertive 'la shookran' (no thanks) as we pass by.

West-side

On Luxor's West Bank is the Valley of Kings, an exanse of royal burial tombs some of which are still being excavated. A ticket allows you entrance into three tombs and we choose two of those recommended in the guidebook, including Tuthmosis III, Merenptah, and also Ramses III. It is incredible that after being buried beneath sand and rock for centuries the detail and colours remain so vivid, such as a mural of the pharaoh receiving a gift from falcon-headed sun-god Ra. The Hatshepsut Temple is great to stand and admire from a distance, however up close there isn't much to see inside and it loses the sense of scale which is so impressive.

Night train to Cairo

Getting a train ticket for Luxor to Cairo... good grief!!! The Egyptian trains on board are very good, but the customer support to buy a ticket or book a seat is Kafka-esque. Our first trip we're told tickets cannot be bought in advance only on day of travel. Fair enough, do we need to be there at any time? Yes, office opens at 8am. Next morning 8am (having arrived and queued from 740am) "no tickets, all booked up" err... how is that possible you said there were tickets yesterday... "no tickets, all full. Come back later"... later?? "Buy tickets at 8 o'clock"... in the evening? "yes". We try the tourist information and a friendly man explains the Neferetiti system. They have sales by allotment per station. Some stations may not use up their allotment but Luxor tends to early because its a big and busy place. Tickets become available later in the day when the train leaves Aswan and they can count empty seats. Our options (1) try buy a ticket from an earlier station now [we do, no luck] (2) wait til train leaves Aswan and get an unused seat [no dice] (3) Just get on the train when it arrives, find a seat and pay the conductor, which after 4 times queuing we eventually do... at 1am I'm gently shaken awake by a polite businessman who very apologetically says he thinks I might be sat in his seat. After spending 40 minutes between carriages, standing with a grop of construction workers, with one guy sleeping in the luggage rack at our feet, a waiter with elfin features beckons me, he has found a spare seat only he asks for 20EP as a 'finders fee'. I think my sense of indignation went out the window hours ago, now all I can muster is a withering look handing over a banknote, too tired to argue and slumping into the seat.

Islamic (Fatimid) Cairo

The guidebook lets me down. The Syrian Embassy in Cairo doesn't issue VISAs unless you are resident in Egypt, drat! The man helpfully informs me that I should be able to get a VISA at the Jordanian border as long as I don't have any evidence of visiting Israel in my passport. I've a return stub for the metro so I decide to carry on past Sadat up towards Orapi station and see Islamic Cairo. It's a fascinating area of narrow alleyways, souqs and shops, coffeehouses and mosques. I find the famous Fishawi ahwa (coffee / coffee-house) setting for some of the work of the Nobel-prize winning Egyptian author, Naguib Mahfouz, and sit down to try mint chai and sheesha whilst reading the opening chapters of Robert Fisk's 'Pity the Nation' newly purchased from the American University in Cairo (AUC) bookstore. It's a good atmosphere, the tea is great, but the chairs are surprising uncomfortable.

From Fishawi's it's possible to take a single road weaving towards the Citadel. I'm heading for Ibn Tulun mosque but in the end lose my bearings and after a bizarre encounter with an Egyptian man who claimed to be a teacher, I walk back to downtown Cairo to get packed for departure to Sinai tomorrow...

Monday 16 April 2007

I'm up early enough but somehow conspire to end up rushing for the bus. I get to the metro stop in good time but then cannot amke out the directions on the guidebook's reduced size map for the station. I end up taking a taxi, which in an effort to save time goes the down what looks to me to be a one-way street the wrong-way missing other cars by fractions. I arrive 11.03am and think I've missed it but it turns out I cannot catch the bus from here, it's better to catch it from another station across town. One hair-raising taxi journey later I'm stood by the East Delta Sinai bus at 11.25am, with 45 minutes before departure.

Its a 6-7 hour journey to St Kathrine, a small town in the southern interior of Sinai, set amongst the mountains, with camps and trekking tours run by the local Bedouin tribes. The road meanders inland, the pink-gray veined mountains turning from brightly coloured distant rocky walls to sepia shadowed outcrops looming and finally depthless cardboard cut-out silhouettes impossible to tell how close by, as the sun disappears.

Sheik Mouse Bedouin Camp and Mountain Tours Office

The camp is a quiet, friendly place, with simple and comfortable rooms, clean warm showers and great food. It is Sheik Mousa's place, established for over 30 years as a Bedouin guide and tours place for exploring the Sinai mountains. It's run day-to-day by Sheik Mousa's son Salah, also called Sheik Mousa, and with a brother-in-law called Mousa, which took a while to get my head round at first.

At night, a fire is lit under the Bedouin tent and guests sit round to talk, drink sweet chai and listen to Salah tell tales about his experiences, my favourite being how he bought a sick camel when only a young boy and nursed it to health to eventually race in a prestiguous Camel Derby.
I'll end up spending 10 days in St Kathrine, getting to know Salah and meeting really great people, spending time round the fire.

Mt Sinai and St Kathrine Monastry

Mt Sinai is supposed to be the site where Moses received the Ten Commandments, however, biblical scholars I think dispute the location. But it doesn't really matter as it's a spectacular climb and if the spiritual heritage makes it accessible for people to see it that's probably a good thing. It's a fair walk from the camp to the monastry along the rose-stone pavement and then dusty tarmac road. The monastry is only open 9am til 12noon and unfortunately I stroll up at 1pm. Instead I circle the building and start my ascent up the 3750 steps penance laid by a monk who obviously felt he'd done something pretty mean. 750 steps from the summit is a plateau with a small hut where I find a group of German trekkers who invite me to share lunch with them. Their guide is an anthropologist with 17 years experience of studying Bedouin life. I join their group on the way up to the peak where we are battered by gusts of wind.

'Berberzi'!!

One of the great things about the camp is meeting people and having a social gathering at night around a fire. Aya and Patrick (aka Hacks?) a couple from London, Eva from Barcelona, Olaf and Missa (Sweden), Meika and her partner an American with such a great name he should be a comic-book hero, James John Justice!!! Gilbert from France/Ireland/US, Jacob from America, and always Salah.

One evening Salah teaches us a Bedouin game. A twig is place partially in the fire until the tip has a glowing ember, it is then passed around the fire person to person, the holder saying 'berberzi', the person receiving asking 'whom is it coming from?', and the holder saying the previous holder's name. The loser is whoever is holding the stick when the ember extinguishes and the forefeit is each other person gets to ask them a question about themselves.

Trekking

It's a day-long trek across the mountains and canyons to the East of the camp, beginning with a climb over a small ridge and descending towards a protected garden area. Along the way our guide Suleyman explains to us the herbs and plants and tells us stories about the mountains - an emperor was seriously ill so his local servants placed meat on top of three peaks, two of them the meat went bad but on the other the meat remained good which the emperor ate and recovered. Following this he decided to build a castle as a monument but it was never completed as he died two years later. The gardens contain olive-trees, fig-trees and on a descent we stop at one to drink from a well. Late in the afternoon Suleyman leads us down a boulder-filled canyon, traversing huge rocks, sliding down between crevases, and jumping feet-deep into sand drifts. It's a fantastic feeling, like an adventure playground for adults. Before returning to the camp, Suleyman lights a fire overlooking El Milga village and St Katherine so we can enjoy a cup of thick, strong coffee.

Dahab days

Thursday 26 April 2007, after 10 days at St Kathrine, I'm on my way to Dahab. It's a very laidback beach town, in the Aqaba Gulf, with fantastic diving and snorkelling and cafe-restaurants on the sands while away afternoons and evenings. The corniche runs a few kilometres but the main stretch is from the Lighthouse down past the shops and restaurants, each with a grill / barbeque kitchen, carpets, cushions, latterns and low tables.

There's not a lot to do in Dahab other than swim, eat food, and relax. Our preferred spot is El Salam, a quiet place that serves amazing fresh strawberry smoothies, vanilla shakes and a decent English breakfast all day. There's chess, backgammon and draughts if you're feeling energetic and often there's a few furry friends looking to share in the lounging around.

Snorkelling is excellent in Dahab, especially the coral reef around the Lighthouse with clear waters where teams of fish all shapes, sizes and colours, dart between the plants. It's great fun swimming through the surfacing bubbles from SCUBA divers below, which tingle and fizz around you, kind of like being in a giant lemonade bottle... but with loads of multi-coloured fish... and it tastes of salt if you swallow it... and it's not bottle shaped... ok it fizzes and it's fun!

It's a funny mix of people here. On the roads old Chevrolet trucks drive past with Bedouins in tunics and headscarves sitting in the back, on the other side a group of Blonde-haired Scandinavian-looking blokes in shorts will be revving quad-bikes and walking along the pavementwhat looks like a New Age family complete with a young lad sporting a tie-dyed shirt.

Dahad is seductive, so relaxing that the days seem to melt by as hours are spent chatting away in the shade of beach restaurants or beach-combing. After week I realise that the only way I can differentiate the days I've spent is by single memorable events, including watching a big screen projection of 'Gladiator' at Tota Bar, getting acute stomach pains from eating bad fish which kept me in bed most of Sunday 29 April, and watching the Champions League semi-final matches on a French satellite channel. It's a pity Manchester Utd get knocked out, my fairytale of Robbie Fowler's injury-time winner against them will have to dreamt about against Milan instead, and without Gary Neville sobbing, which is a real shame!

Nuweiba

There are two daily ferries to Aqaba port in Jordan from Nuweiba. I'll cross over there but after spending a few days here, experiencing the Bedouin beach camps. The place we're staying is called Tariq camp, in huts right on the beach. In the morning you can get up, walk 100 yards and swim in the Red Sea. In contrast to Dahab, there are far fewer people around and it feels very secluded. I finish reading Fisk's book, including the final additional chapter on the massacre at the UN camp in Qana. It's pretty sobering stuff but hasn't put me off travel to Lebanon. Between reading we play frisbee on the sands, joined in by Tariq's two energetic dogs, and go swimming, or sit talking with the Bedouin women wandering up and down the shores wanting to sell trinkets and handmade garments to tourists and travellers. Flies are a bit of a pest, the camp uses incense to deter them, and we discover a sugar bowl strategically placed at the end of the table serves as a good trap to keep them away. The real issue is mosquitos. These evil sods arrive around 7.30-8pm and announce themselves with a piercing high pitched buzz as they stealthily set about biting the crap out you wherever flesh is exposed.

Day 100

Wednesday 9 May 2007 is 100 days on the road. I only realise this when I look at my pocket diary to work out a rough timetable of dates for countries in the Middle East. I don't know if it is fitting but I spend the day trying to catch a ferry to Jordan and I'm refused for arriving too late, even though it is still one hour before departure, so it's an extra night on the beach, damn!

To catch the ferry you have to be in the port three hours before departure. It's a dull wait in a faceless hall with other passengers. I'm on the verge of falling asleep when an adminstrator passes me a clipboard and form to fill in. I take out my ticket and the man gets agitated, "you're taking the slow ferry, have you got your passport stamped?", "no", "you must and hurry it leaves soon!". After a flurry of stamps it's an unwelcome jog to the ferry lugging backpack, daypack and guitar. Turns out my ferry is an hour earlier than stated on my ticket, go figure. Sitting in the air-conditioned deck, feeling clammy from the dash, I think back at 6 weeks unplanned adventure in Egypt, lots of memories and the possiblity of returning, maybe? But now my mind turns to Jordan, no guidebook, no reservations, no real plan, no worries....

Europe - farewell for now...

2007-04-18T09:33:00.000-07:00

It was a quick decision, having searched on Tuesday and found a relatively cheap flight to Cairo from Athens for Wednesday morning I was saying farewell to Europe.

It was an interesting and exhilarating two months. Looking back there were many high points; the Prague concerts, relaxing in a Budapest steam bath, marveling at Viennese elegance, standing top of a mountain in Slovenia, driving along the Croatian coast. Less good were the kidney-busting train and bus journeys, washing facilities that wouldn't be out of place in the Tower of London, and realizing I left my swimming shorts behind in the Budapest steam bath once I reached Bratislava!

There are places I want definitely to return to; Bled in Slovenia and Dubrovnik. Others I'm glad I've been but may never visit again (Thessaloniki!). People I really hope I meet again. Cuisine was great in Athens, Budapest and Bratislava. My worst hangover probably travelling from Berlin to Prague, my longest period without a drink an impressive nine days from Ljubljana until Sarajevo.

Next is Egypt, the land of the Pharaohs, pyramids, temples, the Nile, Cairo a city of 20 million people and beyond that the Middle East beckons, deep breath....

Athens 2007, this time it's Hellenic!

2007-04-06T09:28:00.000-07:00

Wake up 7am, train at 7.35am across town, panic? It's a race but I'm out the door by 7.13am which gives me a fighting chance. My main hope is that Greek trains are as reliable as the 8.19am Manchester Victoria to Wigan Wallgate. Fortunately they are identical and despite arriving 7.38am the train does not arrive and leave until 8am, phew!

My close friend Dave flies out to meet me for five days. He wasn't able to make the leaving celebrations in Manchester but thanks to climate change disregarding cheap flights it's possible to meet for a Mediterranean holiday at a marginally greater cost than the return trainfare from Glasgow!

We're protesting in the rain

As if to make a point, the our first day and it pouring down torrents of rain, in other words ideal museum weather. After a morning coffee to wake up we head out and within two minutes we're soaked and wandering aimlessly past the Parliament Building we discover a large crowd of people. Thousands of students are protesting at a new bill to allow the re-introduction of a military presence onto campuses and restrictions on the right to study. We spot anti-war symbols and join the march alongside this group. It's a pretty lively and loud despite the weather. Seeing the riot police fully-clad in storm-trooper gear is unnerving but the demonstration passes peacefully!

Spirit of '68?

Whilst marching we get talking to Spyros, a hospital worker, trade unionist and activist supporting the student protest. He explains some of the background to the dispute and together we go for lunch at a 'radical' cafe where he points out various characters including the head of the College tutors who had recently been on strike and we're joined by Kriton a psychology lecturer. On Friday night we're invited to a party at the Kalon Technon which students have occupied on and off for the past 10 months in protest at government educational reforms. It's a very lively atmosphere with 400-500 people dancing away in what I guess was a sports hall to reggae, punk, soul and disco (and hearing Survovir's 'Eye of the Tiger' is perhaps the most bizarre moment of the night!). The main political ideas amongst the students seem to be those of an anarchist tendency, which could explain the mass of graffiti. The problem of trying to organise around such ideas is shown when around 3am the music is cut and someone tries to make an announcement that 10 students have been arrested and invites people to go and discuss what to do. Curious we follow to see what will happen but find about 350 people just hanging about in small groups of 3 and 4 talking amongst themselves. Hmmm, the weakness of autonomism!

Acropolis sunset

After an afternoon wandering the streets around the Acropolis we settle down with a beer to watch the sunset along 100 or so other people. It's a spectacular view, at one point the clouds and skyline shot through pink-orange and red sunlight creating a mirage effect of a marble-dome ceiling that Michelangelo would be hard-pressed to surpass. It's almost unreal, so much so that I'm half expecting a TV camera to fall from the sky.

Mattsideon of Mancos

Somewhere nearby we discover a statue commemorating a Greek warrior. An inscription reads, "Mattsideon of Mancos, guardian of the harbour. His ability to ward off marine invasions with a mighty

discus throw was legend amongst the ancient world. Better known in modern day as a veteran decathlete of the XXIII Olympiad in Los Angeles finishing 12th behind eventual winner and world record breaker Daley Thompson. He nevertheless gained the respect and admiration of fellow Olympians for amassing a total of 6,847 points, over 6,000 of these achieved in the discus with a throw of 435metres. However, his decision not to compete in the individual event was generally considered to be a mistake.

Happy Birthday James

Sunday 25 March James is 23 years old. In the afternoon I get a call from home and speak to James, Gerard, Ruth, Clare and Dave. It's the first time on my travels we all talked and it's great to hear their voices even if it leaves me a little homesick afterwards. I think James likes his present, the Bled rowing team shirt. I remind Dave that although it's his birthday that's no excuse for letting James win at pool, even if he does have his own cue dubbed Excalibur!

"It don't matter to Jesus!"

Late in the evening we meet up again with Spyros and go for a meal at Pozanni taverna in the Exharia district. The food is delicious, fava bean mash with olive oil and lemon, salads, and three types of fish. Afterwards, around 1am we go and find a local bar still serving to round of the night. The bartender there is in a buoyant mood as it is his last night working after 10 years there and invites us all to join him with a celebratory Herradura Tequila shot, yamas! He looks a lot like John Turturro and even speaks a bit like him to, so I keep thinking of the Big Lebowski and laughing. He offers to take a group photo of us and immediately goes into Austin Powers mode, shots from all angles, yes yes yes NO! After, he surveys his work and with a huge grin says "'they're terrible, you should be ashamed you're all a disgrace to the human race, ha!". A bit harsh maybe, judge for yourselves...

The littlest (?) hobo

It's a sad farewell at the airport but also a new phase in travelling. Dave's going home and I'm looking ahead to having no immediate milestones, I've nowhere I need to be at no particular time, just me and the world. On the metro back to Athens I'm humming again... "maybe tomorrow I wanna settle down, until tomorrow I'll just keep movin on"....

Thessaloniki

2007-04-06T08:47:00.000-07:00

That sinking feeling...

Pulling into the station at 1pm I'm feeling a bit ragged and looking forward to a wash and fresh clothes. There are no signs of life at the hostel aside one rucksack and a note saying leave your things office open at 7pm. It seems pleasant enough, the rooms are basic but the balcony has a couple of chairs and overlooks the street. I cannot find the showers but there are a couple of locked rooms. For the time being the sink and a quick splash of water on the face will have to suffice. Returning from a stroll around the harbour, munching on apples and bananas, the office is now open and a old-man who looks a bit like Danny De-Vito's Penguin collects 13 euros from me.

Showers? Downstairs in the basement, I need a key or the door but please can i return it, no problem... and the award for worst wash facilities for travellers 2007 goes to... Thessaloniki Youth Hostel! You open the wrought-iron bar gate removing the heavy, rusted padlock, and descend the precarious steps into a dimly lit dungeon with four light switches on the wall, one reads 'boys' which I flip. A yellowish light flickers on to reveal rotting ceilings, pipes covered in blue-green mould, and a stream of slime ooze running into an open drain. A moth is beating its brains out against the dust-clad window in a bid for freedom. Prison showers does not do it justice. Grit teeth, this is an experience, turning the 'hot' tap nothing happens... then a jet of ice-cold water pierces my scalp and paralyses me for seconds before the necessary expletives. Forget this, it's bathroom gymnastics with the sink for me!

Taverna Touts

At the crossroads they gather, prowling predators, smoother-tongued than Kaa, experts in persuasion, enticing hungry and non-hungry alike into their restaurants. The smooth operator firmly fixed in the centre displaying his debonair credentials with 3/4 length camel jacket, the energetic semaphorist running around signalling to all manner of people near and far, the young pretender calmly showing a Roger Moore-esque ability to beckon with only head and eyebrow movements, and the slick leather-jacketed man moving in whenever a back is turned to redirect in his favour. Unwittingly walking into the centre i'm surrounded by four, a hand on the elbow beckons one way, a voice calls to come the other way, a horse-trading game begins, 'best food here, good prices', 'good prices and live music here', 'live music and free drinks here'. Happily disorientated somehow it ends with me sitting under a plastic canopy on cobbled streets, serenaded by an accomplished guitarists duo, eating delicious souvlaki and crepes and watching as the game continues...

Only, 23 hours to Thessaloniki...

2007-04-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

Ok, bus from Sarajevo Sunday 18 March 6am, arrive in Belgrade around 1pm, train at 9pm to Thessaloniki via Macedonia 16 hours, arrive at 1pm Monday 19 March, 23 hours travel, deep breath...

Border crossing

The guy with greased-back hair points and beckons me off the coach. Other passengers look curious or else yawn disinterestedly. Outside the hatch is open and a Serbian border guard is examining my backpack. "Where've I come from and where've I been?" he demands. Fibbing a half truth I say Sarajevo, not wanting to draw any attention to staying at private residences or that I've been in Bosnia and Croatia. He turns my passport over flicking through the blank pages and staring at me waiting for a reaction. The greased-hair man intervenes "you're missing some stamps"... Ah, well I've been in Europe and no-one's seen fit to stamp my passport as yet. Is that mine, the guard motions towards my guitar case? Yes. I'm preparing for the inconvenience of having my stuff pawed through, but after being looked up and down the guard shrugs, and hands back my passport ushering me away. Unlike L'Oreal, I'm clearly not worth it! However, I do get my first stamp of the trip courtesy of the Republic Serbskia.

Adie's 1999 edition Europe guide has been very handy thus far, but I'm banking (ha!) that the situation described in Serbia of there being no ATMs will have changed in the ensuing 8 years. As if to address this concern, the road to Belgrade is lined with Billboards advertising Alpha Bank, now with 103 cash machines. 8 hours to explore Belgrade before my overnight train to Greece.

The Kalemegdan citadel is the obvious choice and clearly very popular as many people are picnicking around the site on grass verges and walls. From the hilltop there's a good view of the sunset over the river and the inner courtyards are filled with more military equipment which little children use imaginatively as climbing frames, occasionally forcing a parent to intervene when tiny hands slip from the gunbarrels.

Hardy Traveller Take Two...

This time I'm better prepared - bread, water and snacks, check! cereal and milk for breakfast, check! Ipod charged, check! Ok, 16 hours to Thessaloniki overnight via Macedonia, let's go. The porter beckons me to a cabin, I'll be sharing with a middle aged man who has made himself a home, feet up sprawled across two seats, back turned to me, trying to fall asleep. There's a slightly stale musk to the cabin but I can ignore it. My feet are tired and aching a bit however I'm feeling magnanimous and decide to keep my shoes on for both our sakes. A hour later, I'm subjected to severe olfactory assault, he is exuding what can only be described as the essence of a decaying rodent with an unhealthy egg-fetish, no-one light a match! I'm willing to let this go, after all we all succumb to the occasional bad stomach, but another half an hour later the bombardment continues with greater intensity. The door is half open but it's a plaster on a broken leg, time to fight fire with fire, the gloves are off, or more accurately the shoes, en garde! My malodorous cabin companion shuffles and turns uncomfortably in his seat and reaches to open the window, touche!

Sarajevo

2007-04-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

What happened here...

The National Library was destroyed in the siege, millions of books and documents perished in fire, and the dilapidated shell of a building remains a stark reminder with assertive signs instructing 'do not forget'. A short walk along the riverbank I reach the spot. It is unremarkable, but many a pupil has been made to learn that it was here in 1914, Gilviro Princip a Serbian nationalist shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand which lead to the First World War, a historical analysis about as accurate and helpful as Baldrick's explanation of the 1917 October Revolution: Already our Russian comrades are poised on the brink of revolution. They've already taken down Nicholas II, who used to be bizarre!

City under siege

The Sarajevo History Museum collection is excellent, perhaps the best exhibition I've seen, with posters, documents, visual and tactile materials you can experience. During the four-year siege the city was isolated from communicating with the outside world for significant periods, and suffered cuts of power and water. Despite that through rationing of electricity and goods they managed to keep priority buildings and production going to maintain a regular newspaper, and fascinatingly manage to keep the cigarette factory working everyday throughout! I'm shown round by a very knowledgeable guide who answers my questions with anecdotes about the people and situations and confesses to having a big crush on Princes Harry and William and loves the British royal family, hmmm maybe not that knowledgeable... The mosaic represents the years of the siege with red and black lines symbolising the opposing forces and the circle faces those of citizens and victims of the conflict.

Outside the museum the forecourt is filled with abandoned military hardware, field-guns, armoured vehicles and a helicopter. All have been daubed with graffiti and it despite the obvious violent use they now seen like monuments of something else, maybe not peace but a show of defiance?

The Morica Han restaurant is one of the oldest in Sarajevo. Sitting in the courtyard surrounded by a bazaar of carpets, I order coffee and chicken kebab.

I'm soon joined by an inquisitive cat, masquerading as an innocent feline but who soon jumps onto a nearby table and leans over hungrily eyeing my food. Shooing away doesn't seem to work so I eat with one hand, keeping another arm guarding my plate. Not wanting to deprive anyone else of this experience I throw my last piece of meat onto the floor for her to gobble up. I get a brief appreciative look as she turns tail and saunters off to the next table to scavenge more and I feel like we have a bond, so much so that it seems she should have a name, perhaps Lydia?...

Half-day at Medjugorje (16 March)

2007-04-02T05:23:00.000-07:00

It seems hotter than before, maybe because the route to Podbrdo 'Apparition Hill' weaves through baked fields cultivated with furrows and black-root vines along a dusty, red-dirt track. Along the way people peddle wares gently inviting you to browse homemade cloths, crosses and rosaries. The rural path gives way to a few white buildings, selling religious ephemera and tack. At the foot of the hill, a rocky path ascends lined by shrubs and dotted with small needly trees. Stations of the Cross are erected along the way leading round to the statue of Mary atop of a six-point star representing the six teenagers who witnessed the vision. It's quiet, people sitting around on rocks in contemplation, occasionally venturing to genuflect before the statue, and in the distance small columns of smoke rise from the hills where people are burning deadwood.

On the way down I notice how my shoes squeak , and the signs of the volume of traffic over the past decades become apparent as the pathway stones are orange-stained and smooth, whereas either side you can see the original untrodden jagged gray rocks. Trees amid the way have polished bark where hands reach for stability and support, running your hand down you can test the rougher surface towards the roots. Caressing the branches I either looked very spiritualist or a bit barmy to the superfluity of nuns (thanks Wikipedia) passing by.

Mostar

2007-04-02T04:27:00.000-07:00

Heading inland towards Herzegovina the bus slowly meanders along bumpy roads stopping regularly at any place that might serve food or drink. The schedule doesn't appear to be important as passengers happily get off and sit outside at tables ordering coffee and staying for 15-20 minutes. Two hours 'late' we arrive in Mostar. 87 steps from the bus-stop - I'm not counting really but as Vic Reeves says 91.3% of all statistics are made-up (plagarist, sorry Dave, again!) - I meet Miran, a young Bosnian-Moslem man who asks if I need a place to stay. Mostar's main centre is only a few minutes walk away and after ensuring I've settled into the apartment room adjoining the house, Miran leaves to go to work and I'm left to explore.

The stari most (old bridge) was destroyed under bombardment in 1993 during the conflicts. It has since been restored using pieces of the ruins. In the summer, there is an international competition as high-divers from all over the world come to Bosnia to jump off into the Neretva.

The town itself bears many reminders of the war, with buildings poc-marked with sniper bullet holes and signs warning of dangerous structures where shells have battered through walls and ceilings.

Back at the house around 6.30pm I meet Miran's mum, Nada. She's really friendly and invites me inside the house where I'm treated to fruit tea and Bosnia coffee, a small glass of heavily sweetened potent caffeine. We sit and watch the news together and somehow, without speaking English, manage to discuss what's happening, with Nada explaining the Bosnian political system of three presidents, and four tiers of government, and who she thinks is a good or a bad politician. There's a panel interview with the three main leaders, all looking like identikit politicians in black suit and the only distinguishing attire being slightly different ties. Nada shakes her head and rolls her eyes at the various comments, and after a while turns sighing and shrugging to say they're just talking and interested in themselves, hardly any differences. This could be Newsnight, and I nod agreeing.

Miran returns from work around 8pm and takes me out with his friend to a local restaurant-bar. We order some teas and sit talking about Mostar and their passion for the local football team, Velez, currently 3rd in the League. A number of top football players and coaches hail from Bosnia, including Zlatan Ibrahimovic who although playing for Sweden has a Bosnian parent, and Arsene Wenger's assistant coach was once a player at Velez.

I'm curious about their experiences but wary of raising painful subject, so I ask a vague question about what it is like living in Mostar after the conflict. Miran's expression changes and he looks at me with intent. He and his friend are very willing to talk about their lives but I need to understand this is something deeply important. They take me walking out into the town along the road which was the frontline, pointing to buildings where snipers and artillary aimed at anything opposing or unfortunate enough to be exposed. Miran shows me places where friends and family were killed. It's hard to describe how it felt to have him share these experiences, deeply deeply moving, something that is I know is now embedded in my memory.

Dubrovnik - 'equip'ed

2007-03-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

Oscar's Place

After the open coastal road, the streets are far busier and I've no idea where to go, but fortunately the one-way system actually helps as by accident we emerge at Dubrovnik Gruz (harbour) without any sense of location but spy the Budget Car Hire offices nearby. After parting, sadly, with Twiggy, I need to to find non-mobile accommodation and set off towards the centre. 47 steps later, perhaps 48, I hear a voice 'Hello!', and shuffling, a door opens in the wall and a stocky guy, jeans and bomber jacket, emerges, "do you need somewhere to stay?", "yeah I'm looking for a hostel", "just wait a minute I'll get my friend..." Inside there's a small courtyard with apple blossom trees (I think) and an apartment, with a homely bedroom, welcome to Oscar's Place, I think I'm gonna like it here...

Oscar is the owner, a really friendly guy sporting 'Police' sunglasses and his pal Sanil was the 'doorman'. I'm wondering how he spotted me but it becomes clear as they show me the roof terrace overlooking the street and has a fantastic view of the harbour. It's early afternoon and time to "take a coffee". We're driven in Oscar's older model BMW to Lapad, a relaxed part of town with plenty of coffee-shops, and fashionably-dressed, sunsplashed young people attempting to look cool without trying. Here Oscar explains the equip...

The 'Equip' - is basically a group of friends who always hang-out together and look out for each other. Despite appearances, Sanil explains the average income here is around 3,000 kuna, (274 pounds) so these social kinship networks are important. Their Equip includes as its core, Oscar and his younger brother Mario, Sanil, Marky, Perica, and Oscar's girlfriend Anna-Marie, (ages 21-30). We would like to have more girls says Oscar earnestly!

Walls

In the evening I'm invited to join them in the Old Town, a walled city which is Dubrovnik's prime tourist attraction and rightly so. There's a small bar outside the west-facing wall, and Oscar, perhaps betraying his romantic side, engineers to show me just as the sun is setting on the horizon, "this is a good place to bring someone special" he winks, it's hard to disagree.

Marky advises to get up early and walk the walls as this is the best time to experience the old town. Next morning, after waking up and washing the pots from last night's pasta meal, which gives me a warm-sense of home (don't know why, it wasn't erm the most frequently undertaken task, sorry Dave!), I set off in a cheerful mood to explore. It's a gorgeous day, 9am and about 22 degrees, only me and a couple of guys using taking measurements of the walls. There's a spot where staring out across the sea the sun glitters on the waves creating a mirage golden highway towards a nearby Emerald Island, I'm humming "follow the yellow brick road" to myself for the next few minutes.

Pasta Pals

In the evening, the equip are round and it's Sanil's turn to show his flair for cooking with a delicious carbonara dish and a chicken pate and fresh bread hors d'oeuvre (which he can't claim credit for, it was out of a tin, but still tasty!) The conversation shifts between Croation and English and in the background 'Robin Hood Men in Tights' is showing on TV with Croatian subtitles, from which I'm discretely trying to learn some phrases, it doesn't really work although I do recognise 'znam' meaning 'I know'.... "znam..., znam...., znam.............. oooh znam" if you know then why's she bloody well bother telling you... you're right Basil it works better in English!

Good morning sunshine!

It's the low-season and this loosely translates into Oscar and Anna-Marie waking up at midday. I'm up at 8am and on the roof terrace, a chance to relax in the sun, play guitar, write my journal, and read a Misha Glenny's book on 'The Fall of Yugoslavia'. Hours pass without noticing and around noon a bed-headed Oscar emerges. I pass him a freshly made Mancunian cappuccino, a Mancuccino - nescafe (urgh!) with whisked milk and lots of sugar, I'm on about my 4th and feeling tingly!

Baby you can drive my car...

It's a unique experience, one which I'm betting very few visitors to Dubrovnik have, cruising round the town early evening, in a BMW, borrowed sunglasses, windows down, a sound-sensitive ultra-violet light flashing rhythmically to Europop medley remixes of Abba, Elvis and the Beatles, at decibels to turn heads... "I'm all shook-up, I-I-I'm all shook up, uh-huh-huh!"

Landmine landscape

We swop the BMW for Marky's pride and joy, a Citroen convertible modelled on the VW Beatle, and together with Oscar and Mishu drive up to the cenotaph monument overlooking the old town. Mishu guides us to a spot where you can get a terrific view of the city and islands in the distance but warns mischievously to be careful where you tread as there are scattered landmines everywhere, remnants of the war. It's only after watching him skip across the fields and pointing out in fake alarm "there's one!" that I realise he's referring to cowpats!

Cruising the Croatian Coast

2007-03-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

It's Friday evening and having arrived in Rejika I make a big decision and hire a car. The plan is to head down along the indentured coastline towards Dubrovnik stopping along the way at any place which seems interesting.

Riding with Twiggy

The car is a small, silver Renault Twingo 1.2, which I affectionately dub "Twiggy", my trusty transport and home as I head towards the Southern Adriatic sunshine! Driving on the right is a bit strange at first but after a few minutes you hardly notice the difference, however observing the speed limit is not a trait which endears you to other Croatian motorists and I quickly lose count of the number of times I was overtaken!

Sleeping ergonomics (part II 'cars')

Finding a place to make camp along the coastal roads is a bit tricky at night, especially with only the moonlight to guide. After 30 minutes unsuccessful trial and error I realise I'm not going to fit across the back seats but discover the passenger seat is fully reclinable (at least after some persuasion i was able to make it go horizontal, to be honest I'm not sure this is a design feature of all Twingos!). In the morning, stepping outside to stretch my legs in the morning I realise I'm only a couple of yards from the edge of a 70ft cliff, (which would explain why it was so windy!)

Alone with thoughts?...

Paklenica National Park is very popular with rock-climbers as the guide notes say "abounds with a wealth of karst features". However, there's no-one about and it's a chance to wander up through the rugged valley and feel pensive, or else it would be but for the wind which is constantly shouting through the rocky-furrows and bare trees like a child demanding attention. Clambering up one of the ridges and looking back the expanse below is austere plains with splintered boulders and occasional thorny shrubs. It seems desolate and lonely. As if to counter this impression I get splashed in the face by a sudden changing direction gust whilst drinking at a water trough, kids!

Split day

Arriving in Spilt at 9.30am, the Hvar Island ferry has gone 5 minutes ago but a very helpful port authority attendant shows me somewhere to park for free and suggests Supetar, Brac Island as an alternative. After a choppy ferry ride, I spend an hour combing the shoreline and afterwards attempt to find an alternative inland route back to the harbour. I happen across the football ground of DVD Supetar with a game in progress. They're playing Split Solin and are watched by a boisterous crowd of 40-50 people. There are no goals in the second half but plenty of miscontrolled passes, tackles and play-acting and posturing, which is surprisingly fun to watch and cheaper than going to Ewood Park! Back on the mainland there's still a couple of hours before dusk and it's a chance to explore the impressive Diocletian Palace and sample my first burek (a kind of cheese pastie, very greasy but filling)

Bathing in the Adriatic

The sun wakes me up around 6.30am. It's much warmer and driving along the road with windows down we're flanked to the left by hills more abundant now with greenery, orange trees and blossoms, and to the right sandy beaches and brilliant turquiose translucent sea. About 30km from Dubrovnik between two small village settlements place where the sand beaches give way to a crop of rocks which can be reached by climbing down a hill from the main road. Having spend two days scrubbing in bathroom sinks, diving into the cool waters is a welcome change and immediately refreshes. Drying on the rocks I think about friends back home and what I would have usually be doing at 8.30am on a Monday morning... :o)

Ljubljana like a rolling stone

2007-03-17T10:39:00.000-07:00

Its only a couple of hours from Bled to the capital. Im staying at Celica hostel, a converted prison which proudly claims to be voted the best hostel in the world, which Robbie (the manager of George Best hostel kindly booked for me). Just around the corner is a courtyard and complex of warehouses converted into bars adorned with grafittui and bizarres sculptures. After settling into the dorm I meet Peter, a journalist from Wyoming on a Balkans tour, who tells me Scorceses Dylan documentary "No direction home" is being screened for free in one of these places. I miss the first half an hour because cooking tea is time-consuming on a hob which takes forever to heat!

Inside the bar it is very dark, so much so that you stumble past people looking for a seat. Eventually after a few trodden toes and mumbled apologies, I can't find Peter but discover a free chair and sit down. The film is great, obviously has an OK soundtrack but it's fun watching Dylan in front of journalists with his kind of vulnerable kind of scathing responses. It must've made an impression though as I end up buying a guitar a few days later!

Travel is full of coincidences, during the interval I strike up a conversation with the person sat next to me, Minard, who turns out is a journalist working for a local newspaper with an ambition to make links with other international writers. "Minard, meet Peter... " we spend a good hour or two discussing media and politics.

Football bringing people together

Tuesday and Wednesday night a large group from the hostel make the 25 minute trek to the only bar in Ljubljana we can find that has satellite showing the Champions League, just near to the swimming baths at the park. It's a tiny place which could maybe fit about 100 people normally but has about double that jammed inside. We lose to Barcelona at Anfield 0-1. My dorm-mate Shinya from Tokyo, who decided to suport Liverpool for this match, is ready to console me and looks very bemused as I celebrate at the final whistle until I explain the two legs and away goals rule.

Photographic memory...?

Unfortunately, (maybe a consequence of coming from Bled, maybe because most days it was gray or raining?), it's only on Friday that I realise I've failed to take a single picture whilst in Ljubljana, hopefully I can remember some of the sights...

In the Bled

2007-03-14T10:23:00.000-07:00

The train winds between alpine peaks following the course of the river, every corner introduces an amazing new view I give up trying to take photos and just take it in. Arriving at Bled train station around 7.20pm it is now dark and the place is shutting for the night. A man on a bicycle, breath heavy with tobacco and alcohol, makes a curve motion with his right arm and a whistle cound to indicate I need to walk around the lake to find a "hostel". The evening is warm and I can make out silhouettes of houses and trees. I wander along humming to myself and walk into the first place that has signs of life and venture towards the bar to ask if a place to stay is nearby. I am in luck a bed here is free and a Irish woman with big curly blonde hair offers to show me the room upstairs which is a 4 bed dorm but no-one else is here so I have the run of the place, great!

Once settled in I join Holly in the downstairs bar where a TV is showing Blackburn v Arsenal FA Cup replay, Rovers ride their luck and steal a victory in the last 10 minutes, ha! Holly introduces two local mountain guides, Nejč and Bojan, who will be invaluable guides in getting to know Bled and the surrounds. Its a really friendly bar and soon I am introduced to most people there, including John the owner (Holly s dad).

The view of Lake Bled from nearby hills is stunning. There are easier routes but I choose a near vertical ascent up a rock face for a challenge and soon find myself clinging to a tree route with a 40 foot drop beneath me. I think it cured my vertigo! I spend at least half an hour admiring the landscape and struggling to get a photo that captures what I can see (this is the closest I got). Scrambling through the woodland hills and rocks is great fun and every now and again you are rewarded when the trees clear to reveal an new panorama of mountains and valleys. There is a crack and rolling thunder sounds through the peaks which Im guessing is Austrian cadets practising alpine manouevres although Im later informed that many armed forces from around the world come to train in the mountains here. Oddly, it doesnt really disturb the peaceful feeling you get sitting atop where the wind causes the needles stubbornly clinging to tree branches to rattle as if you are accompanied by someone walking nearby.

Vintgar Gorge

A 45 minute walk from the hostel along pitcuresque country lanes and snaking downhill towards a river is the entrance to Vintgar Gorge. Although not yet open for the new season it is possible to pass duck under the barrier and walk through the valley on the wooden walkways sodden with auburn detritus carpet of leaves and melting snow, occasionally negotitating a broken handrail or missing plank due to a collapsed tree felled from the weight of snow. The scenery is stunning and with no-one around Im very tempted to try swimming but sense prevails.

Swop-shirts and mugged!

Saturday morning Im up at 8am to go visit Mount Vogel, a 2000+metre peak, with a couple and our guide / ski instuctor / all-round adrenalin sports man Luka. However, the weather up there is pretty bad as the webcam shows so its abandoned for another day and we sit for a coffee in the bar instead. (As Daniel, a keen Gunners fan puts it, what better for a living room than a bar! Hes got a point...)

At 2pm Liverpool will give Man Utd the lesson in football they deserve and Im proudly doning my 1996 away shirt in anticipation. A friendly looking bloke sat under a statue of a Liverpool player in the corner asks "how much for the shirt?". Sandy is a local restaurant owner and a big Liverpool fan. I ask if he has a local sports team which I could swop it for, he asks me to wait and disappears for about 40 minutes. He returns with a jersey for the Bled Rowing team, which boasts 2 recent world champions Luka Špit and Istok Čop. Unfortunately the new shirt does not prove to be lucky. After hammering Utd for most of the game they steal a victory with a (non- or as it technically known "a Ronaldo") free kick rebound shanked into the roof of the net. It was jammy no matter what Gregor claims! (Three days later we do the same to Barcelona and still lose 0-1, unbelievable!). The ironic thing is the omens were there after all the place I am staying is "George Best Hostel"!!

Kranska Gora

My mood is significantly uplifted in the evening when I join Nejč and Bojan to go to a big party. Slovenia is hosting the World Ski Championships and Saturday night is a the party which over 15,000 Slovenians flock to for live music and drinking on the slopes! Its pretty nippy and I regret not taking wearing another jumper but despite that supping beer and watching drunk people slide and fall down a hill inforont of you and bounce back to their feet laughing without a drop spilt was fun! I also got to see Slovenias top band Siddharta live whilst above a lunar eclipse was taking place, cosmic!

Schnapps for me, snow for Tito!

On Sunday morning, as a hangover cure Nejč takes me walking up a mountain near his home town, Bohinska Bela. On the way we collect Tito, a 2 year old Labrador which Bojan is looking after for a friend. Tito loves the snow and performs acrobatic leaps to catch snowballs thrown to him, in between diving into drifts and rolling about. After conquering the 1250m peak in 1hour and 20 minutes, 8which is a pretty good pace Im told) we visit Nejčs Cabin in a serene copse. Its customary for Cabin owners to offer guests homemade schnapps and impolite not to drink. One shot is enough to banish any residual fuzziness and add a few hairs to my chest. Bojan has made his way there independently and rustles up the delicious homemade chips and soup.

Half-price Sunday swim!!

My lucky travel streak continues! The first Sunday of every month is half-price on all drinks, which considering a beer is 1.7euro is an invitation to drunkeness, and I dont want offend. Nejč is a bar games King, actually it is official he is a national champion and watching him play table football I can believe it, he is unbeatable!

Bojan is both a sage philospher and a bit crazy. He tells me it is possible in Summer to swim to the island in Lake Bled in 15 minutes and then suggests we try swimming tonight? His timing is perfect, remembering Vintgar Gorge and cloaked in the invincibility of a few whiskies, we enlist the help of a sober driver to take us to the jetty. Clothes are shed rapidly and theres a hesitation to consider the chill and then Bojan disappears into the balckness closely followed by me. It was foolhardy, it was freezing cold, and somewhere the driver has a picture of me standing triumphantly naked and dripping wet having survived a dive and 23 seconds tredding water, but it was great! Usually at this time of year the lake is frozen and even now it was maybe only 3 degrees above zero. On our return to the bar we get applause and laughter and rewarded with warm fruit tea and another whisky, although now Im thoroughly sober, I think...

On Monday I say goodbye to Bled and make a promise to myself I while go back sometime in the future.

Oh Vienna!

2007-03-09T03:46:00.000-08:00

Hurray! I am awake before 8am for the first time on my travels (it doesnt count staying up all night) and as if to mock my achievement theres been a power cut in the hostel and no hot water for a shower. Undeterred I shower (shiver!) check out and head for the bus-station. So its winter, its Monday morning, but I am travelling so getting an ice-cream whilst I wait for the bus seems logical, even if I get some odd looks!

Its only a short journey across the border to Endberg and then a metro ride into the centre of Vienna. After consulting the information point and finding a hostel near the Westbanhof station I go for a look round. St Stephens Church is grand but very touristy, it even has a souvenir shop inside! But the weather is too good to stay indoors and I wander about admiring the buildings and plazas, it is definitely the most elegant city I have been to. The Karlskirche Basilica dome stands out amongst surrounding buildings and is almost deserted in the early evening. I sit there for a while and watch a teenager pull wheelies on his bike for about 10 minutes until we both get bored and head off in different directions.

As I wandering I find a street vendor selling copies of English language newspapers and buy the Guardian to find out that Chelsea won the Carling Cup and three people were sent off, excellent! Later in the evening I wander about the Museum Quarter and Parliament buildings which are striking lit up at night-time.

Sigmund & Orsen

Two days in a row!! Im up at 7.30am and out of the hostel by 8.30am. I go to see 19 Bergasse Wien, which is the house where Freud lived and worked until 1938. Standing outside Sigmunds front door I cannot help but feel a little bit inadequate, my door is never that big! The museum has tried to recreate the authentic spaces and has panoramic photo displays across the lower part of the walls which show the rooms as they were. After an hour and a half Im feeling a bit tired, probably due to the unfamiliar early starts, I wonder if theres somewhere I can lie down, a couch perhaps?

Across the way is a secondhand shop and after a few minutes browsing I find a tattered copy of "death of a salesman", great that sorts out my afternoon! Walking back towards the centre I find a stand selling hot chestnuts and end up sitting in the Volkspark munching on these reading Act One. I could do with something more substantial and I find a pretty posh looking place "Cafe Central" that has a daily menu for only 6 euro so I sit down next to the door and spend a couple hours eating and reading, occassionally getting the odd glance from another customer wondering if I am eccentric... well I have just visited Sig...

"Carmen" is on at the Royal Opera House but all the least expensive tickets have been sold. The box-office woman kindly offers the middle range ticket for only 65 euro, I politely decline. However, Im not too bothered because just across the way there is a small cinema showing "The Third Man". Its me and about 3 other people in the place. Watching the film I realise I walked past many of the places used as locations in the film without knowing. The film is excellent and as ever I want to laugh at Welles accent.

Bratislava

2007-03-09T03:10:00.000-08:00

The train to Bratislava is in the afternoon and I arrive around 8.30pm. First thoughts, is this Manchester? There are bars everywhere and student-types and teenagers spilling out onto the streets wearing hoodies and baseball caps or sporting piercings and with shaved heads, but its Friday night so what can expect!

Mikalus doodles

The next morning I visit Bratislava castle and have a look round the exhibitions. There is a good collection of coins, an Art Noveau display of furniture, and a very interesting exhibition of Chinese costumes as a significant minority culture in Slovakia. I most enjoy the room with memorabilia relating to the Slovakian composer Mikalus Schneider Trnavsky. There are various books, photographs and clothes from his performing days but it is the cartoon drawings he made for his children of people playing instruments in the shape of letters of the alphabet and carved figurines.

Back at the hostel I meet an Australian guy, Colin, who has been to Bratislava a few times and takes me to the Slovak Pub which despite being the only place serving traditional food is also one of the least expensive. We order a dumpling dish made with goats cheese and bacon which in all fairness looks like vomit but is very tasty!

Freezin Devin!

Sunday morning I plan to visit Devin Castle which is a short 20minute bus-ride from Bratislava. I get a phone-call from Dave (dad) for a quick chat find out what I am up to and let me know he is going to Marrakesh for a few days. (Later on I wish I could swap for somewhere warmer!) Devin has the remains of a hillside castle and other fortifications which are situated at the junction of two rivers, the Danube and Morava (I think?). There are plenty of interesting spots to wander around but the wind is in the minus degrees and I have not packed an extra top so its very cold! Im thankful that I bought a hat in Prague which covers my ears, even if I do look like a raggie-doll wearing it!

In the evening I go again to the Slovak pub with Sam from Michegan who is staying in the same room and some other people he met at the hostel. Colin is there too with some friends and they play this drinking game involving tossing a cigarette packet over your drink and trying to land it on a thin edge. Anyone who fails has to take one gulp of their drink for every person before who managed to land it. Poor old Sam got stung for 11 and finished his beer and a shot glass a fierce Slovakian spirit and was a bit dazed!

Hungary Budda-Pest

2007-03-07T06:44:00.000-08:00

My approach to travel has been, so far, less planning more go with the flow and see what happens, it worked brilliantly in Prague, but Budapest gives me pause to think... the journey from Krakow is meant to take 6 hours but it takes 8 due to traffic and we arrive at the Bus Station at 11pm, which is when I realise the small city map I have doesnt seem to have the station on it so I have no idea where I am in relation to the centre and everywhere is closed on Saturday night, what to do?...

After 10 minutes standing staring at various road signs hoping for inspiration I ask a passer by who directs me to the one that says "centrum" (duh!) so I trot off confident of finding somewhere from the city map list. The first place is full and the next four hostels I try dont answer the the intercoms. By this time it is about 1.30am, I must have walked miles and there are no hostels left on the list. I stop for something to eat and sit down in a takeaway. Three options, find a hotel (cost!), stick it out in late night eating places and find somewhere in the morning (tired!), wander around and hope fate is kind (yeah thats worked so far!)

Its almost 3am and I am stood outside a hotel almost laughing (crying?) at the irony of having overcome my "budgetitis" to find somewhere, anywhere, to sleep, the intercom here does not work either. I turn around and a friendly looking guy about my age says "are you lost?", his two friends fall on a parked car behind him. I explain my situation, arrived late, need somewhere to stay, cheap if possible. Unfortunately there is nowhere nearby he knows of... but he offers to drive me to somewhere that might be open. Turns out he is the designated driver for a friends night out. He drives us through the oneway system talking about his time spent working in London recently and pointing out various buildings and sights - are his friends singing Bon Jovi in Maygar? - after 15 minutes we arrive at the place and a group are leaving to catch an early flight so bed spaces have just become available, another lucky break! I didnt get the name of this kind stranger but met him on "Jokai Ter" so I have named him Joe Terry, (a kind of antithesis to the Chelsea captain!)

Someone once said if you dont know where your going every road will lead you there, well I think that person should try finding accommodation in Budapest on a Saturday night without a map and with a heavy rucksack on their back for 3 hours, and then stop being a smart arse!

Mandragora Hostel
Waking up around midday I cannot help but smile at my surroundings. The hostel is a small apartment and each room is decorated with warm colours and pictures of the Dalai Lama and other spirtual drawings hang on the walls, there is even a hammock! In the kitchen a friendly looking guy dressed in a tracksuit and slippers is nursing a coffee. He smiles at me and says hello. After about a minute he looks up again a bit bemused and asks if I am the person who arrived late last night, yes I am, Ok he smiles. Another minute goes past. Did I check in? No. Ok, he shuffles towards a cupboard and opens it to reveal an office and I pay for a couple of nights, he hopes I will enjoy my stay and smiles again as if order is restored... er..., anything else I need to know, keys, how to get in / out etc.? Ah, yes, I need a code for the courtyard door, but the front door lock does not work dont need to worry about that, (or do I?) He goes off to bed. Nice man.

Monday 19 Feb

I didnt really do much on Sunday, but I did meet two girls from America, Christine is studying in Vienna to be an opera singer, an Rebecca is teaching in France and has been asked to play professional basketball next season. Christine returns to Vienna today, Rebecca and I go out for a wander and visit the Museum for Fine Arts which has a Van Gogh exhibition. The pictures are fascinating but like a kid I am excited by the James Bond-esque air-lock doors you need to go through to enter and exit the rooms. After a couple of hours gazing we find somewhere for dinner. We find a local restaurant that specialises in Hungarian food and I get something which I think is soup but turns out to be a cold and sweet prune cream dish, interesting! In the evening we meet Don and Em, a couple from Portland Oregon, and go out for drink nearby at a bar that has Frank Zappa murials and menus shaped like LPs.

The Citadel and the baths

Only one plan for today, go and relax in a thermal bath. There are a few to choose from and I find out its cheaper if you go after 4pm so I decide to climb up the hill towards the citadel that overlooks the Danube. There are pathways zigzagging up the hill but its more fun to clamber up some of the rock faces. After a few hours scrambling around finding a perch to admire the river and almost standing on a stray cat, I head for the baths to live like a Roman. The indoor Gellert Baths are impressive with columns sculpted lion-head fountains and a swimming pool, and after two hours I am a well-sauted prune, but very relaxed! Back at the hostel I meet Don and Em again and Josh, another native of Portland, who is spending a couple of months working on organic farms in Europe, which sounds like a good life!

Amory and Me
On Wednesday I head for "Margaret Island" in the middle of the river, which has a running track outlining it and many joggers looking energetic. However, I am not, so I meander for a while getting overtaken by various lycra-clad enthusiasts until I find a spot of the banks where I can sit down undisturbed for a while and finishing reading my book, this side of paradise. A pale fog guards the Danube and although you can make out outlines of buildings its not possible to see more than a 100 yards or so. A coincidence that this matches the mood of the final chapters. Because of the fog, dusk creeps up and surprises me when I pause and realise its got too dark too read anymore. So I head back to the hostel and on the way stop at a kebab shop, cant be getting too cultured!

In the evening a small crowd of guests gather in the hostel kitchen and dining room to watch Liverpool educate Barcelona. After a comprehensive display its only fitting to perform a victory dance and Im joined by Franco, one of the Chilean students staying at Madragora Hostel. I spend the rest of the evening chatting to the Tom and Franco about Chile and their experiences, and watching James, a young guy from New Zealand smoke banana tobacco through a improvised beer-can pipe!

Thursday

I spend most of the day just walking around the city as its brighter weather. Andrassy Ut (Embassy Road) is one of the main streets that leads up to Heroes Square, and has memorial plaques for those killed in the 1956 uprising. The street is flanked with fascinating looking buildings and gardens.

In the evening we get an impromtu gig from Thomas in the hostel dining room with people joining in at various stages. Later on Natalie, James, Tom, Franco and Me go out to a bar / club in one of the underground metro walkways ensuring that I am a bit worse for wear (again) travelling on Friday!

Krakow Days

2007-02-27T09:46:00.000-08:00

Sunday - Monday

The first day in Krakow consists of mostly recovering from getting there and hanging around in Mama's hostel. It's not until the following day I venture out properly to see the city. The weather is really mild, apparently it is usually around minus 15 at this time of year, and back home in the UK I'm told it's pretty nippy, ah well, hot or cold it can probably all be blamed on global warming.

Kazimierz, cakes and crepes

The Kazimierz is the old Jewish district which has a number of synagogue remaining, lots of art galleries and museums, and some very good small cafes. The film Schindler's List is based upon the experiences of the Kazimierz Jews who worked at Oscar Schindler's enamel factory. The High Synagogue contains and small but powerful exhibition of photos showing families who lived before and those who survived.

Afterwards I'm feeling like I need a lighter experience and find Kolanko No.6 just down the road, a small cafe which serves really, really good food for not very much. It's got a old-time quality to it, helped by the barely audible background jazz music. Having feasted on mexican crepes, mulled wine, and apple pie with vanilla sauce and ice-cream, I realise I've been immersed in reading 'this side of Paradise' as 2 hours have gone by and people have appeared all around me (see the before photo)

Tuesday - books, blogs & boglins

Massolit bookstore is great, though why it is in Krakow I don't know. There are thousands of English language books housed in this old curiosity shop that doubles as a cafe. I'm bad with books and I realise this is like putting a kid in a sweet store so I tell myself I'm only browsing. After 10 minutes I'm sat at the table with 8 titles piled in front of me and a coffee pawing over them one after the other. Why did it have to be a 50% off sale, why?! These people are serious papyrus pushers!! In the end I get a book on an Iraqi Blogger, Salam Pax, which is very funny and sad, but also prompts me to update my blog too. At night I think someone smuggled an some kind of troll into the bedroom, that or a bear, it's the only way i can describe the noise coming from one of the bunks, but for once a bit of forward-planning works, thank-you for earplugs Boots!!!

Wednesday - love is in the air...?

I don' t know how anyone else fared but this Valetine's Day I got hugged, kissed, and someone dived on top of me at a nightclub, Matt 3 Krakow 0, get in!... ok before we rename me Matt McCasanova I should admit they were all men, all were drunk, one only had three teeth, and one was definitely homeless. Matt 0 Krakow drunks 3, hmmm!! Over to Andy in the tactics truck...

The Hug - I give a few pennies to a homeless man because I'm pretty sure he won't let go of my arm if I don't, which earns me a warm embrace, what I'd like to think were some kind words in Polish. I walk away at a brisk pace wondering if my social capital is diminished because I declined the offer to share his bottle of what could of been wine but I reckon was 3oml wine, 10ml spit, and 5ml best not to consider.

The Kiss - I don't know if it's my recent encounter but as I'm wandering past a church I decide to take a quick look inside (remembering what happened in Prague). As I 'm entering an middle-aged scruffy looking man is leaving but he decides to stop and parle. After 5 minutes of him talking to me in Polish nodding and smiling and me smiling back and repeatedly saying "I'm sorry I don't understand you" he seems satisfied and also goes in for a hug, but in a nifty manoeuvre manages to plant a kiss on my forehead, obviously a player!

Getting dived on - this is nowhere near as fun as it sounds especially as I end up with damp pants... I decide that third time must be lucky so in the evening head for a local nightclub where some other people from the hostel said they'd be. Whilst there I manage to befriend (get stuck with) a trio of Polish guys, two of which seem energetic but after 30minutes are fading fast. On returning from the toilet one manages to fall over all of us spilling every drink on the table. If I'm being cynical I'd say he wasn't drunk but didn't want to look like the only one who'd wet himself.

Back to Gary in the studio (yeah that's right it's fantasy football pundits so I can mix my channels) "I guess he made a toilet trip they'd all want to forget!"... sod off big-ears!

Thursday

I decide to give the Ethnography Museum which I've walked past a couple of times a go, I'm glad I do. The exhibitions include reproductions of the interiors for buildings including small industries such as flax oil production. A very friendly woman curator explains how it worked with short sentences in Polish, and thanks to demostrating as well I think I got most of it. Upstairs is an extensive collection depicted all aspects of peasant life, childhood, marriage, agriculture and industry, crafts, hunting, rituals and celebrations.

In the afternoon I climb Krakus Mound and get a decent view of the city covered in gray cloud. To the right of the hill is the quarry where Spielberg shot the camp scenes for Schindler's List.

Friday - Auschwitz-Birkenau

I'm prepared for a fairly grim day. It's hard to find appropriate words to describe the experience but it's best to talk about experience than anything relating to the content as, on reflection, i think it's what (sadly) had a big impact. Being part of a tour may be very valuable if part of a shared educational experience, but it felt more like being invited to consume horror in a disinterested way. At KL Auschwitz 1, with cameras flashing for photographs, grafitti on some of the walls, and one man even answering his mobile phone and having a conversation whilst walking through a the gas chamber and crematorium, my abiding feeling was numbness and guilt for being party to 'tourism'. At Birkenau, with bitterly cold winds and the tracks stretching into the distance there was some sense of the scale of terror.

Saturday - Checking out

I say goodbye to Mama's and will miss the balcony and courtyard (where the bar below was always playing good music). After filling up on a big vegetarian lunch at the Green Way cafe, I go and book my ticket to Budapestand feel a little peeved that the weather is so nice when I'm leaving, but nevertheless Krakow Days have been interesting!

Krakow - Mama's boy?

2007-02-21T04:32:00.000-08:00

The tough traveller?

14 hours journey from the south of Czech Republic to Poland, yeah sure, I'm hardy enough, I mean a good book, some snacks, and a snooze on the train overnight should be fun, right...? Well not exactly. For a start I've finished reading Kafka and give the book to a couple at the hostel in Cesky Krumlov which seems a good deal as they made me breakfast and ginger tea. The bookstore I can find where I'm getting my train connection in Cesky Budejovice only has three English language titles and I've read Macbeth, so I buy D.H.Lawrence 'Apocalypse' and F.Scott Fitzgerald 'This side of Paradise' for about a Euro. The supermarket is nextdoor and I stock up on juice and biscuits convincing myself it's a reasonably healthy selection.

The train isn't for another hour, I've munched through a few of the cookies and started on 'Apocalypse' as it is only half as long as the other book, but I'm not really getting into it as essentially it seems to be an essay on the appropriation of pagan ritual and symbol into Christian revelation verses and how through time a shifting emphasis, from sensual expression attuned to nature's cycles to a monotheastic, individual and ascetic relationship with God, has created a bunch of narrow-minded, death and destruction obsessed people, with a smattering of anti-Semitism and a good crack at Bolshevism thrown in too. Ok, I'm cheating that's what on reflection I can waffle about, but at the time I was on a platform by a train-track, shivering, staring out at a deserted industrial landscape, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, wondering why I'd chosen to read about the end of the world, but for half a euro...

(Lawrence spends a fair bit of time going on about numbers in religion and when I eventually arrive in Krakow the hostel is playing the film 'Pi', odd coincidence)

The train is fairly comfortable but it's not a sleeper as I'd expected so trying to lie across the seats requires a certain expertise in yoga technique I don't think I've figured out. I'm alone in the cabin and after 5 hours it's gone midnight and there's still 6 hours to go so I attempt to fall asleep. I'm seriously tired by now and only eatting biscuits turns out to be not the best diet, I achieve that weird state of being half awake and a bit delerious so everything is a bit surreal, and during the night I'm visited by three ghosts...

the first is a well-dressed man who opens the door which wakes me and then apologises and performs a kind-of bow whilst scurrying away, the second looks like the Undertaker as he stoops to enter the cabin and I show him my passport which he opens but doesn't seem to look at (he may even have been a border guard) and grunts, finally I'm awaken by a gruff yet friendly voice, 'dobrey', and I swear Les Dawson is sitting opposite me... I must be dreaming!!!

6am and I arrive at Krakow station, dishevelled, tired but not sleepy the cold morning air is taking care of that, and I shuffle towards the main square to look for Mama's hostel whcih sounds like the nicest place from the guide. It doesn't disappoint. On the third floor, with a balcony overlooking the courtyard, Mama's is a very homely place with big chairs and settees with dated patterns. After wolfing down some free coffee and toast I collapse on the bed and gratefully sleep til mid-afternoon.

Cesky Krumlov - Kafka and the Castle

2007-02-21T03:31:00.000-08:00

Saturday 8 February

Arriving in Cesky Krumlov mid-afternoon at the main bus-station it's immediately clear why other travellers have talked about this town. From the hill-top you can see the castle spire rising above myriad buildings of various shapes and pastel colours all hugging together in an arch which flows with the path of the Vlatva river bend.

Once crossed over the stone bridge you walk down cobbled stairways towards the main square. It feels this is the kind of place that only exists in storybooks or films about fairytale kingdoms. It is serene and I see few people as I wander in.

The hostel is nestled between a row of fascinating looking buildings and inside is all wooden beams and stone archways. I'm fortunate that the 6-bed dorm is empty so I have the place to myself for the first evening which befits that change of pace from Prague and Berlin.

The following day I head towards the castle grounds and discover that my intial impression that Cesky is like a film-set is perhaps not too far out. From a distance that spire appears as if build with ornate and intricate mosaic brickwork and as you get close you realise this is actually a composition of sculpture and painting on the stones, but this takes noting away from the overall effect.

The museums are all closed for the low-season but the weather is so good that staying outdoors is a preferable option. There's an elevated castle garden with cherry trees overlooking the town and it's here I sit for a few hours reading Kafka's 'The Castle' and wonder whether it could or should be compulsory reading for anyone who works for a local authority. The main castle gardens are closed but it'd possible to walk on the country lanes around the enclosure and climb up onto the ridge where I hoped to get a good view of the sunset but a persistent gray cloud over the hills ensured that at best it looked like oil-spill on a large pond, which in its own way was picturesque.

In the evening I had soup in bread for the first time. What a great idea, half hollowing out a loaf and filling it with broth, you get all the fun of mining the inside walls and it saves on washing up! The garlic soup tasted pretty good too!

Prague - lost and found

2007-02-10T05:34:00.000-08:00

Sunday 4 Feb

Sitting on the train, half-listening to something that eases a sleep-deprived hangover and sorta absorbing the flitting landscapes of winding rivers and intermittent buildings, I wonder if I'm awake. Shower and sleep, shower and sleep!! Arriving in Prague at 6pm I´ve a pretty definite idea of what I want to do, so I head for the hostel straight away.

A lucky break...

The Nardoni (National) Museum in Prague is free on the first Monday of every month, another unplanned bonus, I'm obvious a natural at this flexible travellin malarky! I go with Maria, a medical student from Argentina who I met in Berlin. The exhibitions are pretty interesting, in particular the anthropological section where Maria explains about the bones and skeletal remains able to show which ones survived blows to the head based on the skulls had healed. Pretty handy really as the display guides are mostly in Czech!

Stepping out - A tale of two concerts

The museum closes at 5pm and by chance as we're leaving a friendly guy at a desk, looks in his 40s and is dressed as though he's preparing for an ice-age (fair enough with the main doors open it is chilly), asks us if we want tickets for the concert. It's a small orchestral performance in the Museum at 6pm. The tickets are 350kr each but when we return at 5.57pm we manage to haggle the price to 250 (about 8-9 Euros).

The concert takes place on the steps in the main hall of the Museum. It was once a palace and the atmosphere is something majestical. Two large stairways ascend to a middle level where the orchestra will perform (between the lights) and we sit on cushions on one of the four red-carpeted stairways that ascend either side.

The Praga Collegio Kormorni Smyccovy (chamber strings) orchestra, dressed in refined evening attire, includes piano, cello, double bass, and a trio of violins. From the first note it's obvious this was an inspired choice. They are excellent and the acoustics make the songs lift all around the hall so you can even hear the individual plucking of strings. They play Vivaldi, Mozart, and Gounod's Ave Maria which is probably the highlight of an unforgettable experience.

On Wednesday, nursing a hangover from Tuesday night, I'm determined to do something more than drinking in the hostel with friends (although it is tempting, see below). I decide to go and check out the Ungelt Jazz and Blues Club as I remember there's meant to be a blues band on that evening. The place is a small underground cavern, maybe no more than 7x7 metres including the stage which is situated on the left as you enter. immediately to the right is a wooden stairway up to what seems to be a makeshift scaffolding upper tier and as it is the only place with any room I sit on the steps halfway up with a great view of the stage.

Roman Pokorny and the Blues Box Heroes - fantastic name!! The first song is a straightforward slide guitar tune a little rough around the edges, it half reminds me of a supporting act I once saw for Alvin Lee - Tony McPhee, but I don't let that put me off. What follows is a brilliant performance of consummate musical talent from all four guys. Roman is a about 40 with short hair and a decent paunch constantly smiling, the keyboardist looks like Swampy, the drummer is clearly a student, and the Bassist I'm betting was once a Physics Professor for the Open University in the 1970s. Their version of 'Little Wing' by Hendrix is like nothing I'd ever expect, you would've had to be there!

George's Birthday!

More South Americans and Australians! I reckon, based on my limited experience, along with UK folk we must make up about 90% of all travellers in Europe. Tuesday night, having spent a good day exploring the streets of Prague and reading Kafka in the tea-shops, I find a big group of people in the dorm and join them for a few drinks. Turns out it's George's 22nd birthday, (that's him on the left catching some drunk bloke!) and a group of about 20 people are having a good time. He's from Mexico with his mate

(also a George), a rock fan (that's a Slipknot t-shirt he's wearing) , with a really excellent knowledge of world affairs and a fantastic beard of which I'm quite jealous!

Kim, a Korean guy (left), drinks like no-one I've ever known, literally everything is consumed! His party-piece involves mixing any drinks he can get in a bowl together with tomato sauce and wasabi (insane!!), then balancing a shot glass of some spirit on two crossed knives above the bowl, nutting the table so the shot glass falls into the bowl then downing the entire contents. This he did about 5 times before turning green! That's the other George at the back, next to Meg (Melbournean) and Alex (Argentina) who is a massive Smiths fan.

Churches inside and out

On Tuesday, I set out just to wander around for a while, maybe find a bookshop to buy a Kafka novel and get an authentic Prague experience in a teashop! Only 5 minutes from the hostel I find a shop and browse for a while without really finding anything and on my way out notice a church opposite so decide to take a look. It is breathtaking (quite literally as it is freezing inside!). The inside is faintly lit and there is a strong musk of incense. It is like nothing I've ever seen, a brooding medieval awe-inspiring place. Either side of the hall vast oil paintings of the stages of the cross are guarded by towering sculptures of saints, both magnificent and faintly terrifying! The sanctuary is adorned with candles and looming wooden choir seats, the altar set at the back, and rising maybe 60-70 feet behind is a relief of Jesus on the cross surrounded by carvings of angels and demons. It's not hard to imagine how people would believe in fire and brimstone if this was their local parish church! Maybe out of respect for the 'no cameras' signs or a vague sense of dread I decide not to take any pictures. This is St James Roman Catholic basilica, pretty famous, fits with my experience so far that I'd find it accidentally!

On Wednesday I visit Prague Castle. It's a good walk across the Vlatva and up through Letenske Sady (the municipal park) where I have fun jumping in large remnants of snowfall, unfortunately nobody's about to chuck a snowball at so I aim at a tree, and miss. The castle exterior is pretty impressive and as I've forgotten to bring my wallet and only have about 80krona on me I make do with looking at that, besides after St James I'm not sure I could be more impressed by a church. The gargoyles are pretty though! On my way back I decide to go and look at the Fred and Ginger dancing building and feeling bold attempt to navigate my way back to the hostel via a shorter more direct route and get lost for 50 minutes in the new town in an area that's not on my map in the rain - i suppose to find things by accident it's only fair you get lost a few times too!

Berlin - culture, art and parties

2007-02-10T04:28:00.000-08:00

30 January - arriving

Getting off the plane at Shoenberg airport it is drizzly and cold so immediately I feel at home. After pottering about aimlessly for 15minutes or so I decide to keep it simple and follow the symbols for the train. It takes me to the heart of Berlin and 5 minutes from my hostel, though it takes me 10 because I take a a few wrong turns!

The hostel is warm and the staff are really friendly. In the evening I head out with a few people to a recommended bar a few hundred yards away from the hostel which turns out to be a warehouse and bizarre art gallery. I later find out this is the Tacheles , a famous hippy squat - art institution which emerged from the Free Art Movement in the early 1990s.

Inside the stairwells are covered in graffiti and the 5th floor bar itself looks like it was designed for a Kraftwork video. Across the square a giant screen is projected onto the building showing animation and art videos. It all seems a bit surreal!

Museums and monuments

Berlin has lots! I decide to head east towards the Volkspark Friedrichshain to see the various communist monuments including the Marx and Engels Forum, the Spanish Civil War monument and the graveyard for those killed in the 1848 uprising. The Forum is large and somewhat barren but it is amusing to see how many people come and have their picture taken sitting on his lap!

The 1848 graveyard is tucked away in the corner of the park and doesn´t seem to be visited by many people. The statué of the Red Sailor is almost buried amongst the overgrowing bushes.

Standing in the pathways of the Holocaust memorial square is an unique experience. Whilst it has a somber feel it is also in a strange way very peaceful. The sounds of the city are dimmed, and the plinths rising above you are not quite straight vertical but seem to lean gently and all the time you can see a way towards the outside. I´m not sure if this is what is intended but it is certainly a place where you can reflect.

Hostel People

It probably goes without saying that whilst travelling you expect to meet some unusual folk. But sitting in the Helter Skelter hostel with a mid-30s, well-dressed Swedish man of Ukranian-Jewish origin, listening to him tell me about his work as middleman oil-trader and explaining the real global politik going on in the Middle East was a surprise!

A leaving party...

On Saturday, the hostel staff are buzzing about preparing a party for Jorgi, a colleague who is leaving after one year of working there. Naturally all of the hostel guests are invited to join the fun. Drinks, cocktails, dancing, pass 10 hours and it is morning, butthe party only moves itself into one corner to allow for guests to take their breakfast, which seems like a good cue to go to sleep. 3 hours later I´m regretting not being a little more disciplined as it is noon and my train to Prague leaves in 40 minutes!! I make it with 2 minutes to spare and sitting on the train, still in the clothes I had on the night before, wondering if I left anything important behind, I´m able to fall asleep for a while at least...

2007-01-27T03:19:00.000-08:00

Friday 26 January is Australia Day, so kinda fitting to be finishing work and then disappearing off round the world.

The reason why Angela (right) looks the most relaxed is she wasn't here when the window above spontaneously exploded a year or so ago

Steve's sleeves are rolled up even though he's trying to hide it to look respectable, I must've acquired my casual office dress code from him, thanks Steve :)

I think Michelle looks especially happy because of all the work I needed to hand-over exactly none of it was for her - it was a belated birthday present (honest). No Steve Martlew today... I think he was on an important staff training course, 'Advanced Freecell' or busy copywriting 'Affordopoly' as a partnership development tool... but he was there in spirit.

These are some of the office folk I'm leaving behind... big smiles for the photo though I wonder if just a little too happy? a few tears would've been appreciated... I'm pretty sure one or two were crying on the inside.

A very friendly and generous bunch of people. As well as a getting a gift card from everyone, Dave even thought to score a headed own goal from my cross in our last five-a-side game, hence the hands in pocket an knowing grin. (That fan is actually only 3.72cm from Cheryl where she sits... and it still makes no difference in Summer)