The Northern Monkey Diaries

Delhi madness

2008-07-18T06:06:00.000-07:00

Delhi is insane. Arriving from Almaty via a bumpy but pleasant flight, C and I grinned at the thought of arriving in India again, the pinpricks of lights wheeling far below us in the darkness of the Delhi landscape through our round window. We sort of knew what was to be expected – two years ago we'd skipped up from Trivandrum on the south coast, hugging the sea line as far as Goa, then took a train to the chaos of Mumbai. Most people on our odyssey had never been to India and were in for a shock – the dirt, the food, the culture, the religions.

C was met at the airport by a driver to take her to her friends' house. Waving goodbye, her and Carolyn shuffled off like turtles with bleary eyes into the noise beyond the arrival gate. I glimpsed two rows of people, holding cards, like some paparazzi gauntlet. I hoped C had a name card waiting for her as the doors shut and I turned to the pre-paid taxi driver to organise our journey to Hotel Good Times.

“Yes sir, ten minutes, no problem.”

Forty minutes later we were outside the airport in a small carpark. Michael S was crammed in the back of a nova, bags piled on top of him, whilst Treanor stared out of the misting windscreen, obviously enjoying the airconditioning. Others were squashed in a six seater, bags on knees, waiting patiently in the cool breeze from the dashboard ports. Meanwhile the rest of us were outside in the clammy closeness of nighttime Delhi air, batting flies and awaiting the next six seater. The Indian taxi men stood with me, smiling nervously and shuffling their feet, as I badgered the main guy about the missing car.

“Very bad traffic sir. It will be here soon.”

The taxi ride was surreal – people sleeping on the sides of roads clad in rags, tuk tuks lurching across junctions like flying beetles, cows aimlessly wandering through traffic with a somnambulent air of invincibility. We sped under flyovers to find a five storey orange god staring down over the train tracks at us, lit up like some supernatural vision. At least the roads were empty at this time of night. We checked in, turned up the airconditioning, and fell into a well earned sleep – we'd been travelling for about 18 hours.

The thumping I could hear wasn't my heart. I finally realised this after ten minutes of disturbed nightmarish sleep. The banging seemed to be travelling down the entire of the hotel, shaking the foundations of the building. Eyes half open I stumbled down to Pavan, the manager.It was 7:00AM

“Very sorry sir, they are demolishing a building next door. There is nothing we can do.”

Little did I realise that the chaos was just beginning. My mission for the day was simple: buy fourteen return tickets for the group to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. I thought I was prepared, I'd handled Mumbai, etc. But by the end of the day my character had been tested more times than I could count.

Taking a tuk tuk down to New Delhi train station at 11:00AM is an experience you don't forget. Growling and sputtering the engine stuttered us into the main traffic just beyond the hotel and my knuckles went white. Vans careered centimetres from the thin metal box I was trapped in, competing with the buzzing motorbikes loaded with three or more people like some hideous parody of Ben Hur. We screeched to a stop as a cow wandered aimlessly into our path, nearly causing a bus to collide into the back of us. There was the giant orange god, overlooking the roundabout, smiling down at the situation below. Perhaps he was there to give hope to the victims trapped in this viscious metal torrent. I gritted my teeth and stared at the buildings opposite: anything to keep my eyes off the traffic.

“Where you from sir? Are you married? We say in India 'no wife no life,' sir.”

The tuk tuk driver dropped me off at New Delhi train station and disappeared into the nexus of green auto-rickshaws behind me. Ahead lay the station itself, a large flat-faced building with a metal awning thronged with thousands of people in long lines, all jostling to get to the stone mouths in the wall for a ticket. I felt a shudder run through me – if I had to queue in these lines it would take me all day, at least five hours to get under the awning and out of the glaring sun. I wandered up and down the end of the lines looking further ahead to the wall where English instructions labelled the different queue line. Where would I start? Dodging a grumpy looking family, elbows out like battering rams and stopping for no-one, I managed to catch the eye of a friendly looking man. Did he know where the tourist queue was?

“Yes sir, up the stairs, straight along, ask in there.”

I buffeted my way through the clamour to the stairs, and made my way past the beggars and the old women with canes, wheezing up the flights towards some unknown destination. A long gangway stretched out ahead to more sets of stairs labeled with different train platforms, through a wooden door-frame next to some guards and a large man in a shirt. Keeping my eye on the signs I wandered towards the frame when a hand came out and stopped me. It was the man in the shirt, his belly sticking over his trousers.

“Where are you going sir? The tourist office is closed,” as he gestured towards the building site to the left of me, concrete pillars with steel rods sticking out like badly plucked eyebrows. “You need to go to government block N, tourist travel centre. Let me take you to autorickshaw.”

What a nice man, I thought, as he escorted me through the human maelstrom towards a tuk tuk with bright pink seats. “10 rupees” he told the guy, gave him the address, and waved me off. What was that nagging feeling in my head? Must be the heat I thought as the tuk tuk turned into a small alley marked Block N. 10 rupees paid, I wandered in the direction the other westerners were taking.

Inside the office was gloriously air-conditioned. Young men in starched shirts, no ties, welcomed me in and sat me down. What did I want? Tickets to Agra. How many people? Fourteen. "Wait one moment, sir." Five minutes later I was escorted into a large office at the back of the shop, sat down on a comfy chair, and introduced to Paz.

“Where you from mate?” he said confidently in an American accent, offering a hand with a beaming grin. “Ah Manchester, 'diamond geezer,' 'cheers mate,' 'apples and pears.'"

Ignoring the glaringly obvious I enquired about the tickets. After a quick check on his computer Paz turned with a frown. “Sorry mate” (emphasis on the mate,) “no tickets available for travel tomorrow.” Ten minutes of patter later it did transpire that he could offer me a minibus to Agra, complete with guide, for 140000 rupees (way over our budget.) There was that nagging feeling again, itching away at the back of my head. Ignoring it I decided to check with the group first, took his number, and left...

... to find the same tuk tuk driver who's driven me into town that morning! Strange coincidences in this town. “What are you doing here?” he asked. After telling him the story of the station he laughed. “This is not right,” he said. “This private company, not government.” Glancing at the “Government Block N” sign painted on the wall it slowly dawned on me that everything was not as it seemed in Delhi, and that it was time to start second guessing everything. “I will take you to government place” he said with a beaming grin, the tuk tuk swinging quickly around. What a nice man, I thought, as we headed once more into the smog and the noise.

Pulling up next to a glass window marked “DDT Government Tourism - government approved” the driver turned off the engine. “I will wait for you” he said, and went off to speak to a friend. Feeling happy about avoiding a scam I entered the air-conditioned office and chatted to a young man who wanted to practice his English. Eventually I was led into a similar office, big desk, tall thick-set Indian man scowling at his computer screen and on his mobile phone. I sat down and waited.

“Hello, how can I help? Train tickets? Let me check.”

The Shabtih express wasn't running on a Friday he said, slowly inching the computer monitor towards him and away from me. As he checked other trains the screen was slowly being pulled out of my eyesight. There was that funny feeling again, I thought, and leaned right across his desk. What's that? The Taj Express? Can I get tickets on that?

“Ah,” he said frowning at my invasion of his desk and monitor space, “You see, there are only six tickets available. You need fourteen.”

And indeed there were only six on the screen. I sat down and narrowed my eyes. He sat back and clasped his hands over his belly, smiling at some unknown thought, until his mobile phone rang. Picking it up, he eyed me slowly as I took out my notes from the previous place and checked the minibus figures. He put the phone down.

“Yes sir, I can offer you a minibus with a guide. 13500 rupees. I think this would be the best option.”

I exited the shop. There was my smiling tuk tuk driver. Resigning myself to the lack of train tickets, a feeling of letting the group down, and the fact we wouldn't be going to Agra to see the Taj, I asked for the “Good Times Hotel” and braced myself for the craziness of the Delhi highway.

As we drove through the dust and the wheels, exhausts bellowing fumes across the street stalls and the pavements, I took a look around with different eyes. This city was enigmatic, too crazy for analysis, too different. It was like the muck and the filth covered everything with a film that the western gaze couldn't penetrate. Who was honest, who was not? How much of the friendliness was real? What was the scam going on? Where did the scamming end?

As I ran through the events of the day, the tuk tuk driver reached under his handlebars and turned on the radio. A thick slooshing bass noise blared from the speakers, sounding like a wet rope of porridge being pulled through a subwoofer at high volume. We stopped at a crossing and a skeletal man wearing only a loin cloth and holding an emaciated baby wove through the shining new cars and the tuk tuks arm outstretched. He lingered at no windows but came straight for me, his eyes like a magnet. Reaching the side of the tuk tuk he pressed his hand to his lips and stared at me hard, a long dark stare speaking of hunger and need. The baby started crying, adding the treble to the rasping whoosh of the speaker. I sat there staring back.

I am the target, I thought. The stupid western target. I have the money and the naievety. I am prepared to take things at face value. I am the tourist, the prize. It was time to wise up: all relations, all events, should be treated with this in mind. Normally I would give the beggar money and not think about the consequences. Not think that the money I give him is far more than he needs to survive, upsetting the local economy. Not think that he might spend it on drugs rather than the baby. Normally I would go into New Delhi train station and take the nice man's word at face value, go to block N, and book an outrageously overpriced minibus to Agra.

And everyone here knows this.

“Turn around. Take me back to the train station. I wan't to check something out.”

The tuk tuk man dropped me around the other side of the station and waited. Walking in it was quieter than the other side. A large man in a shirt walked straight up to me.

“Hello sir, can I help you? You want tickets to Agra? You cannot buy here, the tourist office is closed. They are rebuilding the station. You must go to government block N, tourist travel centre. There you can buy tickets.”

So this was it – the nagging feeling. These men were employed to turn the tourists towards the private companies, government approved or not, so that the tourists could be fleeced for much more than the train tickets. No wonder everyone was so friendly, so accommodating. I knew the score now.

“Thanks my friend, but I must meet my colleague in the station.”

He smiled and watched me go. I walked through a doorway almost literally onto the train tracks, where blue train cars waited patiently and men wandered about their business. I started walking in the direction of the main station, down the sides of the railway tracks, where wooden shanty towns housed thin brown people in rags. Naked children no more than five or six ambled over the metal rails as the sunlight flitted over the green trees and piles of rubbish.

As I was walking I fell into step with a fat, buck-toothed man. Well dressed and frowning he was talking with animation into his mobile phone. I watched him out of the corner of my eye with amusement – he seemed like a cartoon character.

“Oh my dear,” he said as he put his phone down. “My wife is giving me much trouble today.”

We struck up a conversation. He worked for the railway company in management and was off for his lunch. His wife wanted a ring to be bought for her because he had done something wrong at home. His work were giving him hassle over some documentation that needed to be completed. All this was said in a hurried but happy voice. Occasionally he would punctuate his problems with a high pitched laugh, a bit like a Jimmy Saville affectation, making me smile.

We walked for about five minutes. He wanted nothing from me other than conversation and did much to dispel my foul mood at being scammed all morning. This was the India I wanted to see, I was pleased it was out there still. He led me to a tourist office just outside the station and promised me in there they would help me. He left, probably searching for his lunch and a suitable ring.

The office was empty apart from a large man, grimacing over his computer with a world-weary face. He looked up with tired eyes and asked if he could help. Taking me upstairs to a small desk blown with air from a wall-mounted fan, he sighed, opened up his computer, and clicked the keyboard with big fingers. Train tickets? Let me see.

As he deliberated over his slow internet connection and asked where I was from, the sweat patches stood out against his patterned shirt. He had been to Middlesex and had several girlfriends from England. Yes he liked to travel but now he was getting married. An arranged marriage, for the good of his family. Family is everything. He exuded an air of intelligence and sadness.

Taking a risk I told him about my day, leveled with him. Explained how I knew the scam worked. Explained the two scenes in the different offices. Showed him the scribbles I'd made and the calculations. He looked at me and sighed again. The air blew across us from the fan, blowing his cigarette smoke in curling wisps across his desk with a map of India stuck under the glass.

“I hate this,” he said, tapping his fag into an ashtray. “These people don't understand how to do business. Take me for example. I rather give you a good deal so you will pass on the business. I don't lie. There are train tickets, but you can only buy them six at a time. It is an E ticket. The Taj Express will run tomorrow, and we will buy you the tickets now so you can go. All of them. And the returns. How does that sound Mr Croft?”

A smile spread across my face. I liked this man, with his depressed honesty, his tired eyes, and his train tickets. We sat and talked as his slow system struggled with the tickets, typing out the names of the group into the machine. A worker next door brought us tea. We discussed religion and cricket.

Until the power went off.

It had gone in the whole block. We had all of the tickets to Agra, but mine and Alexa's had crashed during the blackout. Just as the day seemed to have been saved from spiralling down some plughole of doom, it had caught in another eddy. Still, I told myself, at least we could get to Agra, and I could just get tickets when there for the train back.

Then Mushtaq restored my faith in Indian hospitality completely. Spreading newspaper over the desk he had several tins and bowls brought out, plates were presented, as well as knives and forks and water. It was his lunch, there was enough for everyone, and would I honour him by eating with him? Mutton curry with rice, a potato dish with daal, all cooked by his brother's wife. It was delicious, and with full stomachs we awaited the return of the power.

Which never came. He promised to ring me at the hotel if it came back on, shook my hand, and I left. I returned later after the phonecall at about 7PM to pick up the final two tickets and bade this interesting and friendly man goodbye for the second time. Somehow I had survived Delhi, had claimed the 14 golden return fleeces, and it had only taken between seven and eight hours.

After leaving Mushtaq's office for the first time I bumped into the second “Block N” man. He approached me cautiously as he could see the massive grin on my face. “Hello my friend. Did you get your tickets?” he asked with a knowing glance. As he shook my hand and told me “well done” I couldn't help feeling quite proud of myself. He seemed impressed I'd negotiated their scheme. I jetted off into the tornado traffic clutching most of the tickets, heading for the feet of the orange god, the promise of a well-earned beer, looking forward to the Taj Mahal.

Bacchus you bastard

2008-07-08T00:06:00.000-07:00

Bishkek is a city of contrasts. Not only is it as cosmopolitan hub, and home to the most beautiful women in the world, but your safety can hang on a plastic plant or a walk down the road.

The former happened last night. Somehow the plant ended up in my soily hand, so obviously I picked it. But the clarity hit when the Kyrgiz bouncer tried to push me over to his burly mates for a kicking. Thankfully I stood my ground, (which was quite surprising considering the amount of vodka consumed)and we jumped in some taxis. I think I picked it as a romantic gesture. I also think it was a silly idea. Thankfully our local friends (mainly a guy from Ilford who had taken us from his enormous expat bar to the club) sorted them out, and Jo paid 500 sum (about 15 dollars) to placate them. I must pay her back.

How I ended up naked in the hotel lift I have no idea. But I remember making eye contact wth myself and my bits in the gold lift mirror and deciding it was time for bed.

The latter happened a few days ago to our truck member Simon. Walking down the road by himself a car pulled up with 4 men inside. Claiming to be police they asked for his passport (which was at the embassy.) Showing them a copy wasn't enough, and after flashing a dodgy card at him two of them circled behind and tried to bundle him into the car. He wedged his foot between the car and the curb as another man tried to pull him in via his pants. Screaming for help (and only mothers and children as witnesses) somehow he fought them off and retreated to the safety of the Chinese eatery where we were sat. He is one lucky man. This has happened to several of our travelling friends that we met in the homestay as we have waited for our visas. One man had $3000 dollars pickpocketed during a shopping spree.

It has been a long long time since I wrote down anything. Uzbekistan was the last post and a lot has happened since then. A quick run through in list form will have to suffice because I feel rotten, humidity is high, and I need to sleep rather than sweating all over this russian keyboard. The following list is in no particular order:
1. Being pushed in an Uzbek pool at a Mozilla Firefox party (?) by Pete
2. Pushing Russian teenagers into the pool because I thought it was them.
3. Wrestling with 2 Russian 18 year old who tried to take revenge and winning, throwing them into the pool.
4. Wrestling them again and throwing them in the pool again.
5. Being thrown into the pool by 4 Russian teenagers.
6. Mopping up blood from my bleeding toes after wrestling.
7. Accidently climbing into bed with Richard. Naked.
8. Apologies.
9. Arriving in Kyrgzstan.
10. Driving to Song Kul lake, the most serene and superatural place I have ever seen.
11. Tasting fermented horse milk. (Wrong)
12. Watching a goat get beheaded, its hooves removed, then the carcass being played with during a game of goat polo. (Basically men on horseback wrestling over a dead goat.)
13. Running for the safety of a tent with Azel, our local guide, as an enormous storm broke overhead.
14. Kissing her as the rain poured and the lightning danced around the tent.
15. Failing to get visas for Pakistan in Bishkek (luckily)
16. Camping in a gorge and walking up 1500 metres to an overall height of 3500m. Amazing views and fitness supreme.
17. A fancy dress party in the gorge, me dressed as a disco wideboy (thanks for the outfit Elaine.)
18. Submitting more visa applications in Bishkek. Again.
19. New plan formulated: drive to Almaty, Kazakhstan, fly to Delhi, spend a month in India and Nepal, fly from Calcutta to Bangkok to resume usual tour route.
20. Having a lovely time with the beautiful and very interesting Cara, a traveller met in the Bishkek homestay.
21. Climbing another mountain and camping out under the stars. (The most stars I have ever seen.)
22. Back to Bishkek. Again.
23. Drank too much and nearly get killed over a plastic plant.
24. Naked in a hotel lift.
25. Eat an outrageously expensive pizza.
26. Sit in a sweaty internet cafe typing this very word.
27. Feeling sick.

Right, that'll have to do. Theres so much more to write, but it'll have to wait until chapter 2 in India. Can't wait to be back there, eating curry, and having more escapades.

Time for bed.

Uzbekistan 5th - 12th June

2008-06-12T01:15:00.000-07:00

Its hot. 44 degrees in the shade. We've been in proper desert country since we hit Turkmenistan. Sand and scrub bushes as far as you can see. The air conditioning is running constantly as is the sweat. Its safe to say we're all feeling it. Tan lines and mosquito bites are strewn randomly across our bodies. We are permanently scratching. Last night my bites swelled up and I looked like I'd been in a fight thanks to some beastie that bit my eyebrow. Giant locusts keep on flying into me like drunken idiots. They jump, flap, and bank like broken planes into my face.

I am not liking insects.

Last time I wrote I was in the air-conditioned bliss of the 5-star Absheron hotel in Baku. The calm coldness of the foyer was a welcome oasis from the blistering sunshine of that coastal town. We had arrived through a desolate wasteland of cloying dust and pools of petroleum. Baku provided half the world's oil at the start of the 19th century before the Russians took over. They were exploring Siberian oil fields at the time and heavily invested in agriculture for the area around Baku. Fertilisers, poor farming techniques and pesticides wreaked an ecological disaster on the countryside. Now it resembles some post-apocalyptic desert. Giant pylons disappear into the sandy wastes. Dust blows like the last breath of a dying smoker into the glistening sea. Black oil laps up against the shore before the wind blows it back in slimy waves. On the way a billboard stands in sharp contrast to the wasteland. A family stand smiling into the camera, a supposedly happy advert for future homes to be built. Sand and sun has eroded their features and they don't look human. Their bleached white faces have no features, just eyes and a mouth staring from blank white ovals across the wasteland.

If oil is the heroin of the world economy then Baku is the diseased hole in its vein. On the coast huge rigs squat like steel mosquitos, sucking black blood from the seabed. That oil will be sold to the west in barrels to fund our petrol crisis back home. According to the BBC World Service Britain is in the throes of withdrawal as its main drug is just too expensive. Not surprisingly America, the biggest dealer of them all, has invested heavily here. The town centre of Baku is massively westernised with posh designer boutiques rubbing shoulders with Italian restaurants. $200 dollars for a shirt. £4 per beer. Fairground rides ring the beach to the Caspian sea. We had two nights to spend in this city whilst Pete bartered with the ferry master to try and buy passage to Turkmenistan.

The city was more expensive than London for most things. A massive drinking session was probably not a wise idea, but we did it anyway. An Irish Pub furnished us with expats, several pints of Guiness and Rum. A short taxi ride brought us back to the shiny foyer, now furnished with hundreds of Korean tourists. We decided on a few drinks before bed at the hotel bar. Spotting the shiny smooth floor I thought it was a good idea to run and slide through the doors. Utilising the sliding technique I learned many years ago in Flares in Halifax, I launched my move at least two metres before the door and skated at full speed, arms up, into a crowd of surprised faces in the full hotel bar. After the wind had finished rushing through my hair, and I slowly slid to a halt, I realised I might look slightly odd. I stood up quickly and whistled in innocence. I think I got away with it, however Pete's attempt fared less well. “CROFTY” he shouted, “WATCH THIS!” Taking his run up in front of the Korean crowd he foolishly opted for the belly slide, sprinting and flopping in the middle of the bar entrance. There was no movement at impact, just a massive slap followed by a low groan. “MY BALLS” he cried, stumbled to his feet, wove slowly towards the bar. I tutted into my rum and coke on my bar stool. Some people have no manners.

We spent one more day in the hotel before we got the call for the ferry trip. Packing our bags we taxied down to the port and sat at the dock whilst customs checked us through. Train carriages were shunted past us straight onto the massive boat, alongside lorries full of goods. Having finally made it through the customs check we walked forward to the stairs to be greeted by a large man who explained in broken English there was no entry to the boat yet. He seemed very personable and we got onto the customary conversation of English football that happens in this part of the world. Basically you name football clubs and then name the players. Chelsea. Ronaldo. Beckham. Gerrard. Henry. All of these are passports to friendly nodding and hand shaking. We conversed like this for at least 10 minutes before he and I ran out of players.

The night was dark and there wasn't much light from the boat. Somewhere fireworks were exploding in faint crackles, showering the tall engines above us with blue and red light. An old woman, clutching a white bag on her shoulder, walked past us and up the stairs to the deck. The man I was talking to shouted something up at her, then another crew member appeared. Small, wearing a baseball cap and dressed in black, he shouted something down to the big guy. The woman continued to climb. The big guy shouted something back, obviously getting angry. I turned to chat to one of the girls who had placed their bags near mine, and then suddenly turned back at the sounds of violence. The small guy had come down the stairs and the big guy had jumped on him. They were both now locked in a proper fist fight, pulling each other to the ground and rolling, kicking and punching. The small guy was getting in a few good punches but the big guy had the weight, holding him steady and landing huge smacks that sounded like lead dropping in dull thuds. Suddenly another man appeared and tried to separate the two, but the big guy was having none of it. More kicking. More punching. This continued for at least five minutes, from the foot of the stairs onto the duty ground, as we watched in surprise. As soon as they'd separate and walked off, one would say something and they'd start again. I was reminded of the dog fight in Georgia, only this time there was less teeth and no blood.

Eventually it petered out. The big guy's shirt was off and he was strutting around, fuming. The little guy had been whisked away by his friend. These were the crew we would be spending the next 24 hours with, and who we would be relying on us for safe passage. We were understandably worried (Pete informed us that last year the crew tried to break into cabins to get to the women). Fortunately 20 minutes later they were friends again. Is this how this are settled on the high seas? (Mental note – don't disagree with the crew.) We all clambered up the stairs to more passport checks, our little cabins, and another drinking session – this time to celebrate Andrew's birthday. Vague memories of flip flop curling, a vodka drink we named Sprios, play fighting with Edel after she wedgied me (yet another pair of pants sacrificed to the wedgy god,) gashing a large chunk of skin off my big toe when running through a door, getting said toe sterilised with vodka by Maura and Ann, wearing a cowboy plaster on it (thanks Ashmole English Dept) and other crazy shennanigans which I don't remember. Oh yes and toilets. Very bad toilets.

We arrived outside the port on the other side of the Caspian after about 12 hours of sailing. We had been told it could take a while for us to get processed on this side. We didn't think it would take another two days. Turns out there was no locomotive to take off the train trucks on this side, and as we sat and waited 12 other boats took their places in the queue. It is quite an interesting feeling being enclosed on a boat that doesn't move. Its like its own world, with its own times and rules. And behaviours. We satisfied our boredom with games of Uno, vodka, and afternoon sleeps. Pot noodles were the order of the day for food. Yet another drinking session and a game of “Never ever have I ever.” (We are all now very familiar with each others' pasts.) The next day cabin fever started to kick in and we decided C would be the best person to eat first if we ran out of food as she ate the most meat. Richard would be dessert as he ate the most ice cream. Maura would be the side dish as she eats mostly potatoes (“fiddledeedee” she might say in her Irish accent.) Nobody fancied a hairy monkey dish. Thankfully the next day the locomotive arrived and we disembarked through a protracted visa process without much water in the baking desert sun. Turkmenistan was going to be very hot indeed.

Our next stop was several hours away and we were in a massive rush – the 3 days on the boat meant our visas would run out before we could get to the border. Whilst the crew phoned ahead to try and arrange an extension on our visas (something never to have happened in the history of tourism in Turkmenistan) we settled down to a night drive towards our destination: the 5 star hotel Nissan in the capital Ashgabat. The city was demolished by an earthquake many years ago (1948 I think) and the soviet ruler Turkmenbashi decided to rebuild the city to his liking. Having rebuilt the city he then in his wisdom decided it didn't have enough “flair” and he demolished it again, importing lots of French architects and white marble. Now it glittens in the middle of the dessert, a massive monument to the vanity of its dead ruler.

Arriving at night was a surreal experience. There are roadblocks every 50 kilometers or so, staffed by the compulsory conscripts of Turkmenistan. 18year olds with rifles. They would look stern, sometimes angry, until ur guide Atta would hop off the bus and we would be waved through – who knows what these kids with guns would do if we didn't have him. (I think torture is still legal, possible encouraged, in Turkmenistani prisons.) Entering the city was even stranger, the lumpy pot-holed road turned into smooth highways devoid of litter or dust. Giant white mosques loomed out of the night, lit up by white and green lights like some city in a dream. Stumbling bleary eyed from our sleep we entered the pristine hotel foyer, stinking and tired from four days without showers. I was given a room key and shuffled into the lift. Inside was a 6ft blonde woman wearing next to nothing doing her hair in the mirror. “Hello,” I croaked flopping my bags down in the corner. She eyed me disdainfully, this sweating, stinky, dusty, hairy monkey, from her heavily made-up eyes. I was to find out later that she was one of the hotel prostitutes for the rich businessmen and was on her way to her next client. I gave her a big grin from my bearded mouth and shuffled out at my floor. The lift hummed up behind me, taking her to her next payment, as I found my beautiful room, showered, and fell into a peaceful sleep.

The hotel was a massive contrast to the stinking ship we had inhabited for 3 days. Everything dripped money, including the pool we spent most of the next two days around. It was so refreshing to be diving into clear water whilst the desert baked in 44 degree heat. Hamburgers could be delivered pool-side, as could chilled water. It was like heaven. But in trunks.

Atta took us to the biggest market in central Asia, just outside the city. There we walked through mazes of carpet stalls, shirt shops, headscarves of every colour. People bustled round as we queued to change our money on the black market from serious-looking old ladies with wrinkled hands and soft voices. A bloated dead cat lay in the sun on the path, flies buzzing around its open mouth and staring white eyes. Later we wandered to the cattle market to see camels, goats and cows being exchanged for cash and then forced onto pick-up trucks. Much hilarity was gained from watching four men try to load a stubborn camel onto their vehicle. Others saw car boots full of chickens, or helped in the pushing of disgruntled dromidaries. I decided to splash out on a shirt (we were having dinner in the hotel that night for Jo's birthday) and got one for 5 quid. We then returned to the hotel for some chill-out time. More pool action. Snoozes.

Jo's birthday proved to be hilarious. After the meal we sat on the hotel couches drinking vodka and discussing whether to explore the nightclub in the basement. Elaine and I decided to do an advance party and descended into the depths. A large dark room awaited, full of faintly glowing seats from the UV lighting. We sat at the bar and ordered expensive cocktails, swiveling on the stools to take in the surroundings. Prostitutes sat on tables in twos and threes, glowing faintly blue and eyeing the new arrivals like predators. Men sat like poker players in the far corner, themselves staring at the women, weighing up their wallets and their chances. Disco lights span over us all, whirling in a chaos of glitter as slow eastern music played. Unnerving and surreal the club took off when everyone else from our group arrived. Never ever have I ever been in a club where whores stare like war veterans, Russian mafia hunch over lit cigarettes, and I dance with friends to “Cotton Eye Joe” like lunatics. We danced till about 2AM to a variety of remixed classics as a Russian guy stood in front of a mirror dancing and making eyes at himself like some parody of Narcissus.

The next day Neil and I walked briefly into town. Water fountains are everywhere, the typical sign of wealth in these desert countries. Guards stood every one hundred metres to make sure no pictures were taken of anything. This is a police state in action, with some buildings (like the Ministry of Information) holding a “go straight to jail” card if photographed. In the middle of the town a giant statue of Turkmenbashi shines in bright gold. Stood atop a white marble building and surrounded by a flag of gold, it rotates so that the sun always falls on his face. His outstretched arms are ironically welcoming, his police state isn't. We bought water and scurried between the shadows back to the hotel, taking pictures of fountains in secret.

That afternoon we left the modern metropolis for the desert for a bush camp. We rocked up to a series of tall dunes and set up tents whilst Atta went off into the desert to find a large Russian truck. This would be necessary to climb the giant sand hills towards the giant gas crater a kilometer away as Penelope, bless her, couldn't make it. We climbed aboard the monster truck and bounced over the dunes as the sun set. In the distance a faint glow could be seen, growing larger as the truck manouvered through the scrub. Then we arrived, the heat from the crater rising in invisible waves and heating the warm breeze on our faces. This was evidence of yet more Russian fuck-ups: they'd tried to tap into the large gas deposits beneath the desert and drilled this huge hole in the floor, but failed along the way. The gas venting from the basin had originally blown over villages far away causing illness to many of the inhabitants. Then one day someone had thrown in a match, causing the flaming inferno witnessed today. It looked like some vision of hell, black rocks spewing forth fire and gas. We stood around the edge taking photos and imagining the awful death that would result from falling in. In winter during temperatures of -20 degrees birds will circle above the flames without heat to ensure survival. When we admired the glorious star display later that night the crater lit up the horizon like a city.

That was our last stop in Turkmenistan. We had been allowed the visa extensions and now had to cross the border. The road disappeared into the hazy distance in a straight line. Sand was everywhere. With the exception of a lone cow wandering the dunes and the giant locusts that pursue me like a curse, the desert is devoid of life. The heat is so stifling that if you open your window the breeze that blusters in is like a hairdryer. The best thng to do is leave a gap for a draft and sip your warm water from a refilled bottle. After some trouble with the truck papers we crossed into Uzbekistan, saying goodbye to Atta and saying hello to Jalol our new guide. He led us to Khiva, one of the jewels of the desert and definitely the most beautiful city we have visited so far.

Imagine stepping back in time to some story out of Arabian nights. Blue-topped domes glowing in the sunset over creamy sand battlements. A sickle moon rising over the top of delicately patterned minarets. Tiled buildings shining in a multitude of colours. Gold filigree twinkling in the starlight of a hundred individual mosaics. Stone streets with high walls leading to silent enclosed squares. The cool night air punctuated with the smells of lamb shashlik and green tea. Serene and glorious Khiva is a renovated town to the state of hundreds of years ago. This beautiful town witnessed the political schemes, the beheadings and the secrecies of the Great Game. I can only imagine how it must have felt to be the first European to lay eyes on this fantastic city, rising up out of the desert with all the alien grace and danger of a scorpion.

Our homestay looked out to the unfinished minaret near the main Mosque, a fascinating mixture of blues and gold. Legend has it (according to Jalol) that the giant blue structure remained unfinished as the architect found out that he was to be killed. The Khan of Khiva wanted the biggest minaret in Uzbekistan and had comissioned the work, but then found out the nearby Khan of Bhukara wanted a bigger one, and wanted his architect to build it. To stop the architect doing so the Khan of Khiva planned to kill the architect after he'd finished, thereby securing the “biggest minaret” accolade. This legend shows many things about life in those times: creativity and life really didn't count for much; men throughout all of history have tried to be known as the “biggest.” The best bit about the legend is that the architect apparently designed some wings and flew away never to be heard of again. Maybe he hangs around the gas crater in winter with the birds.

That night we had the pleasure of eating an Uzbekistan feast: various plates of soups and salads and breads were provided. The local wine flowed freely and we were treated to a traditional Uzbekistan dance performed by a group of about five people. In fact it seemed like the Uzbek version of the Jackson 5 as their star was a tiny five-year-old in a giant hat, very similar to an afro. The kid was an excellent dancer, and made us all laugh, but frankly it was just too weird and he reminded me of the midget from twin peaks. The group were all accomplished musicians and were obviously very successful as the older members had rows of shining gold teeth. This is a sign of wealth in these central Asian countries and can be quite unnerving at first when you are blinding by a gold light when shaking hands. They performed their dances (99% of which are apparently about love – yet more political control?) and on request did a traditional wedding dance to celebrate Leslie and Terry's wedding anniversary. Then the female singer dragged many of us up to dance in the circle with the child-demon. This consisted of puffing your cheeks out, waving your arms in the air, and stamping your feet. Then running in a circle. Anyone familiar with mine and Clarkey's “Bungle Dance” will recognise some of these moves. However that mini-Jackson devil pulled a few more out of the bag the likes of which I've never seen. Suffice to say Clarkey we thought we were innovators of dance, but the Uzbeks have been doing this for thousands of years, (I'll train you up when I get back.) We finished the night off with copious amounts of chacha and apparently some wrestling on a rooftop which I don't remember but was probably just revenge for Pete catching a giant locust and putting it down my back. I screamed like a girl and ran around with my t shirt over my head as both I and the locust scrabbled around in our respective fears.

The next day saw the first onset of a dodgy tummy. And I thought I was going to get away on this trip with nothing of the sort (I survived India two years ago therefore I must be impervious to all known bugs – that was the stupid logic.) Anyway it really knocked me out. Spent all day asleep on the back seat of the truck after Jen kindly gave up her seat next to me so I could stretch out. Vague memories of hours spent staring out of the window at the desert passing by when awake. We were heading for Bukhara which was a 7 hour journey – a long time to fight off stomach cramps with dust in your mouth. Still we reached Bukhara without accidents.

Bukhara is a city much like Khiva but much less rennovated and polished. Instead many of the places of interest are a little ruined and show the ravages of time and desert more significantly. We spent three days there exploring the streets (two days in my case – I spent the first night recovering in bed and the next day just hanging around the hotel) to find little cafes, crumbling fortress walls, and traditional baths. The second night the girls all decided to have a “girls night out” which sounded like a very good idea originally with nails getting done, make up on, disco soundtrack provided by Simon, cocktails in the girl's big room, and going out for an Italian meal. However as all ladies reading this will testify, boys need female supervision at all times and tend to get into mischief when this is absent.

Therefore all of the following is ultimately the girls' fault.

Having decided to get rid of the bug that was going round with a healthy dose of cha cha (it seems to be a miracle cure for insect bites and other ailments,) some of us boys had sat there from the early afternoon, playing backgammon in the large tiled courtyard that stayed cool in the oppressive heat. Much vodka and cha cha was consumed (it did the trick for my bug too.) The girls left and us boys started to discuss how mean and unfair it was for the ladies to leave us all by ourselves.

Couldn't we play a practical joke? They could come home and find it and it would be really really funny. Really. And they can get us back and that will be really funny too. Yes I'll have some more cha cha. Yes I''ll scale that wall to their balcony. I'm up, but the doors are probably locked. Why not get the key from reception? And turn everything in their room upside down? Meticulously? Yes, we'll remake the beds even though they're resting on their headboards. Yes, we'll turn the bottles upside down. (Make sure the tops are on.) Everything must turn. Flip flops in the bathroom. Toiletries. Bags. (No not the fridge it'll break.) Let's take pictures too. Mmm. Lock the door give the key back. Now let's go to a nightclub. Yes I'll have some more cha cha. Don't wake Mike up he's fallen asleep. Bollocks. He's Irish and he's coming to a nightclub. Pick him up. Beer?

Andrew and Mike were weaving down the road, one clutching a bottle of cha cha, the other a beer. You swop. No YOU swop. YOU swop. YOOOU swop! YOOOOOU swop! Slap. Andrew fell over his feet and slapped his back hard onto the pavement. His arms were splayed out, as were his legs, and his cha cha bottle rolled off under the feet of some passing French tourists. “Shit Crofty we're not going to get them into a club like that,” Tim said.
“We will, we will, they're Irish, they can pull it together in a second.” At that point Mike bent down to see if Andrew was alright and his beer bottle slipped from his fingers, smashing in an explosion of glass and beer like a grenade. With the beer pooling round his head Andrew remained impervious, like a dead snow angel, an unconscious grin on his face as the French tourists tentatively returned the bottle and walked quickly away from the chaos.

“Oh fuck.”

Fifteen minutes later we were in the club. After lifting Shinnick (Andrew) from his dusty bliss the Irish boys had pulled out the classic nightclub manouvre: the Pacino. Everyone knows that no matter how drunk you are you can dig deep down and pull out some of the finest acting the world has ever seen. Sod Olivier. Piss off Branagh. They'd stand no chance after a night on the chacha. No, its method acting at its best. At that moment when you stumble towards those two blurred doors its like something spiritual touches you. Your body falls into the normal patterns like you've been that character all your life. (Which you have apart from on weekends.) Your legs straighten. Your pupils retract. Those hard lumps of words that you've been chewing out for hours become liquid smooth. You skip nimbly up and down steps, flash a winning smile to the bouncers, and you're there.

But you've only got two minutes, which is why timing is essential. Don't start the acting way back in the queue, you just can't maintain it. And don't wait until you see the bouncers – they're focussing on the three metres directly in front of them (especially the blonde in the short skirt.) Wait until they see you, watch like a hawk, and when that eye contact is made, flick that Pacino switch and sail on through to the big beats and the shiny shiny bottles inside. And if you feel the Pacino wearing off, don't speak. There's nothing worse than being mid conversation with a man who's bicep is twice the size of your head and it crashing around your ears. Who will put you in a taxi then?

Andrew and Mike deserve oscars for their performance that evening. Best Actor: Andrew Shinnick for his role in “You Swop.” Best Supporting Actor: Mike Treanor for his supporting role (literal.) We sailed through to an empty bar wherein Andrew and Mike headed straight for the corner booth, lay down flat on the seats, and fell asleep for 3 hours. Those more lively than these boys ordered more vodka and danced the night away to Uzbek house. The Korean prostitutes who were dancing for their boys' pleasure (booth next to us) didn't seem to get the subtleties of “big box small box” dancing. A random old European man turned up with another crowd of Koreans and seemed to recognise the dance move. We span and drank in the flashing lights until we figured it best to try and wake the Irish. Treanor responded to water in the ear but Shinnick was dead to the world. Hoisting the big man on our shoulders Tim and I dragged, shuffled and manouvered the unconscious Andrew out of the door and up the stairs, passing the girls who had only just arrived after their “girls night out.”
“Hello!”
“Goodbye,” we gasped through gritted teeth as we lifted him up a step.

My abiding memory of the taxi home is turning round from the front seat to see Shinnnick lying across the back, a pool of vomit spreading over his t shirt, with Tim pointing his head like a hose as he repeated “Just be sick on yourself Shinnick, not on the taxi.” Its amazing how maternal that man can be. With the help of Cheryl (Tim's fiance) who we found in the hotel, we stripped him down to his trousers, put him in the recovery position in his bed, then left him to it.

“You coming back Crofty? The taxi's still outside and its just kicking off in that club!” Tim asked as he wiped the sick from his hands and t-shirt and grinned. I left him and Cheryl to it and went to check that Shinnick wasn't doing a Hendrix. Upon their return they found Treanor asleep in a different booth. He'd stood up with us when we left with Shinnick, walked three metres to the next booth, then collapsed into the next booth and fallen asleep again.

As I said, we hold no responsibility for our actions as the girls know full well what happens when boys are left to their own devices. However we wisely decided not to raise that point when Maura, Jo and Jen appeared fuming (but a little amused) at the state of their room the next day. We apologised profusely and now they see the funny side. Their revenge is in the post – who knows what evil designs their minds have concocted for us? Hopefully it won't be too painful. The banter in this group is ace!

Since then we've been bush camping by a massive lake in the Uzbekistani wilderness. We rocked up two days ago in the boiling sunshine looking for a perfect site, then the truck fell through the soft clay earth into a massive hole in the ground. That decided it – we were camping right there. We unloaded the truck and set to digging out the wheels, jacking up the chassis onto wooden blocks. Jalol walked off into the desert and found a truck (much like Atta in Turkmenistan) that dragged us out of the hole. Then we washed off our exertions in the cool shallow lake and spent the next days swimming, sleeping, tanning, kite-surfing (in Tim's case – one of the coolest things I've ever seen) and finished off with a party last night. I have a vague memory of emerging from my tent at about 4AM, starkers in the moonlight, for a wee. The crescent moon on the vast lake shimmered as the milky way wheeled overhead and I smiled to myself. This trip just keeps getting better.

Its now the 11th of June. I started writing this days ago and reading it back it seems like a lot has happened. There's been forced changes to the truck route, but all that's coming in a different entry. We're heading for a hotel in Samarkand that will hopefully be free from the snakes, camel spiders and scorpions that have plagued our campsite the last two nights. All is well in Uzbekistan and this is one happy little monkey.

24th May – Azerbijahn. To Sheki.

2008-05-28T01:31:00.000-07:00

Bright sunlight flashes in beams across my table seat. The shadows are from the rows of trees that line the highway. Beyond them yellow barley fields sway in the slight breeze. Bowie comes on the speakers. “Lets spend the night together.”

We left Georgia yesterday, waving goodbye to our guides Zaza and Tamuna. I feel very privileged to have met both of them and to have seen their beautiful country. I am now at least 1 stone heavier. Tamuna refused to marry me, I think because Chelsea lost the Champions League final.

We now have 80 litres of wine, 10 litres of conjac and 5 litres of “Cha Cha” (think paint stripper and urine mixed in equal quanitites.) We stopped at a winery to stock up for the Muslim countries. There are no preservatives or other crap added to these drinks during the production process. Consequently no hangovers. Consequently more reason to drink more. Hard life.

The day we bought it we “tasted” (think downed) for hours. The old woman (wrinkled face, young eyes, bent back, matriarch) and the old man (pissed as a fart) showed us the 100000 litre vats buried in the ground and tugged buckets of wine from their depths to sample. Fed us bread, salty cheese, pickled watermelon (think moist vomit in a husk.) We then bounced onward in the truck, wine spilling from our cups and songs spilling from our mouths. Another homestay later that evening, this time Russian architecture. Very posh. Large rooms. Chandeliers. A thunderstorm. More drinking. Chelsea lost.

We have arrived in Sheki. Money needs to be changed. Suncream applied.

2:11PM

We have just added another hour on the clock. Now 4 hours ahead of the U.K. We are losing time like the gallons of water we spilled from the back tank of the truck. A tap had been left open. We must be careful – we will be getting to deserts soon.

Heads turn everywhere we go now. I m facing the rear of the truck and see them go past. Some stare blankly with a cigarette held in their mouths, frowning. Others stop mid-conversation and point. The best ones are those walking away from us. Their heads snap back. Some stumble over obstacles. Others shout and wave. I sometimes wave back. I sometimes just watch them recede.

We are heading for an orchard up in the mountains. There we will camp if we reach it. The road may not be open due to the harsh rains. Some locals believe it is accessible. As Pete said “There's only one way to find out.” (We will drive it.)

Talking to Pete is ace – he's a wealth of knowledge. I am sure the man could build an entire truck from fruit and nails and drive off in it. He is BA Barraccus. He told me some stories about his adventures in Africa that sound like a movie plot! He got me thinking – could I do this forever? Probably not. I can't make a fruit truck. I'm Murdoch.

Wild horses are roaming the stony ground outside. A young foal wobbles on its legs, its brown coat gleaming bright in th sunshine.

Its Leslie's birthday tonight and we will be having another BBQ to celebrate. Leslie is married to Terry (32 years – anniversary soon) and I have never seen a couple more in love. Always happy, hugging, flirting, looking out for each other (and everyone else.) I caught them yesterday sharing a moment on the truck. Leslie sank back into Terry's arms and he whispered something in her ear. Then they kissed, smiling. Glorious to see that in the Georgian sunlight. They stayed like that and I looked away before they caught me watching in envy.

The air is hot and humid, like sitting in warm soup. But when the truck moves the breeze blows through and its bearable. Leaving windows open causes problems at night with large flies drawn to the light.

We've stopped for petrol. More men gawping. This time one on a motorbike who nearly crashed. Past them five men stand beside three combine harvesters. They smile, a little confused at the big blue Penelope. They don't say anything to each other. they have brown faces and now I notice they are shading themselves under two large trees. One asks Neil where we are from. “England.” Smiles. He walks back to the shade. Neil continues to smoke. The truck turns in the parking lot – we head off again.

I've realised I'm trying to describe everything I see, to give you an impression of what its like. These images flash past daily. Perhaps its so I can remember them.

Now we pass a graveyard and like Georgia they have the custom of putting life-sized pictures of the dead on the headstone. Never seen that before. Passing by at speed they look like a still crowd, staring at the truck. They are like stone ghosts. None seem to be smiling.

It raises many questions. Do you choose your picture before you die, or do the families commission them after death? What age do you show yourself? What clothes do you wear? They are all men. Where are the women buried?

Women are hardly seen in these countries. Whereas the men crowd on corners to drink tea and discuss “important matters” the women are no doubt working. Maybe this is what the graveyard is about – the man spend their lives stood around other men and in death continue to do the same. The women are buried out of sight.

Its strange to be in constant movement. Before everything was a system of certainties and timings and stability. Even objects were the same. The books you've re-read. The clothes in the wardrobe that you have worn and will wear again. The desk where you work. The bed you wake up in and will slump on drunk that night. Everyday, everything, familiar.

Now there's so much unfamiliarity my brain struggles to fit it all in. We have the truck as our haven, its grey/green seats and bouncing walls our only routine. But outside its a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and smells. Your eyes try to hide in a book but are pulled like magnets back to the landscape. Every night we have strange vivid dreams. Someone says its the brain storing all this new information in your subconscious. (Some say its the cheese.)

Its all getting a bit wanky again isn't it. But I do feel freer and more relaxed than I can ever remember. Everyday there's always one moment of what people might call “clarity.” But its not “clarity” because its so hard to describe what the “moment” is. Yesterday it was some combination of smooth shadowed hills like folded silk, a setting sun over a babbling river, blue-bellied birds wings at full stretch, and in that silent content moment is the absence of thought that makes it – you just sit there sensing and thinking of nothing. That’s the best bit.

We just passed a shepherd lying in the shade of a tree, peacefully asleep his hat over his eyes. The sheep graze slowly in the sun and then they disappear into the green. Class! What's next? I hang my head out the window like a dog.

19th May - To Tblisi, Georgia

2008-05-20T03:14:00.000-07:00

The dogs snarled and yelped at each other, paws frantically scrabbling for a hold as their wide eyes and flashing teeth aimed for the throat. Small Georgian boys, baseball caps wedged on their heads, clapped and shouted encouragement. They had tempted each dog with raw meat, holding it in front of their noses and pushing them around until they barked and drooled. Then they grabbed them by the scruff of their neck, slapped them, shouted at them and ran the dogs into each other.

The dogs were now a flurry of fur and spit, rolling and scratching in a coil of gnawing and fury. Howling and barking filled the air. One dog had blood pouring from its ear. The boys laughed and clapped with glee.

The dogfight had been staged for our welcome by the locals. We had pulled into their field with a limping Penelope (our truck.) She had broken a spring on the difficult winding road towards Mistia, a tiny village towards the Russian border that can only be reached be a precarious narrow road. The road teeters on the edge of 1000ft gorges and is surrounded by vast forested sides that loom over the path in folds of shadowy green. I had spent the day staring from the right side of the truck into the dark precipices below, grabbing the seat sides and swearing under my breath as the wet rocks scattered from under our tires and spiraled into the gloom. It had been raining all day and we had crawled up the mountain side for over four hours. My mind was filled with images of 13 tons of metal and flesh careering, smashing and spinning into blackness. Ever the optimist.

The spring had broken around three quarters of the way up, and had banged and clunked until we reached this spot. Ringed by snow-covered mountains, 1200ft up, the sun setting over the ruined stone walls, it seemed like a good place to stop and camp. Tamuna, our local guide, and Pete, our leader, organised with the owners of the farm our stay for the night. The truck was hoisted up so the boys could work their mechanical magic on Penelope's insides.

The dogs had moved further down the field and were tiring. One had hold of the other's ear and had half mounted it. The loser was half-growling, half-whining, stood as still as possible and staring out of one crazed eye at the victor, looking for an opening. Suddenly the pose was broken and they fell to again, each gashing the other in a vortex of teeth and claws.

I turned to C who had arrived next to me astride a local horse. Grinning from ear to ear she raised her arms at the absurdity of the situation and we laughed in amazement. Where else can you experience this kind of surreality? All of this "entertainment" (horse riding, dogfighting, football game against the children, groups of locals staring, Police and Army coming and going to check on the situation,) had happened spontaneously and were testament to the unbelievable amounts of generosity within the Georgian national character. C's friend had arrived bareback on a horse with a foal in tow, galloping over the fields and looking, at times, like he was going to fall. After fetching a saddle he had led C around the farm as the dogfight began. Now we stood in wide-eyed amazement - We had been told that things got weird after Turkey. If this is the beginning, what else is to come? I ran off to the corner of the field to play the local children at football as the sky darkened and the wafts of beef curry drifted from the kitchen at the side of the repaired Penelope.

The curse was back in full force that night. Over 8 hours of rain had turned the field into a marshy bog any festival would have been proud of. Disaster! The fixed Penelope had sunk deep into the wet ground. Wheels span and flung wet earth. Waterproofs were donned. Spades were grabbed. Sand mats (long pieces of ribbed metal to give the tires traction) were unfastened and placed under the wheels. We stamped hard into the boggy ground, flip-flopped and booted feet finding holds. Our steaming soaking bodies flung themselves at the rear of the truck, trying to shift the 12 tons of metal. The engine roared. Wheels span. Mats bent under the strain. Panting and swearing.

At the bottom of the field the Army had arrived and were attempting to get their enormous Russian truck over the marshy lip of the field. It failed, roaring like some angry beast. Tow ropes were put away - we would have to do it ourselves.

Trenches were dug to pool the water. More mats were applied. Again we returned to the rear. Steaming now with exertion. Backs bent. Hands on. One. Two. Three! She jilted forward! Movement! She shifted back on the mats. We pushed again, eager now. She rocked backwards and forwards, gaining height every time, engine, metal and people in some harmony of effort. Straining muscles. Shouting voices. Revving engine. Success! We clambered aboard soaked to the bone, grinning and slapping each other. Team effort and adventure. This country is amazing.

We had arrived in Georgia on the 14th across the Turkish border. I followed Pete through the delicate customs routines. Highly amused at the lack of queuing: memories of Pete stood like a rock amidst a jostling, shouting crowd of men, all waving papers, jabbing and pushing towards the customs window, bakshish (bribes) offered over his head for preference, Pete's eyes flashing amusement with a grin, anger with a grimace. Light punches in the back. Voices raised.

That night was an interesting introduction to Georgia. Batumi is a coastal town and we drove up to the harbour, all smiling about the promise of our hotel. The smiles increased as we realised that the hotel was some kind of pirate galleon built only for comfort, complete with bar and showers. We clambered aboard with much joy and mock piracy (Ahoy! Arr! Roger the Cabin Boy Seaman Staines!) Rooms were allocated, wine and vodka appeared, the sun set across the deck. Showered and dressed we ambled round the coast road to a Georgian feast (in another boat, this time built on land.)

And it was a feast really beyond anything we could have hoped for. If you ask a child what a "feast" is they'll describe something like some Elizabethan banquet: hundreds of plates of different foods amazingly presented. Meats, cheeses, veg, sauces, breads, flagons of wine, toasts to friends and family and good health. Its just like that in Georgia. Followed by dancing. Lots and lots of dancing. (My foot, it seems, is vastly improved.)

After dragging and pushing out Penelope on that rainy day the crew decided to save our soggy souls and put us in a guesthouse run by the intensely maternal Nemo. The woman is wonderful, but quite rightly assessed as a "feeder" by one of the group. She spent two days cramming enough food into us as army might eat in a week. Cakes you've never dreamed of. Tea. Coffee. Wine. Cheese breads. Meat breads. Soups. Noodles. Rice. Honey, Fried potatoes. Salads. We gorged ourselves the first night, not realising the extent that breakfast would extend to.

Georgian hospitality is best appreciated by the stomach.

Thanks to this food fest, and my foot being better, I decided to join Carolyn and Terry on an 8 hour hike up to the peaks of Ushba on the Russian border.

With our guide Daniel we sweated and grunted up a two-hour near-vertical assent followed by wading through snow drifts, enduring blazing sun and light hail we reached the final plateau to stare into the void - through those steep valleys lay Russia.

Around us giant peaks pierced the sky with their vast snowy forms, forcing gasps from the throat. We had climbed 1500ft to a height of 2700ft. Large birds, (eagles or falcons) glided above us in silence.

And then an awesome sight - the sun above us cleared the mists and two giant peaks loomed above us like the arms of some ancient god's throne. This shocked us all - they towered at least 2000ft more from our position. We hadn't seen these through the cloud and imagined ourselves conquerors of the mountain.

Humbled, but happy, we skipped and ran back through the drifts to the humid valley below. Another feast awaited us, but this time we had earned it.

It is now the 19th and we are heading for the Georgian capitol Tblisi through tree-lined valleys. Last night we camped by water and dined on an amazing pork bbq. In typical Georgian fashion the police came to investigate our presence and ended up staying the night in their car as "security." Georgian police are the friendliest in the world - they stayed and chatted by our fireside until retiring to their car seats. Everywhere we go we are treated like kings in this country.

The Curse is Lifted

2008-05-12T03:07:00.001-07:00

I dont know ıf Edel has plucked out the evil from Mikes pants, but something has worked. Were ın Trabzov ın Turkey on the coast of the Black Sea ın glorious sunshine. Over the past few weeks some malevolent raın god has been pissing on us every time weve set up camp. But not yesterday. We arrıved by a patch of ground wıth tables, a restaraunt owned by a very nıce man who, after an exchange of money, allowed us to stay on his sıte next to the rıver. Gıant trees and the bıg swell from the water made ıt a beautiful place to camp. And, after some amazıng food (agaın, the cookıng cant stıll be gettıng better can ıt?) and a furıous game of ´Catch the Bacon´ (thınk rugby crossed wıth Kabaddi) we settled down to a good nıghts sleep.

İts been a great couple of days sınce the Turkısh Cultural Nıght. Weve done quıte a bıt of free campıng ın some random places. One place we pulled up to the nearest town to pıck up charcoal (got coal by mistake - whoops!) and I just got off to stretch my legs as others went to fınd the elusıve toılets. After explaınıng ın my prımıtıve Turkısh to a local where we were from, and where we were goıng, Uhur (hıs name) ınvıted me over to hıs mates cafe across the road for tea.

´Why not?´I thought, ´Pete saıd thıs part of the world was frıendly´. So usıng my small wındow of opportunıty I crossed the road wıth Uhur to the dark room across the road. Insıde was a group of very frıendly anımated young men (one, descrıbed by Maura as ´Lıonel Rıchıes brother´) who were very ınterested ın our truck. Wıthout them speakıng a word of Englısh, nor me anythıng past ´Hello´ and ´Thank you,´ we managed to have a stutterıng conversatıon over a cup of tea. Lovely fellas. I managed to explaın I loved Turkey - ´Kebab GOOD, Hamam GOOD, Rakı GOOD!´ They seemed to lıke that. We watched some Turkısh gameshow. And then ıt was tıme to go.

Or so I thought. Before the truck managed to leave Uhur and a frıend came runnıng over the road. ´Sam! Sam!´they crıed. On the truck they came. Turns out Uhurs frıend spoke Englısh.

'Uhur would lıke to gıve you a gıft' saıd frıend.

'Really?'

'Yes, take thıs knıfe. It ıs handmade. He would lıke to gıve ıt to you,' eagerly noddıng.

Uhur handed me a homemade penknıfe, blackhandled, a fold-out knıfe at eıther end. Instant thoughts of flattery (I had nothıng to gıve back, and had only had a cup of tea wıth them) wıerdness (I have never been handed a knıfe by a stranger before) and typıcal Western mıstrust (had he kılled someone wıth thıs and was gettıng rıd of the evıdence, or was thıs some strange backwater wooıng ceremony and was I now hıs wıfe?)

Anyway I took the knıfe, ıts nestled ın the corner of my tent bag ın case were attacked by wolves or gıant scorpıans. Uhur was very grateful, shook my hand, placed hıs head agaınst eıther sıde of mıne twıce (I presume a formal farewell) and I felt a lıttle stupıd. What a qualıty gıft for someone who ıs campıng. What a typıcal cultural mısunderstandıng on my part to be wıerded out by generosıty. What a shock some scorpıon ıs goıng to get when ıt sleeps ın my boots.

Turkısh coffee ıs beckonıng from outsıde of the wındow. Goıng to buy some clıppers today and shave my head ın order to accustom ıt to the sunshıne. (Dont worry mum, ı have a sun hat and cream.) Thıs wıll save on shampoo whıch I cant be arsed luggıng around. Besıdes showerıng wıll become much less frequent sınce we are passıng ınto Georgıa ın the next couple of days. Thıs country ıs apparently the home of wıne, and we wıll be samplıng ıts exquısıte delıghts from the comfort of a sun-dappled vıneyard. (Queue envıous grumblıngs from all people ın work.)For a few days. Wıth nothıng else to do. (Queue loggıng off ın frustratıon.)

Anyway ıf youve read on and are now grındıng your teeth, dont worry, thıs smug bastard ıs nearly fınıshed. Because thıngs are goıng to get a lot more rural and less technologıcal (judgıng by Turkey were nearly there already) blog entrıes, texts, and phonecalls wıll also become a lot more ınfrequent. Im guessıng the next bıg cıty wıll be the next entry, whıch may be some tıme. So to summarıse how thıngs are goıng please be aware that I:

1. Am ımmensely happy
2. Thınk the group Im wıth are amazıng
3. Belıeve the trıp ıs possıbly the best thıng I have ever done ın my lıfe
4. Mıss everyone back home and wısh they were here.

Farewell for now.

Chairman Mao and the Curse of the Black Pube

2008-05-12T02:47:00.000-07:00

Chairman Mao is sat on my knee, his polished, evil, old-man-in-a-mac face staring up at me. Not the real one you understand, just a biography of him. (But i do like the idea of having a little Mao bouncing around like a child as we zoom through the turkish countryside, giggling and asking for an ice cream. What would he do if I refused I wonder? Cut my sack off probably.)

Its been a while since the last blog, or since i wrote in my journal. There's been so much to do recently that its hard to find the time. What with, eating sleeping, sleeping, eating again, wandering round the streets of Istanbul, eating kebabs, drinking apple tea, buying a guitar, having a Turkish bath, sleeping, eating, sleeping and reading, eating etc. Life is hard, but we're all managing to struggle through in our own ways. C is very quickly becoming a honed carnivore, managing to sniff out a meat seller from over 3km away. She also giggles a lot. Others are snoozing, drinking or reading. I am sleeping more and have decided to drink less in an attempt to get fit for Everest.

I know that last sentence sounds like a joke, but its true. I even went for a run two days ago with Andrew, Mike T, Edel and Carolyn. We were staying in Goreme in Turkey, a beautiful place reminiscent of Tatooiine on Star Wars (False trips are advertised around the place – they're lies, it was never filmed there.) Strange rock formations flow down from the hills, or jut from the ground like stone mushroom towers. Over the centuries (from the Hittites onwards) they've been carved out and lived in, and people still live in them today. We had a tour around the rock faces, gawping at the ancient slabs like children. (Secretly I wished I was one again – I could have gotten away with leaping and climbing around on them if I was 9, rather than 29. Did it anyway. Felt great.) The run took us through the valley floor, between rock towers, wide-hollowed tunnels, dried river beds (and past confused tour guides with their sunglassed German herds.) As a first jog in about a year, it was amazing. I felt like Indiana Jones (only in shorts and out of breath.) Unfortunately I totally knackered my right foot and am resting it over the next two days of travelling. So much for exercise.

It didn't stop me dancing the other night however. We attended the “Turkish Cultural Evening” with a vast crowd of different nationalitites: German; Dutch; French; Japanese. On arrival we descended into a stone amphitheatre, a large domed underground space, with 5 long branches extendng from the centre. Each branch contained two long tables, one of which we took and sat down to a selection of tasty meats and veg starters. The idea of the night was for us to see a variety of different Turkish dances with as much booze and food as we could quaff for 35 lira. We began and finished in style, with several of the group being involved in dancing exhibitions. The memories of the night are vague (thanks to the God of Raki, an elusive and persuasive entity,) but I've tried to list the main recollections below:
1. Playing “The guessing game of foods” with the starters. Only one correctly identified.
2. Having wine, beer, raki and vodka lined up next to my plate.
3. Smiling.
4. Watching the traditional “Whirling Dervishes” (“Whirling?” More like Ambling. “Slow Ambling Dervishes in a circle perhaps) and being more interested in the green light shining on a mans head on a different table, and wondering why the music had a subtle dance beat – didn't realise drum loops were an ancient Turk invention.
5. Watching a wedding dance and, thanks to the Raki God, and for all you recently engaged people, being overwhelmed by the image of men and women dancing in unison in celebration. (Paul I have bought you the costume, but it does mean you dancing around in a fashion much like The Ministry of Silly Walks. Katie will love it.)
6. Drinking more Raki.
7. Being involved in a Wedding Dance and nearly wetting myself with laughter as Mike T did push ups to impress the ´bride´.
8. Terry, in competition with a foreign midget, dancing with the Belly Dancer. More laughter and raki.
9. Kirsten slightly miffed and red in the face, shaking her bits to the massive roar from our crowd. (She's sat next to me now, and she's still not happy about it!) Video available.
10. A massive Raki-shaped blur of lamb meat, dancing, minibus ride, ipod appropriation agaın (must must must stay away from Vengaboys) and waking up in a strange place.

So much for drinking less. It was the best night so far however, and there have been a lot. But the pace has slowed down on the travelling, meaning we have longer to do and see things. For example in Goreme we have been on an all-day tour, been running, had the “cultural night,” saw carpets being made, had a turkish bath, slept in and eaten amazing food, and today, before leaving for the coast, went up in a hot air balloon for an hour over the rock formations and old cities.

Unbelievable things hot air balloons. Like graceful jellyfish. Or sky whales. Something aquatic and beautiful at least. We hopped into the basket and with a few blasts we were up, drifting high above the earth as the sun breached the horizon, catching the folds in the rocks and turning the ground pink and cream. With well over 15 balloons in the sky at once, and with the suppose Star Wars scenery, it felt like a sci-fi movie. We drifted over trees, saw wild foxes, span lazily in air currents, stared into the sun.

There's much more to tell you about the past few days such as camping by the sea outside of Istanbul, feeling like a human flapjack as a layer of grey skin is removed by a moustached hairy turk with a scouring pad and a grin, or a perfect Kebab that I nearly wrote a love-poem to. But I must now tell you about a dreadful curse that has befallen the Odyssey Overland trip.

The Curse of the Black Pube.

Now looking at the title I can imagine what you're thinking. Its not a rip off from Pirates of the Carribean. Its not a random black pube that has cropped up on plates, or in clothes, or on seats over the last 3 weeks (Although that may become an issue as more shorts are worn.) Its not even the purse of the black pubes mispelt because
a) my spelling, whilst usually poor on foreıgn keyboards, is o.k today
b) why would anyone want a purse full of pubes? Seek help you wierdo.

No. This is a story. And this story is about Mike Treanor.

Mike Treanor is one of our intrepid travellers. He is Irish, sporty, hilarious and likes his Jamesons. He ıs also very gınger. Looking at his face you would not think he harbours a secret. But beneath that ginger exterior lies something evil. Something dark and dangerous. Something that has cursed our trip with bad weather and possibly worse to come.

You remember that ancient Greek myth about Theseus? How he had to go to Crete to fight the Minotaur. Every year his father had to send 7 virgin males and 7 virgin females as a sacrifice, to avoid war. The sacrifices would be released into the labyrinth whereupon the hideous horned beast would hunt them down and feast on their fresh flesh (possibly with a side salad, and some feta – this ıs a Greek myth.) Theseus hid himself as one of the sacrifices ın order to kill the Minotaur. Upon his successful return Theseus had promised his father to fly a white sail to show he was alive, but for some reason didnt, and flew a black sail instead. Standing on the cliff top his father saw the black sail on the horizon, and beliveing his son dead, hurled himself into the foaming waters below. (Idiot – why not wait to check?)

Well now. Back to reality. Mike has a secret. (Well I say its a secret, but its not really.) Amidst his ginger locks lies a dark and terrible omen, a black sail if you will, that I believe has brought a storm upon us. Amidst the ginger depths of his pants he has one terrible, ominous, thıng.

The black pube.

İt ıs this black pube that has cursed us, just as it has cursed many an Irish nightclub crowd upon its appearance. You see the pube can sometimes take over Mike's brain (especially after Jamesons) and reveal itself to the world. Our group has seen this terrible creature agaınst our will a few nights ago. Who knows what this evil beast is capable of?

Maybe I'm wrong, maybe its just the weather. But as the sky continues to darken, our eyes turn menacingly towards him, and Edel (his girlfriend) is pinching together her fingers. Hopefully she can relieve us of our torment.

The pube may not last the night, but will the weather?

ठुर्स्दय १स्त् माय - बल्गेरियन Motorway

2008-05-03T03:08:00.000-07:00

Thursday 1st of May

We are travelling to Istanbul, taking the poppy-scattered highway and potholed village roads. My journal leaps around with the bumping of the truck, leaving wide arcs of biro across the pages. We are definately out of the comfort zone.

Spring is in its full glory in Bulgaria. Lush fields stretch out to the horizon. Occasional pockets of people, mostly shawled women, are planting for the summer crop. Horses wander freely, or are tied to to loose pegs. In the distance five large birds circle a tree slowly. There is something menacing in their concentric circles, their steady glide. Surely not vultures?

What has happened snce I last wrote? Days slide into each other. If it wasn't for the name of the day on my watch I'd think it was the weekend. Last night Chelsea beat Liverpool and got their revenge for the last encounters. I am glad I am avoiding the piss-taking at school.

We're approaching the Turkish border. By all accounts this will be a time-consuming process. According to Pete the Irish are liked, the English hated, and the Australians veer between the two. Either way it should be a couple of hours of beaurocracy then a two hour drive to the centre of Istanbul, where we will sleep in sight of the Blue Mosque and the Bosphorous.

Last night we free-camped at the best spot yet. We climbed a mountain range in Bulgaria, the truck winding through a sun-dappled forest, to an awesome view of a mountain-ringed lake in the valley floor. We headed straight for it, bouncing through dirt tracks and villages alike, till we reached the shoreline.

We dined on a delicious kebab/sausage/salad meal bbqued on a high campfire, Terry and Caroline, Mike and Andrew braved the lake on one of our inflatable rafts before the sunset. Scary stories. Songs. A good night's sleep followed by a glorious sunrise. To be honest, when this trip is good, its really good.

We have reached the border, Turks are gawping and giggling at us as we wait, smelling of woodsmoke and eager for the East.

12:58 - The border.

We are sat in our sweaty transport about 2 hours into our check in. Everyone is tired, hungry and hot. Some are managing to sleep through it, most are reading, some restlessly wandering or performing "Moz-Fu." this new martial art invlves slapping, clapping and scratching in order to defeat the tiny buzzing enemies. They have infiltrated the truck and we must defend ourselves.

A breeze stirs the close air on the truck. Hunger knaws through the boredom.

How to spend the time? Get used to it Crofty - border controls are now your way of life.

4:09 - Freedom!

Clear at last! The border pulled up every coach, demanding some permit that had to be faxed to istanbul for stamping, then faxed back. All well and good, but the fax was broken at the border. Also we had to clear the truck of ourselves and our bags for a search. It turns out 1st May is a traditional day of protest, and crowds were dispersed by teargas in the centre of the capitol. Perhaps they thought we had bombs.

Ce la vie! Now we are travelling, and with full bellies from a lovely pasta salad, and the promise of a bed, we are happy again!

6:56

We are hugging the coastline of the Sea of Mamara Mutli-coloured cubed buildings glow in the setting sun. This light makes the entire wait at the border worthwhile: the sight of the sea is exciting and welcome. They look like toy houses in these villages, and seem devoid of life! Only the occasional man tilling his field, or a stray dog lying in the sun, seem to be the inhabitants.

I have spent the last hour learning Turkish and can manage "I don't understand" to "do you speak English" with a few other smatterings of phrases. Andrew and I will be fluent by the end of the two weeks in Turkey!

The traffic suddenly halts. We might be some time getting into the centre. It has been a long day.

On a side note I'm probably just going to upload my pictures to Flickr - you can get them by clicking on the slideshow on the blog. Its just taking an age uploading them to blogger, and my tummy is rumbling. Its 1:50 in the afternoon and I haven't seen anything of Turkey yet. I'll be writing up Istanbul a bit later hopefully, but right now it feels like i've been underground in our hostel for an age, and there's an exciting city to explore out there.

लीविंग Romania

2008-05-03T02:36:00.000-07:00

Romania – 30/4/08

It's 7:32 and we're leaving Bucharest to head further south. Today we're stopping off at some caves, a couple of other places in Bulgaria, and then its free camping in the wilds tonight. Tomorrow holds the promise of Istanbul, the gateway to the “frontier” for many of the group. I have felt that this trip really begins there, where the eastern world meets the west, and many like myself are eagerly anticipating the cultural change across the border. Europe is the comfort zone. Beyond lies the unknown.

Romania has been the best place so far. There's a real sense of cultural difference here, especially in the more rural areas where horse-drawn carts vie for road space with thundering lorries. Both are carting their wares to the next town, both are fitting symbols of this changing country. Whilst the modern is creeping in, the traditional survives.

The survival of the traditional can be witnessed in other places too: old women in shawls stand on corners clutching bags of heather; tv channels are full of sanitised visions of a golden Romanian past, burly women in bright-coloured costumes singing folk songs in rural dioramas. But in Bucharest, the capital city, the modern world sweeps away the traditional with a concrete brush: tall grimy blocks rise from the streets, the stained windows staring out across the congested roads. 7 story adverts hang from their dilapidated fronts, Pepsi and Loreal vying for new markets. A giant Penelope Cruz stares like some giant plastic Khmer goddess, down the avenue, towards the “People's Palace.”

This building was built by Chauchescu during the years of his reign. It is the second largest building in the world, 2% larger than the pyramid and Cleops and second only to the Pentagon. Everything in it is built by Romanian skills, and with Romanian materials. There is a 4 ton carpet. A 5 ton chandelier. It took 700 architects to design. 20,000 worked on building it over 5 years, working in 3 shifts, 24 hours a day. Its cost is unknown, the documents holding this information being destroyed during the revolution.

Walking through the congested streets, winding through the old town, Bucharest seems alive with business. Upon entering (name of road) the streets open out onto a wide space, empty of bustle, empty of noise. Atop a small hill squats the “Palace.” Enormous and threatening, it grimaces down on the rest of the city. Chauchescu bulldozed a 6th of the city to clear space for this monstrosity, displacing the population fr his megalomanian vision. Approaching the entrance you are humbled into fear by the faceless, almost inhuman walls. At least with Cathedrals, or Mosques, or memorials, there is some sense of celebration, of the the human ability to build, or to be inspired. There is nothing inspirational or triumphant about this human endeavor. It is design to oppress, to make you cower. Ironically the “People's Palace” is anything but: separated from the city, inspiring fear, it is yet another triumph of Communism at the expense of the people.

We walked for an hour though high vaulted rooms glossed in marble. Cavernous halls echoed with our footsteps, unless cushioned by vast carpets. There are 9 floors, 4 were underground, the top two not being finished yet. According to our guide, we saw only 2% of the entire complex. The vast nuclear bunkers underground were hidden to the public. It is weird walking through such a space, a vast nothing rendered redundant and useless by revolution.

Sadly, in generations to come, when history has erroded the context and the reasons for it being built, people might look on this as a monument of human ability. The regime that tortured thousands, that starved the people, that claimed benevolence when it crushed the population with a fist of concrete and steel, will be remembered not for its rule, but for that ugly, squatting legacy atop that small hill. And people will say “Aren't humans amazing?” I wonder if this is the case with the pyramids, the temples at Angkor, Machu Pichu, stonehenge? Is every man-made world wonder saturated with the blood of its creators?

Its all getting a bit deep isn't it? Its having all this time to think - you start contemplating things in a different way.

26th April – Raznov castle

2008-04-28T07:19:00.000-07:00

It's 3:00 and we've just been up to Raznov Castle an old fort overlooking wide plains and ringed with the white-topped green-forested Carpathians. It is warm in the sun and cold in the wind.

We've had a good stop in a hotel. Many people, including myself, maximising proper beds in order to get sleep. The town itself, (Sighisora) was quaint and friendly, excellent pizzas and cheap beers were consumed by all.

We're off to do our first free camping in the countryside, and hopefully we'll find a beautiful spot where we can air our soggy tents in the sun.

24th अप्रिल: On route to Romania.

2008-04-28T07:15:00.000-07:00

3:50 Romania

Romania is flat. Long fields of tufted grass, tall browing stalks and dried out bushes. Dark green and grey hills ring the horizon, the little brothers of the Carpathians that we are heading towards. A white silver-topped church spire gleams above the small red-topped roof village, the tallest thing for miles. Many of the group are sleeping after their lunch, or are shut off in mp3 worlds. It is getting warmer and I am considering flip flops.

4:57

We have entered the houses on the horizon. Vibrant green trees coat the hills as we wind slowly up and down the roads: Penelope, our transport, doesn't like steep inclines. Houses occupy the flat lands, Many are red-tiled and dilapidated – the country feels poor already. We are following the train tracks and the river. White-blossomed trees glint in the spring sunlight as we pass. These flashes of brightness are matched only by the roofs of the bigger Romanian buildings. Wealth, it seems, is a silver roof. Town centres, in contrast, are concrete ex-soviet blocks.

7:00

The sun is going down over the Romanian countryside. We have 1hr till hotel goodness and and Kirsten has just got out the crisps. (A most welcome gift for rumbling tummys.) Having just finished my first book about the history of Asia (The Great Game: On Secret Service in High Asia by peter Hopkirk) I am amazed, and a little apalled, at British dealings in order to protect India over the last 2 years. It's like Afghanistan but with Muskets not smart bombs.

Our “Great” Britain has wreaked terrible carnage in the name of Empire.

The hills are flattening and the villages are more scarce. Clouds have covered the sunset and the truck inhabitants are tired and hngry.

24th April 10:५१ - On route to Romania.

2008-04-28T07:11:00.000-07:00

Hungary was messy. Rain was definitely what the “God of Hellfire” brought us, drenching us incessantly as we put up our tents in a beautiful high-tiered campsite. A converted tram shed on the outskirts of Budapest housed us, and we did dine on a delicious goulash soup. (It made up for the lack of tv and therefore football.)

Things went awry when they shut the bar at 10. After a welcome chat with the parents half the group retired back to the “big blue bar” (truck) whilst the rest decded to grb an early night. Collective memory is a little hazy on the next six and a half hours, but the carnage theat the truck exhbited, and the sour mood of the early-bed-section of our group (not to mention the scowls they received from the other campers during breakfast) were testament to the biggest piss-up so far.

I definitely remember shutting all windows on the truck, the truck door, and taking other measures to ensure that noise wouldn't travel. However I also remember playing the vengaboys, and others dancing, which suggests that I and others were not firing on all cylinders. Suffice to say we kept most of the campsite awake. Apparently “Up and down” was ringing out at full volume. Not good.

I do remember one thing clearly. Tim (one of the crew,) espied me prostrate over one of the seats and proceeded to give me a monumental wedgy. Hoisting up my boxers that were peeking over the tops of my jeans with all his might, with me at points dangling off the floor, they finally, and to my enormous relief, ripped. With the elastic across my nipples, and the gusset like cheese wire cutting into my bits, I declared “My revenge will be swift and terrible.” It is the lat time I will attempt to take on a 6ft 2” South African, (although I did succeed to some degree.)

Budapest the next day was understandably vague. I wandered around with Maura and Kirsten, stumbling blindly across the bridges and squinting through the rain at the beautiful domes of the parliament building. The non-drinkers had gone to the thermal baths which sounded lovely. Thankfully that has softened their mood, and after some much needed apologies from the naughty people involved, we all settled down to an early night.

Lesson learned: be more considerate. (Mental note – next time “Up and down” sounds good, stop drinking.)

Right now we're zooming towards Sighisora in Romania. Vlad Tepes, who Bram Stoker based Dracula on lived here. The sun is out in force as it seems the rain, being a wanker, only falls when we're camping. Tonight and tomorrow however we are sleepng in a hotel. This is a welcome break for many as we hve been damp, cold and muddy for nearly a week now. I'm not that fussed - it's like living in Hebden - but it will be good to stay in a bed and get some washing done as i smell like a brewery and my undies, having lost one of their number to a violent attack, are running short.

22nd April 4:35PM Hungary

2008-04-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

There's dark clouds on the horizon that we're heading for. We've had some of the most pleasant travelling so far, mainly cos of sunshine. The border between the Czech Republic, the section of Slovakia we sped through, and now Hungary, have all been flat. Brown fields studded with slabs of yellow Rapessed oil. My ipod (Thanks year 12!) has been on the truck sound system and the shuffle god has been a little eclectic – veering from the Prodigy to Al Green. I don't remember half the stuff I put on there. I am receiving strange looks from the wider group.

Been havng a great chat with Carolyn today, we've been swapping animal stories – I'm a dolphin disguised as a monkey, she's a leopard disguised as an eagle. (These random chats fill up the time between places, and they're bound to get more surreal.)

The sky is darkening as the Prodigy comes on again. “I am the God of Hellfire, and i bring you...” rain by the looks of it.

22nd April – 1week in!

2008-04-28T07:08:00.000-07:00

Well here we are having arrived at some kind of normality at last. Although our definition of “normal” encompasses the following habits :
Early get up (today 6:30)
Pack up tent
10 min shower
Massive truck ride (today 12 hurs towards Budapest)
Occasional petrol/wee stop where we all quaff coffee and sandwiches. C bought some smoked home-made cheese strings today. Very salty. They looked like worms, but seeing as C has revealed a fear of slugs and worms (saw her in absolute fear when rolling up tent to find a slug) I didn't have the heart to tell her.

I'm enjoying the variety of things we have to pass the time on these long trips. I just spent an hour dragging a stylus across a nintendo DS and now have developed a weird hand spasm (breaking the marioworld record for hammer throwing in the process. Small victories.)

We've headed south and its already warmer. The last week the windows have been blurred with a fine sheet of water – condensation threatens our view constantly. The temperature has now risen and the puddles are clearing, revealing flat fields of newly-tilled earth. Hills in the distance house towns, whereas we have only the road and the grass. I wonder if it floods here.

A shaft of sunlight just lit up C's face as she furiously taps away at the DS. Now she's quickly putting a gummi-dinosaur into her mouth (timed to perfection she doesn't miss a beat!) She seems very happy, the sun on her face, in the Czech Republic.

Prague was good, if expensive. Highlights include bacon dumplings, cheap staropramen (£1.50 a pint.) Drinking has been done in abundance and, surprisingly, I seem to have reputation as a pisshead. Frankly I find this assessment somewhat misguided (as anyone who knows me well will testify.) How are you all my drinking buddies back home? Are you finding your wallets bulging with unspent booze money now I'm gone? Put them in a jar for the next 5 months and come and visit.

Homesickness hasn't really set in yet. There's so many new people that time is spent with them, swappng anecdotes and playing Uno. Its in the post though, and when it hits its going to be a bugger.

Dammit, I hope we make it to Budapest for the Champions League Semi-Final tonight! When we arrive the campsite is is apparently putting on a traditional Hungarian meal (Goulash) for us. Sounds great, but what about the football?! I might be able to check it up on the radio, or the papers tomorrow Boo.

To Prague – 19/04/08

2008-04-28T07:05:00.000-07:00

It is a wet morning that greeted us in Bamburg. The rain had caught up with us, and now that it had, was making good work of dappling our faces in a fine mist. We hid ourselves under a tarp on the side of the truck and dragged ourselves back to consciousness with tea and toast.

Last night stutters trough my memory: efficient fumblings with my thermals; dumping a drunken irishman in the shower to wake him up; conversations about footballl and girls with a group of bored turkish boys; 74% rum and smoked dark beer. Certainly the alcohol must be blamed for taking over the jukebox and playing MC Hammer. (It was a good night.)

Bamburg is a beautiful town, sloping roofs, cobbled streets, statues staring benevolently down n the poulace from the corners of crossroads. Affluence seeps ou of the stonework, money shnes from the immacuate window displays. This is a rich town, so pristine and manicured it is almst suffocating. Whereas Cologne had an organic and lively feel Bamburg has been dipped in some kind of cultural formaldehyde for preseveation. I am glad to be out of here and heading for Prague.

3 nights and 2 days we will spend in the Czech capittal. Each day I promise myself that my money will be saved for cheaper places, then fail miserably when the beers come out. Tonight will be different I hope: must stay away from Absinthe. However there is lots to see in this city – my previous visit with Mum and brother was exceptionally cultural. Perhaps this time should be sent searching out existence on the streets.

Dire Straits is on the radio as rain drips down the cab windows. (I've stoppered a leaky window with a tssue.) C continues to read her day-old guardian as I chew on her pen. My jumper smells like booze and i am very happy indeed!

२५थ् फो अप्रिल - Romania

2008-04-25T07:34:00.000-07:00

Its 22 degrees and boiling sunshine in Romania. Having wandered the beautiful town of Sighisoara where Vled Tepes (inspiration for Bram Stoker's Dracula) was apparently born, (or lived, there is some debate as to the validity of this) I'm taking shelter in an underground cafe sipping on Coke and fuming about the inability of my USB stick to work.

I've spent ages writing in my journal (thanks Paul!) over the past few days and have written it all up on my little laptop so I can just transfer it. However it can't be recognised at the moment so you'll have to hang on for stories of hideous wedgy fights, the vengaboys, upset campers and meat. Lots of meat.

I also have a load of pictures to show you now that my camera is finally charged. However they too cannot be loaded up. Romania, it seems, is a little behind the times in data transfer.

Which is not surprising really. I have read a very brief synopsis of the former regime and its effect on the country. Absolutely awful things have happened here, especially to protesters. I heard about the teachers strike (well in people!) and then realised how lucky we were not to be getting gunned down for political action as it was here in Romania in 1989. A sobering thought.

Last night we arrived after a hefty journey and inhaled our food in about 30 seconds. After I got chatting to the landlord of our hotel (Jon) and his mate (Lucian,) both very serious but welcoming. About 4 shots of their homemade plum schnapps (poured from a fanta bottle) their struggling English became ironically understandable and we were getting on very well, discussing among many things families, Australia and how the British empire fucked up a lot of the world.

I suddenly realised that these men had lived through the Ceauşescu regime and had come out the other side. On close inspection I got some inkling from their hard-set faces, piercing eyes and reticence to smile that it had been incredibly hard. (Apparently between 60 and 80 thousand people - political prisoners - were detained as "mental patients" and tortured by "doctors", the population were starved, over 2 million suffering directly at the hands of the communist regime, the list goes on.) What they thought of me I have no idea, but I suddenly felt humbled and naieve - how lucky am I to have absolutely no experience of these hardships? All the minor grumbles I usually whine about suddenly blew apart in the face of this, and I felt a little embarassed. Jon understood - he explained that his children, born after 1989, find it difficult to understand these truths. The generational difference, he said, is "too much." Lucian, staring at some fixed point behind me, replied "But things in Romania are much better now."

Its Orthodox Good Friday today in Romania and there seems to be a few things going on outside. Electro-gypsy music (think accordians and violins but with a dance beat) can be heard in the streets. Couples in shell suits and child beggars saunter in the sunshine to unknown destinations, or merely stand on corners watching people go past. There seems to be little hurry in this village, which is a welcome change from the pressing crowds of Prague, now a distant memory. Has it been only a week?

Tomorrow we leave the comfort of our hotel for some free camping: no campsite, just open fields and rivers. That means building a fire (yay!) gazing at the clear night sky away from the glow of the cities (yay!) and digging a hole for your toilet (boo!)That is, we will be free camping if we can find a field that isn't covered in rubbish - the debris of the towns seems to spread out like a fungus from the roadside.

I am loving Romania and Bucharest, where we arrive in 2 days, should hold some interesting stories.

मीट

2008-04-21T05:38:00.000-07:00

MEAT - 18/4/08

As I write this I'm currently sat on the truck next my new friend Neil. He's reading Name of the Rose and occasionally yawning along with everyone else as we're all a bit tired. Last night we went to a German beer hall in Cologne and ate some fantastic wurst, along with copious amounts of fresh beer called kolsch which has to be served in small glasses to “maintain maximum taste.” It is very tasty, although I can't help feeling it means they can charge a lot of money for relatively little beer. Still the bar itself was a great: it felt like we were underground, and the moustacheoed waiters were zooming about with typical German efficiency carting sausage and beers under the soft warm lights. We sat at a long table and giggled and burped our way through the excellent food. Andrew, one of our intrepid number, is the first of our band to have a story of renown: he ate enough pork knuckle to kill a man. Whilst C may be a meat-marathon quaffer, it seems Andrew may be a competitive meat-sprinter.

Yesterday morning I got up at 5:00AM (voluntarily I might add) in order to catch the sun rising over Cologne and to get some pictures of the giant bridge over the river. Clad in black and hood up I shivered up the steps and across the bridge in the dark, scaring early cyclists: I said “Morgen” to one who sped up in fear of mugging. (Black hoodie may have been a mistake.) As the light came colouring the dark east with light blue and ochre a delicte mist grew on the river. Boats appeared through this, their early morning crews shipping sand, stones and steel to the construction yards in Cologne. (Cologne is a fast-growing city with, it seems, more buildings being built than standing.)

I took several pictures of the bridge, walked around for two hours, then returned to the tent for an hours sleep. An early morning shoot and walk is definitely worth it, but a habit maybe best reserved for the warmer places of the earth.

We were camping in the shadow of the bridge on the banks of the Rhine and that first Cologne night were treated to a glorious sunset as we dined on gorgeous stir fry. The food has been excellent and we sit out on very comfy chairs to dine on two courses every night. If I thought the food might be a problem that thought is now firmly removed from my mind: I think we're going to eat exceptionally well, (although it hasn't been my cooking group's turn to cook yet- hopefully we won't let everyone down.)

Cologne was a good stop for us to do. We've had two days to explore, but it only dawned on me that I'd been here before when we climbed the enormous spire to the top of the Dom. A giant bell sits in a complex system of beams, reminding me of being a child smaller and wanting to ring it. Was this a German exchange memory from Calder High? Had I been there on a Junior Band Brass Band tour, maybe to Austria? Either way the memory of rain-soaked children and a poor view from the top spire remained. Luckily this time the sunshine remained glorious, a wide unspoiled view of Cologne not marred by the sounds of drills and building that floated up to that high height. The ornate top spire is barred in to avoid accidents or suicides and the sun cast shadows across the graffiti that crawled over every inch. These teenage hieroglyphics are almost a monument themselves, decades of adolescent love are declared alongside political statements (“Fuck the church and the government”) and the surreal (“I am Batman.”)

The winding stair leaves your legs wobbling as you emerge into the sunlight, the Dom looming over you like some dark Gothic spectre. These wobblings are best cured by beer, currywurst, and conversation, plenty of which were in evidence that afternoon.

The whole trip seems to be camping in luxury: Pete, the main organiser of the trip, told me that everything from the food, to the chairs, to the design of the truck, has been done “with comfort in mind.” He and his team have done an amazing job, it already feels like “home.” Right now I'm relaxing on a comfy coach seat, the well-stocked fridge behind me, the library located on two shelves on the right and left of the cab ahead of me, and with everyone else just relaxing, snoozing, or chilling out with the bus games like travel chess and connect 4. (Championships have already sprung up and this will no doubt result in future hilarity as leaderboards get created.)

The sun just came out over the German countryside revealing white houses with wooden roofs, leaf-covered sidings, and bare trees awaiting the spring. It must be cold: I have to wipe condensation from the glass to see the scenery.

I now have a proper sleeping bag. Pete has leant me a spare which is very toasty and warm. The last two nights have passed without testicle-freezing, apart from the mornings when we all emerge panting and shivering into the frozen dewy air. We all huddle around the hot tea and the toast with eager mouths, swapping banter and smiling. This will change as we speed our way through Europe, and after Praag we will head south for the warmer climbs. In less than a month we'll be well into Turkey so all warm clothing, and thick sleeping bags, will be packed away for another 5 months; this will only emerge again if and when we hit Tibet.

Everyone on this trip seem great and a sense of camaraderie has already sprung up. Going out for a group meal was a good thing for us to do as most nights several people are cooking and cleaning for everyone else, resulting in separation. Duties have been assigned to groups with specific tasks which are performed at different times. Normally when the truck rolls up to a campsite its a flurry of activity as people climb onto the roof to throw down tents, the rucksacks are unpacked from the storage at the back, the cooking tent is set up, water bowls are filled for washing, and so on. We've got it down to about 15 to 20 minutes for everything, including the two-man tents we all share, are set up. Its takes a little longer to pack everything up, (I'm not timing my showers properly in order to help!) but hopefully this will get sorted.

Battery out in laptop. Sunshine persists and we are winding through mountains. Petrol stop and leg stretch awaits.

Apologies, these entries are enormous!

औतोबहं

2008-04-21T05:12:00.000-07:00

Autobahn - 16/04/08

2nd day of travel so far. German trees flash past on the sunny Autobahn as we speed our way towards Cologne. A promise of a beautiful Cathedral and a chocolate factory await, as does a big sausage feast and the chance for our intrepid band to sound out ourselves over sausage, schnitzel and fresh beer.

Yesterday was intense. Victoria station was cold at 7:40 the London crowds gearing up for a Thursday at work. Spilling out of the mouths of tube stations they were a frantic impersonal reminder of what we were leaving behind – deadlines, pressure, frowns, the crush of bodies, and the sense of grind. Watching them from a corner, tea in hand, or through the windows of our coach, smiles on our unfamiliar faces, we shared the growing sense of glee: we were no longer part of “them.”

Meeting the truck at Dover, along with C, the entirety of our crew and friends and family of others, sealed the deal. Bags were put on board. Hugs were handed out by nearest and dearest. A stunned silence settled as we eased ourselves into our seats. Most were shocked - “Its finally here,” or in my case - “How did I manage to bring everything?” A short ferry ride (and a last pie for good luck) in glorious sunshine felt special: we smiled, shared thoughts and feelings, as the white cliffs receeded into the clear blue behind our boat.

France came and went – sleep took over where adrenaline left off (most of us hadn't slept for excitement.) My eyes opened in Belgium, (woken by my liver probably) as we had stopped for a booze haul. Wine, beer and vodka in tow we arrived at our first stop – a Belgian campsite neatly manicured hedges, pretty daisies, and warm showers.

It must be quite something to take 20 people overland on a truck to Australia. It must take extreme patience to train them up to be efficient cogs in the traveling machine. Our guides showed no signs of strain however as we (C and I) messed around with our tent, (which needed a subtle use of a hacksaw to fix,) but in around 30 minutes were were set: tents up; food cooking; chairs out; beers chilling. Our first night was upon us, and it was going to be eventful.

I awoke after 2 hours of sleep with the knowledge that something was wrong. My shoulders felt like ice, my feet were numb, and the red wine has left a bad taste in my mouth. It was way below freezing and it felt like slow hypothermia in that tent. Like an idiot I was totally underprepared. Frost has encased the entire tent. My sleeping bag liner, bought for extra warmth, was in my rucksack on the coach. The thermals i had had done their best to fend off the cold, but had failed. Quick, what could I do?

Socks. Tshirt over and around the feet. Thermal trousers over boxers. Thermal shirt. Hoodie (hood up.) Fleece. Sleeping bag. I must have looked like some strange cocooned, shivering slug. These quick solutions led to a fitful, if welcome, sleep with disturbing dreams about money and murder.

By 5 the birds had woken me, so I cradled my frozen body across the frosted grass to the heated toilets with a book. (Pure bliss is a warmed ass in Belgium.) After rubbing my apendages over the radiator for around 30 minutes in glee I realised that being found would cause me untold embarassment for me, and shock for the surpriser, as they met a black-clad hooded figure rubbing himself on a pipe at 5:30 in a Belgian toilet. Not really how I envisoned giving a good first impression to my truck mates. I retired to the kitchen area with a book and eagerly awaited the first cup of tea .

We have arrived in Cologne where we will camp by the river. Tonight I will be prepared for the cold.

६ देस एंड कोउन्तिंग

2008-04-09T03:49:00.000-07:00

What the hell is going on with my titles? When did it start writing in Chinese?
Perhaps even my language is changing in anticipation of the trip ahead...

Only 6 days left now and the excitement is almost becoming unbearable. Most things are organised: bags; clothes; gadgets; very short haircut. Only transporting the last of the essentials down to London, and queuing nervously to take out 3 grand in different currencies from Crouch End Post Office, remains. Although I feel like i've prepared well for this trip, like some hideous vulture circling my thoughts some nagging doubt remains that I've forgotten something incredibly important...

Passport: check. Clothes: check. Sense of reckless abandon and adventure: check.

Guess that vulture will have to wait before it feasts on my good mood.

Everything is the "last time" at the moment. The "last time" I'll see Stoodly Pike. The "last time" I'll eat my Mum's chicken soup. The "last time" I'll see friends. It's been leaving-do after leaving-do for the past 3 months now and being in Yorkshire is a welcome break from the incessant drinking and partying - however I'm guessing the first few weeks on the bus will be a whirlwind of European drinking sessions as I get to meet my new "compadres."

Time to go - Hebden to explore for the "last time!" Next blog coming up soon...

Blog Madness

2008-03-02T07:49:00.001-08:00

And so the blogging begins, not with bang but with a whimper...

6 weeks and 1 day. That's all. No time for procrastination. Must get blog sorted before setting off as I believe Uzbekistani internet can be quite slow. Possibly powered by generators run on fermented yak milk. (Or electricity.) Hope its the former.

Right what else can be added...?