Misadventure is just another adventure.

It has been a long time between blogs, and for the last month, I had all but given up on writing it in favour of keeping a diary; a good way to fill those seemingly endless train rides that any European traveler knows all too well, but due to an ill fated train ride (two and a half hours late) and a subsequently ill fated evening spent in Zagreb train station, the diary is gone. For all intents and purposes, the last month of my life didnt exist. (Pardon any poor puncuation; my ability with Croatian keyboards is not what it could be.)
We, Harry and I arrived in Zagreb with the intention of catching another train the same night to Lubljana in Slovenia, however, due to bushfires, our train to Zagreb was late. Having slept in the exact same train station 1 week prior on an equally ill fated evening, we knew it was doable, so decided to set up camp on the floor. I strapped my backpack to my makeshift pillow and put my arm through the strap, however, due to my admittedly restless sleeping habits, this was not enough. It is disconcerting to think that for it to have been stolen, which, had you not already realised, is what happened, the, and I will name him without sparing any sense of grandiose, assailant, would have had to cut it off.
It took a minute to register that it was gone once I woke up, hoping that I was in a dream, but I have learnt that if you are thinking clearly enough to actively hope to be dreaming, then you are most certainly awake. I told the police officer at the train station what had happened and she said, very unsympathetically and with a distinct air of I had deserved it, ˝well, it is a train station.˝
I then went to the Police station and filed a report, which was painless enough thanks to Harry being there. I need to mention that without his presence, this whole situation would have been unimaginably worse and I am forever grateful for him staying with me and doing everything he can, financially and supportively to make a painful situation, a lot more bearable.
After the report was done, we walked to the Australian embassy which was a tiny room hidden in a shopping centre which did very little for my lack of patriotism which has been even further diminished to a state of ill-patriotic loathing from the hoards of drunk Australians in Croatia. Australia now has apparnetlt the worst travel reputation in the world. The embassz process was so efficient and I had a new passport that afternoon which was unheard of, albeit only a four page emeergency passport which is not enough to get into Brazil.
$30 to get the police report translated for travel insurance, and all my credit cards cancelled, I had done, with the help of many people,family and Harry, and to the best of my ability, damage control.
To give some idea of the contents of the bag there was an ipod, camera, passport, license, three credit cards, a $1500 rail pass, heaphones, irreplacable diaries and photos from back home, and many other things, to the value of about $3500 which was both embarrassing, my level of backpacker affluence and very depressing, the loss of said affluence.
But, as the old homage says, every cloud has a silver lining, and in this case it is the beauty of Zagreb which we would have otherwise completely missed. Admittedly a fairly thin lining for a very dark, ominous cloud.
Spent the rest of the day in Zagreb, cooking an actual meal, a novelty after weeks of bread and feeling the nourishment of micronutrients was a nice change. Our hostel is great, and the guy who works here has been very nice and a friendly face is enough to make it all seem trivial.
Olivia and mum also called in the afternoon and both of them made me infinitely happier, and incase I hadnt already said it enough times, without Harry, I would be in considerably lower spirits.
I will try, very briefly to outline the events from the last month, in what will be the briefest of descriptions of what has been a very busy month, hence the lack of blogging.
We spent another week or so in Morocco after my last blog, spending a few days at a world music festival, hanging out at a vegan cafe with our new Moroccan friend Ben who showed us all around the countryside and gave us a lift to Marrakesh in his van and showing us his guerrilla advertising campaign for the cafe which involves paintng Earh Cafe on all walls between Essaouira and Marrakesh, the location of the 2 cafes.
From Marrakesh we went for 3 days in the Sahara riding camels and climbing the most obscenely large sand dune I have ever seen. I felt like I was actually having a heart attack, but I was one of the few people to actually reach the peak. Thanks Bingo, my camel, for all the good times.
Then to Fes, the dizzying medina of an ancient city which to this day retains so much of its beauty and tradition. A visit to the tannery was enough,olfactorily, to restore any loss of vegan convictions which may happen when one is away for so long.
Then to Chefchaouen, a mountain town. It was such a beautiful place, and a nine hour climb afforded us some of the best views of the trip. Stolen camera is a way to force me to return, if nothing else. We climbed above the clouds, and the elation at the top was tangible, even though there was a creepy Moroccan guy stealing all our food and water. We met some very aggressive drug dealers, and bribed them to leave us alone and let us out of their crack den in the rape alley.
We left Nic there to go on his hitchike tour from Spain to Slovenia, and I am interested to hear about his exploits. Our quartet was back to trio, all to quickly.
Caught the ferry back to Algeciras in Spain, then got to Malaga, a nice city on the coast, and slept in a very smelly hostel with morning wake up calls from the inconsiderate jackhammers out the window, however Malagas fruit market, beach and Picasso museum made up for it.
From there, Connor had made the questionable decision to leave Spain the day before they were to play in the World Cup final against Holland, however, he was obviously very keen to get to Paris, going to the extent of going to the airport the day before his flight.
Malaga to Madrid to Barcelona in about 12 hours of trains and we were in Barcelona, with a palpable excitement engulfing the city in the anticipation of the final that was to come, and it was an electric night. There were six of us, and it was so good to be back with the boys, and to see Loui and Scarra whom I have not seen for far too long. Spent days in Barcelona, walking Las Ramblas and the market, and Harry betting 30 euro in a rigged game. Made for some good laughs though, from everyone but him, but he took it in his stride, as seems to be the tone of the trip. Take it in your stride, or, in Hugos case, in your hobble. I feel so sorry for Hugo who has injured his knee and must go home. To ever see Hugo angry or upset is a rarity, and I dont think I have ever seen it, but I know how much it must be hurting him to forced into this when he has so much left to do. He still has plenty of time though, as well all do, which I guess is the consolation of youth, if one needs any consolation for what I see as my best attribute. The fact I am young.
From Barcelona,it was an overnight, 75 euro booking fee train to Bern, before another quick train to Interlaken, an amazingly nice town in the Jungfrau region of Switzerland which just feasted my love of mountains. We spent four days climbing mountains, swimming in lakes, camping and eating well,and it was every bit as idyllic as it sounds. Climbed a mountain called Kleine Scheidegg, an elevation of over 2000m to above the clouds, and a very enthusiastic Asian man, walking down the hill after doing the obligatory train ride to the top, a luxury and laziness we could not afford, yelled to us while we walked up a particularly steep section, YOU ARE YOUNG! with accompanying fist pump. I will forever have the fondest memories of Switzerland and I am sure it is my favourite country in the world. I am anything but neutral about it.
From Switzerland, we spent an entire day on trains to get to Croatia. Headed straight to a town called Split on the Adriatic and it is here that my Australian resentment reared its ill-patriotic head. Harry and I accidentally walked into an Australian bar and seeing one too many Australian flags and Australia shirts, exactly one of each, but still one too many, we left straight away. We met two people from Byron, and I had no interest in speaking to them. Australians overseas seem to have no intention of seeing a country in its reality, but rather to make a little Australian comfort bubble and take it everywhere they go. An army of singlets, Southern Cross tattoos and redneck accents. I mean no offence to anyone who reads this, because if you can actually read, you are not the Australian demographic I am talking about.
From Split we went to the islands off the coast with our new American friend Dan, with whom we shared some of the highlights of our trip. We rented a car for 24 hours, slept on a very cold very rocky beach, spent all day on a nudist beach and just enjoyed the freedom of cheap four wheels, a liberty to which I had grown so accustomed at home, I took it for granted.
At 8 am we went to drive back from the beach to get to our boat for our trip to another island. We tried to turn the car on and the battery was flat, but such is the nature of luck fluctuation, that the 2nd car who drove past was the owner of the car who jumped our battery and we drove, far too quickly, back to the town, just in time for the trip. We went to the island of Vis and to the blue and green caves off the island Bisevo. They were all mesmerising. The blue caves is an amazing phenomenon of light refraction filling the entire cave with a luminescent, lucid blue: that makes it sound like I understand the science of it, however, I have no idea how it happens, but fortunately for us, it does.
Dan had left us in Hvar having to get back to Italy to work, so our multicultural trio was down to a duo.
From Hvar back to Split, slept on the lounge of a hostel before seeing a Dali art exhibition before catching a bus to Dubrovnik. We climbed hundreds of stairs to our hostel after a 6 hour bus trip,and were sweaty to the extent that we had to take our thongs off because our feet were slipping from the sweaty soles of our feet. Not a very flattering image, but it was a tougher climb than the 2000m climb in Switzerland, bare chested and self agrandisingly intrepid.
The old town of Dubrovnik is, whilst beautiful, a place so hideously raped and pillaged by tourists that I felt an overwhelming guilt for being there. Harry and I left the old town very disheartened and established the true beauty of escapism. I was with Salman Rushdie in India, post independence and Harry was in 1800s Russia with Fyodor Dostoyevsky, an escape from the many headed, tourism automaton of package tours and overly affluent travelers. We sat in the square and ate plain bread, with what must have been a look of utter distaste (not for the bread; the bread was delicious).
From Dubrovnik, we caught a bus to Split, then a train to Zagreb, and that is where our (mis)adventure began.
I have now been forced to change my plans and go to London to get a replacement passport, as my four page emergency passport is not big enough to be able to do the entirety of my trip, and I am no way ready to go home. I take solace in the fact that everything I lost will be replaced and I will suffer no great financial loss. Diaries and photos are irreplacable and I hate the knowledge that they would be in a bin in Zagreb somewhere, and my photos are, hopefully, of no interest to the assailant, and neither will my book of letters to Olivia, unless it was stolen by a very lonely creep. I like the image of him or her crying alone in their alley reading that book and wishing for love. Eurail passes and cancelled credit cards bring no love. That may be the most spiteful thing I have ever written, but they deserve it.
I will endeavour to blog more frequently, however, I make no promises of regularity, and I hope my future, sporadic blogs are mundane in comparison.
Sorry to everyone who is living vicariously through this and at least you can now know that your life is better than mine.
I am thankful to everyone for their support, and I am surprised how easily I am coping with this, and I owe so much of that to Harry being here.
Thankyou for reading and I am sorry in advance for how long it may be until the next one.

Europe and Morocco. An experience.

As seems to be becoming the norm, I have left it far too long between entries, but I will try and recollect the past week and a half to the best of my ability. I cannot take full responsibility for the irregularity of my writings as the time since I have arrived in Europe has in no way lent itself to blogging, as I hope this entry will display.

I cannot describe the euphoria I felt when I first saw Nic and Hugo walk to the gate at Heathrow. It had been so long since I had seen either of them that it felt almost like a homecoming. After more hours in transit than I ever hope to remember or repeat, it was one of the few things that could have buoyed my spirit and shattered my exhaustion. We shared stories of Asia and they told us of their less than comfortable night in King’s Cross Station, but it felt as if this trip, this pipe dream we had all shared as high school students eight months ago was finally a reality. We were going to be traveling Europe with five of our best friends, and it was, and remains to be, a beautiful thought.

The last week and a half has had the lowest of lows and the highest of highs, but going through it all with one’s best friends makes the two get confused, and if approached positively and with an air of adventure, the lows can forge some of the best memories, however, having said that, I could have done without some of the memories I have gained.

Upon landing in Lisbon after a fairly uneventful flight, my fifth in 36 hours, we found our way, rather painlessly to Poets Hostel, and when we entered our six bed dorm, it clicked that this was it. We were the boys and this was our life for the next few months. We spent the first night watching Brazil verse Korea on a big screen in the square and waiting patiently for our quartet to become a sextuplet. I hadn’t anticipated such a Brazilian population of Portugal, perhaps fairly naively, but it made for a better evening than watching Australia lose 4-0 in an English pub in Laos.

We made our way back to the hostel via the supermercado and Nic and I took up our positions as Masterchefs, and set the precedent of all meals to come. Find nutritious, cheap ingredients, put them in a pot and hope. Worked out okay and we had something resembling food. While it would be expected that six 18 and 19 year old Australian boys should spend their first night in Europe doing something debaucherous, it was a very reserved night, probably owing in no small part to our collective exhaustion and the comfort of our hostel. It felt like our own little apartment, and excited me for my future residential prospects, which at the moment are about as vague as the rest of my future “plans” or lack thereof.

We had seen a castle on top of a hill overlooking the city, so that was our first port of call the next morning, after a good night’s sleep and a free breakfast, the best kind. It was a beautiful view from the top to the terracotta rooves and meandering streets below. Considering my zero expectations of Lisbon, such a beautiful city was a welcome surprise, and we spent hours admiring the castle and the view and taking advantage of the green grass and perfect weather. I was thankful that I was in liveable temperatures and glad to be out of the perpetually stifling heat of South East Asia. We descended the hill for another obligatory visit to our local supermercado and went back for a siesta in true European style. With such long daylight hours, it almost feels as if you get two days in one. Once again embracing the culture, Harry, Tom, Hugo and I went out for coffees which were very well priced at 60 cents each, which signalled the furthering of my love affair with the place. A lazy afternoon walking around what was evidently the trendy district of Lisbon, and frequent visits to record shops and we were back at our hostel. A few Superbocks and a few games of cards and typical Tom Wolff tomato pasta later and we were hitting the streets of Lisbon.

As has now become a theme of the trip, my inhibitions (or perhaps dignity?), had been suitably depleted and, aided by a few bottles of liquid courage, I was in a position to destroy one of my favourite Blink 182 songs, “What’s My Age Again?” at a karaoke bar, where fortunately the locals were forgiving and welcoming enough to not throw anything at me. Tom and Harry have set the precedent so I guess I had better mention Connor’s vocal range, which was probably not suited to singing Avril Lavigne, but I admire your lack of self respect. I hadn’t thought until now of the pertinence of the song I sung, as my current lifestyle has made me dread ever having to grow up and I want nothing more than to remain young and carefree forever, but who doesn’t I guess.

I skipped the Erasmus shots that the other five soldiered their way through, 18 months of sobriety not having done any favours for my alcohol tolerance, which is a blessing to my already limited bank account. It was now 3 am and the decision had to be made whether or not it was worth staying out. I decided against it along with Connor, Harry and Nic while Tom and Hugo stayed out, Hugo wanting to celebrate the day after his 412^th birthday in style. The next morning was a slow one, but once again we took full advantage of the free breakfast before going to the park to play four a side football with our new South African friends, whose names none of knew until they reminded us a few days later. “We will give 10 euros to any one of you who know our names. Apparently “Tony Greig” and “Nelson Mandela” doesn’t count. The park was less than inviting, with bindies everywhere and a more than slight slope, but we made the most of it. Needless to say, I am the 6^th best footballer of our group.

A long walk and another visit to the local and we were back at the hostel. The area of Lisbon where we were staying was evidently one of the most eclectic, with fashions being as diverse as the buskers, but all of them aroused our interest, especially a trio of cross dressing old men playing a type of music I cannot describe accompanied by a fourth man juggling buckets. They told us of the 5 euro circus the next night and I was instantly sold.

That night was a quiet one for me, being in bed before the sun had even set, catching up cumulative sleep deprivation. In hindsight it was a good night to have an early one as the next night was to be one of the most entertaining nights of my trip, if not my life.

The next day our South African friends once again accompanied us, this time to the beach in Cascais, about an hour from Lisbon for a swim and the obligatory game of football. The water was not as warm as I had expected, but was nonetheless very refreshing, and it seems that since then, my personal hygiene has all but disappeared.

That night’s circus was amazing. Even though we could not speak to anyone, we had an amazing time and the pure eccentricity of the show was enough to captivate us. The first thing we saw when we walked into the lobby of the theatre was a man standing literally on nothing and while we knew in practicality it had to be an illusion of some sort the mysticism of it enthralled us. The show included singing, juggling, acrobatics and all manner of circus acts and when it was over and at interval I was so disappointed that it was half over, always the pessimist. When it finished we (Connor, Nic and I) spoke to one of the main performers and he recognised us as the Australians he had told to come to the show. We met perhaps one of the most eccentric women I have ever met. She looked to be early 80’s and seemed to be somewhat of a performance aficionado, dancing in the aisle to the music, which I joined in with to her delight. She was a witch with a affinity for the performing arts and an inclination for eccentricity; the only word to describe the evening.

After we said goodbye to her and the performer we had met, we went back to our hostel expecting the night to be over and to go to bed, enthralled and exhausted from laughter, but, as always in Lisbon, the sound of the music had other plans for us. The chorus of music emanating from the square down the road pulled our weary bodies towards it and rewarded us with a night befitting the festival name; Alternativismo. A large group of Portuguese saxophonists, trombone players and all manner of other instruments played a fusion of (assumedly) traditional Portuguese songs and popular western songs while the front man crowd surfed around, screaming encouragement. When the band stopped, we assumed the night was over, but as I have learnt from this trip, it is best never to assume anything, as assumptions are the first step in being incorrect. Then started what seemed to be a weird game of cat and mouse around a pole, and a running race while standing in novelty sized pot plants, Nic and having a valiant tie and being rewarded with a fake moustache and some popcorn. I started out wearing the fake moustache but then decided to hand it on to Nic, preferring to show off my own measly facial hair, now two months in the making. A few Beastie Boys songs and some other music followed and then a free shirt give away and the night drew to a close. Curtains on what Lisbon has to offer.

Next morning we moved hostels from Poets to Rituals, Poets being booked out for that night while Nic, Harry and Hugo went to sensation while I slept for 12 hours, 7-7. The day was spent reading the 501 Must Visit Destinations, 501 Must Visit Cities and 501 Must Visit Natural Wonder books at the hostel which reassured me of my excitement for the next 6 months, thought this excitement needs no reassurance.

Next day was the beginning of the end which may sound very self indulgent but is the only way to describe what has been a monumental travel disaster. We missed our bus to Faro in the south of Portugal by mere minutes, though fortune would have it that there was a train 4 minutes after the bus, which was cheaper, faster and more comfortable. We arrived in Faro, an unspectacular town in the south of Portugal in the Algarves, with 45 minutes to spare before our bus to Seville, so after we purchased our tickets we went to get some food and then came back, five minutes before our bus. We sat at Gate 3 for 45 minutes, lamenting the unreliability of international buses before we thought maybe we should check on the status of the bus. It left 5 minutes early. We had already paid for our hostel in Seville in the south of Spain, expecting to get there that afternoon, but as luck would have it, we missed the last bus. None of us could justify paying for 2 nights of accommodation on one night, so it was decided we would sleep on the street. As any good traveller knows, even a vegan one, McDonalds provides the best refuge as they will never tell you to leave and they have free internet and toilets, so while the other boys took advantage of the facilities, Harry and I went in a vain search for a supermarket, however, being Sunday afternoon, nothing was open except for a tiny shop which looked more like someone’s kitchen. We purchased rations for the least appealing meal ever; stale bread, tomato sauce, tinned beans and canned mushrooms. Nic summed up the quality of the food so eloquently that I shall say no more about it, “the best thing about this food is definitely the price.”

As luck would have it, the park in Faro was, as I assume most of Europe is, World Cup crazy and there was a small football pitch set up and a big screen showing the game; Brazil verse Ivory Coast. Brazil won, and the surprisingly, or not surprisingly, large Brazilian population made it a night to remember, as well as a night to forget. By the time the festivities were over, and our much prolonged game of 5 a side football with some ridiculously talented young Portuguese children had reached its end, it was time to find a place to sleep and a patch of grass next to a castle wall seemed as good as any so we set up “camp”; a six man train of sleeping bags and packs, of desperation and depression. (This is one of the previously mentioned memories I could do without). Despite the hardness of the ground and the lack of comfort and dissatisfaction of my stomach, I had a relatively good night’s sleep, all 4 hours of it.

There are a few noises which trigger memories, and I do not know whether it is my own memories or memories I have gained from clichéd movies and television shows, but the noise of sprinklers reminds me of childhood and happiness. I think this association is now gone and replaced with much less pleasant memories. It was 6 am. Nic’s voice is the first thing I remember, but I think I will leave it to imagination what was said and what was echoed by everyone in the next few seconds, which seem like minutes.

I tried my best to sleeping bag hop to the dry street, and did an okay job, not being saturated, but still being moistened beyond what I would have liked. It wasn’t the best way to wake up, but we would at least not miss our 8:35 bus. Hugo, Harry and I were famished and decided to walk around the town looking for sustenance beyond dinner’s meagre offerings of which there were unappealing leftovers. We smelt the most amazing smell coming from a bakery and somehow followed our noses for about 3 blocks but we were crushed to be told that it wasn’t open and wouldn’t be open until after we had left. We found the place where our dinner had been purchased was not open either, but the well meaning shop keeper was sitting inside and opened the door for us. He had fresh bread, corn flakes and coconut milk, which in comparison seemed like luxury. Thankully, we got our bus, all that Faro having inflicted upon us being a lost Swiss army knife, discontented stomachs, one pair of tracksuit pants which Connor felt were too heavy in their now saturated state and a poor night’s sleep. We got to the Portuguese/Spanish border and our obrigado turned to gracies. We all flashed our passports, and then they asked Connor, who for now shall be named John Citizen for his passport. After a lengthy look in his bag, under the bus, in his pocket and anywhere else it may have been hidden, (near Tom’s comb and Hugo’s sunglasses) it was ascertained that it had been left by the side of the road in his tracksuit pant pockets in Faro. The curse of Faro had followed us.

It was decided to spend a night in Seville to plan our next move. Connor tried to contact the Faro police but it proved impossible, so he was forced to miss the beginning of our Moroccan journey to go north to Madrid to get a new passport; a nuisance, both time and money wise. All six of us were originally going to come to Morocco together, but it was decided that Tom and Hugo were going to stay on in Seville, Connor would go to Madrid, and Nic, Harry and I, having no purpose in Madrid, would go to Morocco and meet Connor there once his passport was organised.

We decided a last night with the boys was in order, so we went to a gypsy music night with our two French friends replacing Connor who was busy finding a hostel in Madrid. The music was a massive disappointment, so Nic, Harry and I went back to bed. Our last night in Europe.

It felt so counter intuitive to be separating so early, after so long apart, but everyone had to do what was right for them, so we were Africa bound, and in pursuit of the allusive cous cous. It was a 5 am wake up to catch our bus from Seville to Algeciras, though we could have woken up 3 hours later, as the information on the website was very wrong and the bus wasn’t until 9:30. Harry and Nic went for a walk in search of food, while I manned the bags, which between us looks somewhat like a cavalcade of baggage; the curse of over preparedness.

We got to Algeciras hassle free, Harry sleeping the whole way, Nic dozing and me being prey to my constant affliction of an inability to sleep on public transport. We arrived, avoided ticketing scams and found the cheapest ferry leaving the soonest; 3 pm to arrive just after 4. The next few hours was perhaps the most disorganised and stressful of my trip up until now and involved so many trips sprinting backwards and forwards through customs that they stopped checking our passport and just waved us through. The search for the allusive boarding pass we were told we didn’t need, until we tried to get onto the boat, the breaking into elevators to get to the boat and the general shambles that was the Algeciras ferry terminal was definitely a low light, but it at least made me regain my former fitness and stimulated my appetite for cous cous. We were finally, after days of bad fortune, famous last words “I guess today’s our lucky day”, and the worst food ever, Africa bound. It was 3:45. The whole time we were running around madly at the terminal, Chad, the Australian, was cool, calm, collected and disorganised enough to make it hassle free onto the boat. Dogging the boys.

We arrived in Tanger, waited an hour for the bus to the town from the port (52 km) and expected to get a taxi to the hostel we had read about in Lonely Planet. My initial bad luck meant trying to get Moroccan Dirham out of the ATM and receiving everything but the money and a receipt, meaning getting charged $150 and getting nothing for it; a day and a half of work for nothing. I hated Morocco. First impressions don’t last. We were told by two taxi drivers that the hostel we had read about had closed down two years ago; the affliction of arrogance and over trust of guide books kicked in and we thought we knew best and told him to drop us on the street anyway, which in hindsight was a poor choice and he probably knew best. It was a nuisance, but did give us a chance to appreciate the kindness of the locals, being directed by a deaf man who could tell we had no idea where we were going and obviously empathised with the size of our bags, looking like pathetically lost turtles. After a walk of over an hour, and finding nothing, we went to an internet cafe to look up hostels in Tanger. By now, I would have paid anything. There was literally nothing on there and our worry and desperation was obviously palpable and the internet cafe owner took pity on us. He walked us a few hundred meters down alleys and backroads we would have never found to a camp site with a beautiful view and restaurant, pool and bar, all of which cost extra so were foregone, except the restaurant with the most amazing view over the beach. We had two Casablanca beers each and Nic described in French the constraints of veganism and we ended up ordering a Moroccan tagine, which we were all so excited for. Unfortunately, they had obviously not understood and we were given three meat tagines, only one of us being able to eat it. Nic then explained it again and told them he and I did not want the meat tagines and they said they would bring us something else. It was an omelette. I ended up eating hot chips and olives, but paying for hot chips, olives, a meat tagine and an egg omelette. It was a very expensive restaurant and cost about $20 each, but we were all too exhausted to argue being charged for things we had told them we couldn’t eat.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Nic for his French and tent, both of which have made Morocco possible. Without him, we would have been homeless and unable to communicate, so thankyou so much.

We had a surprisingly good sleep in our two man tent for three with three human sized bags, and didn’t wake up until the hot Moroccan summer sun made us. We then went for a swim, not having showered for a couple of days and then went into town to organise our train to Marrakesh and to try and find some cous cous, which once again proved futile and we got a very meaty, eggy salad. I had hot chips and bread.

We were supposed to meet our friend from the night before at 2, but he never showed up, perhaps being upset at our refusal of his offer to go out the night before with he and his friends, all being too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

We spent the whole day getting food and provisions for the train, which involved one of the most delicious experiences of my life. We were walking down a back alley when we smelt something so amazing it seemed impossible. We poked our head in a door and saw an old man and assumedly his grandson baking loaves of bread and in true Moroccan hospitality, they invited us in and gave us free loaves and after having eaten our free loaves we handed over all our coin for whatever more they would give us. It was the most incredible taste ever. Plain white bread with aniseed. Bliss.

That night we got the train. I love the idea of sleeper trains. Going to sleep one place waking up somewhere else, and waking up in Marrakesh was more than a little bit exciting, this time having booked in advance a hostel and getting the address. It all went smoothly and we were at our traditional riad by 10 am and off into the sprawling markets of Marrakesh in search of whatever it had to offer. We finally got our cous cous and were not disappointed. We spent hours wandering the alleys, a sensual assault and yet somehow it had a romance to it. I loved it.

We ran into a man who called us the three musketeers, and he said he owned a restaurant nearby if we ever wanted to have a drink. I asked if we could have some tea now, having heard the highest acclaim of Moroccan mint tea, and he obliged, showing us around his hotel and restaurant which was once a palace and giving us a history of Marrakesh before our tea in the court yard. It seemed so incongruous that something so serene and beautiful could coexist with the frantic markets, with just a wall in between, but it was truly a beautiful experience. We were given a pot of tea, and upon our first sip, we were above ourselves. We were existing in a state of happiness unlike amything we had ever experienced. All the stress and disorganisation we had been through was all worth it one perfect moment that I know will never be recreated. We were drinking tea, with a beautiful Moroccan woman sweeping and singing to herself and a bird cleaning itself in the bird bath of the serene courtyard. I have never experienced anything comparable to that single moment in time, where everything in the world was perfect and right, and we experienced bliss.

We walked slowly and on a very scenic route back to our riad and rested before going back into the markets for more fresh orange juice and absorption of the dizzyingly frenetic atmosphere. It is hypnotising. We had more cous cous and tagine for dinner and on our way back to the riad, now late at night, we passed a hammam, a traditional bath house. It was very upmarket, and had been built in the eighteen hundreds, so we were not sure whether to part with or $30 or not, but it was well worth it when we did. We hadn’t showered for four days. We got a traditional Moroccan massage and clay scrub between saunas and it is safe to say that signalled goodbye to any inhibitions I had left. I was massaged by two Moroccan men, while I was naked but for underwear and they were too, and we were all soaking wet. After a long process and being made cleaner than I can even remember, we were all lead to room of lounges to lie down and given bronze water for our face and mint tea to drink while we lay in robes. I have never been more relaxed. We walked, drunk with relaxation, back to our riad and fell straight to sleep, trying to prolong the feeling until morning.

Today, I am the final remaining of the once proud three musketeers. Harry and Nic are both very ill, and Nic has had to forego the usual use of the left hand in favour of sandpaper. We managed to book a riad in Essaouira for tomorrow night and a bus to get there, as well as see a palace, minus Harry. We are going to a world music festival for two days, about which we are very excited, but the thought of a bus trip is more than Harry and Nic can face right now. After the festival, we are going south to a town called Tafroute then back to Marrakesh to meet Connor and then into the Sahara desert for 3 days. The next week, needless to say, is very exciting, but we all wish Connor could be with us for all of it.

I will leave this with an Arabic proverb we were told. “Never expect anything good from a man who doesn’t travel”. This loose translation has reassured me off the life I want for the next few years. There is more learning to be done in the world than can be done in schools or universities, and if the last few days is any indication, I want to see everything the world has to offer.

To anyone who read all of this, thank you and congratulations. I will try and be more regular with my blogging from now on and I hope l enjoy reading as much as I enjoy living.

Last Day In Asia.

After seven amazing weeks, today is our last day in Asia. We have experienced the polarities of cultures, from the affluence, efficiency and modernity of Japan to the opposingly poor, often delapidated charm of South East Asia, where one is surprised everytime something runs on time, and neither are without their appeal.
I know in the now six and a half months to go, I will be exposed to a plethora of different cultures, but I must consciously not compare to anywhere else and take each culture and country on their own merits.
I have realised that the Football World Cup is going to be one of the best times to be abroad, and being awake at 3:30 am at an English bar called the Hare and Hound watching England draw with the USA was evidence of how much fun the next few weeks will be, however, it is now midday, and all I have done is lie in bed, listen to Harry Potter audiobooks, get a much needed espresso and lament the smell of cigarette smoke lingering in my every pore.
We spent many more days in Luang Prabang than either of us intended to, but the hostel we stayed at was too hospitable and the people we met were too friendly to ever want to leave. It was an eclectic mix of Tom and I, two American girls, a crazy French Canadian who debatably spoke English, a hilarious German girl, a crazy Russian, fresh from the military who would wake every morning with a fitness regime that made me feel incredibly lazy, but was interesting none the less and a staff who became more like a family, complete with the cutest little Lao girl I have ever met and Shampoo, the owner. "Oh my buddah."
We tried our best to become locals, frequenting the same fruit shake stand and vegetarian buffet everynight, to the point where he saw us coming. "Two mango fruit shakes."
We were offered drugs by what seemed to be every tuk tuk driver in Luang Prabang with the ubiquitous wink, click of the tounge and euphemism of "you want something?"
We spent a great day tubing down the river with all the people from our hostel, to a lunch which, for vegan purposes, consisted of sticky rice and chilli eating challenges, which, as is the nature of chilli eating challenges, noone really won.
Saying goodbye to Asia will be hard and I feel that now on top of my pangs of homesickness, will be pains of loss for the absence of the beautiful continent from my life; at least for now.
But a lazy afternoon spent thumbing through Europe On A Shoestring Lonely Planet added to my already massive anticipation of the next three and a half months, however it also reiterated my imminent level of destitution.
It is now only 13 hours until Australia's first World Cup game, and thanks to our support of England last night, we have recruited some support from the Mother Country.
My plans for Europe are fairly loose, but I see that as one of the greatest joys of travel; the way that dates and times become inconsequential and one is left with nothing but their own will and a three month Eurail pass. There are things I really want to see, both new places and places I feel drawn back to, but I have no cement plans, only desires.
Their is a palpable excitement between Tom and I to meet up with Harry, Hugo, Nic and Connor in Lisbon, but standing between us and that meeting is an epic of flights and transit, which I am trying to not think about (except for our excitement to be flying Cathay Pacific; I don't know what we are actually expecting from it, but it is surely preferable to British Airways.)
Our one full day in Vientiane thus far was not spent in any way I could have expected, including little more than lots of Indian food, a visit to a waterpark and a very late night with our new English friends.
I am incapable of describing our time in Luang Prabang in great detail, because on reflection I cannot recall where the time actually went, except into meeting some great people and seeing the beautiful World Heritage city. It was painful to leave, but as I expect to do many times this trip, I consoled myself with the knowledge I will return one day; youth is not entirely wasted on the young.
Hardly surprisingly, we met up by pure coincidence with the UK family who we have shadowed for our entire time in Laos, but this time we had a proper farewell, but with the knowledge we will see them sometime soon in Bath.
It is frightening on reflection to think how fast this seven weeks has gone, and I know this rapidity will not slow down for our entire trip, which is disconcerting but instills in me a knowledge that I must treasure every moment on the road, this perhaps being the last time in a long time I will have such liberty without the constraints of normality and routine, which I am sure may seem more appealing after months of wandering.
As is seeming to have already formed itself as a habit, we will be getting Indian for lunch, after my last 14 minutes of internet connection runs out. I would feel very culturally traitorous, but we have been eating Lao food for the last two weeks, and we have realised we will not have the chance for affordable Indian for a long time, which, for me, is very distressing, but I am looking forward to what will end up being a bread tour of Europe and a lesson in freeganism and frugality. It is strange the things one looks forward to, but I remember with amazing clarity a vegetarian restaurant in Cezky Krumlov in the Czech Republic which I have missed ever since I left, 3 years ago, to which I will return for regular patronage.
It will be hard to say goodbye to Tom, after having spent everyday for almost two months together, but this farewell will be equally matched by traveling with Harry. We have heard that friends traveling together has the potential to destroy friendships, but we have escaped that and only ever have pointless little squabbles which we quickly realised the triviality of and sort it out. We have seen and experienced too much together for there to be a danger of any sort of major falling out, and all my memories of this amazing experience thus far are intertwined with his presence.
It is time to sign off on this entry, the last one to come from this beautifully unique continent, and both lament the loss of it and be excited for what is to come.
Asia, I will miss you.

Laos

The irregularity of my blogging recently is indicative of the amount we have been doing in the fairly small amount of time. I have spent more time on buses that I would like to remember, but have been rewarded by having seen and experienced some amazing places.
From Siem Reap, we caught a bus back to Phnom Penh, out of practicality and necessity more so than desire, and from there caught a bus to Don Det, an archipelago of 4000 islands a few kilometers over the Laos border.
It took a long and laborious bus trip to get there so we were determined to make the most of it and were in rush to travel anywhere else anytime soon. We spent three nights in Don Det, making friends with a Brazilian named Adriano. The days were methodical and formulaic. We would wake up, get a pineapple shake or two, and then relax. In hindsight, I can't actually remember where the time went. It just passed. We spent a day cycling around the islands with Adriano, who, with his shirt off, played on all my pale, skinny insecurities. The "road" did no favours for Adriano's tyre, going flat about 4 kilometers from where we were staying and resulting in a two hour stop at a local's house to get it repaired with about eight tyre patches, and just as were leaving, I discovered mine was bordering on flat too, but I had had enough of standing around playing with the kids, so I just rode back and left the bike owner to deal with it.
The nights were all spent in the same beautiful location, in a bar overlooking the water, drinking Lao Lao mojitos and hanging out with Adriano, Tom, a Laos guy with a hilarious laugh, two Austrians and about a hundred million flying bugs. It was blissful.
The islands have evidently changed a lot since the printing of the 2007 Lonely Planet that we are operating on which said that there was no electricity on the islands, however we established they have now had it for 4 months; the all encompassing hand of globalisation.
I expected Cambodia and Laos to be much of a muchness, however they are not as similar as I thought. They general demeanor of the Lao people is unbelievably relaxed and it is contagious. The prozac of travel. It is an effort to get very far off the tourist trail as public transport to smaller areas is hard to come by, but I have established that if somewhere is a tourist destination, it is that way for a reason.
From Don Det, we had one of the longest and most tedious days of travel I have ever had. A 15 minute boat ride, then a one hour wait, then a four hour minibus ride to Pakse, then a five hour wait, then an overnight sleeper bus (without the sleep) to Vientiane, then a two hour wait (where we were rescued from exhaustion by a cafe), then another five hour bus trip to Vang Vieng; the Mecca of backpacking. I had admittedly low expectations of Vang Vieng, thinking it would be full of nothing more than drugs and debauchery, and while this was a big part of the town, it was juxtaposed by the beautiful countryside which I am sure most visitors are too drunk or hungover to appreciate. We had a whole day of caving, "trekking" (one of the many loosely used terms in South-East Asia, along with "VIP"), tubing in caves and kayaking. We went further into a cave than I ever would by myself, and then turning of our torches and plunging into complete darkness. I stood there in the pitch black and expected my eyes to adjust to the minimal light, but there was nothing to adjust to. The eerie darkness and the sound of dripping water. Sensual respite. We had a local guide named Ktoy, who, we later established over dinner was one of the best people in the world at speaking to girls, so much so that he overcame the language barrier (an admittedly small one), and stole two Thai girls from their boyfriends. He was 29, but looked about 20.
Being that we were in Vang Vieng, we thought it our responsibility to tube down the river, a backpacker's rite of passage, and I think I am one of the few people to have ever done in sober, not really being keen to become a statistic. Safety is not high on the list of priorities in Vang Vieng with some of the most precarious flying foxes, rope swings and giant slides in the world, often made out of nothing more than the ubiquitous Asian bamboo and twine, but somehow giving the impression of haphazard safety. The last bar was two kilometers from the disembarkation point, so it was a slow float back, but relaxing nonetheless and every slight rapid was a blessing.
Vang Vieng is otherworldy. Every restaurant has big screens playing Family Guy or Friends or any other Western television show, and it was a strange phenomenon and sometimes I had to consciously think of where I was.
We have one week left in Laos and Asia, so we are both excited about getting to Europe and meeting up with the boys, but are already dreading going from the relative affluence of being a Western backpacker in Asia to being an Australian in Europe. I will miss Asia, so it is all the more reason to make the most of while I am here.
We are now in Luang Prabang in the north of Laos, a beautiful heritage listed city. It has a very different feel to Vang Vieng. There is an 11:30 curfew in the city. Every morning, monks walk around the city for alms giving, however, since we have only been here for one night (a late one), we weren't in any position to be awake at 5:15 am to see them, but tomorrow will certainly be more proactive.
It seems that there is a fraternity of South-East Asian travelers, and it is surprisingly small. We have met the same people all over Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, and it is a peculiar experience. There is a family of English travelers, two parents, a 14 year old, and two young kids, perhaps 6 and 4, and we have seen them everywhere we have been in Laos. They have shown me that, contrary to what I had thought, a traveling lifestyle doesn't have to end because of children, and it has also secured me a place to stay in Bath, which I am sure will be a beautifully familial experience after 5 months in hostels.
We have four nights in Luang Prabang before heading back down south for our flight to Lisbon. We have decided that we have to have another night in Vang Vieng. I am already having withdrawals from constant Friends and organic mulberry fruit shakes.
I have found a vegetarian stall in the night market where you can fill a plate with delicious vegetarian Lao food for 10000 kip, about $1.40. Spring rolls are an extra 1000 kip (12 cents), so cost is hardly much of an object. We have lived so incredibly inexpensively and I now understand the mindset of people who spend years here.
There is more I could write, as there always is, but I fear that anything more I write would be rambling, as this has already descended into. It is hard to pick the things I do and see which I deem noteworthy. To write about something is to force myself one day to remember it, and when every moment I am being immersed in such beautiful cultures. It is impossible to express in words the beauty of the minutiae and mundanity of everyday life, but I see this as being the most honest reflection of a place. A walk through a local market divulges more of a culture than a day spent in a museum. Museums and tourist destinations are facades of the actuality of a place, but I am incapable of writing about the beautiful simplicity of an Asian market or a local culture, so I have to leave it to imagination.
It is now 12:30, and probably time to do something more productive than blog, however it is very liberating to be able to now empty my mind of what I have done and look forward to what it is to come.
The last week starts now.

Cambodia

Since I last wrote, I have done a 6 hour "trek" in Sapa, (which turned out to be more of a walk downhill, then a bus picking us up and taking us back), been back to Hanoi, flown to Phnom Penh and have now spent three days in Siem Reap.
Sapa was such a beautiful place, but I do not feel I have much to write about it; it was almost a week ago now and the details are fading. The curse of infrequent blogging. I know now with even more certainty how much I favour countryside. Cities make me feel disconnected, anonymous and lost, but I always feel a sense of connection with a beautiful landscape or open spaces. I detest the confinement of city life, but I know I will be living in one for a while when I get back.
So from Sapa we caught another sleeper train back to Hanoi to once again (for the last time) take advantage of Tuan's abundant generosity. We spent one more night in Hanoi, where we found a Vietnamese vegetarian restaurant, before heading to Phnom Penh, which is strikingly similar to Hanoi, if only quieter and far hotter. I would be lying if I said I overly enjoyed Phnom Penh, but it was a jump off point, and a place to witness some of the most brutal attrocities in human history. We visited the killing fields and S-21 prison, both of which were used by the Khmer Rouge during Pol Pot's reign and both of which are testaments to the unfathomable cruelty and oppression of mankind. I could not comprehend how this had all happened so recently and no other country did anything to try and stop it. Just a shame Cambodia doesn't have any oil stores or you could be assured that some world power would have intervened, but it displays both the self interest and the lack of empathy of so much of the world. I have visited Auschwitz and Dachau, and S-21 prison was comparable to both, however I understood it less. I couldn't comprehend any sort of reasoning behind killing one's own people. With the Holocaust, there was a racial issue, but the Pol Pot regime was simple brutality of the most despicable kind. While in Phnom Penh, we had the privilege of sharing dinner with one of the chief prosecutors in the Khmer Rouge trial, and once again, as seems to be the theme of our trip so far, he and his wife were overly generous and very hospitable, buying us dinner and instilling some words of wisdom.
It is now our third day in Siem Reap, and we have both taken a liking to the atmosphere of the place. Our original booking was for one night, which has since been extended to four, due in no small part to the hospitality of the hotel we are staying at, The Golden Mango. They know us by name and say "Good morning Tom and David" and "enjoy your rest Tom and David" and "Good night Tom and David", and generally make us feel at home.
Siem Reap is only a few kilometers from the splendourof the temples of Angkor. If there are two things Cambodia is famous for, it is the Khmer Rouge and the Angkorian temples, and the majesty of the latter almost counteracts the sobering nature of the other. We paid our new friend Panha $16 to drive us around the temples in his tuk tuk from 4:30 am to about midday taking us to the otherworldly temples of Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom and Ta Promh as well as many others. I simply could not comprehend the age and magnificence of them. They are a gateway into another time, almost lost but for the remnants and ruins. While the temples are all meticulously maintained, they have not lost any of their proud tradition, and the centuries of history have taken their toll on Angkor, not in the pejorative sense. The signs of aging add to their allure and mystique and paint a picture of a past which could so easily be forgotten. The ubiquitous Angkor Wat is everywhere in Cambodia. It is a country with such a bloody recent history, yet takes so much pride from their ancient civilisation. It is on their flag, their beer and across the chest of most tourists, however it was Bayon and Ta Promh which I found the most amazing. Ta Promh has been allowed to be englufed by the jungle and is at once a testament to the power of man and an homage to the power of nature. Trees grow from stone and is it impossible to separate the two. No one element is prevailing. It is beautiful co-existence. Bayon is a temple, constructed exclusively from numerous enigmatic grinning faces, and is perhaps the most impressive, if not the most beautifully perculiar of all the Angkorian temples. Cambodia is a country of highs and lows and the two juxtapose each other. There is an undeniable lack of elderly people in Cambodia, proof of the magnitude of the Khmer Rouge reign and it is a sobering fact to the think of the blood shed and life loss. It is so easy to think of deaths only as a number, but when an individual is made just that, an individual, it makes it so much more real. The exact number of people who died under the Khmer Rouge is very different depending upon source, but ranges from one million to three million. It is almost impossible to think that those were three million daughters, sons, fathers, mothers, husbands, wives.
There are other more trivial things I could write about our time in Siem Reap, like our affection for Pub Street and our love of Khmer Curry, but they all seem so insignificant in comparison to the two polarities of Cambodian history.
Tomorrow we will be catching a bus back to Phnom Penh and the day after, we head north to Laos. I look forward to the next and final chapter of our Asian journey and lament the fact that we have only two and a half weeks left on this beautiful continent. When I think back in time, it has been such a quick month since I left, and it is frightening to think that we have only seven left before I fly back to reality, which is the epitome of bitter sweet, but I think by December we will be ready for routine and homeliness, and will have matured and aged beyond our years.
I am now going for a bike ride to buy bread for the 6 hour bus trip tomorrow, so I will pray to whichever deity there is to stop us getting hit by a truck.
Keep checking back for more updates.
One month down, and what an amazing experience.

Halong Bay/Sapa

I have learnt that if you have any desire to do anything on a day, you should not catch a sleeper train the night before.
We left Hanoi last night, and are now in Sapa, and after a few outings today, we now have mustered the energy to only sit in our room and watch National Geographic and then write a blog. We are exhausted, but that has not dimished our awe at the beauty of Sapa. I have always felt an affinity for mountains; I have no idea why, but I have always felt at home in the mountains, and Sapa has more than provided.
It is at this time on a trip, after three weeks, when one's travel tenacity is tested. The surrealism of travel has become the reality, and since the surrealism ahs worn off, it is lucky that I love the reality. We met two Australians on our Halong Bay tour (which I will come to), and after a few Tiger beers and long island ice teas, one of them told me that what we were doing, this eight month galavant, was "bloody stoic mate". I would never have ahd the temerity to consider what we are doing in suh self agrandising words, but the magnitude of this trip is slowly dawning on me. I always try and think of what I was doing eight months ago, and everytime I come back to the conclusion that it is an extraordinarily long time to be away from home, especially when there are so many people I miss at home, none more so than Olivia. It is incomprehensibly painful to go from a relationship that means the world to you, to traveling around the world without the person you love the most, but I must remain positive, and know unequivocally that when I get home, things will be the same and she will still feel the same, regardless of how much I may miss her.
I have gained a renewed faith in the restorative powers of nature. Halong Bay was one of, if not the, most beautiful places I have ever seen, and in every sense of the word, it was unbelievable. It acted as the best possible distraction for Tom, and I saw his demeanour change completely. The beauty of a place is not to be found in the built environment so much as in the natural environment. It exerts a profound purity. Civilisations may last centuries, however landscapes of the magnitude of Halong Bay are so ancient it does not bear comprehension, and its beauty is infinite, (I say that with baited breath, hoping that mass tourism doesn't prove me wrong).
I have also learnt that people are intrinsically altruistic, and the generosity of Tom's friend Twan has verified this to me. He has been so selfless with his time and resources that, as with Vincent and Ann, we are both forever indebted to him. He even bought Tom a dinner which he will not forget quickly and which went against everyone of my vegan ethics to be around, but for details on that, you will have to go to http://tomthetripper.blogspot.com/.
Tomorrow we are going for a six hour hike, followed by another sleeper train ride back to Hanoi for one last day in Vietnam before flying to Phnom Penh, Cambodia on Friday. Vietnam has been such a quick stop, but already I feel a connection to the people and places that I will know will draw me back soon.
Such is the life of a backpacker, in these three weeks we traveled in more sorts of transport than I would in a year at home. Bicycle, car, motorbike, ferry, kayak, junk, bullet train, sleeper train and bus, but considering where it has brought me, I am euphoric. Out the window, I have a view of this beautiful mountain range in Northwest Vietnam, home to Fansipan; the highest mountain in Indochina. Thick billows of clouds are omnipresent, but they only add to the mysticism of this beautifully hypnotic landscape.
I hope in earnest that Cambodia and Laos are even comparably enjoyable to our travels so far. Tomorrow is day 24, which means we are half way through our Asian stint, thus we are now Europe bound, however, I am by no means counting down the days, more so dreading the time when I will go from being reasonably financially stable to being another lowly backpacker.
As I have said, there are things still tying me to home, and I miss them (her) everyday, however, I must reconcile myself with the fact that I am having the trip of my life, unfortunately not with her, but one day we will. The pains of missing that badly do not go away, but they become habitual and that makes them semi-bearable.
I cannot wait to see this antiquated area tomorrow, and experience the real Vietnam, out of the city and off the tourist trail, however, that will have to wait until after a long, relieving rest.
Keep checking back for more of me whinging about missing my girlfriend and bragging about how fun traveling is.
David.

Japan - Hanoi

It has been a fair while between posts, and in that time we have been in Kyoto and doing day trips, and I have now left feeling as if I have quite an affinity with Kyoto. We travelled to Nara and saw the world's largest brass Buddah and went to Kanazawa to see some beautiful gardens and a castle, both of which proliferate in Japan. I like the idea of spending a fair bit of time in one place, not so much as to stagnate, but enough so as to develop this affinity I mentioned. Too many travelers consider the world to be a checklist of things one must see and do, however I prefer to get the feeling for a place and avoid the typical superficial visit managed by many tourists. Japan was a great experience and Tom and I are both forever indebted to Vincent and Ann for their unbelievably generous spirit. Leaving their almost felt like leaving home again, thus was the strength of their welcoming. I hope to see them again soon; my Japanese mum and dad.
The trip from Kyoto to Hanoi involved many legs and more than enough time. Kyoto-Tokyo-Narita-Hostel-Airport-Hanoi. And once we arrived in Hanoi, the travel had just begun. We were lucky enough that Tom had a contact in Hanoi to pick us up and take us to our hostel and help us plan our week here; which will be a full one.
Hanoi's chaotic nature acts to juxtapose the methodical, regimental Japanese lifestyle. It is chaos, however there is order to the chaos. I am glad for my month spend in India last year, as it more than prepared me for Hanoi, and the usual third world three lanes on a two lane road. Needless to say, by the time we got to our hostel last night, it was all we could do bring ourselves to go and get dinner, being that it was 11 pm Japan time, but we made ourselves, and were well rewarded. We splurged. $20 each, and we got more food than we could finish. Deep fried tofu, asian green vegetables, spring rolls and coconut rice, plus the meat Tom had and his reintroduction to Tiger beer, for which he was very thankful. I had a mango juice. It tasted like an Australian summer.
The hostel we are staying in is hectic, if only to mirror the life outside its doors.
We have today in Hanoi, tomorrow and Monday in Halong Bay, then Monday night we catch a sleeper train to Sapa, after dinner with Twan, Tom's friend. We stay Tuesday night in Sapa, then catch another sleeper train on Wednesday night back to Hanoi for another day roaming the streets, hopefully with better weather than today. Due to our Japanese body clocks, we are awake, showered, dressed, breakfasted, Facebooked and blogged all before the Ho Chi Minh morsoleum opens. 2 kilometer walk through ridiculous rain, or a $3 taxi. I think the taxi might get some business.
Compared to Hanoi, Japan seems so antiquated. Beautiful in its prestige, but not a place for backpackers. I loved it, however I feel our "backpacking" has only just begun. No more homeliness, no more Vince doing our washing and no more tap water and thong free showers.
The weather here is predicted to be over 30 everyday, with what appears to be mild monsoons (what a beautiful oxymoron), so I guess we will just have to hope that the rain is stronger than our sweat; lucky Jake isn't here. Too bad buddy. Tiger beer is tantalisingly cheap.
I will probably not have the time or the inclination to write again until this week of adventure is over, which I am dreading because I am so excited, so for all of you living vicariously through Tom and/or I, you better go back to your lives.
Brevity is the soul of wit, so I will leave it there until next time.