The Truth

Now we're safely back home there's a couple of things I should admit to. I'll start at the beginning.

Day 5, Delhi.

It's dusk and there is a convivial vibe in the city as yet another festival gets underway. Marty and I have just bought a 350cc Royal Enfield Bullet motorbike each and are heading to a park to get some off road, out of traffic practice in before we hit the streets.

Before we get to the park we have a couple of kilometers of nightmarish Delhi traffic to contend with. We set off with Balu, an American bear of a man who owns Bullet Wallahs - the motorbike shop we've been hanging out in for the last few days and where we've just purchased our 'new' motorbikes.

After the first big junction I look around to find that Balu and Marty have been swallowed up by the traffic and are no longer anywhere in sight, I hit the brakes as I approach the slowing traffic. Nothing happens. I slam both front and back brakes on. Nothing happens. The car in front gets very close. Something happens.

I slide into the back of the car infront, smash up my knee and land in a mess on the tarmac. Oh dear. Before I've had a chance to shake myself out of a daze and check for compound fractures, the owner of the car that has just broken my fall has sprung from his vehicle (still in the middle of 4 lanes of traffic) taken the keys out of my bike and begins shouting at me with some vigour.


It is at this point I realise that in my haste to get on my bike and live the dream I had omitted to bring anything else out with me, no wallet, no map, no phone and no return if lost address. I'm pretty disorientated and have no idea which way home is. I come to, and am now in the centre of a rather large circle of very shouty men. About 30 behind me and 50 in front. On closer inspection of the car there was a bit of a scratch but no dent or serious damage done, my bike on the other hand was looking a bit bashed - the clutch pedal was bent up and I'd buckled the front wheel a bit. Hmmm, the owner of the car was insisting I give him all my money, and wasn't very impressed when I turned out my pockets and shook my head: 'No rupee mister what you want me to do?" I asked.

"You walk to your hotel, I stay here and keep your bike till you get back - you go get me money." He screamed in my face. That's all good but i still had no idea where I was and was fairly sure that if I were to go in search of my hotel and return with my wallet some hours later, the angry man and my bike would have long since eloped. What a pickle. I suggest he comes with me? No cigar.

Meanwhile the shouty crowd is getting larger, and increasingly more manic. As far as I can tell half are for me and half are against me. A very heated discussion unfolds in Hindi which goes on for maybe twenty minutes, most of which I cannot understand, perhaps for the best. Then I hear the word police and for the fist time begin to get a wee bit panicked - I am without helmet (illegal) or paperwork (illegal) or insurance (illegal)and more importantly I am without cash, no rupee = no backsheesh = very big problem. I come to the conclusion that action is called for - if he won't give me back my keys and I refuse to leave my bike there with him and 80 odd other wildly gesticulating bystanders, I shall bloody well push the 180 kilos of metal through the streets of Delhi until I find some sort of solution, action at this point surely had to be better than inaction. Right?

I pick my bike up, and limping a bit (I'm too proud to check out the damage to my knee at this point) begin to push it out of the traffic and on down the street. Oddly, the screaming match continues, but my departure seems to go unnoticed. Then, after maybe 200 meters I hear brakes screeching to a halt behind me and feel something hit my back and clatter to the floor - my keys! It would seem that I had out-foxed the man, I think the penny must have dropped when he saw a battered 6 foot tall white chick hauling a great hunk of metal up the road he realised his desire for money was no match for my lunacy. I stand there awestruck in a cloud of exhaust fumes feeling more than a bit relieved.

Now then, how the hell to get home? Three guys on a moped pull up shortly after and cast me an olive branch - these chaps had been fighting my corner back at the scene of the crime, and I think I probably have them to thank for not being torn apart by the baying crowd - this sounds a bit extreme, but it's not unknown for citizens to take policing matters into their own hands.
'Hey lady - you lost?'
'Um, yep, just a little bit. Do you know Paharganj?'
'No worry lady, you follow us.'

I climb back atop my bike and fire her up. All is well, just. We crawl our way back through traffic, all the while I'm leaning down to change gears using my hand as I can longer fit my boot under the buckled gear lever. We finally make it back to the shop, I say a huge thanks to my knights on a their rusted out Honda Hero and slope back into the shop expecting a shit storm to have unfolded in my rather lengthy absence.

Feeling a bit sheepish I pull up my bike and lope into the shop - but where's Marty and where's Balu? Surely they can't have been so callous as to leave me to fend for myself on the mean streets of Delhi at night? As it transpires this is not the case, but in the mayhem of the festival and the lack of a phone between us we'd all done a grand job in completely losing each other. So, rather than being lambasted as a stupid white girl for crashing her bike and getting into trouble on her maiden voyage, I was applauded for coping so valiantly and finding my way back.
'But Holly,' they asked 'what has happened to your wheel, why like this?'

'Ahhh,' I say 'Funny you mention this' - cue me asserting my consumer rights and demanding a free fix up for selling me a bike with dodgy brakes.

Marty and Balu eventually turned up another hour or so later, and boy was it a happy reunion. It wasn't until later that night safely back at the hotel did I roll up my trousers and tell Marty exactly what had happened. Good Lord, what were we doing? About to head off on a six month odyssey around the sub-continent unarmed and unaided. I decided to take a philosophical approach, I figured if I could get through that I could pretty much get through anything. Little did I know how true this would prove to be.


Dogs in Bangalore, police in Mahabaleshwar and then again in Goa and then again in Karnataka, a night under the stars with a midnight drunk and a gun along, Russian George who swallowed all his gold teeth, all of this and more was still to happen. But if anything had been proved that day, it's that with bad always comes good.

Whoever those three men on that bike were, they deserve good things to happen to them, I have a feeling without their generosity and good will this story may not have been told in the same way.

Has it really been one year?

Christmas was upon us, time to head back to Geraldine for some Christmassy family time. We got picked up on an awesome hitch from a young tyke called Lukas who was a kayak guide on the Abel Tasman National Park. Full of stories, he’d most recently been in Canada taking tourists out on week long dog sleigh treks, the hours flew by. He dropped us off just short of Christchurch, and having regretfully declined his offer for us to camp in his back yard – we had arranged to stay with Mart’s Grandad Neville, we caught one final lift into Christchurch from a lady in a massive house truck who we would come across again, along with Lukas in the not too distant future. Finally back in Geraldine, we had an awesome week with John and Annie and Annie’s daughter Angelique and her partner Shane, and her four gorgeous kids, Erin, Jack, Pip and Riley, all under 8 who stole the show over Christmas, and not forgetting and Annie's Dad Dick. Amazing hospitality, amazing food, it even rained on Christmas day, it was almost like being back at home…



Forward march and into the New Year. We’d figured out after a year of being on the road we were skint as and not in a position to, as the kiwi’s would put it, “go ragin’ hard” so we’d wangled a couple of jobs working at Canaan Downes Festival on top of Takaka Hill in exchange for free tickets. Deal, Takaka Hill separates Abel Tasman and Golden Bay at the top of the south island and is by all accounts beautiful. Up we went, up and up and up in a clapped out camper van that on many occasions didn’t look like it would make it, but finally we got there.





Strange thing about this music festival – there was a total booze ban, not even an on-site bar, which lent itself to a very eclectic crowd. There were heaps of hippies and maybe more families, if you didn’t have dreadlocks, or a child dressed up as a fairy in tow you were unusual. It was a good craic though, good vibe and despite the booze ban we’d smuggled in some contraband and saw in the New Year with a litre of vodka and some locally pressed organic raspberry and apple juice from one of the local purveyors. It was here we bumped into Lukas and the lady with the house track who as it turned out was the bass player for a rock back Gideon, who were playing at the festival. After a few days of sleeping in the trees and wandering around watching various bands and dj’s, we weren’t ready to pack it in, so we hitched down the hill and headed for Takaka, stayed at HangDog backpackers for a night to clean ourselves up a bit and go for a dip in the river that ran through Paynes Ford, and the next day were off to the fabled Mussel Inn Pub, a local legend. This pub is in the middle of no-where which makes it slightly awkward to get to without transport (more hitching) and the choices of accommodation are zero. This was not going to put us off, we’d endured an (almost) booze free New Year and were in the mood to sample some local ales. So we did. And we didn’t leave until the doors were closed behind us as the last customers. Undeterred by the lack of sleeping options, we found a copse running parallel with the road, strung up our hammock and had one of the best nights sleep in a long time, well who wouldn’t when you’d consumed a few litres of Golden Bay’s finest! We arose with the sun the next morning, and with nothing better to do donned our rucksacks and started hiking towards the beach, which was deserted. Enjoying our new-found hobo liberation and realization that you didn’t have to spend $20 in a guesthouse every night, we found a new home on the beach and set up hammock again. Mart foraged for some mussels and using them as bait caught a couple of fish, which were way too small to eat and had be thrown back, but that wasn’t the point, the point is we could live off the sea, or that’s what it felt like… We cooked up the rest of the mussels and settled down with a pot of coffee and watch the sun set. Idyllic? Not half!

We discovered the next day we were just down the road from where Shasha, a friend from Leeds, father lived, and been told there would always be a cup of tea waiting for us should we ever find ourselves in that part of the world, and true to his word, after a quick phone call we set off down the road, where we were indeed welcomed by Paul and sat down (felling a bit like we’d been living on the beach and a bit stinky granted) for a cup of tea and a good yarn.



We had booked a ferry over the north island before all this vagrancy business had begun, and were obliged to honour our tickets and head to Wellington, probably for the best as we were on the verge of becoming proud of our unwashed state and forgetting our last names. Also, we had a couple of friends to go and see. It had been a long time since either of us had hung out with friends, as in people who know people you know and don’t need to ask a life history as soon as you sit down.

We had one final hitch to the ferry port. A hitch to end all hitches. We’d been waiting by the road for about half an hour with our thumbs out and a slightly desperate smile on our faces when a 4 litre super car powered round the corner and came screeching to a halt a few meters in front of us. Sat in the drivers seat was a 50-something dude with a pair of yellow sunglasses, paisley shirt and obscenely tight purple flares who raised a thumb to the back seat motioning us to hop in. I squeezed into the back seat on top of an inordinately loud sound system and Marty climbed into the front. Not a word was spoken for about 30 km other than our intended destination. After some time Mr. Man turned to me and said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit in the front?” I detected a leer. “No I’m fine” I replied, sensing a bit of a weird vibe, “I get car sick in the front.” He then began to regale us with a couple of his likes and dislikes. “I like women. I really like women, especially young girls when they’ve had too much to drink.” Another leer at me. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit in the front?” I was increasingly glad that Marty had taken the role of drivers mate in the front. The speed begun to increase down a relatively straight stretch of road. Now, neither Martyn nor I are overly adverse to dangerous driving conditions, we’d survived treacherous Indian roads, non-existent Mongolian tracks, speeding bus drivers in China, but as the Speedometer crept up to 150 km/h our knuckles started to turn white. As the road turned narrower and more bends appeared, the speed finally decreased. A little. He then went on to fill us in on a little of his life history. Apparently we were in the company of the former premier LSD supplier to the South Island, however, not a very good one as he’d been caught and sent to prison for an indeterminate amount of time. He’d also been given a couple of speeding tickets (no shit!) so he’d better slow down he said. Thank God. Then as quickly as things had started, we came to a point in the road where our paths were crossing, he was going one way and thankfully it was no longer the same direction as us. We scrambled out of the hot rod and thanking him profusely (probably out of sheer relief) disembarked. It had been, we both agreed, an interesting ride. We had always been extremely thankful to the kind and interesting people that picked us up, the only payment they ever asked of us is that if we ever had our own transport, we would stop and pick up hitchhikers. And to this end I promise I will, on the other hand however I don’t think I’ll be sticking my thumb out again any time soon! We made our way to the ferry port and climbed aboard the vessel to our next stop, Wellington.





Amy and Greg! Hooray. Amy greeted us at the ferry terminal gone midnight with a massive hug and bundled us into her car and I got my first glimpses of Wellington by night, I had a good feeling about this place. I won’t go into detail about Welly other than to say it was just like being back at home, in a good way. Amy and Greg were total legends, and let us camp out in their living room for a lot longer than we should have stayed, about seven weeks, sorry guys, you probably made us feel too welcome!! We were introduced into Welly life with gusto – a bbq at 57 Rakau Road with a rather obscene piñata that we’d spent the week constructing and human pyramids, a foray into dumpster diving (those not familiar with this and are interested check out freeganism.org) and free concerts in the botanical gardens. Lovely. The time had also come to find gainful employment, I scored the uber glamorous job of cleaning the newly constructed wing of Wellington hospital cleaning up after the builders and getting it ship shape for the patients, and Marty was found the position of sous chef – which entailed working at a retirement home preparing food for the ‘inmates’ putting together sandwiches and meat and two veg feasts, or in some cases blending up said food for those unfortunate enough to have lost the capacity for mastication. We’d hit the big time! In the meantime Marty had been back in touch with his old bosses back in Leeds to scope out the job situation for the impending return back to the (y)UK. Given the ‘Global Economic Downturn’ that we’d been hearing so much about, but had been thankfully far removed from for so many months, and the news that vacancies were becoming very few and far between, Mart made the executive decision to not throw away a very good job and return to Leeds at the end of February. And so, our journey was coming to a close. We had one last bonanza to attend in New Zealand before this departure was to be made. Some months ago Martyn’s Dad, John and his partner Annie had announced happy news that they were to be wed, and the date had been set for the 14th February a.k.a. Valentine’s Day. This, we could not miss. Also, Wid and Emma and their now not so new daughter Jessica would be flying out. So, Marty packed his bag and said adios to Amy and Greg, very sad to be leaving, but probably on their part a bit relieved to be getting their heavily monopolized living room back, and headed to Geraldine, with me arriving a week later, after getting in one last much needed paycheck at the hospital. Mart arrived back to organised chaos, there was grass to cut, the house to be painted and a myriad other jobs, and I joined him a week later along with Annie’s brood, Cashina, Angelique, Danny and Robby and their various partners and kids, giving Piccadilly circus a run for it’s money. It was brilliant to hang out with the Clark’s and Rye's en masse and to be able to spend some time with the newest addition to the Clark family, Jess. The wedding day rolled around and Annie was the picture of serenity, I’ve never encountered such a chilled out bride, despite the mayhem she and John had everything seemingly under control – no mean feat with the wedding on the farm and the reception just down the road in the village hall. The weather was perfect, the bride was blushing and the booze was free flowing. A superb day in all, with rounds of karaoke later in the evening which I witnessed but managed somehow to avoid being a part of!

We spent a few more days in Geraldine and then headed up to Christchurch to say some final goodbyes to the Clarks before heading our separate ways. I had decided in my infinite wisdom, that I wasn’t quite ready to face the seemingly catastrophic job situation back home and to prolong my travels for just a bit longer. So I said goodbye to the Clarks and an absolutely heart wrenching adios to my partner in crime, long time travel companion and adored boyfriend, as I boarded a flight to Australia and they all left for England. What was I doing, I thought to myself as I said goodbye, why am I leaving the person who has had my back for so long? In a misguided youth kind of way I felt like this was something I needed to do. Having heard all about Martyn’s previous stories of independent travel, I wanted to give it a crack and see what would become of me. I also had a few faces in Melbourne that I wanted to catch up with, not knowing when I would be in this part of the world again and go say Hi to my Mum’s home town and country of origin, I have, after all, that much desired blue passport and it seemed such a shame not to use it. Melbourne here I come.

It was a very fleeting visit filled with a fair amount of running around. A very good friend of mine, who I’d last seen in Tauranga, NZ had since moved with her boyfriend to Melbourne, so I was able to spend a brilliant few days hanging out with her and stocking up on familiar face chips. I made the pilgrimage down to Geelong where my Grandpa had lived for many years, and had died a few years before, not being able to go to the funeral I was so happy to be able to go to the cemetery and say hello and pay my respects. I was also able to catch up with Grandpa’s long standing friend Joyce. We had a great natter over a cup of tea and I caught up on all her gossip. Staying with my Mum’s cousin Shelley and her husband Ray on the outskirts of Melbourne another highlight, catching up with more of the Australian contingent and helping me get back to my roots a little better. I left Melbourne wishing I’d have had longer, but with money pressing on my mind and the ever-impending return back home in the not too distant future, I had decided to take myself off for one last South East Asian fling and was headed for Cambodia by way of Bangkok.

Pig sheds, Green Sheds and apples for Africa

So what do two weary travelers do when the arrive back in a home from home...? Find a job. In sleepy Geraldine this seemed like wishful thinking, fortunately for me though, Pops Clark, never one to let me rest on my laurels, had me gainfully employed on a pig farm within a week of arriving.



This wasn't as quite as glamorous or exciting as it sounds, though certainly not the dullest job I've ever had. Working alongside my old man I was charged as a builders mate, helping in the erection of a brand spanking new pig shed for 1000 lucky swine. The first few days of 7.30am starts shocked my fragile hobo psyche, but it wasn't long before I began to feel the benefit of bright, fine days out in the sun, with lungs full of fresh, Canterbury air, the southern alps looking down on me, and 8 hours good, solid hard yakka. Not to mention nostrils full of pig poo, and a bank account filling with dollars. A nice bunch of real southern NZ men to work with helped the days fly along and I was even christened with a new nickname, thanks to a New Zealand Comic (Te Radar) stealing my look.



During November Dad and Annie took off for the UK leaving Holly, Mack and I to look after the farm. We both felt better for having the space and a place to stretch out. A routine was established and we managed to make the most of the weekends, taking off in the van and exploring pockets of the South Island.

Holls was champing at the bit to hop on a plane to fly up to Tauranga in the North Island to visit EJ, her school, chum. So that she did, leaving myself and Mack in charge, returning with John and Annie a week later as they flew back in from their whistle stop UK tour. Two days before their return I had made a valiant attempt to return 'Sunny Downs' to some modicum of order and cleanliness, vacuuming, tidying, watering gardens and such. My last job was to cut the lawn on dad's trusty ride-on mower. My dad, with typical dad thoroughness, had explained to me the ins and outs of the various pieces of farm machinery, their maintenance requirements, nuances, and in the case of the mower, the operational hazards:'The brakes don't work Mart, so you'll have to use reverse gear'. Following the first rule of father/son relations - ignore all advice, do things your own way - I took off on a tour de force of the garden. Having become complacent on the second lap of the garden I revved the mower into fifth gear. Three things happened next in quick succession: 1) I attempt to turn the mower 180 degrees as the mower rapidly approaches a foot high drop to the lower garden; 2) I try the foot brake to ease my speed 3) I remember my dad's sage advice. Now had these three events happened in a slightly different order I would arguably not have been thrown from a speeding mower and would definitely have missed the opportunity to witness all 200kgs of said mower flying towards me, exposed blades spinning, chewing the top off a brick wall as it went. It was with some relief when the engine stalled and the whole mess came to a halt a few feet from my body.

Most people have a memory as a teenager of awaiting the return of their parents after a holiday or weekend away, only to have to break the news to them of a catalogue of disasters that befell the family home in their absence. I suppose both myself and my dad would have liked to think that at age 30, I would be responsible enough to manage a household for three weeks. But it was the sight of a mangled up brick wall, that greeted him after a 40 hour flight. Fortunately for me the wall and my pride were the only two casualties, with Dad gaining another family anecdote.

Having now 'outgrown' Geraldine, Holly and I jumped on a bus and headed north. We had arranged to stay with some complete strangers as part of the WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) scheme. For four hours work we would be rewarded with play to stay and three squares a day. James met us in Picton, up in the Marlborough Sounds and whisked us off to he and his wife's own private utopia. Stunning it was, perched high above Queen Charlotte Sound, surrounded by native bush and featuring a private beach, the house could easily have had Kevin McCloud and his Grand Designs team traipsing around filming yet another disastrously over budget dream home.




We were shown to the Green Shed, our home for the week, and then James ran through what he expected from us. Despite WWOOF being aimed at organic farming, the tasks we had ranged from shifting firewood, weeding, planting tomatoes, collecting horse shit, and re-organising James' wine cellar!





He was good company though and being well traveled had an endless supply of travelogues. He also made sure we ate really well. There really wasn't much to do there during our free time though so we were pretty glad to leave the following weekend.



Now begins our great hitchhiking odyssey. Having realised that nothing saps dollars from the cash strapped traveler than bus fares we dug out our best thumbs and hit the open road. Hitching in New Zealand is notoriously easy and safe and we made it to Nelson (150kms) within about 3 hours. We then managed to undo a weeks worth of thrift during an all day drinkathon in Nelson city. It was long overdue however, and we made the most of some of the cities best pubs. Particularly the Sprig & Fern which specialised in nearly 20 home brewed ales and ciders. They also provided, rather irresponsibly, a take home service. This was the sole reason for my shocking lack of memory the next morning and numerous apologies to a handful of the other guests at our hostel. Apparently it was a happy time for all.




Searching for work we quickly realised that Nelson didn't really have the goods. And anyway it was a little too pricey for long term stay and there were too many ale houses for our own good. So back out with the thumbs and off to Motueka. Mot, as it is known locally, is and always has been a transient town built off the back of agricultural endeavour. Graciously situated on the Motueka river it is sandwiched between the beautiful sands of Tasman Bay and the stunning mountainous back drop of the Kahurangi National Park and Nelson Ranges. Like Nelson it is blessed with NZs top 3 highest number of sunshine hours anywhere in the country. Once the premium tobacco growing area, Mot switched to apples and kiwis 20-30 years ago and has never looked back. Everywhere you look there are orchards. Most of the Braeburn or Gala apples you bite into back in England come from this sunny little hot spot and were probably picked by a German backpacker.

Jobwise, we were in luck. Within half-an-hour of pitching our tent at a hostel we had a confirmed job starting the next morning, at 6.30. We were to be apple thinners, along with 90% of the other guests at the hostel. At 5.45 the next morning the grating sound of our alarm made work seem like a particularly bad idea. But by 10am we were basking in glorious sunshine, ripping tiny apples off trees, to allow the bigger apples to flourish. I will not lie, this is the dullest, most unsatisfying form of paid employment on the planet, however there is a certain camaraderie built up between orchard workers, and as pleased Holly no end, you are rewarded with a killer tan. Our boss, Shane, was of the bi-polar persuasion. One minute he would be yarning away, chatting you up and down you ladders, and the next smoke would be billowing from his ears, followed by a tirade of abuse about your inadequacies in the area of following orders. Love him or hate him though, he meant well, and shouted us beers every Friday and laid on an end of season BBQ before Christmas.

We seemed to have as many days off as on though. Rain constantly stopped play which left a dozen or so po-faced pickers, sat around the hostel waiting for a break in the clouds. We were living with a solid bunch of people though and the social side of life was blooming. Motueka Backpackers would definitely not win any awards for cleanliness nor luxury furnishings. But want it lacked in physical form it definitely made up in character. One character in particular, Lyndsay, the manager was about as honest, funny, and all round lovely kiwi as you'd ever meet. His attention to detail when it came to making your stay as rich an experience as possible was impeccable. His potted history of New Zealand was littered with facts, figures and anecdotes and his presence seemed to give the place a homely feel. One Saturday, shy of anything else to do, he offered to take us and three Slovakian friends, Ivan, Claudia, and Lucija, out to Able Tasman National Park. Able Tasman NP, is like Robinson Crusoe's wet dream. 20 minutes from Mot, it's a slice of absolute paradise played out over a string of golden sandy beaches and sheltered coves teeming with sea and bird life. This mixed with Lyndsay gunning us around in his power boat was an opportunity too good to be missed. With our local tour guide leading the way we cruised up and down all day, hopping off at beaches, puttering up bush clad inlets, and nosing gently up to a seal colony for a closer look. To round the day off Lyndsay took us to a secret spot to collect a feed of muscles from the rocks at low tide which we cooked up for the entire hostel on the barbie that evening.



Motueka looks and feels a bit rough and ready when you first arrive, but we had a ball there and felt finally like we were getting into one side of New Zealand living. People like Lyndsay were the rule, not the exception and despite its massive seasonal worker population, the locals in Mot personified the kiwi mentality of welcome one, welcome all.

Back to the developed world - New Zealand

And so we have arrived in NZ. After a flight cancellation and a lot of buggering about in Thailand we made it back to the developed world only to be accused by some po-faced witch at customs of being hippies and drug smugglers - not quite the welcome we'd expected. However on the other side of the 'nothing to declare' barrier we were met by Martyn's Dad John and Auntie Rose - a sight for very tired and sore eyes. We were whisked back to Rose and Pete's fed and watered, I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep while John and Martyn burnt the midnight oil over a few drinks and a long overdue catch up. The next day we headed down to Sunny Downs Farm, Gapes Valley, Geraldine to be greeted by Annie and the farm, both a wonderful sight.
Well, we've been here for about a month now and things have slowed down to a very chilled out pace. First stop was to Wanaka via a spectacular drive taking in Lake Tekapo and Mount Cook along the way.

Thailand Family, birthdays and FIsh

We landed in Bangkok at midnight and caught a cab to the infamous Khao San Road, it was time to see what all the fuss was about. True to form it was rammed with street stalls selling the obligatory travelers uniform and paraphernalia, said travellers weaving around the streets in varying stages of inebriation and touts abound. In a way it kind of felt like coming home – there’s comfort in the predictable. We hung out here for a couple of days preparing for the arrival of ma and pa Tribe. For Mum’s 60th birthday my Dad had shouted he and she a trip out to Thailand and a couple of nights at the (Ooh Ahh) Shangri-La en famille. Marty and I took great pleasure in rocking up to the front doors of this establishment in a tuk-tuk looking like we needed a bath. Having been watching our backs like hawks for the last 9 months we both almost thumped the porter when he made a move to take our bags away, realising our indiscretion we backed off and pulled out our wallets instead to give the would be thief his much anticipated tip. It dawned on us how far removed we had become from refined culture.
Enter stage left Ma and Pa Tribe, I was spying on them through the peephole waiting for them to walk down the corridor to pounce on them. I’m not sure if they needed this after a 14 hour flight but it’s difficult to resist… and in any case a bigger surprise was on it’s way in the form of my elder sister, on her way from the States. Fast-forward to the next morning at breakfast – Susan was sat at a table opposite hidden behind a newspaper with the obligatory spyhole cut-out, Mum gets up to pour some coffee and Susan sits down in Mum’s seat – Mum turns around to sit back down and has a coronary when she clocks who it is sat in her seat. Most amusing. Never in the history of the Tribes have we EVER been able to pull one over on Mum – happy birthday old gal! So The Tribe are out in force spending the next few days tearing around Bangkok whizzing up and down the Klongs on boats and having a jolly good time.

Marty and I become bloated on copious amounts of wine and incredibly good food and then, we all climb aboard the Koh Samui express and head to the beach. We all get to spend a few days together soaking up the sun and good vibes having a generally excellent time.
All too soon it is time to say goodbye, as we wave first Susan off and then a few days later Mum and Dad it seems it has hardly started before it’s all over. Before we let ourselves dwell on things too much Marty has a birthday surprise for me. We’re off to swim with the fishes.

Beijing

We said goodbye to Iain on the platform – he was off to walk the length of Japan, and Marty, Thibaud and I jumped aboard the Trans-Manchurian Express, next stop Beijing. Post Olympics and pre Para-Olympics meant the city was in mint condition. The majority of the signs were bilingual Chinese and English making life a lot simpler for ill-prepared tourists, and it was unbelievably clean. Weirdly clean, there wasn’t a blade of grass out of place or a building that hadn’t been recently re-plastered and tarted up. The peculiarity of Beijing came more from a lack of something than anything obviously apparent – there wasn’t one single beggar, a strange thing in a capital city – where were they all? I got the feeling there were things going on behind closed doors, what they were I’ll never know unless I spend a lot more time there and learn Cantonese.

We spent the whole week eating the most incredible street food and riding around on a couple of the fabled 10 million bicycles.

Peking Duck

Chairman Mao

Thibaud & Marty

UB, gold medals and the Chinese visa chase

So we hit Ulaanbaatar, which was a weird city. I don’t think the locals appreciate hoards of mouthy tourists descending upon their city for the short summer months. We heard numerous stories of people being robbed or beaten up, I got soaked by a bunch of kids who thought it would be hilarious to upend a tarpaulin filled with rainwater on my head (which was actually pretty funny in a happy-slapping idiot kind of way). And then there was the dead man lying in the middle of the pavement face up looking like he was having a really uncomfortable kip – one of the most incredible things I’ve ever seen – the police standing around him having a casual chat added to the oddity.

Aside from this, we were lucky to be in town when Mongolia won their second ever Olympic gold medal for wrestling(the first being a couple of days before for Judo) the whole city erupted, there was so much glee everywhere you turned, the whole city turned into one massive smile – for about 12 hours the roads were clogged with people cruising around whooping, hanging out their car windows waving flags, drinking and celebrating – it is true that the best parties are the ones that aren’t planned, and helped to also prove that where there is bad there will always be a whole lot of good.

That being said and done, Marty and I were sick of the city – we didn’t bust our chops to get to one of the most isolated countries on earth to hang out in another city where there’s too many people to be able to an meet any. We’d scored our Chinese visas finally and bumped into Iain and Thibaud (last seen heading into the sunset on some dubious looking sidecar motorbikes - it turns out they didn’t get much further than Boris and had a similar hitch-hiking experience once their bike had shat itself) who were feeling as disenchanted with city life as us, so we figured we’d return to the vast nothingness outside the city limits one last time before visas ran out. So we did.

We had another horrible van 24 hours cross country. All I can say is we are very stupid and don’t ever learn our lessons. We finally got to the village nearest our destination, only to be sat down and given some horrible food (which neither asked for or wanted) to have a discussion about the fare which had almost doubled for no apparent reason and the entire village throwing in their opinions for good measure – English and Mongolian sign language does not equate to the same thing. By the time we’d figured out a compromise it was dark and sheeting down with rain and we didn’t have anywhere to sleep. Cut a long story short we eventually made it to the White Lake after much wrangling and this is where we slept...

All’s well that ends well.

A couple of wicked days hanging out here we had to head back to UB to catch the train to China.