tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63684203582251826202024-02-19T20:45:24.309-08:00The Itinerant Ramblings of Mrs P FoggAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-35895865184046266002015-03-04T02:47:00.000-08:002015-03-04T02:47:03.255-08:00And the award goes to......and so, as all good things must come to an end, here I am back in sunny Blighty (no thanks to Virgin Atlantic, after an almighty delay and total chaos at JFK).<br />
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So, six weeks, about twenty-six different beds and over 26,000 miles...what's the conclusion? Absolutely bloody amazing, in short. Part of the reason for this trip was to see whether it was possible to enjoy whizzing round the world in such a short space of time (six weeks) and at an, ahem, slightly more advanced age than most who hit a similar trail. The answer is YES to both questions, although tiredness was a factor at times.<br />
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Throughout this blog I've tried to avoid naming too many specific hotels and companies for fear of it looking like a PR-sponsored jamboree. Its an accusation often levelled at travel writing, that we are just endlessly nice about people/companies who arrange the trips we go on. The joy of this blog is that I don't owe anything to anyone - the travel features I'll be writing tick those boxes - so anything mentioned here is because I genuinely think its a great place.<br />
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So in that vein, I hereby announce the inaugural Fogg Blog Awards - a few suggestions, tips and recommendations for anyone lucky enough to do a similar trip - or just planning a holiday to one of the countries I visited.<br />
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First up...<br />
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<b>The 'I Know This Country Like the Back of My Hand' Award for Best Tour Operator</b><br />
This one has to go to New Zealand In Depth (www.newzealand-indepth.co.uk). They put together a fantastic itinerary that showed me the best of the North Island, staying at a great mix of places, from lakeside cabins to swanky B&Bs. Everywhere I went the property owners had met and knew the owner of the company, and had only good things to say,<br />
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<b>The 'This Could Go on For the Rest of the Day' Award for Best Lunch</b><br />
Sydney wins this one hands down with two fantastic restaurants; Coogee Pavilions (merivale.com.au) on Coogee Beach - a great sprawling brasserie of a place, great for families and long lunches of cold white wine and seafood platters. And also the Grounds of Alex (thegroundsroasters.com),<br />
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tucked away in a residential area of the city, a huge warehouse and fairylit garden, serving up fabulously hearty food, home-made pastries and cakes and freshly-ground coffee.<br />
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<b>The 'I Have Actually Found Heaven' Award for Best Beach</b><br />
Forget Bondi or Santa Monica, beautiful, isolated, unspoilt Kuaotunu Beach<br />
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on New Zealand's breathtaking Coromandel Peninsula wins by a mile. My 5pm swim on a sunny Sunday afternoon was one of the highlights of the trip. <br />
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<b>The 'Lets Do Something a Bit Worthy This Afternoon' Award for Best Museum</b><br />
Another joint award; Chicago's amazing Art Institute (artic.edu) has to be a winner, with a spectacular collection of art, including Impressionist galleries that rival anything the Met or the National can offer. On a much smaller scale, the Burma-Thai Railway Museum in Thailand<br />
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was a fascinating, sobering, but gently-done exploration of the horrors of the 'Death Railway' in the Second World War.<br />
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<b>The 'I'll Be In the Dining Car Waiting for Cary Grant' Award for Best Train Journey</b><br />
Only one contender here, the E&O Express that glides between Thailand and Singapore;<br />
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all polished teak dining cars, white-gloved attendants and the fabulous jazz pianist in the bar. Amtrak might compete on scenery but it doesn't quite match it for luxe-ness.<br />
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<b>The 'I'll be Exercising Absolutely No Self-Control' award for Best Dinner</b><br />
Two very different winners here; the lipsmacking (and mouth-burning) supper we ate on the Yarowat Road in Bangkok's Chinatown; fish steeped in chillis and garlic, crispy shrimp, oyster-sauce coated greens and egg fried rice, with cold Tiger Beers and the traffic rushing past. And then Chicago's renowed Girl and the Goat (girlandthegoat.com); some of the most inventive (and tasty) food I've eaten in a while.<br />
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<b>The 'Meeting People is What Its All About' for Best Character</b><br />
One of the biggest joys of the trip was the amount of interesting, charming people I met. Favourite of all was Mr Cliff, an ageing photographer who sold beautiful pictures on the square in Santa Fe; his grandfather's photographs touched up and reimagined with new digital technology. 'Ah spent a lotta time gettin' drunk in your pubs' he drawled at us, grinning. We loved him.<br />
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Honourable mention should also go the truly lovely Maurice, a Maori grandfather who showed me his local marae and revealed a few rainforest secrets to me.<br />
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<b>The 'I'm Changing the Locks and Never Leaving' Award for Best Hotel</b><br />
Tricky this one, because there are so many to choose from. Budget-wise, Citizen M New York (citizenm.com) takes a lot of beating (it even has a rooftop bar) but you have to not mind the pod-style rooms. The King & Queen Suites in New Plymouth (kingandqueen.co.nz) was a great example of a new, fresh hotel with great values...but Crosby Street (firmdalehotels.com) still rocks it for me.<br />
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<b>The 'I'm Really Quite Grateful' Award for Making it All Possible</b><br />
An entirely gratuitous plug, admittedly, but this trip would never have happened without the wonderful STA Travel (statravel.co.uk) - who were keen to get the message across that whizzing around the world is not just for twentysomethings. It's a message I'll be making sure I get out there.<br />
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So that's it. The washing is on, the suitcase stowed and it's time to close the blog. It's been an awfully big adventure. I hope you've enjoyed reading about it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-89243830179546613842015-03-01T07:26:00.000-08:002015-03-01T07:26:34.988-08:00New York, New York<br />
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Somehow it's happened. After just under six weeks and 21,000 miles, here I am in my final port of call; the gorgeous, glorious, hedonistic, hectic, unbelievably fabulous New York.<br />
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Not that getting here was easy. After a six-hour delay at Chicago's Union Station (it actually made me feel a bit wistful for the trifling delays I normally suffer with Southern rail), the train chugged slowly through endlessly snowy landscapes, with great piles of the stuff piled up against houses and at the sides of roads. By the time we finally pulled up at Penn Station it was 1.30am, rather than our supposed arrival time of 6.25pm. Arriving at the hotel to discover they couldn't find our reservation was <i>not</i> what we wanted to hear.<br />
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But no-one can stay cross, or tired, in New York for long. At first I wasn't going to write a blog post about New York, because it's all been said so many times before, but I think tips and recommendations are always helpful, so here's a few.<br />
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Pick your time when to go. It may be perishing cold here right now, but in winter the ice rinks are open (the one below is at Rockefeller Plaza), all the tourist attractions are quieter and you're more likely to be able to get a table for dinner at the restaurant of your choosing. <br />
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Events like Restaurant Week (nycgo.com/restaurantweek) which happens in February, are a great way to save money while eating in some top restaurants. Try to come in the week rather than at a weekend when, again, the main sights and shopping areas will be far less busy.<br />
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In terms of where to stay, New York can be wincingly expensive. Location makes a huge difference - if you're in Midtown, you're close to all the sights, but if you stay below 14th Street - in Soho, the East Village, or the Lower East Side, you'll experience a more authentic side of Manhattan. At the budget end, there's nowhere to beat Citizen M in Midtown (citizenm.com), where rates start at around £120 a night - a bargain for NYC.<br />
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If budget isn't an issue, then Crosby Street Hotel in Soho is, for my money, one of the best hotels in the city. Part of the British www.firmdale.com chain, it matches English style with NYC chutzpah. But the prices will sting.<br />
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Eating out can be a full-time occupation in NYC, and the best way is to try and encompass everything from classic diners to ethnic coffee shops to Italian pasta like Mama used to make. We've eaten eggs-over-medium with hash browns and endless coffee at the Evergreen Diner (www.evergreendinernyc.com) in Midtown, delicious tapas at Barca (www.barca-tapas.com) in Soho, slightly strange cookies and 50p tea and coffees in an unpronounceable Chinese coffee shop, deep in Chinatown and fabulous Greek meze at the Kellari Taverna (www.kellari.us) also in Midtown.<br />
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It's our very last day today, so we're just going to stroll - because that's the best way to see the city. We'll head on up to the wonderful Flatiron Building<br />
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and then wander back down to Chinatown for a late lunch. That's the plan, but when you wander in New York, you never know quite what you're going to find - yesterday we encountered a whole celebration in Chinatown, with dragons frisking about outside shops to ward off evil spirits for the coming year.<br />
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And then, after that, the airport will beckon. But it's far, far too soon to be thinking about that...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-13753159205549316802015-02-25T21:24:00.002-08:002015-02-25T21:24:46.102-08:00Are We Having Fun Yet?<br />
So it must be time for another 'truth in travel' blogpost. This one comes from the Metropolitan Lounge at Union Station in Chicago, where I'm waiting for an overnight train to New York. It's late and I'm tired, and the best forecast at the moment is the train will be three hours delayed because of the latest Arctic blast. Having checked out of a hotel at 11am, we've been on the go since then and am sorely in need of sleep.<br />
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But then travel can't always be fun. It's not always easy. Everyone has stories of being stuck on the tarmac for hours; the time they almost got swept out to sea, the twenty-four hour delay at the airport. They might make a good anecdote some time in the future, but while they're happening they're frustrating, tiring, disappointing, infuriating and inevitably completely spoil that lovely, freewheeling feel.<br />
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Sometimes travelling just is tough. Rocking up in February in Chicago has not been without its challenges;<br />
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sub-zero temperatures, snow, wind, having to wear so many clothes to keep warm that you give up any idea of looking even vaguely presentable and just hope the bag-lady look is in this season. But in spite of the weather, we've had a fabulous time - the city is like a dialled-down New York; hugely friendly, unpretentious and architecturally stunning, with public art everywhere - the most spectacular of which is Anish Kapoor's The Bean (actually called Cloud Gate) below<br />
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and an art gallery, The Chicago Institute of Art, to rival New York's Metropolitan museum and London's National Gallery.<br />
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We've eaten soooo well - not just on the foodie tour (which saw us munch our way through hot dogs, chocolates, bratwurst and deep pan pizza) but at fantastic restaurants around the city. We've done classic American fare at Wildberry Pancakes (www.wildberrycafe.com) and more avant-garde dishes at the fantastically-named Girl and the Goat (www.girlandthegoat.com). Deep pan pizza at Pizano's (www.pizanoschicago.com) was a revelation; more like a deep-filled English flan, with shortcust pastry, than any kind of pizza.<br />
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When travel gets tough you motor on through; stick on the bright orange Carhartt hat that was the first one you could find to buy because it was so cold you thought your ears might snap off, and just keep on going. There are inevitably going to be times when it's not fun, and if I'm honest one of those is right now. But then I tell myself that whatever time I get on the train, when I get off it I'm going to be in New York. <br />
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It's a thought that brings a smile to my face. Well it will, when the frostbite wears off.<br />
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NB: If the photo's are a little more professional than the usual content on this blog, it's because they're not mine. The USB connector between my camera and my laptop is just the latest thing to be consigned to the ever-growing 'left-in-a-hotel-bedroom' list. Still, at this rate my suitcase is going to be considerably lighter on the way home...<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-23805379086277162332015-02-23T21:25:00.000-08:002015-02-23T21:34:39.153-08:00The Secrets of Santa Fe...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I hadn't realised that going from LA to New York by train
would be seen as quite an outlandish thing to do, but everyone - from
waitresses to train conductors, chatty fellow diners and taxi drivers - have
all had the same reaction.
"Wow." Eyebrows reach up to their hairlines. "By <i>train</i>?. That's some journey."</div>
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And so it is. An
eighteen-hour overnight from LA to Santa Fe first - and what a place that
turned out to be. You haven't seen the
middle of nowhere until you've been to New Mexico, where tufted desert rolls
out to the horizon for mile upon mile upon mile. </div>
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The station stop for Santa Fe is actually
Lamy (population: 157). From there we hopped
a taxi shuttle for 20 mins to Santa Fe itself...which turned out to be a
surreal mix of Sergio Leone film-set, a Native American Covent Garden and
art-loving retiree town.</div>
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Santa Fe is unusual in the US in that it boasts some real,
proper history. Founded in 1610, it's the
oldest state capital in the country, home to the oldest church and house and
all architecture - restored and new - has to keep to the traditional adobe
structures that would have characterised the original pueblo.</div>
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The historic centre of town, with adobe-lined streets
fanning out from the historic central plaza, is a tourist's dream; endless
boutiques selling (supposedly) Native American jewellery, art galleries, former
trading posts converted into antique shops, cafes and upscale restaurants. On a Saturday morning, even in February, the
square was busy with shoppers, and the crisp, thin air (its 7000 feet up) gave
it the feel of a ski resort (there is skiing nearby).</div>
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Browsing in the jewellery shops, we were slightly sceptical
about the fact so many of them had 60% off sales (and such vast amounts of
stock). It all became clear when we got
talking to Mr Cliff, who had a small stall on the main square selling beautiful
photographs that were his grandfathers original, overlayed with 21st century
colours and techniques. "They're
all Middle East owned," he drawled from beneath his cowboy hat. "Sales on all the time. Everything made in big factories out
west. If you want to buy, buy from the
Navajo."</div>
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He pointed towards the Palace of the Governors, on the north
side of the square, where a long line of Native America men and women sat on
fold out chairs, with displays of jewellery laid out on cloths. </div>
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I felt like a child at a birthday party; earrings,
necklaces, bracelets all studded with semi precious stones and minerals - turquoise,
tigers-eyes, moonstone, most of it with
a story from where it had been mined.</div>
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Second only to shopping in Santa Fe is eating - and even in
February reservations are essential. It's
a very particular type of food - spiced meats bundled up in wraps or blue corn
tortillas, swamped with green or red chilli sauce or refried beans, topped with
cheese. Huevos Rancheros - the classic
breakfast dish - comes with two runny eggs buried among the general slick. </div>
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Needless to say, it wasn't for me - just watching someone else
eat it was enough.</div>
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Perhaps what makes Santa Fe so unusual is the constant sense
that that beyond the clutch of houses and businesses lies nothing; absolutely
nothing, just pockmarked hills and barren desert. It's an outpost, albeit an artistic and a
foodie one, but one that drew me in, and made me want to explore further, across the empty wastes to other historic towns like Taos, steeped in Navajo history. But there was, as ever, no time. Forty-eight hours after we arrived we were back on the train for the 24-hour journey through snowy Colorado and Missouri to even snowier Chicago.<br />
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But there was something mystical, haunting, even a bit magical in those great empty spaces and that unique, historic town. I'll definitely be back.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-5331941915509476942015-02-20T18:10:00.000-08:002015-02-20T18:10:19.884-08:00LA Story<br />
It's interesting how this trip is reinforcing the basics rules of travel; do lots of research, don't try to do too much, sooner or later you will always leave your swimming costume in the bathroom, and never believe entirely what other travellers tell you. So it has been with LA which, from everything I'd heard, I expected to be a smog-ridden, freeway-latticed sprawling conurbation with little soul, heart or centre.<br />
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After a day in Palm Beach (above) and a couple of days in Koreatown, in the heart of the city, I'm happy to report that yes, there are freeways everywhere, is is pretty smoggy and there definitely isn't one centre. But leaving those factors aside, the city I've discovered has been very different to what I was expecting.<br />
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For a start, its the most ethically diverse city I've ever been too. There's not just a Chinatown but a Little Tokyo, Thai Town, Koreatown and Little Armenia. We've eaten freshly-baked Bungeoppang in a Korean supermarket<br />
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munched on wonderfully-cheesey borek in an Armenian bakery, and ordered up pad thai from a Thai foodstall in the 19th century Grand Central Market.<br />
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We've shopped in a Korean mall, which sold everything from traditional <i>hanbok</i> dresses to second-hand Korean books. It also had a branch of Daiso, Japan's equivalent of a poundshop - which sold a dizzying array of things from kitchenware to pencil cases, make-up, gardening tools and stationery, with almost everything for a $1.50. I almost had to be carried out.<br />
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Perhaps I've got more of a sense of place because we've walked a lot - something Angelinos, and many visitors, don't tend to do. The pavements are quiet, many lined with statuesque palm trees, and the high-rise skyline I was expecting just isn't really there (with the exception of the financial district). Instead we've found the original hispanic pueblo, just across from Union Station, where tribal dancers were - literally - shaking their tailfeathers,<br />
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spectacular views from the little-known (and free) viewing deck on the 37th floor of City Hall - we were the only people there<br />
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and a surprising amount of rather lovely period architecture.<br />
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But there have been moments of reassuringly predictable bonkersness too, most notably at our second hotel, the Line, currently LA's hippest address. This is a hotel where two of the bedroom walls are plain, exposed cement. The third wall looks identical, but its actually specially designed wallpaper, made to match the...er, cement. The ceiling covering in the huge lobby is hundreds of crumpled t-shirts carefully pieced together and the restaurant menu doesn't have any words on it, just pictures. Could it <i>be</i> any more LA?<br />
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Three days isn't long, but LA struck me as a multi-faceted, multi-cultural city that in some ways is quite under-rated. I wish we'd had time to do Hollywood and Beverly Hills, particularly in Oscar week, but at 6pm last night we pulled out of Union Station, headed for Santa Fe. But that's a different story altogether...<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-54079836298489996232015-02-17T22:52:00.001-08:002015-02-17T22:52:46.214-08:00Tropical Island Holidays: Fantasy v Reality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="text-align: left;">So farewell, Fiji. My week on the islands was definitely the most challenging of the whole trip; involving everything from tribal ceremonies to impromptu drinks with millionaire hotel owners and unexpected glass-blowing. The itinerary was crazy, but the last three days on classic Robinson Crusoe-esque islands did give me some to reflect on the whole 'fantasy' tropical island holiday.</span></div>
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Before I go on, I should say that in my opinion, for a classic palm-trees-in-the-breeze, paradise-isle holiday, Fiji knocks it out of the park. Compared to the Maldives/Mauritius these islands really have that castaway feel<br />
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(not least because the island where Tom Hanks filmed Castaway is one of them). But one of the things this blog is for is to write honestly about things, and I do feel that this kind of holiday is something people spend thousands and thousands on, and sometimes end up disappointed. So here's a few things to consider, based on my experiences in Mauritius, the Maldives and now Fiji, that travel agents and tour operators (and, sadly, often travel features) may fail to mention.<br />
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First, the weather. I've lost count of the people I know who have been on tropical island holidays and had bad weather. Sun isn't guaranteed.<br />
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I was in Fiji during the rainy season, so grey skies were to be expected - but when I went to the Maldives, several years ago (supposedly in the 'dry' season), it rained all week. Weather patterns are changing everywhere and there are no guarantees; if you get a week of unbroken sunshine, anywhere, you're lucky. <br />
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Secondly, getting there. Unless you're seriously loaded and can afford a seaplane or helicopter, you'll invariably go by boat. These crossings can be pretty bloody scary; in Fiji the weather was kind and my half-hour zip across from one island to another was relatively smooth (while still being quite bouncy).<br />
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But in the Maldives, as we sailed towards hulking black clouds, I genuinely thought I was going to drown. Choppy conditions are not uncommon.<br />
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Thirdly, wildlife. If you come in the wet season, as I did, its a bit of a mosquito-fest. But all tropical islands are home to all manner of creatures; gekkos skittered across my floor, a crab was waiting on my doorstep one night, a frog the night before There are bats in the trees and mongoose in the bushes. The great thing in Fiji is there are no snakes and nothing poisonous. But if you're not a wildlife fan, it can be an issue.<br />
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Fourthly, other people. At Likuliku I went to have a sunset beer at the over-water bar.<br />
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I was by myself, so it didn't matter, but there was a gang of about eight Americans being really loud and shouty (and this is supposed to be a quiet, couples-only resort). If I'd been trying to have a Romantic Moment, it would have spoilt it entirely. Island resorts are often small, so you do trip over the same people all the time.<br />
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Fifth, it's all done for you. Obviously a lot of people like this. But if you're the sort that likes to go yomping off exploring, or discovering a place for yourself, it's virtually impossible. Fiji has an incredibly vibrant indigenous culture, and many resorts run trips to local villages, schools etc. But they are tour group excursions - difficult to explore on your own.<br />
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Sixth, the sea. It's all about the beaches, right? <br />
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Yet quite often the beaches aren't really swimmable. In the Seychelles strong currents make some beaches unsafe for swimming. In Fiji/the Maldives its often simply too shallow, particularly when the tide goes out. If swimming/snorkelling in the sea is a big thing, choose your resort carefully.<br />
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If this all sounds overly negative, set it against the fact these islands are idyllically beautiful, utterly peaceful and have crystalline seas and all the swishing palms you could wish for. What you don't get - and what is so often sold - is perfection. Fiji was full of character and tradition, and so different<br />
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that it seems almost dreamlike now, thousands of miles away in the familiar hustle and bustle of a first world city. Santa Monica beach was drenched in sunshine this morning, perfect for an alfresco breakfast, but I missed the <i>otherness</i> of Fiji; the ladies with hibiscus flowers in their hair, how everyone beamed and said 'bula' all the time, the beautiful harmonic singing. Expect <i>different </i>on a tropical island holiday and you won't be disappointed. Expect perfection...and you just might be.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-31949797478234677722015-02-13T11:50:00.001-08:002015-02-13T11:55:49.579-08:00A few thoughts on Fiji...<div class="MsoNormal">
Its not even 7am in Fiji and I'm already up and sitting
outside my <i>bure</i>, </div>
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listening to the sea
lap gently onto the sand. There's utter
silence apart from the birds, which is not surprising, considering I'm now
half away from Vitu Levu (Fiji's biggest island) by boat, at a small island
resort. And it's idyllic. The sea is so clear that when all the
snorkellers had gone last night I wandered around up to my knees and fish as long
as my hand swum by. It's possibly the
clearest sea I've ever seen.</div>
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But this state of general blissed-outness has taken a while
to arrive at. Fiji has been an
interesting experience and the main lesson I would take away is <i>always</i> do some research about where
you're going (you'd think I'd have learnt this by now!) Never just assume. Fiji is a country unlike any others I've
visited and I was definitely on the backfoot for the first few days, playing
catch up between my assumptions (chilled out beach islands) and the reality
(traditional, village-based society with resorts along the coast).</div>
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I've also been quite cross at the itinerary the tourist
board made up for me; a different hotel every night, which means constantly
moving (Suva's tiny airport was quite an experience, this is the scales they use for weighing bags)</div>
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and never getting the chance to stay long enough to really discover
anywhere. But now I'm here, on this tiny
fleck in the middle of the ocean, I'm glad that I got to spend time on the main
island, where I could get more an insight into authentic Fijian life. Many visitors fly into Nadi, catch a cab
through the expat houses and resorts on Denarau to the port and then spend
their time here, or somewhere like it.
It's idyllic, but you don't see much of Fiji itself - this is the big market in Suva</div>
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and the open-sided buses everyone gets around on</div>
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And now is the time to come, I think, because tourism is
changing Fiji, as it does everywhere.
It's seen as a force for good here - all the land on the islands is
Fijian-owned, no non-Fijians can buy land, so there's no high-rise apartment
blocks and even the biggest resorts are low-rise and non-intrusive. Right now, life in the villages sounds like
(mythical) Britain in the 1950's; doors are always open, everyone knows each
other, people share what they have. And
a lot of cava drinking goes on. But on
every lamp-post in Suva, the main city, there are mobile phone advertisements
and Stephen, the GM here on the island, was talking ruefully last night about
the change he sees in what today's kids want for Christmas (iPads, phones etc)
as opposed to his generation.</div>
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Change comes everywhere of course and its the classic
tourism conundrum; it brings money in which is good, it often changes things
for the better, but old ways tend to be lost.
In Fiji, however, tourism isn't new (my resort, Castaway, has been here
for almost fifty years) so maybe the changes won't be too radical. It is a different kind of tourism to anywhere else too - I've never been sung at so much - here's the reception committee for our arrival boat yesterday...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpWZYAKEy8Cy_s0NuZtfVmV7eLejxO_GUvng3gkPapTN-z5KdjXch6hhu09p7o1Nl5Yp-u9POxix9nLCt13E1QMrpigyHWBCo71RaStC89h2IPHhdWdH7GrFK8w9-Js6ey9o5dIOVU0Jj/s1600/P1020427.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizpWZYAKEy8Cy_s0NuZtfVmV7eLejxO_GUvng3gkPapTN-z5KdjXch6hhu09p7o1Nl5Yp-u9POxix9nLCt13E1QMrpigyHWBCo71RaStC89h2IPHhdWdH7GrFK8w9-Js6ey9o5dIOVU0Jj/s1600/P1020427.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Today I'm moving again, to another island and there'll be
another hotel tour and another hosted dinner; full-on again but a great way to gain more of an insight into the country.
Last night's was hilarious, with the hugely camp and very entertaining
Lingo, who was rather like a Fijian Om Puri. And this was my walk to dinner </div>
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so I can't really complain. Strolling back, the stars were mind-blowing.<br />
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Like the best of travel, Fiji has been fascinating, challenging, rewarding and utterly beautiful. Oh, and I've also learnt glass-blowing. As one does on a South Pacific island, obviously. Here's a pic as proof. Happy Saturday.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-17719291052054887912015-02-10T21:09:00.002-08:002015-02-11T02:04:05.436-08:00And now for something completely different...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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"Oh you are English?" said my taxi driver, as we pulled away from Nadi airport and the Fijian forests began to rise up around us. "A lot of English people have been eaten here."</div>
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As opening gambits go, it's not <i>exactly</i> what you're hoping to hear, particularly as a single traveller, and I think it's fair to say that Fiji hasn't totally knocked my socks off in the first 24 hours. But then that is the problem with this kind of travel; leaving behind the rarefied beauty of New Zealand, </div>
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where I had my own car to explore, means that arriving in Fjij - on a tight tourist board timetable, with hotel inspections and early car pick-up times every morning - was going to come as a bit of a shock.<br />
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Fiji certainly feels more...hmmm....off-piste than I thought it would. <br />
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I'm kind of imagined it like Mauritius for the Australian/NZ market, but apart from the coastal strip - which is, unsurprisingly, dotted with resorts, it feels like stepping into a very different world.<br />
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Under a million people live in the whole Fijian archipelago, and life outside the cities carries on much as it always has; communities live in villages, each village has a chief, and all sorts of ceremonies and traditions are still observed (thankfully the eating English people one seems to have gone by the wayside).<br />
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As has been the way with every leg of this trip, an astonishing amount has been packed into my first 24 hours. My first night was at the kind of resort I'd normally swerve; a kind of theme park version of Fiji (although it does look lovely in the pic),<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUstCiI6RhcUiLNTbJxZQ5YCq4zYjavzq9_obuIT5uDb7F_1FVVVR6lnUgiQcoyjJN8_UFs9O1z_CCu7-8F6HAIaKOVIhymon2fjGm1nNWclNY5kEBMC-HN86aMQDTEVqy3eVQzFzUUlz/s1600/P1020384.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUstCiI6RhcUiLNTbJxZQ5YCq4zYjavzq9_obuIT5uDb7F_1FVVVR6lnUgiQcoyjJN8_UFs9O1z_CCu7-8F6HAIaKOVIhymon2fjGm1nNWclNY5kEBMC-HN86aMQDTEVqy3eVQzFzUUlz/s1600/P1020384.JPG" height="320" width="238" /></a></div>
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although watching the local dancers give a performance was fun (although I could have done without the part where one of the dancers mock-charged me with a spear, oh how we laughed).<br />
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But one of the best things about this trip is the people I've met. Today was no exception; at 9.30am this morning I found myself glass-blowing in the outdoor studio of the lovely Alice, from Devon, who has lived in Fiji with her husband and family for nine years, and is a professional glass blower. Really, you couldn't make it up. (there would have been a pic, but just discovered I've left my camera in the taxi, grrr).<br />
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Today's resort is more upscale and tucked away, and although it's not actually billed as a wildlife adventure hotel, I appear to be sharing my room with a mongoose and a lizard. Actually, the mongoose is currently hanging out with me by the pool, God knows what the lizard's up to. Finding my camera,, hopefully.<br />
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All this was written before I got a note under my door inviting me to a 'surprise' at 6pm, which turned out to be a traditional 'Cava' ceremony, which basically involved me sitting cross legged in front of quite a scary bunch of chaps,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJARSdKO8rvfZrHQOhy8fLYJKCBzoG2u9WkCNere9k36y81QYDKYtTGMDjxCKOIG2weT5-FBp4Qm3GFDeA_tCt8lP3Rd5w1ugBmX6J7FmUYr5OVoIi9tPDoGvYf8D4j_7wO8vxDr6EAgPD/s1600/image1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJARSdKO8rvfZrHQOhy8fLYJKCBzoG2u9WkCNere9k36y81QYDKYtTGMDjxCKOIG2weT5-FBp4Qm3GFDeA_tCt8lP3Rd5w1ugBmX6J7FmUYr5OVoIi9tPDoGvYf8D4j_7wO8vxDr6EAgPD/s1600/image1.JPG" /></a></div>
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while they made 'cava' - a drink of powdered roots which is a staple part of village life. By the time he'd finished wringing out the roots, and mopping round the bowl, it looked like muddy water. Which is exactly what it tasted like.<br />
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There comes a point when nothing can surprise you any more. So the frog pinging past us at dinner didn't raise an eyebrow, nor did the mud crab, skittering across the drive when I parked up my swanky transport for the evening. <br />
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I am, lets face it, the new Bear Grylls. Just off to double lock the patio doors.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-67574314045342832842015-02-07T23:33:00.002-08:002015-02-07T23:46:02.721-08:00Adventures in Tribal Lands (Part Two)......so the Hangi dinner was over, night was falling across the lake and the brave few were off to put on their waders to go down to catch an eel or two. Was I among them???<br />
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Well, obviously I'd have LOVED to do it, but I had an appointment at eight the next morning with Maurice,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzKdlgjpNs8RoFJHqX7AiTbBhCK7ksW91kbdkaDjuL4HI3Tmqcc78lh4PmwZqXmwkji6mouYWtGFlQBjk6aci_WYqXgR9jhn0OvJFCxyBGY34K-smm2V58E9faJQeYEE-0XAZAIz6Yds3/s1600/P1020318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIzKdlgjpNs8RoFJHqX7AiTbBhCK7ksW91kbdkaDjuL4HI3Tmqcc78lh4PmwZqXmwkji6mouYWtGFlQBjk6aci_WYqXgR9jhn0OvJFCxyBGY34K-smm2V58E9faJQeYEE-0XAZAIz6Yds3/s1600/P1020318.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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a Maori elder and Dad of Karl (co-owner of the lodge), who was taking me on a tour of their tribe's Marae (their equivalent of a town/community hall) and on into the Whirinaki rainforest for a bit of a stomp. Since the eelers weren't going to be back before midnight, regretfully I had to decline.<br />
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But my time with Maurice was a unique treat -he was able to tell me everything from what it was like growing up when tribe all lived together round the Marae; before they used money and simply lived off the land. He's also part of the commission for his tribe, the Ngati Manawa, involved in reclaiming their land from the government - some 176,000 hectares. He was fascinating, open <i>and </i>honest about being a Maori; it took ten years for the land reclamation to be agreed, and when I asked him if he ever doubted it would happen, or felt like giving up, he said firmly 'Maori never lie down. When they want something they just keep going.'<br />
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A visit to the Ngati Manawa's Marae, was fascinating; inside the main building<br />
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were wood carvings of every tribe, through which every Maori can trace his heritage. Everything happens at the Marae; birthdays, funerals, parties, story-telling, community meetings. I couldn't take pictures inside the building, but this was one of the chiefs depicted outside (a particularly scary one apparently).<br />
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From there we went up to the rainforest, where Maurice knew every tree, plant, shrub, pathway, from having spent months at a time living in the forest. <br />
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The Whirinaki Forest is miles from anywhere, and yet when we walked out of the rainforest there were a couple of minibuses of walkers tying up their boots, readying for a walk. Tourism gets everywhere, but here - because its so low-fi and small in numbers, its generally seen as a good thing<br />
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Driving away from the land owned by the Ngati Manawa, I genuinely felt like I was coming back from somewhere incredibly different. And the contrast was made even stronger when I happened across Te Puia in Rotorua ; a Maori 'cultural attaction' combining spectacular hot springs<br />
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demonstrations of Maori crafts such as weaving and carving, a recreated village, wildlife projects and the chance to watch some traditional music and dance. Intrigued to see how different it would be I paid up and went in, along with several zillion other people. To be honest, I rather enjoyed the haka and the singing, even if it was quite touristy...<br />
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but it did make me think how different, and wonderful, my experience with Maurice had been, at a real Marae, out in vast swathes of empty fields.<br />
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On, then, to the Coromandel Peninsula, where I sit now with the most glorious view - a long, sandy, totally undeveloped beach almost close enough to touch. I swam this afternoon, with just one other person in the water, the odd wave rolling in, and the mountains in the distance a pale lilac shade of blue.<br />
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I think this might just be one of the most idyllic places I've ever been (its called Kuaotunu Bay) - and hey, guess what, its bloody miles from anywhere. But I'm used to that by now.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-52616331329506088412015-02-07T01:22:00.000-08:002015-02-07T01:24:43.471-08:00Adventures in Tribal Lands (part one)Forty-eight hours in New Zealand can be a very long time indeed. Somehow, in the last two days, I've done the following; had a cold cider in the company of a wild boar, tried tightrope walking, eaten dinner that's been cooked in hessian and a layer of mud, trekked in rainforest, joined a busload of twentysomething backpackers, watched a haka, and been invited eel-fishing in the stilly watches of the night (but more of that later).<br />
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So much has happened it's hard to know where to start - or end, which is why this blog post is a two-parter. I supposed it really all began yesterday, when I had to leave my cottage with its gorgeous view of Lake Taupo<br />
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saddle up my SUV and head into the hills.<br />
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The day before had been a gentle introduction to New Zealand's diverse, gorgeous, unspoilt empty landscapes, criss-crossed with roads that seem to barely ever see a driver. God, but driving in this country is fun; I channelled my inner rally driver to whizz along the wonderfully-named Forgotten World Highway, stopping off to get my passport stamped at the Independent Republic of Whangamomona (population 15), and crawling along the unmade road through the spectacular Tangarakau gorge, trying to take pictures over the steering wheel as I drove. <br />
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None of which prepared me for my foray deep in Maori tribal lands, when I left the main highway to drive through mile after mile of towering pines (turns out its the biggest man-made forest in the world). I drove on through the small Maori town of Murepara, and finally ended up at a ramshackle lodge that wasn't actually in the middle of nowhere - it was beyond that, a good few kms beyond. From the moment I arrived the day went bonkers - off to meet the owners family and then catapulted onto a backpacker bus who were touring the tribal lands before all staying at the lodge as well.<br />
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Surreality aside, it was an amazing glimpse into Maori culture and life. Dinner was a hangi - a traditional feast where they wrap meat and vegetables in hessian sacks on hot stones, cover it with mud and leave it to steam cook for three hours. Here, Karl is throwing water on the meat and hot stones to create steam...<br />
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before its covered in sheets of hessian, and the great shovelfuls of mud<br />
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If it sounds naff and touristy it wasn't (I've done that version of Maori culture today too, but more of that in part two). Perhaps because it was SO back-woods, so low-fi, it just felt genuine. Plus, after dinner we all packed up the leftovers into boxes to give to the elderly in the village - normally guests take the leftovers into the local school the next morning, but it was the weekend so the olds were in luck.<br />
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What's so fascinating is how much Maori (they actually pronounce it Moudi) culture is a part of society here. There are massive issues - Maori's are in the process of being given back huge swathes of land that were originally theirs, and that's breeding resentment in some quarters. And there's problems in Maori society; lack of work in places like Murepara means drugs, gangs and crime.<br />
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But I've learnt an amazing amount in the last few days about a real tribal culture - and one that is still very much alive (and one that feels, according to every Maori I've spoken to, quite fortunate compared to other indigenous peoples, such as the Aborigines). It adds another layer to this slightly other-worldly, far-flung, spectacularly beautiful land.<br />
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Anyway, back at the bonkers lodge the wild boar had just ambled past my front door,<br />
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and the sun was starting to set on the lake,<br />
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I'd tried my hand at tightrope walking (as you do) and the hour of eel-fishing was almost upon me. Could I avoid it?<br />
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Wait till tomorrow to find out...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-46041579197157322802015-02-05T01:39:00.000-08:002015-02-05T01:39:54.079-08:00Of wearyness and other woes...<br />
Well this point had to come, and to be fair I knew it would come around now. I am shattered. Knackered, exhausted, pooped and brain-mashingly tired. Arriving into Auckland at midnight is one thing, having to turn round and check-in for a second flight at 7am the following morning does kind of feel like pushing it a bit. (I should add at this point if you're keen on pix, you might want to skip this blog post - I haven't got the energy to sort any out!)<br />
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And doing it solo does, in all honesty, make it a little harder. No-one to make you laugh, or remind you that you're on the trip of a lifetime so bloody spark up; no-one to say - have you checked the safe (no, so I left my passport in it...) Or, have we double-checked the room (no, so I left my credit card in it...) or, maybe you should screw the top on that bottle of bright blue nail varnish a bit tighter (I didn't, so it leaked all over my sponge bag).<br />
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Travelling solo is daunting and rewarding in equal measure. You meet people more, you chat, you interact in a different way - from the lovely car hire man who paternally told me I 'clearly had too much on' to the sweet customs guy who reassured me I wouldn't get arrested for taking a half-eaten bag of peanuts through custome. You reach into yourself to find resources you didn't know you had. Arriving at my hotel to find there's a dinner planned with half a dozen people I don't know isn't <i>exactly </i>my dream scenario right now, but where there's an iron, some lippy and a large glass of white there's always a way.<br />
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For anyone considering a solo trip I would say do it, absolutely. It's a great feeling to be thousands of miles away, knowing that you got yourself there under your own steam and that you're having an adventure all of your own making. My main advice would be to remember that you see places much quicker when you're travelling solo - particularly cities. There are no long lunches, no lazy afternoons, there's no-one to lie on the beach with, so you tend to get round places much quicker. Four days in Sydney was plenty to get in the main sights; by the fifth day I felt almost as if I was hanging around for my flight.<br />
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Try and keep your arrangements simple too - two flights and complicated car hire and insurance docs in 12 hours made for a mass of paperwork and admin. You are more likely to forget things when you're travelling alone - so keep it simple. And use social media and email with care - its a huge plus in terms of eating alone - the iPad is the solo diner's best friend - but if you spend too much time in touch with peeps at home, it can make you feel even more on your own.<br />
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But enough with the prosaic stuff, back to the travels. I haven't seen a huge amount of NZ yet, just the small town of New Plymouth, dominated by the huge Taranaki volcano (picture isn't mine, its grey and rainy today). <br />
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It feels agreeably frontier town-ish and the flight up from Auckland was a soothing 40-minute glide over lush agricultural landscapes that looked almost English. I'm looking forward to tomorrow, saddling up my shiny SUV and heading for the hills.<br />
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Time for a bit of a siesta I think, before the whole dinner shebang kicks off. But the stresses of the morning have been soothed away by a long walk along New Plymouth's beach promenade, watching the waves glide in towards the rocks. It's the one constant in travel, for me at least; whether Bondi or Brighton or the black sand shoreline around here; reassuring and peaceful - the perfect antidote for a very tired mind.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-39320837939639463922015-02-01T23:59:00.001-08:002015-02-02T00:02:39.339-08:00Of hotels...and other Sydney stories...<br />
Somehow, it's time for online check-in again (one of those things that's supposed to make things easier, but never does. What's the point, when you have to check your bag in anyway, like normal check in? Sigh.) It's been an interesting few days in Sydney, quite work focused, punctuated by wide, windswept beaches, some really great food and a LOT of hotels.<br />
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Hotel World fascinates me. It's more competitive than professional sport and more full of Nathan Barley-esque 'strengthening the brand' nonsense than you would believe. I visited a hotel a couple of days ago where the bowler-hatted door-girls were actually called the 'Directors of Chaos'. Yes, really. I've drunk cocktails pulled out of glass domes of cherry-oaked steam. I've seen hotels converted from wool factories and department stores and been in a suite where Princess Diana stayed (this isn't a rare thing, that girl got around). It's been quite a weekend.<br />
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In some ways Hotel World is a world full of nonsense and hyperbole and quite a lot of complete b***ocks, but the upside is that hotels are generally staffed by genuinely charming and interesting people. You can't work front of house in hotels - at any level from reception to GM, without being good with people. Usually a dinner with anyone from a hotel is good fun, even if it is a bit like a wierd work-y blind date. And if they're a tad indiscreet (which the best ones never are, sadly) its even better. You realise just how much people who work in the hotel industry known about all of us, particularly celebs. Discretion is clearly one of the key skills in their line of work.<br />
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But inbetween the hotel visits, what will I take away from Sydney? The opera house for one; I booked myself a cheap ticket to Tosca on Saturday night and it was an absolute highlight of the trip so far. The seat, supposedly restricted view, was great, the opera had subtitles so even a complete novice like me could understand the plot (which was fab; love, betrayal, sexual blackmail, murder - it was like Corrie with singing) and just to be in that amazing building, glass of bubbles in hand, so far away from home...was a really intoxicating feeling.<br />
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I hadn't expected Sydney to be such a mix - the predictably gleaming modernist towers of Downtown, but loads of grand Victorian buildings<br />
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and also old frontier-style frontages that remind you how recent the city's history is.<br />
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The city is dotted with statues of men (always men, predictably) who founded a settlement, or started the wool trade, or did some other 'first'. It made me think how little there is left for us to achieve or explore or discover. I s'pose that's why Richard Branson's always barking on about space travel.<br />
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This is a hearty, outdoorsy city; on the weekend I couldn't understand why everywhere was so quiet - until I went to Coogee Beach and realised that was where everyone was. Teeming with people, I put off visiting Bondi until a weekday - hoping it would be quieter. It was - and it's a stunning beach - white sand, huge rollers<br />
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- but it did make me homesick for the undeveloped beauty of Devon's Croyde Bay - quite possibly my favourite beach in the whole of Britain.<br />
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From a travelling point of view, if I'm honest, it feels less of an adventure than my time in Asia. There's plenty to see and do in Sydney, it's an easy city to like, people are really friendly and the food is fantastic. But I'm looking forward to saddling up my drive in NZ and heading out into some serious countryside.<br />
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Ironically, I did find a little bit of Asia in the heart of the city this morning, in the Chinese Garden. I'll leave you with a pic of it. It really was lovely.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-13668262640676618002015-01-30T16:25:00.000-08:002015-01-30T16:30:37.880-08:00Letter from the other side of the world<br />
So the two-week mark approaches. A third of the way through already. I've left Asia behind and now Saturday morning dawns in sunny Sydney.<br />
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A good time to take stock, reflect and take an honest look at the whole travelling business, as promised in one of my first posts.<br />
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The first thing that needs saying is on a trip like this you have to pace yourself. When we fell off the train at Singapore after two nights of very broken sleep we were completely knackered. And so we spent a day pottering gently rather than whizzing round the city, and the evening watching telly on You Tube in our dressing gowns. However much there is to see, it will all be there tomorrow. Tiredness is a real killer; it dampens down the joy of exploring and makes things feel more of an effort than they really are.<br />
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Secondly, do your research thoroughly. This avoids the moment when you pitch up at the airport and and hear the immortal words; 'your boarding pass won't print because you don't have a visa.' It simply never occurred to me I'd need any kind of visa for Australia. The lesson is; never assume. It's sheer luck that the Qantas desk was open and I could buy a a last minute visa (thirty five quid, rather than free, if I'd done it in advance). Otherwise this would have been an extended post on the joys of Changi airport.<br />
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The whole food thing is an interesting one. Eat the street food, everyone always tells you. And we did - plates of rice and stir fries in hawker markets, fragrant bubbling fish on Yarowat Street in Bangkok's Chinatown. Did we suffer for it? A little, to be honest, but nothing serious. But it can be a bit daunting - no-one wants to spend any of their precious time away unable to leave the bathroom. The old advice that if you can see it being cooked, and its fresh off the flame then it will be fine - is good. But if you're still unsure, join a locally-run food tour, which offers the reassurance that the stalls picked will be a good bet. Or swerve it altogether if it you're not sure - travelling shouldn't be about feeling pressure to do things you don't really want to.<br />
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I guess the final lesson is - talk to people. I'm lucky - a lot of this trip is for work, so I'm constantly having coffees and lunches with people. Last night I had a fascinating evening, learning about how the Sydney coffee shop siege affected the city, and the love-hate relationship the Aussies have with New Zealanders. In Singapore, talking to local workers gave an insight into what life in one of the world's most pristine cities is really like.<br />
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The girl I was chatting to last night works in tourism, and she was saying how differently people travel. According to her, Chinese visitors tend to travel in a 'tick it off' kind of way - a picture of the Sydney Opera House is enough, on to the next thing. For me, travel is about getting under the skin of somewhere, getting little insights into what makes a city or country tick. Even going to the launderette - this morning's glamorous adventure - gives a little snapshot of a city going about its everyday life.<br />
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It does feel quite a thing, though, to be on the other side of the world. Coming face to face with the opera house yesterday was quite a moment; face to face with something I'd seen hundreds of times on TV and films. I've just booked a ticket for Tosca, (and will do my best not to fall asleep, as I did at the Met in New York) and can't wait to sweep up the steps (not in a street cleaner kind of way). Here's a pic. Happy Saturday.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-65494225919214964862015-01-28T20:48:00.002-08:002015-01-29T02:43:39.740-08:00Singapore in pictures<br />
I'm not sure I've ever been anywhere as sorely underestimated as Singapore. Bland, sterile, sanitised - it's regularly called all those things, and yet for me its a fascinating mix of futuristic business hub, colonial outpost, and an ethnic melange that means you can eat dim sum for breakfast, daal and chapati for lunch and meze for supper all within strolling distance of each other.<br />
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It's a truly crazy city; 5.5 million people squeezed into 760 square kilometres - just slightly more than twice the size of the Isle of Wight, with 85% of the population living in high rises. Part Manhattan, part Asia, it's<i> anything </i>but bland. But rather than me wittering on, better just to let the pictures do the talking.<br />
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First up, the city's spectacular $1 billion Gardens by the Bay. They make the Eden Project look like my back garden. <br />
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Fabulous display for Chinese New Year ; 2015 is the year of the goat, thus the, er, flower clad goats...</div>
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Outside the Supertrees - 25-50 metre high vertical gardens are like something out of a sci-fi movie<br />
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and overlooking it all the mammoth 2,000 room Marina Bay Sands hotel complex. Check out the boat-like level on top - home to a huge alfresco infinity pool, bar and restaurant - the right-hand end is the largest overhanging structure in the world.</div>
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Away from the futuristic bay area, different ethnic communities have their own areas of the city. In Chinatown, the streets are gearing up for Chinese New Year (19th Feb)</div>
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while Little India feels like being in a completely different country</div>
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sadly I was too busy scoffing meze to take a pic in the Arab quarter.</div>
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Eating out is a huge part of Singaporean life; from hawker markets where dozens of different stalls offer ethnic food of every variety (Lau Pa Sat Below) to Blumenthalesque eateries serving up cheesecake pills and truffle polystyrene (yes, really).</div>
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And on every street corner, spilling from every building, are plants, flowers, trees, shrubs - lush greenery that softens the gleaming angles of the office buildings and apartment blocks. It's not the polite-potted-plant version that dots English cities, but towering palms, rich clusters of banyan trees - you get the sense that if it wasn't controlled, the plants would quickly just take over the city, wrapping around buildings, draping the malls in layers of greenery. A kind of tropical Day of the Triffids, only without everyone having to end up on the Isle of Wight.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLNMTnZ8_KMU27p4DKG7g2JGq8iJVbe9i4k-WkM0iyMQI8GmI1zp2A-ZEk0EE2-t93thpT0OL72iRzS4T4zAfhpa0r2cl06ypARw9NV7Jgw467nJIrC9kvL01Tb8Rjp167siqGBpeUSVh/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmLNMTnZ8_KMU27p4DKG7g2JGq8iJVbe9i4k-WkM0iyMQI8GmI1zp2A-ZEk0EE2-t93thpT0OL72iRzS4T4zAfhpa0r2cl06ypARw9NV7Jgw467nJIrC9kvL01Tb8Rjp167siqGBpeUSVh/s1600/IMG_0672.JPG" /></a></div>
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For someone who loves gardens, flowers, plants and all forms of greenery, it's the dream city. But check-in is calling and Sydney beckons. Just time to add a last picture; of Singapore's national flower, the orchid. Beautiful.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7UUzeJCQWGh2cuXlKu_Gu4xEbnjZlzoZJq7mc_txaxJ8tpGavXMPHwuE_JS2ZBt_L7QAamwKG4UGcmqNmY31cLMfGXWRbtdsgjatrEMUGhMuKskFjlySsFh0Tb3l8ztDbLcXltFe5R84/s1600/IMG_0675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm7UUzeJCQWGh2cuXlKu_Gu4xEbnjZlzoZJq7mc_txaxJ8tpGavXMPHwuE_JS2ZBt_L7QAamwKG4UGcmqNmY31cLMfGXWRbtdsgjatrEMUGhMuKskFjlySsFh0Tb3l8ztDbLcXltFe5R84/s1600/IMG_0675.JPG" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-89870353667458355042015-01-27T01:29:00.000-08:002015-01-27T01:31:08.295-08:00The Bridge on the River Mae Klong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
As a little adjunct to yesterday's blog on the train, here is something I wrote on the first day of our rail journey, after we had visited the infamous Bridge on the River Kwai (actually incorrectly named, the bridge is on the river Mae Klong). It didn't seem right to include the dreadful history of the Thai Burma railroad in all the jollyness of the previous blog, but it was also such a moving, place to visit that I didn't want to not write about it. So here's how it felt...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSdtmv0lp3J77BgbcuviuhptfUtkFRswKn-KqpCpCuo8LZ4hBDPyAktySZPIMvrWevHt19gFRVjDvrCINp-pQAbASMj30rhZ8AKWmcebW2zs8CeukIpA-4E36iDVOEjcvVN4llLwOiuUm/s1600/P1020021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSdtmv0lp3J77BgbcuviuhptfUtkFRswKn-KqpCpCuo8LZ4hBDPyAktySZPIMvrWevHt19gFRVjDvrCINp-pQAbASMj30rhZ8AKWmcebW2zs8CeukIpA-4E36iDVOEjcvVN4llLwOiuUm/s1600/P1020021.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's been a sobering morning (Saturday). The picture above is of the Bridge on the
River Mae Klong - made famous by Alec Guinness and William Holden in the well-known film <i>Bridge
on the River Kwai</i>. Different river,
in reality. Different just about
everything else too.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZahaB_bIng4-KAM41OuAJuZQoGr8C1Jiw6a3EWyWZIhRPDuuj6LnizMfDRswUSAX-hTbWnkF3Ya0nPfpG0vkvM99pt6HkpRPqoY7hDdj1bCyd1vIK5hYtNW3bi8I9GPtuRxbkHFPaoEe/s1600/P1020043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZahaB_bIng4-KAM41OuAJuZQoGr8C1Jiw6a3EWyWZIhRPDuuj6LnizMfDRswUSAX-hTbWnkF3Ya0nPfpG0vkvM99pt6HkpRPqoY7hDdj1bCyd1vIK5hYtNW3bi8I9GPtuRxbkHFPaoEe/s1600/P1020043.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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This morning's visit to Kanchanaburi was the first stop on
my E&O train journey from Bangkok to Singapore. It was early when we reached the bridge; off the train at
8.30 am, thankfully before the tourist coaches arrive (and they surely do,
there is a huge number of restaurants around the riverside). For those whose knowledge of Asian Second World
War history is as scanty as mine was, the Thai-Burma railroad was built by POWs to enable
Japan to get military supplies and forces into Burma without having to go round
Singapore and the Malacca Straits, where their ships kept getting sunk. Under truly hideous conditions, thousands of
Brit and American POWs - and even more conscripted Malay, Burmese and Indians -
were forced to build the railroad. The
conditions were unthinkable; tens of thousands died.</div>
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It's always odd visiting somewhere that has been a scene of
real suffering, and yet gradually morphed into a tourist attraction. I felt it most recently in Mostar, Bosnia,
where the rebuilt streets teem with hordes of cruise trippers, browsing the
tourist-tat stands that line the cobbled streets. In Kanchanaburi, the silent bridge straddles
the slow-flowing river, with just the odd boat drifting quietly along on
the water. A monument in itself, flanked
by an ornate temple on the far side of the river, and a clutch of ramshackle
tourist shops and the waterfront restaurants on the other. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5mI7dD5Nt-HZnFQnwOPHfynPLEHWaZqt5nWrcnV1fmLd6HQfDgmszeToGx9LDBSg8UJDLU7sF8ridDWVOluesRPRyB7dpt1qGXt6o1yeJ82toaRVLiIZvtB77L7d7N5mbrcN7Fvuz-jp/s1600/P1020031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5mI7dD5Nt-HZnFQnwOPHfynPLEHWaZqt5nWrcnV1fmLd6HQfDgmszeToGx9LDBSg8UJDLU7sF8ridDWVOluesRPRyB7dpt1qGXt6o1yeJ82toaRVLiIZvtB77L7d7N5mbrcN7Fvuz-jp/s1600/P1020031.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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At first it feels hard to comprehend the hardship that took
place in these tranquil, beautiful surroundings. A trip to the Death Railway Museum, clearly a
life's work for its creator - made it easier to imagine; a careful, detailed
analysis and explanation of life for those who built the railroad, and their
captors. It made me think, not for the
first time, of the sheer unbreakable will that somehow motivates people to keep
on going, even in the most unimaginable conditions. </div>
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The visit ended with a visit to the war cemetery; neat lines
of polished stones, each marking a life that ended thousands of miles from home
in the blistering heat of the bewildering Thai jungle. I read a few of the headstones, but I had to
stop. Too many lives lost, too many
people hurt, bereaved and damaged.
Nothing more to say.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdry-DGQCG_mhXTs2wsZ1snfVlrmnB7WJVcJOrrGJsWJ3rPNOIoMqwnzY3ma_E4Y4DNDDWkMi9NVFFtqu1t2mnGexo_To0JZEX85GB3GusabA1aGf5V2Zohgh8Sp2MJSAjP5cYKMhhfdd1/s1600/P1020039.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdry-DGQCG_mhXTs2wsZ1snfVlrmnB7WJVcJOrrGJsWJ3rPNOIoMqwnzY3ma_E4Y4DNDDWkMi9NVFFtqu1t2mnGexo_To0JZEX85GB3GusabA1aGf5V2Zohgh8Sp2MJSAjP5cYKMhhfdd1/s1600/P1020039.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-61970741650514255702015-01-26T00:04:00.000-08:002015-01-26T00:04:39.919-08:00Murder on the E&O Express<div class="MsoNormal">
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Was it the champagne-guzzling ex-pat couple from Hong Kong; loud, and overly-pleased with themselves? The cute Hawaiian couple, all ex-Californian
charm and wide smiles? Or was it the
neat German husband and wife, hiding a writhing hostility behind their smiley
chattyness? At 3am this morning, it
would have been me who committed murder, as the train bounced and lurched and
groaned on Thai tracks that probably hadn't seen any works since the day we
were laid. I clung to the upper bunk and
wished fervently I hadn't drunk so much water with dinner; a scramble down my
four-rung ladder to our tiny ensuite was challenging enough when the cabin was
lit, let along in the pitch dark with the train likely to leap the tracks at
any moment.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIIDXbddvE0segqBgNvSKwF9upvfMlwFjONRsxIwwXPCBQhNXAhkwpFO_R0bvnhKJk8otZEk95Eiq9qwvV9GrZ68pqLheD_iBKQVs0eK2BxFLBFHRdMGAb9lLna0ztfaQN4K3avp0r5K7/s1600/P1020042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguIIDXbddvE0segqBgNvSKwF9upvfMlwFjONRsxIwwXPCBQhNXAhkwpFO_R0bvnhKJk8otZEk95Eiq9qwvV9GrZ68pqLheD_iBKQVs0eK2BxFLBFHRdMGAb9lLna0ztfaQN4K3avp0r5K7/s1600/P1020042.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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Come the morning, all was forgiven. You can't stay cross in surroundings like
this for long. The E&O train is the
glitzed-up offspring of the Orient Express - only twenty years old, all
gleaming wood and black ties at dinner, plying its route from Bangkok to
Singapore and back again. Three nights to
make it the 1,830 kms through rural Thailand,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MPohigDEGOaIFYlvdd2LwE11TT56U3FYYIH8CnaLjVY-1_mKs3Wudw-HZu9UoWJ25z0GGtCx4M2KUuUBsI8DIR656gOS2WTjtQaGSn100ehRweStSqTcrc3Qazlc0sD0L2pnKnmdSXIo/s1600/P1020075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8MPohigDEGOaIFYlvdd2LwE11TT56U3FYYIH8CnaLjVY-1_mKs3Wudw-HZu9UoWJ25z0GGtCx4M2KUuUBsI8DIR656gOS2WTjtQaGSn100ehRweStSqTcrc3Qazlc0sD0L2pnKnmdSXIo/s1600/P1020075.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
the highlands of Malaysia and the
traffic-studded entry to Singapore...without an ounce of wi-fi on the way (thus
no blog post until now).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqb5K1G964dh651Kc0umNTiljrm7fDDFPR4YYdeP-Bky1DFjxwF8I1u14DGzU1_DR7Ky9hI7YWCPdxNDxYIcqGfmYk1MNPSIdVfKACwsXxZW69I_3n0fJFUwlyqZChEsynI3yB7yhFA2qT/s1600/P1020062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqb5K1G964dh651Kc0umNTiljrm7fDDFPR4YYdeP-Bky1DFjxwF8I1u14DGzU1_DR7Ky9hI7YWCPdxNDxYIcqGfmYk1MNPSIdVfKACwsXxZW69I_3n0fJFUwlyqZChEsynI3yB7yhFA2qT/s1600/P1020062.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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I love train travel, and as someone who's done their time
sweating the unpredictable vagaries of Southern Rail - a touch of luxury feels
due. Ironic, really, as it's just like
cruising on rails - dressing for dinner, early-morning excursions, the same
affluent, post-kids-we're-retired-so-why-not-spend-the-inheritance-ha-ha crowd
that you find on the more highfalutin' cruise ships. And yet while a week on a cruise would
probably drive me insane, train travel is...somehow glamorous. I indulge in my own private fantasy that Cary
Grant will swing by and flirt a little, as he did with Eva Marie Saint in the
Hitchcock classic, North by Northwest. On
the E&O the brushed velvet sofas and antique table lamps of the bar car hit
the spot, particularly with the delightful Peter spinning jazz classics out of
the piano, reminding me of my Dad, singing in a voice that was half Satchmo,
half Animal from the Muppets.<br />
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And all the while, outside, another world is whizzing
past. On the way out of Bangkok the
tracks ran past serious squalor; long-limbed kids in bright cotton frocks
waving frantically, surrounded by piles of clothes, car parts, rubbish, bins,
food containers and house walls of corrugated iron that were slowly falling
down. How do you not feel awkward,
gliding past in a train that's redolent of wealth ? I guess all you can do is
put some of your money into the local economy and make sure that it doesn't ALL
go to international hotel companies and luxury providers. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mGRTH1QqXs0j4xacQJCl67XG4YN533wX0GF4exNUQtkLM5T3vtWkUnNSAWNDMVQ_0FXO7NWzthwYp4-munpPIoPBvWsRwTmV8BWIvMTeaxgxpWMXe9CVXxdMC2inNUarhRW_4-sy5ePu/s1600/P1020020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1mGRTH1QqXs0j4xacQJCl67XG4YN533wX0GF4exNUQtkLM5T3vtWkUnNSAWNDMVQ_0FXO7NWzthwYp4-munpPIoPBvWsRwTmV8BWIvMTeaxgxpWMXe9CVXxdMC2inNUarhRW_4-sy5ePu/s1600/P1020020.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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What's striking, is how markedly different rural Thailand is
from Malaysia. We went to bed in a third
world country and woke up in a first; ramshackle villages replaced by neat
housing estates with tarmac roads holding gleaming cars rather than beaten-up
scooters with entire families balanced precariously on top. In a way, I suppose, Malaysia is like the
halfway house between Bangkok and Singapore; more moneyed but not entirely
sanitised.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-wxckAwRAaUDmvxzmNAqpZRnc29wkcKR2qfJfqG7SU_KHrZZI-_B2rpvyUKsjSyprG4p9zZNJu3saF4mQ816Rj4VcLmKbmkLnHRJxL9D4ICBLoqJkggHzMB8JWDQPFLk6gpmEqUPCrZ0/s1600/P1020091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6-wxckAwRAaUDmvxzmNAqpZRnc29wkcKR2qfJfqG7SU_KHrZZI-_B2rpvyUKsjSyprG4p9zZNJu3saF4mQ816Rj4VcLmKbmkLnHRJxL9D4ICBLoqJkggHzMB8JWDQPFLk6gpmEqUPCrZ0/s1600/P1020091.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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The surprise hit was the couple of hours we had in Penang;
an island smorgasbord of races and<br />
culture, with the raffish charm that clings
to port cities, where one street held a spectacular Chinese temple,<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7T3BNG8aDL1ru0-SD63oNkeZamzmm8pK-2w8JEvIpjyW37Z-07i9StZR_Ul__i_TtbuZExgi-i4CEf87geXXqEct32rpCfqhhhqcCxaY_BpICbF3vtWLB3iQ6PTkpLUgzklmgqbtxnogR/s1600/P1020092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7T3BNG8aDL1ru0-SD63oNkeZamzmm8pK-2w8JEvIpjyW37Z-07i9StZR_Ul__i_TtbuZExgi-i4CEf87geXXqEct32rpCfqhhhqcCxaY_BpICbF3vtWLB3iQ6PTkpLUgzklmgqbtxnogR/s1600/P1020092.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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gleaming mosque and CofE church, and the air was filled with
mingling scents; Indian street food, burning incense, bitter coffee. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFxe5Qd_wc38yYS6VwX2sdgEj2vVwxKjDX2EkoaDSJfv75cm5m1bKv7sQ-6_xUQUN-H5j7_V-dDIJV_jD4K4Qt5lnQYQSq5qnYyysDdNHfRAef4a22W0BA1Edr-HGhUmSUOIWZE2aNHkW/s1600/P1020090.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFxe5Qd_wc38yYS6VwX2sdgEj2vVwxKjDX2EkoaDSJfv75cm5m1bKv7sQ-6_xUQUN-H5j7_V-dDIJV_jD4K4Qt5lnQYQSq5qnYyysDdNHfRAef4a22W0BA1Edr-HGhUmSUOIWZE2aNHkW/s1600/P1020090.JPG" height="320" width="238" /></a></div>
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And on every corner, ornate monuments to its
colonial past; so different to Thailand, which somehow escaped the likes of Stamford
Raffles and Frances Light and their messianic belief in the need to cloak Asian
cultures in British bureaucracy. Back on
the train we swept through vertiginous hills blurred bluish in the hazy dusk,
neat-roofed villages clustered at their feet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobLkS6fIgn7BwcdnQBMBhhxSOcGP-0GLLUX43O2Zcv9nlpoD5jYQWmba8HYclpZVcnxPZA7fqOEoXsNedAo2RiJSdU3MzPlB46LvgXBu0Qemx4U6wu6CEUFJs3sUFYmmQcjMlX4hJ_NEa/s1600/P1020113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobLkS6fIgn7BwcdnQBMBhhxSOcGP-0GLLUX43O2Zcv9nlpoD5jYQWmba8HYclpZVcnxPZA7fqOEoXsNedAo2RiJSdU3MzPlB46LvgXBu0Qemx4U6wu6CEUFJs3sUFYmmQcjMlX4hJ_NEa/s1600/P1020113.JPG" height="238" width="320" /></a></div>
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After another night of clinging onto my upper bunk while the train rattled and rolled, its something of a culture shock to find myself among the towering skyline of Singapore. Looking back, it's the beauty of Thailand and Malaysia that lingers; great
swathes of palm trees backlit by hazy blue skies, pea-green paddy fields dotted
with scarecrows and latticed with slim, quiet roads, empty save for the odd
scooter puttering along. It was a real
adventure. And now it's time to get some
sleep.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-91709479844082101542015-01-22T18:34:00.000-08:002015-01-22T18:43:55.210-08:00The Chaotic Charms of Chinatown<br />
Piles of egg fried rice. Check. Prawns in mouth-blasting chilli. Check. Fresh greens in enough garlic to put off Dracula. Check. Crispy fish in hot and sour sauce, bubbling above a small flame. Check. Oh and crispy shrimp cakes and bowls of steamed rice we ordered before we got food envy for the table next door and had to order the egg fried. Dinner in Chinatown, with fuschia taxis, jade-green tuk-tuks and bright orange buses - neat lines of heads framed by the open windows - all rushing past, is not for the faint-hearted.<br />
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If Bangkok is hectic, Chinatown is...hmm, I'm actually kind of lost for words. If this was a movie trailer it would be something like; in the land beyond frenetic, only the nimble-footed survive. Or at least that's how it was during our first visit of the day, when we whizzed down on the MRT after breakfast, stopping off at another blingily-beautiful temple before heading into the madness.<br />
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What's interesting about Chinatown is how incredibly untouristy it is. Walking up the main street, Yaowarat Road, was a bit like an over-heated steeplechase; piles of rubble here, stalls selling New Year decorations there, lines of cream-faced ladies undergoing <i>mang ming</i> - hair whisked from their faces with thin lines of cotton. Down dimly lit <i>sois, </i>or alleyways, grey-haired ladies bent their faces into steaming vats of soup and dim sum, scooters disappeared into the gloom, scarlet paper chains hung limply off grimy walls. And instead of the usual gaggles of tourists you see in other Chinatowns around the world, it felt like we were the only <i>farangs</i> around.<br />
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Keen to get off the main drag we escaped east and found ourselves in Kampang market - a vast Chinese souk, where a thin stream of bodies wove between stalls and shops jampacked together, a mind-boggling array of shoes, bags, jewellery, kitchenware, stationery, anything, everything, and more of it than you could possibly ever need. Every so often a side alley would cross the main artery and the human traffic would slow, while scooters and delivery carts growled at each other, negotiating for space. I feared for my toes, constantly. And of course somehow, squeezed inbetween the shops were more food stalls; battered pans and make-shift fryers serving up steaming broths and noodles, slurped down by the footsore and the bag-laden..<br />
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We'd been told that Yaowarat Road really came alive at night, so we headed back for dinner, to find the street ablaze with bulb-lit food carts and makeshift trestle tables set up for restaurants that really put the pop into pop-up. We settled into Lek and Rut Seafood, where table-clearing consisted of scraping the remains of the previous diners' meal into a bucket beside our feet - and ate like kings. Or queens. Or like two slightly over-excited girls. Which was exactly what we were.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-55226279254829631312015-01-21T18:54:00.001-08:002015-01-22T00:59:45.658-08:00So then, Bangkok...<div class="" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; font-family: HelveticaNeue, 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, 'Lucida Grande', sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">
So, Bangkok. So far, everything you've heard (or at least, everything I heard) is true. It's hot, manic, the traffic's terrible, the temples are astonishing, the food is fantastic and so, so cheap. The streets reek with the scent of fried chicken and petrol fumes and on every corner there are battered carts piled high with fresh fruit, frying pancakes, bubbling dim sum and unidentifiable (and possibly inedible) fried lumps of...um, friedness.<br />
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Yesterday passed off in a whirl of bejewelled temples and towering Buddhas; blistering blue skies and glittering gold decor. With our hands held by a local guide, we discovered the most popular corners of the city; joined the throngs of Chinese tourists at the city's major sights - the Grand Palace, Wat Arun and the Reclining Buddha. Much has been written about them all and I'm sure there's little new to say, apart from to pass on the giddy, almost childish pleasure that stumbling around such vivid, intricate, blindingly bright buildings gave me.<br />
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Today has been a reminder of the joy of exploring with no set aim, destination or site in mind. After a visit to the gorgeous Jim Thompson House (<a href="http://jimthompsonhouse.com/" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors-type="link" x-apple-data-detectors="true">jimthompsonhouse.com</a>) we took a stroll along the adjoining 'klong' - one of the canals that lattice Bangkok, lined with ramshackle houses strung about with lines of washing and battered oil tins holding palm plants and slightly sad-eyed geraniums. Long boats kept swooshing past, ripping up the quiet canal so that it sloshed and banged against the wooden banks, crammed with locals all swaying with the undertow and wearing the same look most of us wear on the northern line of a hot, sweaty summer's evening.<br />
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We decided to jump on, without really knowing how we'd pay, where we'd end up or any particular stop to specify. When the end of the line came we found ourselves at a huge intersection of roads, with signposts to various temples; at Wat Ratchanadda we found vast empty spaces between terracotta-roofed temples housing gleaming golden buddhas, and stumbled across Loha Prasat, an unfinished monument that is the only remaining building of its kind in the world. Built to a unique, concentric design, each floor represents reaching a different stage of inner peace, before attaining nirvana on the very top floor (if only it were that simple). Although open to the public, there was barely anyone there, and as we climbed barefoot up spiral stairs, the low grind of monasting singing hanging in the white-walled air, gilt-coated Buddhas watching us mutely from every corner, I felt as if I was living out my own little Lara Croft fantasy. <br />
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There was something other-worldly about Loha Prasat and for me it was the highlight of a day that included lunch at a streetside foodmarket, where we ate a delicious plate of rice and curry each for 70p (for both of us), a ride the Gleaming Sky Train and a climb to the top of the Golden Mound to peer down at orange-robed monks strolling through the vast monastery complex, phones in hand. And when we headed back; first on the boat, then on the blissfully-cool Skytrain, it was all the more pleasing because we'd done it all by accident.</div>
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Guidebooks are all very well, and guides too; having the charming Perez on our first day meant the city felt a lot less overwhelming. But stumbling across things - setting off without any firm idea of what you're going to find - is still, for me, one of the real joys of travel. </div>
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Bangkok is a city made for adventures, for journeys with no specific destination in mind. It has far less in common with other Asian cities, such as Hong Kong and Singapore, than I'd expected; less international, more undeveloped, less diluted by expat culture and foreign money. That's here too of course, but I've far more of a sense of difference than in either of Bangkok's more cosmopolitan siblings. Over dinner last night we got chatting to American, who bemoaned the hot, hectic streets, the frenetic pace, the slightly bonkers feel. He wouldn't be returning, he said. I can't wait to come back. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-90866837789495346522015-01-19T05:28:00.002-08:002015-01-19T05:28:35.479-08:00A post in praise of the smell of hot Tarmac......and exhaust fumes and hundreds of slightly sweaty taxi drivers. Yes really; that wave of sultry possibilities that smacks you like a wave when you walk out of an airport. Its easy to dismiss it, just part of the necessary business of getting from A to B, but not to revel a little in the grimily-humid atmosphere is to miss a world of beginnings, of journeys starting, of handshakes and awkward greetings and adventures beginning to unfold.<br />
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Every airport does it differently; the crawling lines of yellow cabs at JFK with the taxi booker barking at bewildered tourists to get into cabs; the ripples of tour buses softened by waves of bougainvillea in the coach park at Dalaman. Or ski airports, Salzburg or Innsbruck, where the chug of exhaust fumes is softened by crisp air and greying piles of snow. This afternoon the cement strip and parking lots outside Bangkok airport heaved with the usual mix; a neat row of candy coloured taxis, squat grey minibuses purring quietly, waiting in line; gleaming Mercedes, approached by silver-haired gents and stiffly-coiffed ladies clack-clacking across the Tarmac in their gilt-edged sling backs.<br />
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It struck me on the plane out that, ironically, those of us who write about travel for a living rarely write about exactly that - the travelling. All too often these days it's dismissed as the annoying bit, the getting there - as if the destination itself is all that matters. But the journey, I think, should be enjoyed too - or little moments of it - times when you step back and look at the (literally) hundreds of people in the passport queue in front of you, or milling around on the sticky airport Tarmac and go wow, we are a world on the move, all the time. We take travel for granted I think, but it's a magical, amazing thing.<br />
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Of course it's annoying and frustrating and boring too. And maybe by the time I'm five flights down I won't be waxing lyrical about airport forecourts. I guess you've got to hope so, or this may become the worlds most boring blog. So in order to pep things up, here's a picture of the Bangkok skyline. I know, it's not that great, or exciting...but then sometimes you just have to work with what you've got ....<br />
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...or not. Seems my spangly Bangkok skyline pic won't load. Just imagine lots of shiny tall buildings and teensy cars jam packed below, crawling along. There'll be a photo next time, honest.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-1311540342343578862015-01-18T06:57:00.000-08:002015-01-18T06:57:50.965-08:00Sitting in my hairdressers......listening to the frighteningly perky Ann tell me about her time backpacking around Thailand and Australia and Fiji, it made me wonder if I'm twenty years too old to be yomping off for a round-the-world trip. Straight off, it should be admitted that my backpack -much loved and now much-mildewed - will be staying in the loft, and my six weeks whizzing around the world will not include much time in hostels or dorm rooms. (Ok then, none).<br />
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But who says skipping off around the world should be the preserve of footloose and fancy free twentysomethings? If you can get a sabbatical and you've got the funds, can you really get round the world in six weeks? More to the point, if you're fortysomething and frazzled before you start, will the fifth airport see you snoozing gently into an overpriced gin and tonic, wishing you were on the sofa with Downton? Is the grand old age of 44 just too <i>old </i>to go hotfooting it round the planet at high speed?<br />
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Well, the next six weeks will answer those questions, and more besides I suspect. If I'm not in a coma by seven pm every evening, I'll try and put some thoughts, recommendations, notes and general ramblings on this blog. I'm quite aware that the world needs another travel blog as much as ITV needs another Simon Cowell talent search, so I'm hoping this will be useful rather than whimsical, although I can't promise. If I can work out which buttons to press there might even be photos too.<br />
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Right now, with three continents, 42 days and (at the last count) fifteen hotels, I need to get packing...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6368420358225182620.post-34599372112565085612015-01-14T06:59:00.002-08:002015-01-14T06:59:16.474-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There'll be something to read here soon. Probably. Hopefully. In the meantime here's a picture of Mauritius. Nice, isn't it?<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06701744827845699629noreply@blogger.com0